Ian R.

The frosty air bites my neck,

Through snowy mountains I must trek.

I see my breath as I tread

Above old bones long past dead.

They belonged to marauders a lot like me,

Now covered up by weather, for none to see.

My horse crunches them in the snow,

The way to the cave I must show.

A sword dangles from my belt,

As crystalized water begins to melt.

My wooden cross I grasp firmly.

In the frosty lands where none tread lightly,

My eyes drift upwards, cold and bleak.

I fall off into the snow, forever asleep.