In a land of endless frost, a man stands tall above dead fields of white. His eyes wash over the emptiness, seeking for something, or someone. He wears an iron dressm like a fallen flower whose petals are cast down, his features seemed to have been chiseled with still hands. No emotion betrays his face. Eyes brown as dead leaves seek with purpose until they spot what they seek.
The distant white horizon holds a black minuscule spot, then two, then three, then it becomes a line, and it expands and grows. They come. Relentless, thirsty for blood, hungry for war. Without breaking his stance, the man in iron places two fingers inside his mouth and blows. A high pitched whistle echoes across the dead ice fields. Nothing happens. The black line takes the shape of black figures, clad in darkness and spikes, thousands of them. He hears the distant rumbling of their footsteps, but there is no fear on his eyes, only the look of one who waits.
Ice cracks next to him and a figure clad in white burst forth. They wear scales that shine bright under the pale Sun’s light, like a peacock’s tucked tail. More cracking of ice, more figures in white burst out. Soon, the man in iron is surrounded by an army in white. The faintest of smiles draws on the left corner of his mouth. Today is a good day for war.