It was, at most, a half-hearted attempt at a thunderstorm. Theran eyed the sky with something akin to annoyance. True, he had no desired to be riding along soaked to the bone, but the constant ambient lightning was getting on his nerves. The flashes leapt from cloud to cloud, emitting tiny rumbles of thunder and sending flicking shadows dancing along the canyon wall. His mount was less entranced with the storm, and continued its slow methodical plod down the narrow trail. Mules were not the normal mount for a Hound of Winter, but he had long ago grown out of the flashy grandeur that was expected. Brilliant white horses with magically blued markings were really only good for getting you shot.