Chance turned his collar to the cool of the grim December evening. The bones of the branches were strewn, reaching for the covered horses and the farmers out in the fields, shuffling in the morning. The snow fell above him in the soft formation of ashes, covering the once vibrant landscape in a lifeless quilt, an array of pillared, soft fixtures on the boughs and rooftops the hue of burned charcoal. He ran his fingers through his auburn hair, that was colored at the ends with a warm clementine and scarlet hue, and he buttoned the cuff of his sleeve and frowned.