Frost.

//They cannot scare me with their empty spaces Between stars-on-stars where no human race is. I have it in me so much nearer To scare myself with my own [[desert places.|begin]]//

The air is thin and icy; it jabs at your lungs and presses in on your eardrums. You clap your gloved hands together to coax the blood back to your fingertips. You gaze out at the bleak ocean of [[white.|scene]]

This scenery has lain undisturbed for millenia. The stoic grey mountains jut menacingly into the still air, their peaks coated in thick strata of untouched, compacted powder-snow. Hoardes of coarse, dark tree trunks mass together, [[seething.|step out]]

You step out of the small wooden doorway, [[into the light.|see prints]]

The cold prickles along your arms, tendrils of frosty air seeping through your clothing. You survey your surroundings. Again, untouched. For the most part. Some ten feet to your left: a [[set of prints.|prints]] Beneath the trees on your right: a [[crimson stain.|bloodstain]]

You make your way slowly towards the prints, your booted feet sinking deep into the fresh snow with each step. You crouch down to examine them further. Their shape and impression are familiar; have been, for some weeks now. Your face set grimly, you [[return|cabin]] to the cabin.

You drag your heavy boots to the edge of the forest and the blood spattered there, starkly red against the grey-white of the snow. It is a small spray. Some unfortunate tree-dweller has met a violent death here. Your mind is drawn more grimly to the [[prints|prints]] on the other side of the cabin.

There is work to be done. The prints are confirmation of what you have feared; she is out there still. Pack-less. Savage. Hungry. [[//Medeina.//|inside]]

The thick, slatted door groans as you push it open and step inside, showering the wooden floor with powdered snow. The room is cramped and scarcely warmer than the outside air, but it is familiar. //Fourteen years.// You cross the small room to the coat rack, tracking sludge behind you. Two heavy jackets hang there. (live: 10s)[One [[brown,|herjacket]]] (live: 11s)[One [[grey.|hisjacket]]]

This coat is not yours. The sleeves are not long enough. The sweetness of a phantom scent still lingers on its collar. |forget>[Did you [[forget?|remember]]] (mouseover-replace: ?forget)[[[Remember.|remember]]]

You reach for the grey coat; it is stiff, weighty. You pull the sleeves over your arms and zip it up to your jaw. You march back to the [[door.|leave]]

She smelled of chamomile. You grit your teeth. You shrug the load of the past from your already [[hunched shoulders.|hisjacket]]

Outside, you contemplate the desolate [[trees|woods]] once again.

//[[The woods are lovely, dark and deep,|second line]]//

//The woods are lovely, dark and deep, [[But I have promises to keep,|third line]]//

//The woods are lovely, dark and deep, But I have promises to keep, [[And miles to go before I sleep|fourth line]]//

//The woods are lovely, dark and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep And miles to go [[before I sleep.|enter woods]]//

You push your way into the woods. The path to the clearing is familiar to you. You will find a number of heavy steel traps sitting beneath the trees there, coated in rust and moss. You have not checked them in almost one week; the threat seemed to have passed. But she is still here. [[Taunting|see tracks]] you. <audio src="https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/u/4348364/walkingsnow.wav" autoplay>

As you battle your way through the rubbery branches, spraying wet snow in your wake, you reach a slight opening in the trees. There, in front of you, a fresh set of tracks leads away into the dark undergrowth. Should you [[follow the tracks|follow tracks]] in a new and unfamiliar direction, or proceed to the clearing to [[check the traps|traps]]? <audio src="https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/u/4348364/walkingsnow.wav" autoplay>

The tracks are hers, without a doubt. She passed by here mere hours previously. You pause, deliberating. //Two roads diverged in a wood...// Back at the cabin, an old Winchester 70 rests against the wooden hearth. Do you [[go back|return home]] for the rifle, or [[continue|path unarmed]] to follow the tracks?

