Where Death and Winter Meet in the Wilderness
A narrative playlist
(You can find the playlist here, and lyrics to all songs here)
To Crawl Under One’s Skin
This is not where the tale begins. This is an introduction of textures and despair. The grip of Winter in all his force and the inevitability of Death. This is not the prologue, but rather, it is akin to the cover of a book. This is the chill and despair of Winter’s saga. Tongues speak, but they are met with a midnight blizzard. A calling out into the darkness and into the violent stifling silence of the wilds. The wilderness is bare, and Death wrought it as such. Seasons are bound by time, and since Death is inevitable, so too is loss. Winter dared to love, but it was a grim, shallow, and artless love. Fate dared look away, dared blink, but Winter was too young to comprehend what inevitability watched from the snowy mists.
Born in Winter
The prologue. Winter is a child and bitter. Winter is the season of Death and the source of fear. The sun is vengeful and despises the sons of winter. Fate has laid a curse on all children of winter, it would seem, so how could Winter ever succeed knowing what terror his own path instills into all? Rabbits flee before the hunter, and those who merrily fall in love in spring scorn the brooding tread of Winter. But do not despair, young Winter. You are still destined for greatness, so say the elders. Those born in winter have the clearest visions of purity and stars. Someday, you will see for yourself. Do not scorn yourself for what season you were fated to be born in. Strength is inevitable, so take heart. You are young, but soon you will not be. You are weak, but soon you will not be. Mind not the timing of fate, for success is inevitable for you.
The Voyager
Winter is grown. Spurred by contempt splattered upon his soul by those who despise winter, and hardened by barbarous years in the wilderness, Winter emerges into the world a champion. A growing legend. A mythmaker and beast-slayer. The protector of those who cannot weather the primordial battlefields of nature and life. Winter is the presumed prince of the wilds and heir to the ethereal halls of countless sagas. The sea is his, and monstrosities strike and bleed and perish in his wake. Fate? An ancient joke. Navigation is for the puny of soul who know not what it means to be a child of winter. This was the destiny he was told of in his youth. To capture and understand the extent of his fate as such a young warrior? Winter was a prodigy and claiming his throne over the wilderness will be a formality.
Where Strides the Behemoth
Winter enters the ruinous outreaches of the wilds. They say foes dwell there who have never tasted death in winter. These beasts grow and propagate unchallenged by justice, unchallenged by fate, and Winter knew where his destiny lay. To challenge such foes unkempt by justice would be the finality of proof. Pruning the arrogance of those beasts that terrorize the outland villages would satisfy that royal blood of Winter and demonstrate his worthiness of legendhood. Killing was justified for Winter was, no doubt, fate incarnate. The manifestation of Death is who deserves strength, glory, and prize.
Pale Rider from the Ice
As Winter roamed the outlands slaughtering the ancient foes and behemoths, a dark figured watched from a distance. What a fine warrior Winter was turning out to be. The largest of adversaries fell in bloody heaps, and no man stood before Winter without the faintest of trembles. The figure watching from the distance chuckled. Winter will fall and come to an end, for that is fate. Nothing can bloom in the season of death. Death wasn’t too fond of those who used his name lightly, and justice was a jealous sister. Ah sister! What strands can you weave together to show this callow and brash Winter the name of true terror? What can Winter dream about if not Death? Ah! Now that’s a beast to fear, Winter. At last you meet terror. At last you meet Death. Fate blinks and Winter perishes.
Snow Witch
In a fleeting moment resembling a forgotten dream, Winter awakens in a drowned rage. Engulfed by the muted underworld, Winter allowed his soul to be hooked onto a white thread. Unbeknownst to Fate, the snow witch returned Winter to life through a magic that pierces oblivion. She had the same smile as Death, and Winter fell madly in love. What greatness could he possibly be destined for if his life was so easily lost, yet here, this witch, this celestial shard rescued him. Winter was immune to the sting of Death, no doubt, because he was born in winter, and the machinations of fate, this witch, proved his glorious status. But what is this blizzardlike silence emerging from her mouth?
