The sky this time of year is rarely absolute, the days are a smoke hued haze, the nights fade out to a supernatural purple or rose tint. The cold finds a way to cut, even when not a soul freezing clime, the air infecting ones skin and lungs with a parasitic rime, the kind that saps the will for anything but survival and heat. Even the delicate appearance of snowflakes deceives, a quick breeeze turning them into crystal and steel rasps against flesh. Breath becomes an ordeal, the very stuff of the most basic sustenance turned savage against the frailty of man.
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...however, I don't think that SG is desperate enough to need me as staff. Unless they want me to run a store for them, anyways. I could do that.