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The frost-season reaches its apex. The sun abbreviates its daily procession, swinging low across the horizon. Candlelight seeps through snow-covered windows. The trader finally finds a fragment of unscoured writing in your shrine. He doubles his efforts, wrapping his fingers in thick wool to bear the ice-rimed stone.
Skyward. Snow above rock. A communion of evergreens sprinkle holly-green needles onto the forest floor. Antlered beasts pick at frozen grass, lumbering on thickly-furred hooves.