Grimly, you continue towards the clearing. Two of the traps have been sprung. Carefully, your fingers cold and stiff in the unwieldy gloves, you re-set them, smearing beeswax over the corroded metal from a tub in your jacket pocket. This will mask your scent. You are not of her kind. You are [[Other.|home or prints]]

The new tracks tug at your consciousness. You can go back and [[follow them|follow tracks]], or allow the traps to do their work, and return to the [[cabin.|return home]]

The air is cool and crisp in the speckled shade of the trees as you trudge back towards the cabin. It is a quiet day, the mountains silent; the storm of several days previously left a crushing stillness in its path. The storm brought back memories which you would have preferred to ignore. Memories of another storm, [[fourteen years|first storm]] previously. <audio src="https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/u/4348364/walkingsnow.wav" autoplay>

The sky had tumbled like an ocean that night: hundreds of vicious, roiling waves undulating and showering shards of ice onto the mountain-scape beneath it. The trees had quaked dangerously, one of them ripped from its roots with a deafening crash as it toppled to the valley below. { It was not supposed to happen that way. She was healthy, fit. She had hardly been sick a day in her life. (if: (history:) contains "return home")[But you were [[unprepared.|remembering]]] (else:)[But you were [[unprepared.|walking and remembering]]] } <audio src="https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/u/4348364/thunderstorm.wav" autoplay>

It was your fault. It crushes you to your core; a heftier weight than all of the ice capping the peaks, combined. You shake your head as you continue to push through the trees, their barked faces mocking, sneering. That night had been harsh and unrelenting. But your small, sturdy cabin had prevailed, you reflect as the sight of it emerges through the foliage. It had been battered by the thick hail and torrents of hard snow for some thirteen hours, but it had stood strong. A testament to its builder, long since passed away. You simply inherited this hearth. You occupied it with dreams of happiness, [[solitude|reach cabin]], peace and tranquility. <audio src="https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/u/4348364/howlingwind.wav" autoplay>

Reaching the cabin door, you step inside to the cabin's relative warmth. Its silence is deafening, its emptiness [[violently manifest.|age poem]]

//[[All out of doors looked darkly in at him Through the thin frost, almost in separate stars, That gathers on the pane in empty rooms.|age two]]//

Their lives snuffed out like matchstick flames, having served their purpose, quashed with a hiss in the damp snow. Both, wife and unborn child, torn from you in the space of hours. And here you remain, your solitude absolute, but peace lies far out of reach. Medeina has seen to that. Always lurking, a constant threat. She is out there still. { (if: (history:) contains "follow tracks")[You must find her, and put an [[end|retrieve gun]] to this.] (else:)[You need to [[find her.|gun or not]]] }

//All out of doors looked darkly in at him Through the thin frost, almost in separate stars, That gathers on the pane in empty rooms. [[What kept his eyes from giving back the gaze Was the lamp tilted near them in his hand.|age three]]//

//All out of doors looked darkly in at him Through the thin frost, almost in separate stars, That gathers on the pane in empty rooms. What kept his eyes from giving back the gaze Was the lamp tilted near them in his hand. What kept him from remembering what it was That brought him to that creaking room [[was age.|miscarriage]]//

An old Winchester 70 rests against the wooden hearth. A thin film of dust dulls the barrel's shine. You are no casual killer, but this...//she//...is different. Do you wish to [[retrieve|retrieve gun]] the rifle, or [[leave|path unarmed]] it behind?

