As the sun rises on the morning of January 6th, a change creeps over the Garden. Any awake at that hour may hear one final yowl, the force of it shaking icicles from the branches, which fades away.
The moan of chill, frigid winds, that have been plaguing the garden, biting and resounding with a trace of angry yowls, finally let up. A few massive pawprints remain, but these are quickly being covered by the soft, gentle snow that starts to drift down – fat, fluffy flakes that rest gently into a peaceful blanket of newfallen snow.
The Yule Lads and their fearsome Winter Cat have moved on from Firnost.