Fantasy

The cluster of deer-hide tents hid in the small clearing, the snow laden trees seeming to bow towards them. Frost clung to the beard of the watchman, and to the fur of his cloak. He was slumped, gripping tightly to his bow. Steam drifted from his flask, the smell of chocolatl strong and bitter. He was not long dead; his corpse still warm. No one sleeping peacfully inside the tents had heard his last anguished gasp.