{ (if: (history:) contains "gun or not")[There has been enough death here. You walk out of the cabin, and continue on your path, [[unarmed.|snow poem]] ] (else:)[You continue on your path, [[unarmed.|snow poem]]] }

//The hard snow held me, save where now and then One foot went through. [[The view was all in lines|snow poem two]]//

//The hard snow held me, save where now and then One foot went through. The view was all in lines Straight up and down of tall slim trees { (if: (history:) contains "miscarriage")[[[Too much alike to mark or name a place by.|walking, less history]]] (else:)[[[Too much alike to mark or name a place by.|walking, more history]]] } //

{(if: (history:) contains "follow tracks")[You did not return here to reminisce. You came to get the gun, and finish this.] You walk to the wooden hearth, pick up the rifle, check the chamber, and [[leave|snow poem]] the cabin once more.}

You battle your way through the forest, dimmed now in shadows cast by the towering trees. The darkness is forceful, oppressive, spreading slowly across the stale, compacted snow. The tracks are somewhat faded now by the [[rising wind.|tracking]] <audio src="https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/u/4348364/howlingwind.wav" autoplay>

The air is cool and crisp in the speckled shade of the trees as you trudge along the path, scrutinising it for further signs of her presence. It is a quiet day, the mountains silent; the storm of several days previously has left a crushing stillness in its path. The storm brought back memories which you would have preferred to ignore. Memories of another storm, [[fourteen years|first storm]] previously. <audio src="https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/u/4348364/walkingsnow.wav" autoplay>

Time passes. You have followed the tracks from the small clearing, several hundred feet into the undergrowth. They are no longer faint; she has made deep, laboured impressions in the hard snow. Again, it feels as though she is mocking you. Daring you to follow her, to pit your wits against her, for whom this clime is a natural abode. You are a stranger here; this place has never welcomed you as it does her. Your jaw set, you trudge onwards with increasing determination. { (if: (history:) contains "path unarmed")[You need to see her, to put a shape to the [[faceless threat|drawing nearer]] in your mind.] (else:)[As you swing the rifle over your shoulder, the metal feels smooth in your cold, [[clenched fists.|drawing nearer]]] } <audio src="https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/u/4348364/walkingsnow.wav" autoplay>

Your breath comes even shorter now, pain searing through your chest. Still, your lungs reject the paper-thin air at this altitude; in all this time, they have failed to adapt to the harsh conditions. Above the trees, the surrounding peaks loom like immense, jagged teeth out of the gathering fog. You grit your teeth. The days are short; soon, only the moon's pale luminescence will { (if: (history:) contains "traps")[[[guide you.|spot blood]]] (else:)[[[guide you.|almost there]]] } <audio src="https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/u/4348364/howlingwind.wav" autoplay>

Crimson. Splashed at the base of a black tree trunk, already turning gelatinous in the freezing cold. [[She is near.|almost there]]

You continue to traipse through the dense undergrowth, listening to the patter of hard snow spraying the ground as you wrestle with the branches. The sky grows dimmer. This mountain, though a life in itself, has always seemed unsupporting of life. It is stale, barren. Few creatures have shown themselves here. Medeina is a constantly-creeping presence, but she is no companion. You had a companion, once, and she was sensational. Her laughter would echo, causing snow to cascade from the treetops, and you were building //him// a [[small wooden bed.|final reminiscence]]

A bed in two halves, two boxes, so that when he got older its length could be extended. It was a boy, you could feel it all along, but of course it would not have mattered. The child would be a part of her, more than of you; it would be open, curious, loving, laughing... { (if: (history:) contains "traps")[But now, he is nothing but dust [[beneath the trees.|Find her injured]]] (else:)[But now, he is nothing but dust [[beneath the trees.|find her uninjured]]] }

Your reverie ends. The trees open, and there she is. Her slate-grey fur matted with congealing blood, her eyes half-open, flickering feebly; she lies in the snow which here is fresh and clean, soft like the blanket on a child's tiny bed. //Medeina.// Queen of the forest. The hunter's foe. She seems [[exceptionally small.|describe her]]

The gaping wound in her leg is enclosed in steely jaws. She must have become caught in the trap within the last few hours, perhaps soon after you re-set them. In her bright blue eyes you find two deep chasms of terror. { (if: (history:) contains "path unarmed")[You kneel down [[beside her.|injured, unarmed]]] (else:)[The rifle rests coldly against your back, the strap [[digging|injured, armed]] into your shoulder.] }

