Fury-ous

I am angry.

Well, to be fair, I'm always angry.

This situation is intolerable! Infuriating! How can I fulfill my destiny, the very reason I was created, if the steaming pile of stercum I have been screaming at cannot hear me?

What to do, when a soul is deaf to correction?

Is it human anymore?

Tricky. This calls for a shift in strategy.

Ah, the characters have gathered together. Why they meet around the essence of my being, surrounded by frozen water, girdled by sleeping dryads, I cannot fathom.

It gives me time to catch up with my sisters. And brethren, we make no distinction. Our faint shimmering as we touch the solid world does not manifest in firelight and crystalline whiteness. I would shiver, if it mattered to my existence.

It affects them. There are blue lips, feet stamping. Very little of them can be seen for thick bundles of clothing. Much beer is drunk, speech slurs.

We have an idea.

Lesser gods still listen to pretty summons. Morpheus and Boreas attend our pleas, and in the cold, water's drip near glowing logs, they spread the essences of themselves.

Rustle of tree limb, moan of wind. Susurrus of ice crystals touching, one to another. Pop of heated resin, clink of cinder, hiss of ash. All fall silent under Morpheus' influence. Boreas flies high above, calls the clouds to give generously.

The snow gathers. And covers.

Fire cries out for life, is stilled.

Whiteness smothers all.

Our task is complete.