Azarath

The sky was thick with heavy clouds, and a chill electrified the air. Winds whipped and buffered at my bedroom window with all the fury of a forgotten demigod, rousing me from my slumber. Candles flickered in hushed tones throughout the barely visible expanse of the tree house I called home.

I slowly forced myself out of bed, creakily finding my balance upon the imperceptible floor below my hooves. An ornate clock on the wall - caught in the faintest hint of candle light - informed me that it was well past ten. Why, then, was it so dark? Perhaps a storm was moving in. I promptly closed the window, cutting off the sharp stream of frigid air.

I carefully felt my way over to the stairs and, snatching up the nearest candle, lit the path down to the bottom. The candle light didn't travel very far, and indeed seemed to cower, as though suffocated by the darkness around it. I tried to light my horn, but it was no more effective than the candles. As carefully as I could, I found my way down the stairs without stumbling on a missed step.

"Spike!" I instinctively called out. After no more than a few moments, my young friend emerged from what I assumed was probably our holiday closet - a conclusion which I drew from the string of Hearth's Warming Eve lights strung cleverly around his spines.

"Good, you're awake!" he spoke in hurried and hushed tones, quickly handing me a second strand, "find a way to put these on, it's just as dark outside."

I did as I was told, gently wrapping them around my neck and midsection, and suddenly I found the room to be much brighter. I started off towards the kitchen, but Spike was running towards the front door.

"Where are you going?"

"Where are you going?"