Small shards of dry leaves skittered tremulously over fresh snow.

Not far behind them was a determined-looking Howl, his golden eyes scrunched up in perfect concentration. The sun shone brightly above him, but he paid it no mind today; he was keen on developing his god-given sorcery, and would not have cared if the sky was collapsing onto itself. He had stood in the spot all morning, using every atom of his being to will those leaves to dance and flicker just as he had seen the goddess do. When she had turned her silver eyes to him, and the leaves fluttered around him as if he was a chosen one, Howl had felt the pulse and thrum of magic being imbued into his veins, surging through his body. Magic was not unheard of in his home—in fact, it was highly prized—however, in the past centuries it had become a rare commodity, found only in the royal and the blessed.

The leaves collapsed, and the silver stag heaved a sigh of frustration.

Howl decided to abandon his endeavor for the day, his energies entirely spent from the effort required to magic those small leaves to life. It was barely mid-morning, and somewhere in the distance sang a winter-bird, filling the chilled winter air with various melodies. Vaguely, he wondered if it was lonely or cold or if it felt inadequate; however, when he realized he was just projecting his own insecurities onto the bird, he dropped that thread of thought. With a sort of listless fluidity, the grey stallion moved away from the evidence of his failed attempt at magic, hooves fitting easily into the tracks he had made earlier. He crossed a small stream, not yet frozen by the gelid temperatures, and ducked beneath a copse of trees, low-hanging branches dragging lines into his thick winter fur. Before him was a magnificent stone structure, fine drapery fluttering as a gentle gust of wind passed jauntily through the clearing. A million shades of colored light danced on the building's floor, shifting as easily and as gracefully as the aurora borealis. Howl stopped in his tracks, his recent failure temporarily forgotten as he absorbed the winter beauty of the shrine.

Somewhere near by, a delicate brown butterfly (or something that approximated it, anyhow) flitted by on paper-thin wings.