The spirits have spun a net of discomfort in icey swaffs across the ***** mountains. The chill must be of the supernatural variety, being that no amount of coat nor heater can save us from it.

I can only breathe the smokey ice of cold breath. Too cold to breath or think, and there's still Tuesday before there's peace... for either of us.

This is how the world finds peace. Through the mourning before the morning.

Yes
No
Do nothing