The biting wind whipped snow around Onyx Cream Cookie as he surveyed the edge of Mount St. Crème. A sickly green glow emanated from the lower slopes, a sight that sent a familiar unease through his dough. The dreaded mold had begun to creep again. He gripped the hilt of his ice-pick sword.

"Halt!" Onyx Cream Cookie's cries out as a cluster of mold spores floated closer. "You will not defile this snow," he declared, planting his feet firmly. He knew the danger, the insidious way the mold could spread, infecting everything it touched. He couldn't afford to be careless, especially not now, with the refuge so close. He would face them here, alone if he had to, and ensure no part of Mount St. Crème fell to this blight.