Chatterbox: Inkwell

When January Calls (working title)

I have wanted to do this for a while, and being bored I shall begin.

This is not an RRR, mind, but a story that I will write and post in segments on here, a bit like the Books in Progress thread. Critique is welcome and encouraged, blatant praise will be reluctantly excepted, flaming will probably be deleted by the Admin anyway. 

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On cold, blustery winter days when the snow falls thickly down in wet, wide flakes and the wind stirs across the ground like a snake in the dessert, and the streets are lit by a dim blue-gray light that emanates from the shadows, a sleepy town in the middle of nowhere is visited by a young man with frosty breath and icy fingers.

He is a good-tempered young man, mild-mannered and prone to stretches of contemplative silence. He speaks with his hands as often as he speaks with his voice, and is known to spend long hours in pastures with horses and sheep.

This man is tall, and very thin, and the tips of his fingers hang almost to his knees. He has a long, pointed face and a mess of blue-white hair that grows like a thistle on the top of his head. His eyes are large and blue like the sea; his skin is pale and blue like glacial ice. He has long pointed ears and a long pointed nose and an even longer pointed chin. His lips are turned up in pleasant smile and his teeth are straight and white.

He's a clever fellow, this man. He speaks softly and infrequently. His voice is rough but pleasant, like the sound of wind blowing gently through autum leaves.
To strangers he is courteous but distant and vague; to the few he counts as friends he is only slightly less distant and just as corteous.
He has no job, choosing instead to wander from town to town, beginning his lonely patrol when the leaves begin to brown and ending it when the first flowers bloom.
It is in the harshest month of winter that he visits Montaview.

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