Ice.

Cold.

Deathly grey clouds scudding across the sky.

The wind sucks heat from your body in seconds. It whips around you, ceaselessly prying at your defenses, leaping on the smallest error, waiting to knife into your flesh and leave its leperous white calling card - frostbite.

And the snow. Even when the wind is mercifully still, there is still the snow.

Driving, drifting, clogging eyes and nose, blocking needed air vents, hiding dangers - or, worse, hiding precious resources. Clearing it breaks the body, drains precious warmth, and is, ultimatly, utterly futile. There is always more snow.

It is Fimbulwinter, the Ice Age that heralds the twilight of the Gods, and the Fenris-Wolf has swallowed the sun.

And yet, life goes on.

Life will find a way...