Long into the cold, winter night did Bohun drive his mare in a canter. It was, till this point in time, a warm season. Twas unusual for the time of year as most years past yielded chills deeper than the Dniper's black. With the crops long since reaped, the studs which were once luscious stalks were now jutting above the fresh, dry snow. Bohun's ride left prints that were soon drifted like they were sand under Striboh's breath. Had the moon not shown its face the pair would have gone nowhere this night. Bohun jabbed his heels into the mare's thighs due to his impatience. The mare lunged forth and increased its gait.
The sun presented his face above the frozen wastes of the fields, their atmosphere steaming. Khortisya lay by an oak grove in protest of her owner's insistence to ride. The previous night only reaped her exhaustion. As she lay her head to doze, the horizon brought forth a sliver of red. Khortisya's rider began a frantic shuffle and attempted to raise her from a most certain slumber. Eyes failing, she fell to a temporary darkness.