It’s cold here now. The clouds have parted leaving nought but stars in their wake, the winds taunting with their frozen chill, blowing and subsiding just enough to offer hope that there might be some relief.
The woods suffer as does the land, legend tells that an unjust king sits upon the throne for the land to be so bleak. It is not for winter alone that such a chill lays in the air, nor is it that all has turned into the black and white of dead and sleeping trees coupled with the pureness of snow.
Even the whispers of Gods and their symbols of bright hope in the darkest depths of winter are fading or gone altogether. The green of pine has turned to brown, the dark glow of holly sitting as but a shadow of its glory.
The fire’s flames glow softly in the hall, the firewood full of rot. Together we sit, our proud folk alone, assailed by that which seeks entry. But we will go on and will not give up, even to the last of us. For our blood is all we have, a gift we give solely to our own.
So sit we by the fire, so remember we what was. For one day this will be but a cold day, or others will create a memory of us to an image of their own.