Cold winds shadow the sounds of crashing ice.

The frozen sky is cleared of its color, replaced with brightened lights of distant stars, hoarding their views of the infinite darkness.

The ground hides beneath a floor of endless, white snow, questionably stained with ageless rust, reaching out towards the edges of sight.

Mountains, old and curved, steal the horizons away from view, reaching for the heat it slowly drifts from.

Fields of ice and sand drench the grounds, building over what they were destined to be, and what they will be again in countless years to come.

Beyond ravines and countless cliff sides, cold geysers erupt from the surface, throwing shards of their core into the thinned, yet imprisoning atmosphere.

The air has neither sound nor song, though only the constant ending of lengthened, imagined bells, adding to the blissful, yet terrifying silence.

Nothing moves. Nothing lives. Nothing grows beyond time.