Cold.
Cold, against the bare skin of my forearm. Cold, against fingertips left uncovered by my gloves. Cold, against my back, chilling the bones through the sodden cotton of my dark robes.
My eyes gaze upwards to the grey skies, scudded over with scruffy white clouds that drift stubbornly in those skies, refusing to go away. I imagine if they look down to see me, I would look like some fallen angel, lying spread-eagled on the ground with dark wings of black cloaks crumpled carelessly beneath me in the stunning white snow.