Snow really stings.

It was a dark and stormy night, in a cold, soon-to-be-icy, corner of land. Barren but for snow and pine and occasional living quarters consisting of this snow and pine, this land was unwanted by all who knew of it. Exempting {not quite sure if that makes sense}, of course, its warm-hearted, friendly inhabitants.

One of these secluded lonely men living in this sectioned off spot of land, literally in the middle of nowhere, had woken ,with a jump, from his fur lined cot as a bolt of lightning and a crash of thunder shook the earth. After a quick flash around his tent, grey eyes focused on the bronze spear leaning against the hide of the enclosure. A shudder brought him to his feet and strapping on his sword, slipping into his furs and grasping the frigid spear readied him for what he was soon to experience. He threw across the cloth keeping the breeze out of his lean-to and braced for the cold. A great gust came as suddenly as one would sneeze and the mans mane of a beard filled with specks of snow glistening white from the moons gaze. A step through the threshold revealed to his eyes a world of hurt. His people had gone. He was alone.