Frostbite
Since midnight, snow had silently fallen, to the depth of six to eight inches; by breakfast time it was all over except a slight flaky dropping and the day was calm and very cold. Nothing could be more beautiful; no change more complete and charming. The trees around the fountain near the left of the city were loaded with snow; an exquisite tracery of white branches, relieved against the dark red house fronts.
But in the streets the transformation was greatest. All traffic, except afoot, was stopped; no cabs, no omnibuses, no wagons. The snow lay in heaps in the road; ponies were scraping and shovelling the footways; and ponies in thick coats and scarfs stepped noiselessly along. Downtown was as quiet and empty as ponyville at nightfall; even the foot passengers were far fewer than usual
Here in the heart of Canterlot, and at midday, there was absolute cleanliness and brightness, absolute silence: instead of the roar and rush of wheels, the selfish hurry, the dirt and the cloudy fog, we had the loveliness and utter purity of new- fallen snow. It fell without force or sound; and all things huge and hasty and noisy were paralyzed in a moment. I walked along enjoying the wondrous lovely scene, the long perspective of houses, all grown picturesque and antique; their gable roofs white against a clear sky, and every overhanging joint and beam in their outline picked out in brilliant white; and beneath them, the tumbled and peopleless pavement of snow. It was like the quaint still Canterlot of old; one might have been arm in arm with Princess Celestia, or even Princess Luna. And this state of things lasted all day.
There were many crossing sweepers about: I noticed one near downtown, a colt of seventeen or so, in ragged but warm shawl, and a bit of an old bonnet, whose dark rough hair was covered with snow, and hung in a tangled white mass, like the foam of a waterfall, over her brown bonny face, as she stood with her broom in her mouth, stamping and blowing her hoofs.
The cold out of doors at ten this morning was more intense, to my apprehension, than I ever remember. My beard froze, and the nape of my neck, and my heart seemed paralyzed. A headache came on, and by the end of the short walk from here to my house I was almost helpless.
At 4pm I walked westward, thinking to call on my friends, the Trottingtons. The castle and the centre were one sheet of snow, with paths trodden but not swept: a thick brown fog brooded over it, deepening the twilight; and muffled spectral figures hurried to and from across the slippery ground. In Ponyville a pony begged for me: a ragged tall pony of nineteen, by name Cherry Song, by trade an ironer; who has no home; who slept last night on a step in a sheltered corner, and felt 'as cold as a frog', she said.
I left her knowing she wasn't going to make it much long in that much of a bad condition, she wouldn't live for a weak or any day after today; it was pretty natural for the homeless ones to get cut off first; but while I was walking away I could feel hundreds of eyes staring at me, like demons in a young colts wardrobe; even I, an old unicorn could get the feeling of dread down my crooked neck and used neck. I think I heard a voice but my hearing has been off for a long time so I didn't bother with it.
I was in my home that night glancing into the sky to the south, she became one of the first pony, and probably the very first, to see what was sweeping up from the lower valleys of Equastria towards Ponyville and Canterlot. It was a sight which fixed her to the spot, all thoughts of seeking out a few more layers of clothing momentarily forgotten.
At speed, the storm whipped into the village just minutes later, plunging the temperature down by ten to fifteen degrees in as many seconds, ripping into the houses in a blinding fury of driving snow. The storm swept up the southern flanks of Ponyville engulfing the hill-clad slopes effortlessly in a swirling mantle of hurricane-force winds. Within minutes it had the northern side in its grip and then rose to take the castle. The mightiest building in the world disappeared from view as the storm took control.
If Sombra and Thorax had joined forces they could not have done a better job of devastation than nature itself did on that day. The timing was uncanny, as bad as it was possible to be. I immediately knew that this was something far more dangerous than any other storm that had hit Equastria in the eight weeks that winter came along. The temperature fell to ten degrees below freezing, then twenty, then thirty degrees below. The wind became a constant, bullying force, pulling guy ropes from the ground, tumbling carriages into crevasses and demolishing Sweet Apple Acres with frightening ease. The royal castle, built to withstand hurricane-force winds, creaked and groaned under the beating, distorted into shapes it was never designed for and straining the castle poles to their limits.
Through the white wall of snow, and rising across the tempestuous roar of the wind across the mountains was another sound: a sinister howl which told of even greater powers at play in the wind above us; the scream of the storm as it whirled across the village.
There, in the village, more than thirty ponies were fighting for their lives, one of them was the same pony I saw at the corner this morning. On the northern side three Pegasus were stranded, exhausted and with the clothing slowly tearing off. The night that faced them was a night from hell. By the end of the following day, the three Pegasus on the north side and five of the ponies on the south were dead. I walked down to Ponyville to see the same pony. Cherry Song, no singing in her dead, deprived eyes spilling out with melancholic tones no bloated philosopher would handle. I see others looking at me with disappointed looks, one could say I was enemy of the village but I didn't seem that was it for my punishment. I go back to Canterlot and sit in my chair. Thinking. That face was still in my damaged head. All I could think off was-
Why did I get a chill feeling down my spine again?...