Frostfall had taken a harsh turn on everything green and vibrant, it sucked life like a crawling blood leech whose only determination was to rid the world of warmth and freedom. There were no fresh tendrils to sweep away exposed dirt. Cyrus found many things not to like about Frostfall, but the most predominant in his mind was the simple fact that everything was so cold and still. Trees no longer found a growth spurt to the heavens - instead their bark cracked and screeched in agony as the cold bit into their sap. Food was becoming more and more sparse as snow devoured their sweet smell. Orangemoon had already made flourishing blades dull as a sick foal and yellow like amber fossils. They were hardly nutritious and the sun boy could only stare in defiance as the cold consumed his fire.

His mother, Evangeline had once told him of a place in the land called Isilme where all equines could roam at their own freedom as dragons soared freely above the richest grass alive. It was a mere heaven, and it would stayed locked in the time between spring and summer always. If one was desperately hungry and in need of warmth and true shelter from the terrible winds of winter, they would seek refuge to graze the plentiful grasses of Eterna. How he wished that heaven was to his avail. Cyrus snorted a frosty breath out into the spacious blizzard. Oh how it threatened to chill the breath of life and his lungs as he inhaled. This winter season was as disgusting as the love between his two parents.

The Threshold greeted him with a somber posture. The trees were fully exposed, stripped naked by the harmful air and the gray clouds that locked away the sun. Their bodies were not only emaciated but knotted - recoiling from the shadows like orphans. Cyrus wished he could breathe warm life into every one of them, but mortality hindered him and everyone else it seemed.

His red coat stood out amongst the bare white as he walked. He was unmarked and untouched by white through his entire body except for the strands of mane and tail. They whisked behind him as the winter breezes sang mournfully. The young stallion kept his teal eyes in search for any. This was his first trip to the Threshold, and if he wanted to prove himself to his herd than this would be the first place to start.

His teal eyes did finally catch a glimpse of something. Something curled up in the snow's clutch. He first saw her coat, a wad of copper fuzz in the distance. She appeared so sad so tired there. Her movements were slow like a struggle. 'Is she injured,' the boy's thoughts were swirling now, half excited and half worried. He didn't know what to do if she was hurt. He could drag her back to the Foothills and hope that one of the scholarly hippies knew something about illness. His pace picked up, and soon he awkwardly loomed over her bodice that squirmed and moaned in a foreign tongue. He decided to speak slowly. "Are you hurt?" He didn't see any gashes or incisions. Maybe she was just ill. He nudged her with his inky muzzle. "Come on now, get up."