A forest, covered by the corpse-cloth of white... A pale full moon is shining through the leafless branches, shaken by the wind, sending flickering shadows towards the ground... A breathless silence lies over the woods as suddenly an icy gust of wind blows through the barren trees and the biting cold of winter cuts into your skin. But there is a fire to warm your cold limbs with its caressing glow before the cold takes you again within its embrace ("She Who Loves The Flames").
But behold, on the edge of a moonlit clearing is a small hut, from which a flickering shine promises renewed warmth. As you enter, a healthy blaze in the hearth offers you a few moments of tranquillity, of silence, letting your soul calm down, only the rough howling of the wind reminding you of the frost just outside. ("Touched And Left For Dead"). As you leave the hut again, the cold again tries to draw the life-giving energy from you ("Bleeding The Blue Flames"), yet you still manage to withstand.
But then a gale is springing up, which's frost tries to seep through all layers of covering cloth, draining your warmth from your body by the monotonous cadence of its gusts ("Ad Arma Ad Arma"). Finally the assaults of winter prove to be too much, slowly the biting cold gives way to a strange and appealing warmth, just as you lose the feeling in your limbs ("The Word Became Flesh").
Not able to control your tired steps, a snow-covered root becomes your jinx, the hollow your final rest... This piece of malign beauty is like a lump of your frozen blood in the pale beams of a mid-winter-full-moon...