I really have no idea what I'm doing right now. I think it's just the call of midnight telling me to actually do something semi-productive while I'm still awake. Or maybe I've got little strings tied around each of my fingers and some invisible being is using me as a puppet, typing each word for me. Regardless of the reason, I've managed to spit the following chapter out.

I assume that it will continue to develop into a healthy story with time but after glancing at the clock and seeing 12:25 AM glaring at me, I know this particular instance is not development time.

Now, how you managed to find yourself here does not concern me. What does concern me however, is the level of enjoyment experienced while finding this page staring up at you through the screen. I'm sure not much can be said about this first bit, but you never know. Onward!

Ghost In the Snow

Bitter wind hissed at the back of my neck, right in between the spot where my cloak began and my fedora ended. The freezing howl only intensified an already bubbling need to get indoors, so I did my best to ignore it. I must do this, get through this, force my way down the path and out to the end (an end I expected to be worth far less than the vigorous torture it took to get there in the first place).

With a growl, I rubbed a hand at the irritated spot. Not that it would help, of course. These blasted hands had never offered any kind of warmth be it physical or emotional. But at least the sensation of the wind scraping past the sensitive flesh was warded off temporarily.

'Why of all the bloody days, did it have to be today?' I mentally groaned. The inconvenience was astounding, enough to surprise even myself. I should have been used to negative situations (directly before I received the invitation, I'd assumed that nothing surprised me anymore in my old, experienced age), and yet this caught me completely off guard.

I knew why of course. 'My ridiculous self-imposed solitude doesn't consider the weather any longer, does it? I guess any attempts at small talk have been shattered,' I thought with a hint of sarcasm. Usually the cold doesn't bother me; I'm quite accustomed to temperatures lower than average and more often than not, I am so focused on a task that my nerves tend to stop sending me environmental signals at all. My world had only ever revolved around three things (not in this particular order): survival, music, and something else better left dusty and uncovered. What other consideration did I need outside of them?

'You could have at least remembered your gloves, you impudent idiot,' I chastised myself. White hands currently buried deep within the folds of the cloak, I wondered exactly how many shades of difference were between their paleness and that of the snow. 'Excuse me, pardon me. Ghost coming through.' That would have made for an alarming notice, now wouldn't it?

But such words were unneeded. Even my frighteningly thin and black-clothed figure intimidated no crowds of people today. Curtains were pulled across windows, shielding many inhabitants from the harsh reality of a storm outside. The world was bathed in a hysterical amount of white, snow coating anything that was attached to the ground. The streets were clear aside from the occasional unfortunate carriage driver and even then it was obvious they were seeking someplace to warm their rosy noses by the fire.

'At least I won't have to worry about that appendage falling off due to the cold.'

With this internal comment, my mood worsened. I took in a cold breath, tasted small bits of snow in the air, and then exhaled a puff of vapor. Why, oh why hadn't I hustled a carriage for transport? I shook my head at the pointless question. There was no part of me that wanted to deal with more people than was necessary at present.

After repeating the breathing exercise ten times, my attitude remained remotely the same except for a newfound hatred for the chill now permeating my teeth.

"Daroga," I hissed, the sound carried away in the roaring wind, "I'm going to murder you."