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The path of frost is such a fine and pure white that even the meager sunlight spreading upon it is dazzling to the point of blindness. Vassals below in the city look up to the snaking tendril of whiteness in surprise and wonder; there is a shout from somewhere, and all eyes snap upwards to look at you.
It's quite the audience; more than a few Baphomets are shouting at you to stop while others are confused, unsure what their monarch is planning.
"Well, let's get going!" You cheerily say to no one in particular. With a single thought, footholds of ice on the metal board form, and then you push off the edge.
Gravity grabs hold and drags you downward. The sound of crunching snow and the swoosh of the board's passage is terribly out of place in the still warm season of fall.
You let out a whoop of joy from the sheer exhilaration of speed! Wind whistling in your ears as you plummet downwards from the heights, the Castle recedes behind in a blur of pure motion. The familiar joy that all snowboarders feel as the board beneath gathers speed and unmoors them from the concerns of the commonplace.
Broad lines of ice form new paths and bridges to traverse, and you shift your weight as necessary to make turns. Baphomets twist their necks to catch a blurred glimpse of your passage through the streets of Camelot. There were points where it was simply easier to take to the air and avoid obstacles by jumping over the stunned heads of goatmen and carts in the street.
It is a swift passage; you arrive at the great Gate of Camelot in mere minutes. The broken white Walls are manned today on account of the Roman ship out in the bay, and those posted close to the main Gate peer down at you.
"Here I am Agreste! Ready for battle!" You say with a boldness born from the joy of your preposterous 'snowboarding' journey. You marvel at the ice still standing in the morning sun that stretches from the Castle all the way to the main Gates. Already, industrious vassals hack away at the ice and take it way in carts for some other purpose.
This lapse in attention was clearly a bad idea. You feel the stones below your feet shudder violently, and a pillar of stone punches out to throw you bodily into the air like a doll. Spinning rapidly, you barely have time to summon a gigantic slide of ice to catch your metal board and ski back down to the ground.
"Thou art fortunate, battle callow Morte Jeune, that I do not intend to render thee as meat for eagles and hawks."
