Wind.
Footsteps.
[NARRATOR:]
The dark fellow creeps stately, almost untroubled, through this blood-sweetened night - into a bold morning - winter lasts Watch again. He brushes against stiff branches, tenderly caresses twig by twig and drags his fork through the hard snow. The tree bows to the reaper and a disgusting breath blows away the red, bitterly cold wind.
Silent.
The wind waves cruelly.
[The narrator breathes out very calmly]
Winter has the last word and its dark companions rush away, far away. With an icy stream firmly in his sights, his evil face covered in black, he looks up at the mountain and gorge one last time and knows that nothing more can await him here. In a moment he will carry the fork into the Eisbach, quietly feast on all the fresh flakes and pull a loose dugout canoe towards him, and then quietly flee down into the valley. It is his last desire.
Then he sets off, the dark fellow…to the end of his ways.
[Accordion.]
[Wind.]
A little while later...
Footsteps.
A gaunt little man, covered in blood and firmly in chains, trudges completely madly down into the valley.
[ANATOL:]
They're alllllleeee dead.
Dead. All dead. Ahhhhhhâ¦
Winter, where is your companion? Where is he?
[groans and shudders]
I'm the vile Anatol and I'm trudging through the forest.
The night was beautiful and wonderful, it was while playing coldâ¦
It wasn't meâ¦
It wasn't meâ¦
All dead.
Ahhhhhâ¦
All deadâ¦all dead.
Ahhhhhâ¦
All deadâ¦all dead.
[Accordion.]

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