Apocalypse The Miracle

Snow crunches underfoot as a solitary figure makes his way through Wisp district. The wind is cold and bitter, and where it should smell of food and wood smoke instead it smells of… nothing. The lone man presses on, frost whipping through his blue hair, ice cracking beneath his graceful, dancelike steps. Finally he comes to a hill, once grassy, now white like everything else.
He quickly makes his way to the peak, bare hands brushing the coat of frost away from a stone monument. The Point Nearest to Heaven. He takes a moment to admire the throatburner script adorning it, much like the writing on the massive blade he carries slung across his back.
The man leans against the Point Nearest to Heaven and takes a deep breath. Deeper than humanly possible. Deeper than inhumanly possible. And then the exhale. Even longer than the inhale, but that's the prcice you pay when you are trying to give rescue breathing to an entire world. Ice cracks, snow melts, water runs through the ditches of Oberon in a flood.
Flip nods in satisfaction and heads back down the hill, through the stirring streets, to his home in an abandoned theater. He stretches out on his bed and groans. "God, I feel like I could sleep for a week…"
And so it was written: Pokiehlember 1st, Year 1, Shade's Day.

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