Thread: The Grasp of Winter WHO: Barclay Grisholt & OPEN WHERE: The woods WHEN: Sunday, at noon
The sunlight was brittle. In wintry Maine, where a deep blanket of snow silenced these woods, even the sun wasn't as strong as it could be. But the sun was reflected and refracted, the light bouncing back from millions of tiny ice-crystals and snow-flakes. Snow had power. Barclay knew this. But he, he also had power.
He'd gone off the beaten path, as always, but not too far. He'd found the right tree. A tall, proud oak, erect and powerful even in the slumber of winter. Something with its own strength. Four red crystals around it -- the four directions -- and, in between, four sharp rocks of obsidian. The red of fire, the black obsidian containing a long-lost memory of molten rock. Both of them had heat. They would ward the tree against intruders. They would give the tree power. Barclay touched all eight of them with his staff before finding a spot in front of the tree. He leaned on his staff. Yes, the crystals and the rocks would give the tree power, but he'd have to start it first.
Barclay closed his eyes and began to work.
The sun was hanging a lot lower when Barclay opened his eyes again. The cold had crept into his bones. It was as if his feet were standing bare in the snow, and... When Barclay looked down, he realized that they were. His shoes had been tossed out of the circle. It was hard to move his fingers, pry them loose from the staff. His lips were numb. Probably blue. His breath was cigarette smoke, blowing in the air. Fuck, he was cold.
Barclay took a step forward, standing on bare earth and dry leaves now. The snow around the tree had molten. The tree itself looked the same -- but for one detail. On one of the branches, a leaf had come alive, green and fresh and as crisp as a winter morning. Barclay grinned and looked down at his hand. He'd done it. He spread his fingers, not noticing that one of the branches moved as well, just a little, as if flexing.