It's a layer of white on a blanket of dead leaves and decay, a carpet Winter couldn't do without. Not in this place, not for this Winter.

Reynard shakes his head. "Not vanity. Love. The need to do our best to serve what we love, to make the world sing about it." Realising he's talking to someone who might know, might understand, he turns to her. "You feel that way too, don't you?"

Eagerly now, he turns to her as he walks, putting a hand on his heart. "I find that often the best way is by making humans understand it, feel it. They remember. They don't live long, but they live longer than most creatures. They can be as good at honouring and respecting it as they are at destroying and erasing it."