The Caravan Figures of men and horses, a caravan, exposed on the white. Equipped with masks, equipped with ropes, equipped with information about the curse of Brady and Hindley to deliver, equipped with an aura of hope. They travel inside the cauldron where Winter brewed a war with a swirling storm of screaming silver. The hug of a dense mist embraces the area, isolating the caravan. Smudged mountains shiver on the thick white canvas. Snow sleep still on the uneasy battleground and frozen river, rocked by the lullaby of the howling wind. Metal horseshoes grind against the sea of snow followed by crashing waves of spiralling white, as horses trod through the battleground that feels like mud, Wind howls as the white projectiles waltz in its rhythm. The ballad of the caravan whispers in the background of Winter's eternal solo, spraying kisses of cool, white confetti onto the shield of the masks and coats bound to the faces. The caravan advance steadily, leaving behind the Safe and Sound, with waves of silver daggers surround them, pointing towards them, unleashing on Winter's command. Walls of feather and silk embrace the Men's warm skin. The masks conceal the Men's dry, aching throats, sheltering them from a lurking murderer. The winter whoosh the land with its scourging anger, but They march along the battlefield, fending off wintry weaponry. Eyes glimmer with light, as if reflecting rays from heaven that pierced the heavy mist. Majestic snow and ice linger around the dense air in an elegant waltz, blending the black of the Caravan with the wintry white into gray shadows that submerge towards the thumping hearts of the people.