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The Wind of the North

With dawn's first light came a chilly wind from the north. Only slight, but in some fashion grey like frost it came to the wide, lightly frostsprinkled fields. And with it it brought mist, mist from those lands in the north where the mists are not few, but many and powerful. In the coldest nights of those realms the mists enter the emptiness of outer space itself and hang there, like tapestries or diffuse clouds, shining—with their own, unreflected light—with a sometimes ice-blue, sometimes poisonously green ghostly light, either infinately slowly waving or similarly infinately slowly being torn apart, by the winds - or those phenomena diffusely related to winds - that may possess the power to move mists at such wuthering airless heights. Heavy from its chill the mist slid over the meadows, that powerlessly were forced to let their frost-stiffened grass be shrowded.

Also to the forests came the mist. Pallid white and fine-meshed like the hair of an elderly person it spread across the thick layer fallen leaves, in its slow mercilessness similar to a submersion. The almost completely stripped black-grey broadleaf trees could but powerlessly behold their roots being first clothed and then completely drowned in the mist, as if they had been entangled in the net of a spider of monstrous proportions.

But the wind from the north had not only brought mist. Low above the treetops hovered a large bird of prey, its back black like that of a hawk. Indeed, it looked almost exactly like a hawk but for its expressionless raptor eyes, whose colour wasn't the stained yellow of a hawk's, but corpse-pale, their pupills black like the bottomless abysses of stiff-frozen nothingness, that separate the stars from eachother. Flying in wide circular motion it took in the landscape, ignoring those pairs of eyes that from the ground watched it with instinct-born, bottomless horror. In the essence of its being it knew the meaning of what it saw, and it knew the intentions of the with furtive slyness forth-creeping mist. Slowly its flight brought it higher towards the sky.

The past night had brought frost. Pitilessly it had clad the trees and the grass, so that they now, in the misty dawn seemed almost luminescent. The trees stood almost skeleton-like around the white-powdered meadows, like in a dreary and resigned devotion before the approaching winter. In the marshes the frost had made the mud stiffen and had covered it with a thin, brownish icesheet.

The cloud-covered sky, shining brighter now, veiled the cooling groves and fields like a shell of dirty silver. Against it was seen the hawk-like bird's outline, now rather distant. Like a scavanger-bird over a dying hoofed animal it circled the grounds. It was leaving, but within its ice-like unchanging mind it knew it'd be back. Not yet—but soon, within just a short time, it'd return, to land on the branches of these forests to make them flinch under its weight. And with it it'd bring snow—smothering, branch-breaking snow. It would come with ice, asphyxiating and merciless like steel armour. And it would bring into the air a paralyzing stillness; from the north it would come, and bring with it all of winter's hideous hopelessness. Yea, indeed would it return, with all the dead silent, winterstormroaring icecoldness, of which its being was made up. Higher and higher it flew, in wider and wider circles.

The raptor's circling flight took it finally into the clouds, and all was again still. The air was of a rust-like quality, filled with a frosty, almost invisible haze. The brightening daylight brought hardly any warmth at all to the forests, and the sea of mist dissolved only slowly—indeed almost scornfully. And in the same moment that the day began, was heard from high above the piercing cry of a bird-of-prey—sharp as an icicle.

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