The old world had sunk beneath the snow. All that remained hung on black boughs - golden leaves, crisp and curled, and bright baubles of fresh flakes, glinting in the moon-glow. The rider had travelled far that night, a slow procession beneath the beams of moon and the vast, dark woodland. Muffled echos, crunch and thump - the hooves moved along the white path. Soon they both saw horizon. Soon they were at the meeting place. They waited.
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