September 20, 1650, Saturday morning.
Weather: with chilly temperatures and a quickly passing storm, with a strong gale.
The drizzle continues steady all night, while the temperature plummets. By morning, as the temperature drops all the way to just above freezing, much of the wet upon the stones develops into a soft rime. This is the coldest the party has faced, and the weather is beyond hideous ... teeth chattering all night, in wet clothes, body aching, no sleep ... chances for catching a bug would be unusually high except that you are out in the relative wilderness. Still, it is probably the worst night any of you can remember.
Klaas in particular suffers the most - he's the least hardened from the journey, the least prepared for it. He begins to complain as the night wears on, until finally Batath warns him if he doesn't shut up, Batath will kill him. The rest of the party would probably raise a hand to stop the thief, but you're all just too goddamn tired, and at any rate you wish, too, that Klaas would just shut up. Klaas does, and you all suffer in silence for the next long hours.
The drizzle falls away as the wind begins to rise before dawn. By the time the sun rises, the wind is so strong from the west that the river itself - little more than a flat body of water anyway - is showing wave crests, as are the larger ponds on your left or right. Now and then you're hit with spindrifts, lines of spatter picked up off the water surface and carried along the wind. The willow trees, sparse but there, are dancing wildly, looking for all the world as though they will be pulled from the earth and rolled over the landscape.
When the storm comes, the party realizes they must find shelter, though there is none. The best you can do is a two foot bank along the side of the road, where you cluster together and huddle for what feels like your very life. Kushi, next to Ahmet, apologizes to the Turk; "After this," says the Dwarf, "I'll kneel down and pray to Allah with you."
Together, locked arm in arm, bags stuffed beneath you to keep them from blowing away, the party feels the clothes on their backs ready to tear. The storm thickens above you. Ermeth shouts, "I pray there's no hail!" And moments later you're drenched, soaked completely through. The rain hammers the road and the pond surfaces, tearing over the grass in sheets. Curtain after curtain of hard, cold pellets sting your faces and whiten your knuckles as together you hold on for dear life.
In stages it diminishes. You relax. The rain subsides. There is one last hard fury before it stops altogether.
The world is soaked. You stand, gather your things, remark upon the horrorshow that has been since leaving Silute, while Andrej no doubt prays for each of you and for himself. Klaas comes to Andrej and begs to be blessed. The dwarves treat Andrej as though they are not themselves Russian Orthodox. You continue along the road.
All the members of the party somehow manage to retain their strength; there are no colds among any of the nine members. Ahmet suffers 3 damage; Andrej, 2; Lukas & Klaas, 5 damage each. The dwarves all suffer, and of them, Ermeth is the very worse. He is limping poorly, and speaks very little.
After the storm, the grass gives way to dispersed croplands; there are fruit orchards; and cattle lowing in fields. Not much further on is Memel, a sprawling, flat city of some 550 buildings, extending along a stoney spit into the Baltic Sea.
The party has made it.