The snowflakes storm down, fluffy little flakes of beauty. But this is not beauty. This is hell. And this is not real.
The arena is all too real. The only way out is death. But in the end, that isn't all too satisfactory an option.
Death is in the air, the fresh smell of wet blood crisp in the cool air.
Apple-red spots stain the snow just a moment later, the white purity of the landscape forever tarnished.
The snowflakes persist to fall, a hazy reminder that this is still hell.
But she knows that this is not real.
For the lovely Rowan, a snowball! :D
