"One more trip, Ivy," he explained, as they resumed their journey towards the oasis. His new goal was clear. "A final harvest before the snow binds us completely. We can never have too much smoked fish." Ivy nudged his hand, a clear sign of understanding his renewed purpose.

They continued their trek, heading back to the river. This second fishing expedition was faster, more efficient. He knew the best spots, his traps were already proven, and Ivy's guidance was even more intuitive, leading him straight to prime fishing grounds. They secured another substantial haul of fish, which Elos meticulously smoked and added to his growing stores, the aroma of smoked fish now a constant, reassuring presence in his cave.

Back in the secure haven of his cave, the wool cloth proved its worth against the ever-present mountain chill. He used some of it to create extra insulation for his sleeping platform, a crude but effective barrier against the cave's natural coolness. With winter's true bite imminent, he needed proper attire to face the frigid mountain air.

He carefully unrolled a section of the cured leather, its surface smooth and supple. With his small, sharp knife, he painstakingly cut and shaped the leather, remembering the basic patterns of shoes he’d seen in his past, and adapting them to the harsh mountain terrain. He used strong plant fibers for stitching, a slow, methodical process that left his fingers aching, but fueled by the vision of warm, protected feet. After days of dedicated work, he had fashioned a pair of sturdy, insulated shoes, lined with soft fur that he had also obtained from that caravan, perfect for navigating the snowy mountain paths. He pulled them on, feeling the immediate warmth, the resilient support, a profound comfort he hadn't experienced in a very long time. Ivy, ever curious, would sniff at his new footwear, perhaps even nipping playfully at the laces, as if questioning their construction. "Think they'll hold up, old girl?" Elos murmured, and Ivy responded with a decisive headbutt to his knee.

The furs, too, were put to good use. Beyond the shoe lining, he transformed the supple pelts into soft, warm rugs for the cave floor, covering the cold stone with layers of insulating luxury. He added extra layers to his bedding, creating a nest of warmth that enveloped him completely at night, a true sanctuary against the biting cold. The cave, once a stark refuge, was now transformed into a cozy, inviting haven, filled with the comforting scents of woodsmoke, dried herbs, and warm fur. Ivy delighted in the new rugs, often sprawling luxuriously on them, sometimes stretching out with a contented sigh, her soft bleat a murmur of pure satisfaction. "Comfortable, are we, Ivy?" Elos would ask, and she'd blink at him slowly, a picture of absolute contentment, sometimes even rolling onto her back for a belly rub.

In the long evenings, by the flickering light of his hearth, Elos didn't just write poems; he gave them voice. He hummed simple tunes, adapting ancient folk melodies he faintly remembered, or creating entirely new ones inspired by the vastness of Vasal. He would sing softly, his voice a low murmur against the crackle of the fire, the words flowing from his journal, imbued with the beauty and hardship of his new life. These songs were not for an audience, but for himself, to fill the vast emptiness of the wilderness, to articulate his triumphs and fears, to cement his place in this raw, vibrant world. Ivy would often lie near the hearth, her ears occasionally twitching, as if listening intently to his quiet verses, sometimes letting out a soft sigh, as if in agreement with his sentiments.

He also spent many hours pouring over the books he had managed to salvage and protect. Among them were some of his grandfather Jannie's old, water-stained texts, filled not just with histories, but with forgotten wisdom on practical living. He found extensive information on food preparation and preservation beyond simple drying and smoking – methods for fermenting certain roots to enhance their flavor and digestibility, techniques for creating rudimentary vinegars from fruit, and recipes for nutrient-rich pastes from ground seeds and nuts. He devoured these details, eager to apply theoretical knowledge to his practical wilderness cooking. He experimented tirelessly, adapting the methods to his available ingredients and tools, often involving Ivy in his taste tests, much to her apparent delight (or disdain, depending on the concoction). His cave often smelled of new experiments – sometimes pungent, sometimes wonderfully aromatic – as he broadened his culinary skills, making his meals more varied and palatable.

With his home secured and winter provisions largely accounted for, Elos felt a familiar restlessness, a scholar's urge to explore the mountain range that cradled his oasis. He had noticed a particularly narrow, winding path that snaked higher into the mountains beyond his oasis, hinting at unexplored territory. He decided to embark on a reconnaissance trip, taking only essential supplies and leaving the bulk of his provisions safely stored. "Just a look, Ivy," he explained, as she patiently allowed him to adjust her pack, which now held a few extra pieces of smoked fish for their journey. "See what secrets the upper peaks hold. Perhaps new plants for our garden, or simply new vistas to catalog in my mind, or perhaps even sources of new minerals for tools."

They set out, Elos relying on his sharpened senses and Ivy's uncanny agility. The path was steep and treacherous, often disappearing into thickets of stunted pines or across slick rock faces dusted with early snow. Ivy’s intelligence shone through again and again; she would often scout ahead a few paces, picking out the most stable footholds, sometimes even waiting patiently for Elos to catch up, giving a soft bleat to signal a clear path. Once, she nudged him sharply away from a loose rock that would have sent him tumbling down a sheer drop. "You're a better guide than any map, old friend," he told her, rubbing his soft head. She butted his hand gently, a gesture of quiet affection, then pointed with her nose towards a faint game trail, indicating a safer route.