Shadow Mountain i had walked my entire life as a dead man

he was in fact, early. 
sundown had come and gone; twilight had become solid night. the crunch of snow would announce lestan mayfair for any ears that might listen.
there were no bouquets to be had, no furbelows collected. he brought himself, preened anxiously to a glowing sheen — and he brought a spray of cold-purple crocus flowers.
blooms after all.
sprawled in his teeth, the stems tasted rather bitter; he was eager to put them down and turn slowly in a circle. "well," his voice said warmly into the wind, conversational tone held, "i am here, winter's @Wake."