Tamminy keeps a death grip on the tail of Zandros' cape and every second step glances back to reassure herself that her rear guard is still there. Snow this deep is laborious for her short legs to plow through, but gnomes are meant for the cold, and at least she isn't freezing. Not yet, anyway. Zandros, meanwhile, scrubs his face against his cape's hood just to keep the feeling in his reddening flesh.

But there's nothing comforting about entering the scrapyard and suddenly being free of that raucous wind. Tamminy groans -- much louder than she meant to in this silence -- and looks back one more time to be sure Harley is close behind.

"I didn't know the snow would be this deep," she whines, a little tremble in her voice. "Finding what we need... Seeing what I want... Th-th-this is a bad idea. This is a bad idea! W-we should go back. We should go back. This is -- It's not too late! We can go back!"

Ahead, Zandros tosses Harley a glance. He's wind-blown and white with the snow that settled on his clothes, but there's far more determination in his green eyes than in Tamminy's. So, Harley? What will it be? Turn back now, or continue forward?