13-09-2013, 04:02 PM
I am a cold and uncaring season birthed in the northern wastes, full of harrowing snow and shards of ice shattering upon the rocky spikes jutting from the mountains below. The winds are sharp as whips and the ground feels as though the many small rocks you trod on hold the hate and malevolence of generations of the evil men and women that have been exiled to these wastes to die. Many a traveler has been numbed by the cold and not noticed his foot crushing through one of the many small layers of ice covering a ragged crevice and gotten twisted and caught in the small hole below, surely dug by some poor creature that has long since been frozen stiff in this desolate wasteland. Some may call this a hell, but I'd prefer to call it your hell.
How is that?
How is that?