As the cart shook going down the pebbled icy track towards the city of Valafor two men sat near the edge readying to disembark.
Naraic is an elven man, who is well into his early thousands, but still prides himself in being a young man. His pale skin gets treated harshly by the rough, chilly wind hitting against him. Along with Naraic is Kabbol, a purplish demonfolk who is finding the cold air rather refreshing and very different from the heat that his body naturally extrudes.
While the journey slowly comes to the end and the worn walls come closer and the large brittle and aged wooden door looms over the carriage. Kabbol turn saying
" Finally we've made it, I hope we aren't the first ones here"
Naraic with his shivering and battered breath is only able to nod slowly unable to form actual conversations in this weather.