Her body heaves; her eyes begin to lose focus. She, who for so long epitomised the evil of the mountain, now represents nothing but your own failing; your repellence of life. You are anathema in human form. Do you help her? How can you, a stranger here, bringer of destruction to this peaceful place? For it is a place of peace. And the the villain here is not [[Medeina|end poem one]]... but [[you.|end poem one]]

Still staring into her eyes, you slowly reach back for the rifle. The time has come, after months of waiting; she is here, her threat neutralised, and [[You can end this|shoot her]], once and for all... But you are exhausted. In body and mind, you yearn for peace, for life. [[You can just go home.|don't shoot her]]

(live: 3s)[//Some say the world will end in fire, [[Some say in ice|end poem two]]//]

//Some say the world will end in fire, Some say in ice. From what I've tasted of desire [[I hold with those who favor fire.|end poem three]] //

//Some say the world will end in fire, Some say in ice. From what I've tasted of desire I hold with those who favor fire. But if it had to perish twice, I think I know [[enough of hate|end poem four]] //

//Some say the world will end in fire, Some say in ice. From what I've tasted of desire I hold with those who favor fire. But if it had to perish twice, I think I know enough of hate To say that for destruction ice [[Is also great|finish]] And would suffice. //

//[[Frost.|credits]]//

//Dust beneath the trees...// And there she is: standing, hackles raised, in the undergrowth, her eyes like two bright blue flames, fixated on you. She does not move; like a painting, her coarse grey fur blending seamlessly with the bark and the snow surrounding her. //Medeina.// Queen of the forest. The hunter's foe. Your breath catches in your chest. This moment is surreal. { (if: (history:) contains "path unarmed")[You take a step [[closer.|uninjured, unarmed]]] (else:)[You [[reach back|uninjured, armed]] for the rifle.] }

You raise the barrel and align it with those blue depths, flickering now from blood loss and pain. She is loneliness, despair. She is death. Solitude. She is every awful thing that has happened since you moved to this mountain. Your finger fastens on the trigger, and [[contracts.|end poem one]]

Hannah Ryan, 2015. **Poems by Robert Frost:** //Desert Places Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening An Old Man's Winter Night The Road Not Taken The Wood-Pile Fire and Ice// Background image from travelwest.net.

Her body tenses slightly, lowers millimeters towards the ground, her eyes still unmoving. There is no panic there, only wariness. She has not yet ascertained the extent of the threat you pose. The time has come, after months of waiting, and [[You can end this|shoot her uninjured]], once and for all. But you are exhausted. In body and mind, you yearn for peace, for life. [[You can just go home.|don't shoot uninjured]]

Her body tenses slightly, lowers millimeters towards the ground, her eyes still unmoving. You did not bring your rifle. Vibrant, healthy life gazes back at you from those deep blue eyes. For so long, your very presence here has seemed something unnatural, disruptive. You are poison to the lifeblood of this mountain, to everything around you. But here, you have not yet caused damage. Here, you can make yourself [[one|go home]] with the life you have rejected.

You raise the barrel and align it with those deep pools of blue. She is loneliness, despair. She is death. Solitude. She is every awful thing that has happened since you moved to this mountain. Your finger fastens on the trigger, and [[contracts.|end poem one]]

You slowly let your hand drop back to your side. Vibrant, healthy life gazes back at you from those deep blue eyes. For so long, your very presence here has seemed something unnatural, disruptive. You are poison to the lifeblood of this mountain, to everything around you. But here, you have not yet caused damage. Here, you can make yourself [[one|go home]] with the life you have rejected.

{ (if: (history:) contains "path unarmed")[She watches as you take a deep breath - the first, it seems, in many years - and turn slowly away from her.] (else:)[She watches as you take a deep breath - the first, it seems, in many years - straighten up, and turn slowly away from her.] } It is time to go [[home.|end poem one]]