Acton was in high spirits.
He did not yet know just what kind of disaster was wreaking its havoc on Novus; he had not yet made his way back through the snowblind canyon with Rhoswen’s help, and found the destruction of Denocte.
Instead he had spent a very enjoyable and not wholly inebriated evening in the company of Bexley Briar, and woken to a white-washed world. It was novel; Acton was no stranger to snow but to see it in the desert made him feel like a colt, like he had the first time he’d ever seen it.
Words like plague and disaster were still far from his mind.
And so he did not much hesitate before joining the youths in their sheltered place, where the snow was only hock-deep and it feel gently, soundlessly, like a wondrous thing and not a terrible one. Bexley was off doing something official, and for a moment the buckskin only watched the foals and yearlings, grinning at their testing, rolling, learning.
There was something he was waiting for, something he knew they’d inevitably figure out – and at last it happened, an older sorrel colt shaping the snow into a round clump, waiting until a back was turned – and pelting his pinto friend full in the back of the head.
For Acton that was invitation enough. Silently he formed his own snowball, packing it into a dense circle with his magic, hefting it into the air --
“Hey kid,” he called, and launched his attack.
NOT YET CORPSES
STILL, WE ROT
SNOWBALL FIGHT
