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Tanner   Loren                               

    The mountain man moved slow through the storm, each step sinking deep into the drift, snowshoes creaking under the weight of the world he carried. A red wool blanket was wrapped tight around his shoulders, its color a lone ember against the endless white. Frost clung to his beard, his breath rising in steady clouds that vanished into the wind. The pine forest fell away behind him as he climbed, higher and higher, until the land opened before him — a cliff edge dropping to a vast, frozen valley below. He stopped there, chest heaving, the wind tugging at his blanket like it wanted to pull him into the void. For a long moment, he just stood — a scar of red against the pale silence — staring out over the wilderness that belonged to no one but him.