One on one with the many.

Planted out here in the middle of the Siberia, holding my own against the harsh elements. Leg deep in thick snow, a complete standstill, as the wind bombards me with its utmost force. No idea how I got here, doesn't matter, really. I keep having the peculiar feeling of being inside a house and I can sense wolves conspiring outside my door.

Except I'm not in a house, I'm out here in the ice storm. At least, that's where I think I am, but I would like to be in the warmth of the house, if I'm not in there already though a little outdoors never hurt anyone. There is no door. But the point is, there are definitely wolves conspiring outside my door. They're trying to be silent and discreet, but their manic laughter gives them away. They're conspiring against me, oh yes; I can hear their rushed, impassioned whispering, just on the verge of cohorency, and I can almost smell the fine secrecy in the air. Reminds me of the time I was hunting with my cousin for wolves, me and my cousins were hunting for wolves that's why they're here; for revenge. Well that's fine, I had expected it would come to this; would have been disappointed if it hadn't. The wolves outside my door, I can handle, easy.

It's just that I've lost feeling of my legs.