How does one spend life in eternal winter with no pants...?

{If perchance you find yourself before a mysterious château residing in an obviously unnatural sphere of chill temperature, it is usually recommended to turn tail and seek adventure elsewhere. But, if perchance you find yourself drawn towards the open maw of the front gate...

The entry hall is vast,  shadows shrouding a ceiling whose presence is only confirmed by the old chandeliers gleaming far above. Tapestries, colours dulled and threads thin, sway in the cold breeze that swirls in the empty spaces and moans a plaintive song.

The proprietor does not make you wait, curiosity drawing him towards the sound of intruding footsteps. Hair dyed by dusk, life locked in winter; a man touched by death but possessing a semblance of life, standing in neither realm, but standing before you now at the top of the grand staircase -- standing with crossed arms, the only thing keeping his long jacket closed in the front. A blessing or a dissapointment, this, depending on your preferences, as he does not appear to be wearing anything beneath it.}



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