There was no alternative. Barbarthara had to descend now, before the other orks noticed her, and before this new source of sustenance that was the scrawny ork ran dry. But she was at an impasse. She did not know these mountains or the myriad hidden paths that threaded through them. Her only reference was the Snowtrail, an untrustworthy guide at best. It offered no guarantees of safety, only a general direction. Even that was fraught with danger. Whispers had reached her of its treachery: markings obscured by time, sudden shifts in terrain, and predators lying in wait at its edges, ready to strike at the unwary. The Snowtrail was not a lifeline. It was a vague thread of possibility stretched across an abyss of uncertainty. Even in daylight, it would have been difficult to follow. Under T̰́̇ͦ̀è̸̷̸̬̤̗̊_̸̵̰̦̗̒͜ȟ̗̍ͤa̶͉͉͍̭̰̅̀̈͜ͅȓ̶̶̛̦͇͙̟̈̿͒ͮ͑̋̚͡u̟͖͔̖̙͙͆̄̿ͩͧ̃̽̓̈̌̀͟͞n, there was no chance.
The darkness around her was absolute, suffocating in its vastness. Her vision had always been poor, even during the day, but with T̰́̇ͦ̀è̸̷̸̬̤̗̊_̸̵̰̦̗̒͜ȟ̗̍ͤa̶͉͉͍̭̰̅̀̈͜ͅȓ̶̶̛̦͇͙̟̈̿͒ͮ͑̋̚͡u̟͖͔̖̙͙͆̄̿ͩͧ̃̽̓̈̌̀͟͞n’s veil still lingering, she could not see anything. She was blind, exhausted, and overwhelmed, her senses battered by the relentless cold, her body drained from the desperate struggle for sustenance.
Barbarthara found herself trapped in a maddening dilemma. She could not do it alone. She needed the ork to follow her will, yet still navigate autonomously. Her own instincts were useless here. She had no memory of these frozen heights, no understanding of their twisted geography, no familiarity with the labyrinthine routes and passageways the orks had spent generations mapping and mastering.
But this was what she had been taught to master, was it not? If the Shaira had imparted anything to her, it was the manipulation of minds.
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