The lands of the central northeast of Ranesairan were permanently locked in a state of snowfall: the nature there was relentless to every critter and beast, and in the midst of that white purgatory stood a lone manor, where the melody of a finely-tuned piano played.

A young lady of pure white hair and wary, blinding blue eyes pressed the white and black keys of this artisan piece in precise sequence listed on the paper before her — Johan Halvorsen, Passacaglia. 

She breathed deep as the wool of her muted green shirt quietly slid on the skin of her wrists, her expression impatient, but not obvious to an eye unkeen. The same piece was repeated time and time again, it would seem, as the melody kept a rhythm so steady it could've been achieved only through endless trial and effort. How long has she sat there and played this one song, with just herself present? She blinked, the astoundingly full lashes somehow not getting stuck together, her half-closed eyes looking more at her own fingers more than the script itself.

"Uh..." A sound escaped her lips, briefly going through the room, which was quite small for an audience. Only the piano could fit, leaving enough space between it and the surrounding walls for someone to, perhaps, maintain it. The space past the piano was empty as well, with some leftover room for a single, short step. Only a single couple of chairs at the very back of the room came to be the sole witnesses to the scene, both positioned in the corner opposite of the large double door. From the window a storm of snow was observed clearly and not a few dozen meters you could see out, as the large petals of ice screened all that happened beyond the manor.

The lady's hands slowed down over a half a minute, and so the piano turned silent. She lifted her eyes from the keys, staring at the paper, soon stretching with her arms raised above her head, yawning at the same time "Johan..." In that drawn out yawn she read the unfamiliar name. The miss knew it well, she knew how it was pronounced and that it belonged to a human. But really she did not know a thing of the person to whom it belonged — it adorned but another shard of passion someone had orchestrated in their life, somewhere in another world, given to her, copied and replayed by none other than her Excellency Marpha Yeterikon. 

Marpha gave this young lady quite a few gentle pieces when she still was a student at one of the Dispanserias near Mellanegi. It would be hard to admit for anybody, but the young lady enjoyed them a fair amount, as they complemented the restless region of her homeland, though more so they helped her slip out of what felt like a permanent melancholy. Out of the few noble children the entirety of Ranesairan had, surely this girl was the most tender one, however her rare outings from the Dukedom really disallowed any form of reference.

The young lady lowered her arms and exhaled, the posture turning more burdened as she slouched slightly. "Alladen..." But, perhaps, aside from the other common turbulences of her life — another thing was on her mind. It was much expected, so much needless in her head — she thought. The miss turned towards the window that barely glowed with the outside light, the wooly pleated skirt twisting against the leather stool with a faint sound. 

Her eyes gazed out into the dim, white void, "Will you be gone, too?" She quietly whispered, her words thin on the lips as, but the monologue continued: "I can't even begin to guess what happened, the second I take my gaze somewhere else, the world seems to turn completely. Am I not supposed to stop?" The questions leering from the lonely room at the very island itself. "Even papa came so far as to rush, isn't it humorous? This new continent of ours certainly knows how to lift everyone from slumber...” Her eyes left the window and wandered upwards, “Does it not?” Of course there wasn't a reply to her question. “...I should have only waited for you to turn to it as well." Her left hand reached to lower the fallboard of the piano, and the eyes reached for the delicate parquet, the being of hers sulking with the thoughts of her predicament. Those questions left unanswered, such was the cruel nature of soulless earths. “What am I talking about...” She said, rubbing her thumbs together.

"I wonder how it will be for you there, will it be hard and torturous? Or... May you find that place as much as captivating?" The voice of the young lady stuck to the floral patterns of the wallpaper, the soles of her shoes skimming across the wood, as she turned a right angle from the window, the gentle rustle of her skirt against the leather of the stool halting as soon as she stood up. The few steps it took for her to get to the door were slow and measured, the fingers grazing the wall before finally wrapping around the knob, turning it, but not the head towards the lonely piano. “I hope you don't.” This time her voice was even quieter than all her previous whispers.

