Arrow had taken his time getting over the mountain, the snow slowing his travel and when paired with his own lack of speed, it made him question whether the journey would ever end. He cursed the short days and he cursed the cold, bunkering down where he could on nights when the moon shone too weakly to guarantee that he wouldn't walk straight off the face of a cliff, wouldn't that be a glorious end? Forgotten in some ditch in the middle of nowhere. He'd never reach Valhalla at this rate.
But finally, the day came when he could feel the sun on his face as he woke and he knew that it would all be downhill from here - equal parts of relief and healthy trepidation gripped his heart. It was a stupid idea to tackle a mountain covered in snow, was he daring the gods to strike him down? So the journey down was even slower than the journey up.
Now, however, the earth was flat underfoot. Trees stretched out on his left flank and the vast expanse of the tundra to his right - a never ending canvas of white even in the pre-dawn light - rising fog greying where the earth met the sky leaving no clear horizon for as far as he could see. It made him anxious, as the thought crossed his mind that perhaps he was skirting the border between Midgard and Niflheim. Maybe he should be watching for ice giants, the thought alone enough to make him smirk.
A long pink tongue came to pass over his frigid black nose which had grown numb with the cold, borders almost missed underfoot had it not been for the recent paw prints in the snow. He halted as though he had hit a physical barrier, a startled noise somewhere between a cough and a bark leaving his chest. Well that could have been a bad idea...