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>[BREEZE] - Success
Snowflakes patter against soft leather. The breeze pushes the figure into a sparse treeline, where a branch-woven canopy protects him from the harshest, most cutting winter winds.
When the storm abates, he slowly approaches the honeyed light of a cooking fire, lulled by the scent of warming stew and nostalgic murmur of conversation. He does not perceive the old hunter's skinning knife until it is pressed firmly against his back.
"Why are you here?" asks the hunter.
"The storm," the figure replies.
"What is your trade?"
"Once letters. Now trade itself."
"What do you wish for?"
"A place by a fire," the trader finishes.