Winter’s Wolves
The snow witch, that fated frost-weaver, rejected the mortal Winter. Death was inevitable, and love would scant save Winter from oblivion. The behemoths may fall, but so too will Winter. A Distraught Winter seethed. The beauty of ice fettered his arrogance, and he unleashed his curse. Death to all, and wolves will be Death’s savior. A young life captured and dredged from the brink of oblivion is worthless if it cannot love, and to be denied that love is a greater curse than that of Death. May Death strike you and all who still tread this accursed earth for fate is mine to wield. The figure watching from the distance chuckled.
From Wilderness Came Death
Brooding, and stalking the highlands in a grim disposition, Winter tries to rent himself from the memory of the Snow witch and all of humanity. But humanity and mortality cannot fully be rent from the mind of one born in winter. Word came to Winter that all the wilderness swarmed with the bodies of wolves and all those dwelt in the outlands and wastes of the world were slaughtered. Death had his revenge on Winter, not yet through flesh, but through the souls and mind. Winter’s brooding distracted him from the terrors that he had grown accustomed to, and thus the protector abandoned his post for scorned love. Thus, the prince of the wilds took up the megrims of his own despair rather than fashion the his fated success by his own accord. Absence brings naught but Death, and the consequence is a returned curse. Death made his presence in Winter’s wilderness known in full.
Frost Hammer
Death approached Winter with a grin, and at once Winter’s dream of oblivion felt familiar. Fate has come to collect what was owed, for not even the sister of Death can salvage beyond what destiny allows. Youth that survives Death will never champion wisdom, and therefore he will make a poor king. The wilderness and its darkness is a kingdom not meant to be reigned. No forest, no rock pit, no tundra will give heed to a season that dare defy Death. The lineage of those born in winter is destined to thrive amidst the cold and loneliness of winter, but he, Death, commands the weapon to call such hearty warriors home. Winter strikes at Death, though his foe could shatter him. Winter had always lived on borrowed time and manufactured fate, and to realize this is to despair. Winter and Death meet blows, and laughter and agony echo across the wilderness.
Siberian Divide
Earth shatters and curses are made incarnate. Frost and delirium settle upon the mortal flesh, yet Death is surprised by the thunderous soul quivering with each strike. The dream of Death becomes a reality, yet dreams, Death suddenly realizes, are not equal to fate. Fate has no hand in their craft, and soon wolves with hunched backs and salivating fangs surround the two opponents. Ravens too materialize in the trees, and at once Death and Winter were surrounded by night with stars like the gleaming eyes of ravens. Capture such a grand soul, and all the toils of the future will be as ash, and they will be as the melting of snow. Ah! But fate commands Death to act, and the inevitability of the seasons, this hopeless play of mortal actors, must come to an end. Indeed, the seasons are mortal, and in each moment Winter grows weak. The legend will be forgotten. The prince will perish whether or not he becomes king. The raging blizzard weakens, and ancient frost churns in heart of Winter. In the cold black of night, Winter perishes.
The Old Ones Are With Us
An epilogue. Frost melts over the knolls as the sun rises in blood. All the fields of the wilderness are splattered in the shimmering blood of Winter. Snow becomes mist, and the withered grass adorns the soil. Winter bleeds out and saplings pierce his pure flesh. Fate is unavoidable, and so too is spring. Death is the handworker, the hired assassin, of progress. Wilderness is a euphemism for graveyard, and fertility is the journey of Death. What tales remain of the season of Death? What jealousy motivates the ancient of heart? Ah, the behemoth is not the enemy of mankind. Nay, the wolf bears not its jaws at the mortal in disgust at the mortal. No, it is the mortality itself that spurns hatred among the mortals. And winter, the season of wild fabrications and vicious dreams, ignites the fated coals of love, though it would not be the case if Death succeeded in all things. Yet it is also true that that would not be the case if Death failed in all things as well. Fear not where Death meets Winter in the wilderness; fires return and fires perish.
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