The days are cold and misty now. Grey. The winds are harsh and unforgiving. They blow the steely rain into the faces of those brave enough to go into the forest. There are no birds singing, and the insects have disappeared. The woods have gone silent. Occasionally a crashing and cracking sound is heard, signifying a deer somewhere close by. But he will not show himself. Sometimes it is a small rumbling sound, and somewhere a squirrel rushes quickly past to put one more thing in his secret stash. But he cannot be seen either.
It is a world of sound and feeling now, and sight is
useless. The Lady walks alone along the
shore and in the woods, seeking. Her nine
attendants are colorless and unseen, but there are ways to tell where they have
passed. There are no obvious signs, but
the ground is somehow gentler. A small
bouquet of forgotten colored leaves lies here and there. They are gifts from the good folk as they
follow Her. It is a long trail.
The Defender has yet to be born. But soon, very soon. Until then, She will tirelessly seek Him. The Lord of Winter watches Her, waiting for His
chance. Soon the wall of snow will come
and the land will be buried in thick ice and She will be trapped. All heads will bow in defeat then, as
ordained. She can leave no footprints, though,
and He will lose her track. The merciless
ice reveals no scent. The trail grows
cold, even for the King of Death.
