After several days of confusion, spent wriggling around somewhere dark, wet and cold, they had managed to pry themselves out into the new world. New World was what they had taken to calling it. The one they'd left had not been this frozen, this full of biting wind and stone. New World was a barren wasteland, still of life or at least, not showing any sign of it.
Like shadows they crept, reluctant save for the hunger that pulled at them, forcing them forwards. In the harsh winds that whipped at their loose skin, they sent out their hardiest bodies, what was left of them at least. So many had fallen since they woke up. What remained was brittle and old, mostly bone and black rot. A few Ithni carried one body in a black cloak, wrapped up away from harm. For awhile they roamed, sometimes pausing to observe the area, as if searching for some sort of landmark.
One sentry in the front suddenly turned their head, essentially a skull, detecting something in the distance... Lights. Smoke. A fire. Living. By the point that word came into focus, the choice was clear to them all.
In the dark of Fell, the sound of footsteps approaching in this ghost land would turn any adventurer's stomach. What awaited that unlucky traveler though was a motley group of pale figures, about 5 in all at first, with ten more a fair distance away. They were slowly moving towards the fire, as if in a daze, their white eyes staring directly at him.
The one in the front, a female wearing rags with thin, white hair still clinging to her skull was reaching out. Her hand ended in long, black claws, almost as if frostbitten. The skin around her mouth stretched back as if grimacing, showing many teeth.
They were about to reach the campfire, and the female's hand seemed to beckon for him.