There's always such a battle between winter and spring. Winter doesn't want to give up, but spring won't be held at bay forever. So, they go back and forth. Green shoots insist on pushing up in the tiniest bit of sunlight, then a storm comes in and dumps snow on them. But they don't die. Then a frost, maybe, is the next attack. That can kill tender, growing things. Ice is the true killer.

I looked into the man’s eyes across from me. No words were said, the dancers, myself included entered our trances. A state of awareness that is strongest on the battlefield, the sword in our hands becoming one with our body. As one, we begin the dance.
Left hand to shoulder block, sharp edge down, right foot stepping back. Overhead shoulder slice, step to the side, lift and parry, left foot going back shifting to move the right forward. Back to friend front to foe, slice upward as you complete your turn.

"Who died?"

An adequate enough question when in the presence of such an unusual occurrence; for the Raven, quite suspiciously so, was smiling to herself. Stood tall upon a plinth, her resemblance to a rather ornate-looking statue was uncanny. A statue that depicted the likes of a faceless deity of fertility or something equally as feminine.