The biting chill of the tundra winds were close to a comforting caress to Ogilhinn’s weathered and gale-bitten features. Hailing from the rugged highlands, he was more than accustomed to the oppressive whims of nature, and like many of his kith and kin he derived a masochistic pride from his stoic endurance in such inhospitable climes.

Twice now he had ventured into the labyrinth and twice he had emerged unbowed if not unchanged - though he could not say the same of his accursed companions. He could smell their blood even now as his fevered mind knotted to contemplate the signs that spoke to him still. Although he could not grasp its liquid dimensions, something profound was calling to him- of this he was certain.

In his reverie he had foregone the return trip to civilisation with its promise of paltry comforts and sought to settle here, in the bosom of this ragged camp, affirmed and intoxicated by its proximity to the maw that beckoned him.