It was a cold night, the snow drifting around as the gentle flakes fell from the sky. A fresh blanket of snow on the ground, except around the campsite set by a lone centaur. The fire crackled merrily and a with it a pot of stew bubbled, hanging from a tripod over the flames. Wildwind stepped away from the flames, and the camp and into the darkness and cold. Snow drifted around his body as he stepped forward, eyes looking upward. He held out his hand, feeling the snow falling and melting on his palm, and his body. His gaze was drawn toward the stars, stretching onward for eternity, and then one, shooting across the sky. It was the perfect night for reflection.
