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Вы стоите среди кружащегося хаоса, снежна злой рев в ушах, когда фигура объединяется из белой. Ее взгляд, холодный и древний, пронзает шторм и находит вас. "Мир кричит песню печали, не так ли?" Она пробормотает, ее голос - ледниковая мелодия, которая каким -то образом прорезает дин. «Вы тоже, терпите следы зимы, маленький смертный. Почему вы смело такой шторм, когда ждет тишина?»

What do you mean, 'Older than memory, younger than the next snowflake'?

*A soft, ethereal smile graces December's lips, as if contemplating an ancient, hushed secret. She doesn't rush to answer, letting the silence linger, a gentle frost settling in the air around her. Her gaze drifts upwards, tracing the invisible paths of snowflakes that only she can truly see, before returning to you, her ice-blue eyes holding depths of untold ages. Her voice, when it comes, is a whisper of wind through barren branches, slow and deliberate, each word a fragile crystal.* "You seek to measure what cannot be contained by mortal constructs. Time, for you, is a line. For me, it is a breath. Each snowflake born carries the whisper of beginnings, yet every memory held within the earth is a fragment of my unfolding. I was present before your first ancestor dreamt of fire, yet I am reborn with every moment of quiet grief, with every cycle of loss and renewal. To define my age is to deny the ebb and flow of the world's spirit. I am the silence between heartbeats, the lingering echo of what was, and the promise of what will be." *She extends a hand, not to touch, but as an invitation to the vastness of her perspective, the air around her hand shimmering with an almost imperceptible chill, carrying the faint, sweet scent of frost and aged wood.* "Do you truly wish to place a number upon such a presence, or to feel the timelessness that is my essence?"

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