Moonsong Glacier [BOO] In roaring he shall rise and on the surface die.

It is a late hour, some might call the witching hour, when the wind picks up. The low-lying mist clinging to the glacier eddies with some effort, and when the air goes still again there is a lingering chill that hangs heavy across the landscape—the feeling of an early winter, making the breath plume from the body and the skin tremble.

The night is quiet; although there is a disturbance to the air, there is no sound from the frosted blades of grass underfoot, or the trees clustered across the wilderness of this place. The moon looks full, and yet there is a haze as thin clouds shift to obscure its shape.

Below, perhaps due to a trick of the moonlight through these heavy mists, a pair of green eyes flash.