As Shookle departed the thickets that had momentarily cloaked his escape, he ventured into the rough, jagged embrace of rocky outcrops. These were lands forsaken by time, where the wind howled through the crags like the wails of lost souls. Each foothold was a gamble, each leap a dance with death. Shookle's hands, once adept only at inflicting harm, now grappled with the indifferent stone, seeking salvation in the climb. The sharp edges of the rocks paid no homage to his plight, gifting him instead with small cuts and scrapes, mementos of his passage.

Beyond the barren embrace of the rocks lay the thick, untamed forests, a green abyss where sunlight dared not tread. The canopy above was a tapestry of green, woven so tight that day felt like dusk beneath its boughs. Here, Shookle's senses were assaulted by the cacophony of life, every rustle a potential threat, every snap of a twig a herald of his end. The underbrush clawed at his legs, leaving behind thin, angry lines of red, a stark contrast to the pervasive green. Veil's howls echoed through the trees, a constant reminder of the pursuit, driving Shookle to push his battered body further, deeper into the embrace of the forest.

The forest eventually gave way to snowdrifted mountain peaks, realms of ice and solitude where the air was thin and the cold, a merciless companion. Shookle's breaths came in ragged gasps, plumes of vapor in the frigid air, each step an effort against the snow's resistance. His feet, poorly protected against the cold, numbed to the point of pain, stumbled over hidden rocks and ice. Small injuries accrued, a testament to the mountain's indifference—a twisted ankle here, a gash there from hidden ice. Still, Veil's presence lingered, a specter in the swirling snow, always just beyond sight, its howls a chilling melody amidst the silent peaks.

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