Daen moved slowly through the woods. Quietly, so the crunching of the snow beneath his boots was almost imperceptible, he prowled between the trees. His frozen cloak glittered in the faint moonlight. Like a phantasmal wolf, he glided on the ice, shining sword held before him like an eerily beautiful fang. Daen danced to the melody of snow and frost, lost to the song of cold and darkness.
The furs do not keep out the cold. Without them I would surely die in the frozen twilight, but that does not mean I am warm. The wolf that died for my cloak would be disappointed to see its hide perform so poorly. Its lifeless hairs are frosted, not in sugar as the bards would say, but in harsh, white, crystal – utterly dead and promising a similar demise. But beautiful nonetheless.
Steel so cold it could burn. Trees dressed in shining white. Rime on soft fur. Crusted snow underfoot. White death hiding warm life. Blue night eager to freeze bloodstreams and stop a heart. Nature so raw and harsh and painful and proud. Music of the howling wind.
Ice and ice and ice and ice. Cold and freeze. Blue and white with crunching and sliding. Frost and rime and rhyme. Winter is a song of screeching violins and melancholy baselines. Frozen can be beautiful like music. Cold is always beautiful. Walk into the icy night, tear your shirt off and howl at the moon.
