Thinking of Strynhalde immediately brings memories of kithood rushing to the forefront of her mind. Iris had always wondered what snow looked like as a kit, and yet was never able to envision it; it was like she would feebly try to conjure the idea of a new colour in her head.
And yet, after reading through this book, for the first time she feels like she can almost feel the imaginary snow piling up around her feet and the cold chill in the air. For once, Iris spoils herself by retreating into her wayward fantasies.
Oh, how she'd love to go sledding down those vast hills of white, the crystallised frozen leaves above glistening in the weak sunlight and creating kaleidoscope-like refractions of light on the frost that sparkled like starlight. The chilly wind would flow through her fur in a manner most refreshing, tickling at her eyes to the point she'd have to squeeze one shut in an attempt to hold back any tears created from the irritation.
How exhilarating it would be to slowly grind to a stop at the base of a snowy bank, the world practically spinning around her as she'd look skyward to the hypnotically falling snowflakes, sticking out her tongue with the hopes of at least a single one falling upon it and melting into her mouth. Breathless, she would fall backwards into the snow, laughing and smiling all the while, glancing at the warmly coloured lights of a nearby village built into one of the imposing frozen mountains, no doubt a place she'd most certainly return to later in order to drink some hot cocoa to recover from her time in the cold, all the while she'd watch the continuously falling snow out the window as a hypnotic illusion to lull her to sleep.
At the end of it all, Iris smiles ruefully to herself, shaking her head. Strynhalde's so far away, surely she wouldn't be able to make these fantasies a reality. It would be far too troublesome!
...Right?
