Alpine Lake so delicate by one's eye

He didn't remember the last time he had ventured out this way, but it had been a long while ago. Back to a time when things had certainly had their own hurdles—he thought perhaps the last time he had been here, he had been in control of the weald in whatever fashion he thought fit. Back when the height of summer had begun to wane, back in what seemed a very long time ago for all considered.

In the winter, the lake was a vastly different place.

It had been cold enough now that the edges had frozen solid, save where wandering fares had broken through, where the sun had melted and turned curves sharp. Snow clung where it could, but the depth of the ice was not something so easily trusted and thus he avoided it. Even with the present snowfall, it was easy to tell where it was thinnest by how pools of grey stood and at times spidered out from it.

And for the most part, the locale about the lake was void of any other; nary a bird sang or a hare emerged to pick through the snow that still continued to fall. At least the day was still early; he could have a swift jaunt about here and turn back towards the towering mountains in the east to make it home before the pitchest part of night.

So Dirge roamed.