We walked through the forest, a blanket of fresh snow silencing the world and lending it the peaceful grace of a funeral shroud. The gathered trees, for all their massive beauty, were hibernating under cocoons of crystal. They did not stir from their constant dreams as we passed. Naked branches sprawled together, scraping the sky with harsh fingers. Icicles drooped from branches and boles like tears of long dead gods. They formed a dark curtain drawn over the specter of dead nature. It was a macabre illusion of the future. Kilter and Coronado, the tiny binary moons of Ozmandius, reflected miserly slivers of silver light. Thick snow reflected it back into space, leaving everything on the ground as an indistinct haze. This lit our way but gave the world a gothic, otherworldly glow that seemed to come from both above and below. And then there was us. Our feet floated on the cap atop the snow, created from a week of freezing sleet that had only just ended. It was strange, the bottoms of our boots two meters above the ground supported by only a cold lattice of water.
