When one walks through the forest, even in the dead of Frostfall, one might naturally see a vivid array of color, something they would take for granted. Upon the ground, for instance, there might be a thin layer of white - snow, of course. But it's not just white, you see. In the shadows, there might be blue reflected from the sky; in the brightest areas, there might be a glint of yellow from the sun. Somewhere you might see darkness reflected from the greys and browns of the bare trees. All of these hues combine and melt together to create the appearance of snow and the illusion of white. Perhaps just anyone would not recognize precisely how intricate such a scene is, but I do.

When I walk through the forest, even in the dead of Frostfall, I am bombarded with a vivid array of color. But unlike you, my vision is marred by sound. To my right, an icycle hangs from a tree limb; it cracks in the heat of a nonexistent sun and tumbles to the ground, a sudden explosion of black, there and gone, just a spot in my vision, and then a tumble of browns of varying size and intensities, a fluctuating wave that moves across my vision as though it has a spirit all its own. To the left, a small brook has remained miraculously unfrozen, and the bubbling water leaves a trail of teal across the landscape. It morphs and turns, like a bauble caught in the wind, dancing in place before skittering to one side in a particularly strong gust, twirling back to center and then off again. When I was younger, it fascinated me, but I do not allow the distraction to break through anymore.

Though I cannot remove these colors from my mind or my sight, I have mastered the ability to see around them, and so I wander through the woods with ease. The trees are barren, of course, as is fitting for the season, though one can hardly tell, for they blend with the moonless sky. There is little of note, for the birds have migrated south for the winter, and many other creatures are currently in hiding. It saddens me, for bird song is one of the truly beautiful auras that I see. Robins, for example, have an orange-red hue, brilliantly saturated; mockingbirds call in a brilliant green, lighter than the grass. There are others, of course, that sing in bright yellows and dark blues, a cacaphony of color that leaves me in awe. I may not be the most emotional of faes, but I can certainly appreciate beauty, particularly in the eerily dark, forsaken landscape that I find myself in now.

Seele is somewhere in this land, I know she is. I will find her, and when I do I will not allow her to escape me. I care for her, you see, for she is my half-sister, and I am afraid that I have wronged her in the past. Not on purpose, no, but I have done it nonetheless. Perhaps through my presence, I can help to heal that hurt. Perhaps I can atone for my sins. Schwere trained both of us into the same lifestyle, but it would seem that Seele has taken to his teachings much better than I; I have seen her abilities, her ruthless violence. I, on the other hoof, have deviated to a more healing lifestyle, both literally and figuratively. I can only hope that it will serve me well in this land.

"Talk talk talk."