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The frost was biting him.


He remembered a time of good, and plenty. He did not know when. He did not know time. All he knew was that green and yellow and good had existed once.

Now it was blue and white...red was in some places. Giant...splotches of it. The patterns were interesting. Then they were wiped away.


The frost was biting him.


He tried to bite back. He fought, horn and hoof, against the biting frost.

Nothing worked. This was the worst white and blue time he could remember.

His thoughts stretched back through the eons of history.


The frost was biting him.


This storm...it came quick. It came cold. The sound of the ice flakes and stones hitting the ground and trees and wind sounded like the monkeys hammering away in the canopy.

Perhaps that was why they called it a cold hammer.

The frost was not biting him.

The world was calling.