Quest for the Faradawn

It was still snowing in Silver Wood. All night large flakes had been falling relentlessly, covering everything until now every blade of grass had a thick round column down one side and every twig supported a white replica of itself. Brock looked up and was mesmerized by the myriad of white specks in the air. They seemed to come down directly into his eyes as if they were being pulled towards the earth by a magnet; and yet not hurrying, more a determined drifting. He shook himself and a flurry of flakes flew off, so he retreated further under the Old Beech until only his head was exposed from the hole amongst the great roots which formed a low wall at either side of the entrance to his sett. He was enjoying the night; there was that stillness and complete quiet that occurs when every sound is muffled immediately by a thick blanket of white, and despite the snow the sky was quite clear so that he could see almost to the pond in the field at the front of the wood.