Snow fell across the obscured face of the moon, descending from dark cloudy skies to land gracefully on sparkling white banks. Wind howled in a hoarse way, rolling across the snow and the river with tumultuous ease. A tall, pale figure was huddled rather pathetically beneath the boughs of a scrawny oak tree, shivering inordinately against the frigid bark. Ice-glazed whiskers quivered with breath, pursed lips concealed chattering teeth; Howl cursed every winter-god whose name he knew, every syllable stammered with blasphemous misery. Although he was born in a northern land where heavy snows like these were not unusual, he had always been draped with luxurious wool coats beneath the shelter of a great castle, where fires roared invitingly in every chamber. Perhaps he should have followed Aisling to her home when he had the chance, but his wanderer's itch had not been sated quite yet, and with all the obstinacy of one who has not yet learned of the immense potential for cruelty of the world, Howl moved ever on. While it was true that he greatly missed interaction, he had miles to tread and hours to think, and it was best if busy-bodies let him be.

A particularly cold gust blew a shock of snow onto his body, clinging to his furry chest and beard in thick, hard balls. It was at this point that he drew a dramatically exasperated sigh, one that seemed to emanate from the core of his oh-so-weary heart in purls and plumes of warm condensation. His tail flicked in an act of impotent aggravation, causing a rain of ice shards to detach from the pale hairs. In order to prevent his mind from thinking too much about the threat of hypothermia or frostbite or any other winter-related ills, Howl thought about his most recent adventures. Several weeks ago, he had encountered a sizable crowd surrounding some sort of demon-ram-creature that purported to offer gifts; from the beast, he had acquired a rabbit's foot, one which he later affixed lovingly to a tine on his antlers. The totem seemed to dance in the wind at the moment, oscillating and twirling as if possessed. Aren't rabbit's feet supposed to be lucky?, the silver stag thought glumly, pawing at the snow in a feeble attempt to find whatever frozen grass lay beneath.

It would be a long night—he felt it in his very bones.