Nikodim

He is like the dormant winter world: Cold, unyielding expanses capped with suffering. From him come broad claws of reaching tree bones embedded in frozen ground, bare without a skin of grass or hair to cover it.

He is like the last moment of fall: Vibrant reds against black soil black, a beautiful sight before hibernation. Over him lay all the colors of a season half way between frozen and warmth.

Beneath the seasons, he is like the underground: the further underneath you go the hotter things become. Hot blood rushing under cold skin causes him to steam below the skin as he boils in his very core.

If you knew him, you would know that the heat of summer runs beneath the frigid winter of his exterior. His icy exoskeleton protecting what it is that could kill or nurture: the heat of the brutal desert of his anger fighting the calming warmth of a summer evening.