Penne's breath came out in white puffs, the kind that you see when the world is frozen solid and the air bites at your lungs like a rabid dog. He stood there, an almost-statue dusted with frost, just another pale figure in the endless bleak canvas of the winter realm. The kind of place where the sun was just a rumor and warmth was a fairytale.

He was waiting for them to come get him -- the high and mighty folks with their fur-lined coats and noses so far up in the air they could probably sniff out the stars. They'd come to take him to the spring deity, a sacrifice wrapped in pretty skin. The blindfold would come soon, obscuring everything but darkness, leaving him with only his own twisted thoughts for company.