Those warm shoes of hers created a soft echo through the empty hallways, but a brief accompaniment was added to her lone walk. “I shouldn't have said that... It was really rude.” And she herself was the sole listener to the ramblings, as none of the Ducal family members liked having a lot of servants, mostly just because of their background. 

The Durass-Paren family was one of the only three nations that gained control of their lands with the willingness of the previous owners — they even inherited their surname and put it before their own, but out of respect. The Latest Duke Durass was a benevolent ruler of this region of harsh permafrost: that quality was the sole reason he managed to make this barren, pure white wasteland prosper as much as it did, as no corrupt, cruel and inconsiderate fool could've gotten any sort of support from the local population even if they were to try and bribe them. Forceful exertion of influence was just as ineffective as any other uncooperative method that was tried before him. Even after the coup three years ago, the Durass, afterwards — the Durass-Paren territory kept its steady rhythm of livelihood, wasting no energy on squabbles with the much hostile neighbour to the west. In fact, it has gotten even calmer after the lesser known treasure hunter of the local ethnicity took the position of the Duke, a lot of the taxes that were present during the monarchy days were removed, leaving the populace with a bit more of their own produce and consequently — happier households.

Meanwhile, the young lady went to the wardrobe with the outside attire and picked out her usual pieces: a faux fur hat and a silky overcoat, both as white as her own hair and the snow outside the manor. She adjusted the hat over her head, and the overcoat over the clothes. Her indoor shoes were exchanged for long boots, and her way was made towards the main door leading out of the manor and into the pure expanse. Neither of her parents were present as of now, and the servants didn't worry her, and with the ideal weather for a walk just appearing, the young miss couldn't resist the urge to go outside. 

She went through the first door and entered the small corridor with a few brushes and rough carpets, the actual second exit door in front. Paying no mind to the utilities and shutting the first door behind her, the young lady moved straight to the exit and unshut the thick obstacle; the wind was surprisingly gentle, but the snow was as dense as the fog at dawn. Without hesitation did she walk out into the restless burr of the weather.

Her breaths were instantly visible in the air, pushing around the hefty snowflakes as she walked through the moving wall of cold fur. The skin of her face was just as pale as it was indoors, the cold seemingly having no effect on her whatsoever — which was true — as her race was born from the very violent blizzards and turbulent magic of the northern Ranesairan. Even the temperatures that are lethal to animals with the thickest coats aren't a match to their sheer resilience, at most giving them mild frostbite, although it might be a slight exaggeration. The young lady continued walking straight on the hidden path, which would stay covered in snow even if you were to shovel it every other hour. The whole voyage meant to get her to her favourite resting spot in the locality of their manor, which was still quite far.

Out of the well-concealed pockets on the inside of her overcoat, she pulled out a pair of leather gloves, but they were black in a stark contrast to the rest of her getup. She put the leather gloves on, rolling her fingers as her left, then right hand were hidden inside the cozy pieces. The young lady took each step carefully, trodding through the ice hidden beneath the considerable crust of soft powder, those full lashes of hers doing their work with due diligence and protecting the eyes from the onslaught of the falling petals, the pupils of the gaze she had uncovered fully. 

In this bold expanse of even ground there was little to look at, but it was not her goal to begin with, such things as nature's beauty was foreign to the young lady, the preferred notion built into her very soul being the chance to see the pretty within the others, and the surrounding world solely serving the purpose of an amplifier to the individuals she met. Leaving behind footsteps in frozen mud like signatures of this purposeless trip, which was not the last, and certainly not the first trip she had of the sort.

Those detours into the vast nothing often allowed the emotionally unaccustomed lady to sort the confusing feelings she had back at the manor, the pure white and empty sights almost pulling the thoughts out of her head as the only thing coming to her mind became the very sound of her own boots brushing against the snow. She still walked, she still carried on, passing bumps in the snow — bushes underneath layers of months' old cold — them serving as occasional deviators to her path, making the lady maneuver right and left, distorting the trail and turning it into a headless serpent.