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The blizzard raged, but still a fire could be heard crackling somewhere in the distance. Even in the distance, a raging gray-black smoke merged with the whiteness of the snow, mixing the evil buring hate with the white purity. Even now, as the fire seemed to die from the constant beat of the snow, two people watched on either side of the small town.
The two were completely different, but they were born to see this fire. The only difference was how they interpreted it. For the female, it was a job that was finally completed, though it left an uneasiness to her. As her auburn hair is wisped by the frosted air, she wonders if she has done the right thing.
The man on the other side is on his knees, holding a sick child, and praying. In that small town, a doctor had been in his back room. There was no escaping the horrible flame. That doctor died along with the hope for that child. The man cries, knowing his daughter will not make it to the next town, especially in the wheather.
Shaking off her lonliness, the woman turns her back on the town, looking back only once to see the last building crumble. Her work is done, for now.
The man, too, turns his back. The child is crying in his arms, understanding what had just happened. Her coughs reverbrate in the icy air, but soon die down to thin breaths, until the man finally reaches home, and her breathing stops alltogether.

Bleeding and afraid, Delilah runs as quick as her frigid feet will move. She had lost a shoe to a wolf, and it had succeeded in biting her ankle. She ran and ran and ran, until finally, she found a small village. Most of the residents were dressed in black, the select few in gray.
She begs people for help, but she staggers back at the sight of them. Their eyes -- they are all yellowed. The irises are all yellow, the glow of them stabbing her in the frigid air. But still she begs for help, only to get numerous fingers pointed at numerous people, until she was limping into a building.
Jude was staring at a wall, the cracks, counting every brick, scanning his eyes over it again and again. At first glance, Jude was obviously insane. His clothes were stuck to his skin, the skin itself covered in scratches and cuts. When he willed it, he could sit completely still. Sometimes for hours, only moving when the bugs on his flesh became too much. His hair was matted, it seemed, to his head. It was as if he'd run his hands through it so many times in the same way, that now it was so tangled he couldn't fit his hands anywere else.
His face was stained with tear tracks, his his mouth was a twisted, twitching grin. He didn't have to turn or move his eyes to know that someone had entered his home. In an attempt to drive them away, he started laughing manically, but the presence was not discouraged.
When he turned, a frightened woman with a blackened, infected ankle stood shivering in his 'office'.