Our noises of gasps, coughs, shudders, and start echo back at us out of the gloom, furthering our confusion. Our backs face our small, dancing flame. Our eyes face nothing. The thin shadows of our legs reach for the oblivion, swerving, jumping and curving; running from the flame.

The crystalline white of the ground is only punctured by our shuffling steps. Our feet are cold and stiff. They ache with each tentative hop. The fire does not warm them. Our hands clutch frosted sticks. They bob with our struggling breaths and twitch with each new sound, but there is nothing: we are alone.

Then, hours, days, minutes, weeks, seconds later, the air leaps to life. The wind swirls and winds at us, through us, and around us, saturating everything in pure, black, unadulterated cold. It douses our fire, and seeps through our pores, chilling our veins, stopping our hearts, and locking our minds. We are frozen in time. There is complete cold, complete darkness, and complete nothing: for the Ice Man Cometh.