User blog comment:Vorred/Vorred's Writing Contest/@comment-1221909-20131215132746/@comment-1221909-20131215132930

I feel that I should at least give an indicator as to what I had written down for my entry, so here's what I had:

The Whispered Winter

A landscape.

Dull, misty, empty.

A world coloured in grey, black and white.

A wise Turaga would probably point out that those three colours painted the moral spectrum for many people in this world. Of course, there were no Turaga around in these parts. Nor was this a metaphorical context. Metaphors didn’t howl like the nastiest sea storms and freeze the heart like the empty depths of space.

A gale of tiny ice crystals engulfed the wastes, one that refused to allow any sound to be heard above the screams of the wind. A whisper would be like a drop in the ocean. But in many tongues, this winter was one never to be spoken of again; even history itself would turn its eyes away from it. Its very utterance would break taboo on every level.

But somewhere in that storm, two fools sat side-by-side, clutching there knees without daring to move. From a distance, they appeared to be statues. Their fire had long since perished; their wood was nothing more than a burnt cinder caked in snow. One of them finally groaned, as another wave of tiny icy daggers dug deeper into cracks in his armour.

“Nothing to be done,” he hastily muttered under his breath.