Getting separated from his caravan wasn’t something that was on Ja’rawl’s to do list. Getting anywhere away from them wasn’t something that he would have done anyway. He was lost in a cold, harsh land with little knowledge of the people or their language. The red haired elf pulled the thin fabric of his brightly colored clothing closer to his thin frame. Golden eyes squinting against the cold wind blowing in his face. He cursed the dragon and its kind for separating him from his people. He cursed the land and the bitter wind. Oh how he missed the warm sands beneath his feet, the cool winds of the desert night, the smell of moon sugar as the bottle of Skooma was passed around the cooking fire. Ja’rawl’s clan was a nomadic one, which wasn’t that uncommon among the desert dwelling people of Elswher. His clan moved from place to place, selling and trading their goods wherever they could. When word reached them of Skyrim, the opportunity seemed much too great to pass up. Now, he wished that they had passed it up. He’d be home, curled up in his tent with the sounds of his family snoring around him. Another shiver racked his thin body as his next step took him into nearly thigh deep snow. He wrinkled his nose. He was quickly beginning to hate snow. He’d thought it amazing at first, but now he wanted it gone. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw it. Possibly his one and only chance to wait out this awful snowstorm. A cave. It wasn't much, but it would do. It would provide the shelter that he would need to wait out the storm. For now.