Claws of an unbreakable will that were acting seemingly as her four unbreakable blades upon each of her hands as she struck relentlessly against the frozen edges of those gargantuan labryses that were equally unyielding. Such a savage internecion, where a seven-winged woman—the spiritual successor of air itself—was challenging the primal and most destructive expression of winter, whose numbers were as many as the snows that have fallen since the dawn of time; and even when such impossibility was clear to her, the lonely seven-winged woman stood fast in this final reckoning.
With every hit she took, with every clash she inflicted, a brief yet deadly blizzard erupted and shook that which was freezing below, annihilating clouds and sweeping snows alike away. Yet she would not falter… no, not yet… especially when she knew what was at stake; she remained the stalwart bastion of all she held dear… or even more so… she smiled,
"Hwæt is þis? Is þis eall þīn winter? Hū sceandlic…"
