A face of triangles, he sits within his cabin in the woods, surrounded by the white.

He is a feline, legs crossed, with fur of white and eyes of brightest red, sitting beside the window in his chair.

When he moves it is with grace and silence, paw padded feet gentle where he treads. Eyes wide and ears perked he watches the falling snow, soft fingertip making no sound as it taps his windowsill.

He stands, stretching out his limbs and setting to dim the fireplace. Quietly he slips outside, stepping into the snow.

The sky is white with so many black stars. They watch him, captivated as he sets off in the night.

There is a nearby copse of trees where he likes to sit, thick black firs with ashen boughs and rich scent. This is his place to reinvigorate, and think of great mysteries. He is a slave to curiosity, exploring the depths of ideas with a prodding nose and endless interest.

Ears perked to hear no sound, he sets alert amoungst the trees. Laying, watching the stars from between branches, the cold seeps into his fur and his breath plumes and catches in the air. He is at peace with the world, spread as an angel in the snow.

Sometimes he lays in bed and dreams, curled unto himself. In the snow his heart is open to the sky. Light pouts within, warming his thoughts with promises.

He can feel warm kisses on his forehead and another hand in his, breathing deep the cool night air. He lays here for a time, thinking to himself.

His legs kick at the sheets of his bed. They itch for him to walk, toes splayed tense in anticipation.

Lounging by the fireside. He stretches, hugging a couch cushion, purring quietly as warm air laps at his back.

He gets up from the snow.

His home is small, a couch by the fireside, a writing desk and chair, a side room small enough to only fit his bed. He keeps snacks on a small shelf in the corner, white berries picked from winter shrubs. He takes a bite and gets up from the snow.

His name is Ribbon and he spends his life here in the fields of Frost. The walk home is a slight weary, his legs tired from exercise. Following his footsteps he trudges slowly to his house. The wind pushes him forward, weaving between black trees.

Snow is light on his shoulders, invisible. It falls forever from the sky.

A face of triangles, he sets in his chair by the fire, drying his fur. He stares wide-eyed at nothing in particular.

He is so tired, resting in his bed. Sleep so slowly overtakes him, resting in the snow. He dreams of black stars shining above.