As my home, and the entirety of America’s Northeast, is swallowed by winter, I thought I’d embrace the cold white rather than cower from it or rage against it.
The snow continues to fall and continues to fall. This endless white – I’ve forgotten all else. Blue skies? Green grass? Brown earth? I’ve forgotten all. Home? I’ve forgotten all.
There is only three of us left. The strange, old, quiet old man. We call him Silence, for he seems to be comforted by it. In it, he finds sanctuary. Beneath the wolf skins that shield his skin from this damned cold, his limbs are thin, but strong. Like rope, his muscles are twisted and taut. And, strangely, standing near him, I feel warm and safe. Perhaps this snow has stolen my senses. Perhaps he can brandish magic as many believe he can; perhaps he is a wizard.
My other compatriot wears no fur or leather to shield his body from the cold. He, or it, seems not to know, to understand the meaning of cold. He stands above us as a tree stands above a child, tall and strong and his skin is as rough and hard as the skin of an oak tree. No, he’s not human, but rather some creature who’s come from the deepest bowels of the woodlands, an emissary of the woodland races, to assist us in our quest. For, if the dark power that swells in the northern peaks seeps south, these lands shall perish and all that find life upon them shall perish as well.
Three of us are left. The others have died. The cold has taken some. The damned beasts the haunt these cold lands have taken others. Three of us are left. And although my heart wishes for home, I must step on or there will no longer be a home to wish for.