Ah. The morning rays basked the yards of Gardenton in mellow lemony warmth. The whitewashed skyscrapers that rise beyond the ivy-covered marble wall was varnished by the morning's light. The storm clouds of leaves that provide shade upon the township of Gardenton hung upon the branches of the great trees.

Hero stood atop a makeshift platform. He gazed upon the sea of leafy folk all whom were eager to listen to his word. The folk of all shades of green that stood before him gave an air of poverty. With their torn and sometimes missing clothing, and a layer of grime millimeters thick upon their bodies, the people before him emitted a sense of ignorance.

Hero took a large breath. To the ignorant folk before him, he bellowed out wisdom. His voice rang throughout the town like a long-winded lion's roar. His words shone like a grand blazing beacon.

Makeshift stations were set up. Hero facilitated these stations with the help of Tesla and Stripe. He taught the folks of Gardenton and provided them with needs. In one station, he cooked up food: a porridge of rice, vegetables, and scraps of chicken. The locals gorged themselves like wild animals, eating from bowls without the use of utensils. Apparently, this lowly porridge was step-up of whatever horrendous monstrosity the locals may have concocted in their kitchens. Stripe in the background was happily cooking as well as happily tutoring eager individuals in the art of food preparation. In another station, Tesla facilitated the learning of reading, writing, and arithmetic to the residents.

Their ignorance and stupidity had been noted by the gang. The plantfolk of Gardenton could not even recognize letters and numbers, add together one plus one, cooperate with others, and how to utilize fire. Metaphor found it especially odd. The others just shrugged. Hero merely thought that it was because of the apparent illiteracy and poverty of the residents. Metaphor doubted that. These residents could not have survived months or perhaps even a few years with such a defunct knowledge base. These people hardly knew how to hold a spear and make their bed, how in the name of the Eleven did these creatures even keep the wall up and the city living.

Metaphor went to find out in the coming dusk. The marbled buildings in the walled city was unmaintained. Long running cracks and sagging roofs held by crooked wooden posts was featured on almost every building obviously not built by the current residents. The huts and platforms were held together by fraying ropes and sticking-out nails.

Metaphor then came to a grand building held by pillars and slabs of white granite. It stood tall like a cathedral, not unlike the water-damaged scriptorium where she retrieved the journal she now had which stood out like a mausoleum among shops.

In the second stone step that led into the great hall was a plaque that may had been golden but now stark white. Embossed upon the plaque in the stone was the words "Wallton Grand Library" that would otherwise never be read again if it weren't carved. She climbed the steps, and soon entered the library's great portal.

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The air within the building was dank, filled with dust, pollen, and spores. Sturdy granite columns held the whitened domed ceiling that may had once sported paintings. All around her was rotting shelves and mounds of mulch that may had been books. Ivy crept up the walls and shelves and sapping the little strength left in the woodwork. Herbs and even trees grew as tall as spruces from the mounds of once-books earth. The few volumes that escaped the fate of turning to compost sat in the weakened shelves, left lonesome, forgotten. The countless words filled with knowledge these books once proudly displayed were now smeared and erased from their pages.

Metaphor, though saddened by the state of the books of a bygone age, trudged forth through the young forest that decided to call the dank library their grounds. She climbed the set of marble stairs up to the next level.

~***~

Whilst Metaphor gorged herself with knowledge in the vault of books, beyond the marble walls and pearly gate, a layer of frost began to creep. Evening wind blew through town, and chilled the evening air. The locals caught wind of the thing that's coming, and they cursed his name.

General Winter, the Wandering Soldier. He was a basilisk whose gaze was venomous. A never-ending blizzard followed him wherever he goes. Large swathes of Urbanland would be buried under heaps of snow as he passed by, burying entire towns. Nobody knows why he roams the land, but his stride were purposeful for each of his steps always brought him ever closer to the next town. And tonight, his steps were bringing him toward Gardenton.

The plantfolk of Gardenton raised a ruckus. They cursed his name vehemently. Hero and Tesla attempted to calm them down, but the coming chill brought a growing panic amongst the herbal ranks. They raised alarm that the frost demon General Winter had set his sights to step into Gardenton.

With this, Hero was alerted, and an ember of worry was thrown into his glowing hearth. He stood watch on the walls, on the lookout for the coming storm. The city was dark, and the overcast sky did not help. Hero kept his eyes peeled all night, towards the creeping frost that moved forward like slow-moving viscous lava. He worried his fire may be too dim to bring forth warmth to the oncoming Winter. Tesla stood by his side; though their face may had been devoid of emotion, he showed concern to the vigilant Hero.

Even though Stripe was cold-blooded, he slept little that night. He listened too much and too intently to the tales of the locals. They portrayed General Winter as a monster, force of nature, that preys on souls innocent and guilty alike. He hid under his bed to clear his thoughts, to tear his mind from tales of horror. In his hand was a rusty shovel, an implement used in taking away dead embers from a fireplace.

By midnight, Winter's escort came. Howling winds blew, and snow came drifting into Gardenton. The town slowly began freezing. Frost covered the windows, and rime accumulated on the walls.