Winter bears down on them longer than usual.

Or at least it feels like it, anyway. Ramiel paces through the snow-covered hills in the late afternoon one winter day. It is a strain on all of the muscles in his legs to work through the thick powder, but it is a rewarding exercise. His breath collects in tiny clouds from his nostrils as he goes; the effort is both tiring and a release of his pent-up energy all at once. Because the Dale is quiet once more and there is little else to do.

The coming of the snow and ice has brought with it a stillness that stretches beyond the weather. All of the world seems to hunker down in the insulating season, comfortable in waiting for spring before taking any action. Or maybe it isn’t comfort or lethargy that makes them stale. Maybe it is the war that comes knocking at their door, keeping them tucked away in their kingdoms so they don’t have to answer the summons. Out of sight, out of mind, as the saying goes.

Ramiel knows it to be a bleak hope, if it is the case. There is practically zero chance of any of them escaping the violence that lingers like spring on the horizon. Beqanna is hungry for it, after all. The staleness of their world can only continue for so long before it crumbles like bread left too long in the air. He only wonders when it will happen. He only worries where the Dale and his people will fall in the process. Because they will no longer stand alone. The ghost-king had told the soldier from the Deserts not to underestimate the mountain kingdom any longer, and he hadn’t been bluffing. Though they are few in number, their members are powerful and loyal – traits that mean so much more than sheer quantity alone. And then there is the wonderful matter of the spirits.

They have finally fully matured. Ramiel had been there as his spirit had come alive, emerging from the pool with a flourish of wings and a spray of water. He’d marveled at the pure beauty of the creature; the transparency and acceptance of who he was had been before him in the not-quite-flesh. From its curved, crushing beak to its faint red chest and head. A vulture – a bearded vulture, Weir would correct him. A scavenger. A searcher for the dead and dying; a keeper of life’s endless circle. Of course, he’d thought.

As he walks, his spirit is with him as it always is. It flies just out of sight above him, watchful, guarding. He wonders if Elysteria and Weir’s spirits have come forth as well, hopes they’ve gotten to experience the joy and understanding in the same way he has. The grey also wonders if they’ve thought about the implications of the animals. Could their spirits assist them in the war? It is an unsated curiosity that he spends a lot of his time pondering. Now, as he slip-slides down the final hill into the lower bowl of the Dale, he is still thinking (while trying not to misplace a step on the icy slope). But there is someone else nearby. And as he peers into the distance, his golden eyes darting between the snowflakes, he calls out to them. “Hello?”