Ded Moroz breathes in the cold air of the winter morning as he steps out of his forest cabin. A chill cuts right through his warm blue winter coat as his fur boots crunch on the frosty crust of last night's hard snow cover. He stands there in the woods with arms crossed and his head tipped back, looking up at the drizzling snowflakes lazily falling from a pale gray winter sky. This is what he lives for, standing motionless, waiting for those precious moments before the sun rises over the horizon and steals away this brief respite between light and dark.
Breathing in the air, he takes his scepter of office, his magical walking stick, a beautiful thing carved from ice that crackles with an aura of cold, and thwacks the ground with it. In that exact moment, the sky splits open and light dusting of snowflakes begin gently floating down onto his coat. The snow must always fall.
Satisfied, Ded Moroze heads over to his stable with his magic walking stick, where his granddaughter and protege Snegurochka, the snow maiden sleeps curled against a large mound of freshly cut hay piled against a wooden stall wall. Her soft breaths stirs a deep feeling of contentment that courses down through him.
He leans down, and gently nudges her face. "Granddaughter."
Her sleepiness dissipates immediately. She sits bolt upright in her makeshift bed of hay with an expression of alarm etched on her lovely face and says, "Yes? Oh, it's just you."
Ded Moroz scrunches his face at the brazen disrespect for his authority, but he tolerates it, because Snegurochka is the one person in the world he'd allow a degree of childish insolence.
"It's New Years Eve. Time to rise," he instructs her with sternness and authority as usual. The Snow Maiden giggles nervously, as though afraid to show too much emotion around him.
Ded Moroz turns around to his white stallions and pets them all while the Snow Maiden finishes pulling herself out of her cot and starts making ready to go, brushing off the dried grass. He smiles proudly when she dresses in her most elegant silver gown, carefully wrapped in its fur lined cloak, topped off by her glittering diamond tiara in the shape of a large snowflake.
Ded Moroz prepares his silver sleigh with the six white magical steeds harnessed, fed, watered, and ready to go, and then walks over to pat his granddaughters cheek affectionately. "Lets get to work."
The two climb onto the sleigh, Snegurochka wrapping herself in her furry cloak tightly despite not feeling the cold. It's business as usual, but, unlike the last few years, Ded Moroz does something new: Instead of taking the reigns, he gives them to the Snow Maiden.
"This year, I trust you to guide my horses," he tells her firmly.
Snegurochka's face lights up. "You mean it, Grandfather?"
Ded Moroz nods. "In Gods name, you've shown yourself a reliable helper since I had adopted you. I think you deserve more privileges", he says, giving her a sly wink.
Before long, the six beautiful stallions start trotting into a light snowfall, the white steeds shining like they're made of the purest ice crystal snowflakes themselves.
Ded Moroz pulls out a map of the region from a small drawer hidden under his seat and traces his path using his finger as a pen. He grunts and sighs in approval as the route is plotted correctly. "Onwards to Moscow then, grandfather?" the Snow Maiden inquires, and Ded Moroz clears his throat in affirmation.
As the two travel through the quiet snowy forest, Moroz watches the snowflakes as they flutter lazily by. He remembers well the winter years gone past; back to a different era. The land have become too dependent on industry, in his perspective. Soot and ash? That just blackens the beautiful white snowflakes. He's sure he's heard something about a revolution in Russia... But, as the spirit of Winter, he could honestly care less about the political landscape of mortals.
His thought is broken as in the distance, he hears the old irritating cackle of the hated crone that always seems to follow him on his yearly trip, one that annoys him so much. May God help him... He's probably passed the boundary of his own land into the Dark Forest.
The pair turn a sharp corner around one last thick copse of spruce, and they find themselves at the edge of a small frozen pond where Baba Yaga sits on the porch of her walking chicken-legged cottage, smoking an evil smelling black cigar with both arms propped up against a carved wooden chair armrest that, despite the rocky ambulation of the building, seems to remain firmly in place.
At the foot of the cottage walks the white knight Bright Day on his porceline steed, white banner flapping in the wind that Frost had brought with him. Though his allegance is to the witch, he is as much a bogatyr as Moroz is, and the two give the briefest of courteous nods to one another. Still, Moroz shakes his head. How can a warrior for God associate with a monster like Baba Yaga?
Ded Moroz then turns to look upon the crone, with distaste and contempt, knowing that the evil hag can read his thoughts just like he can see hers. She sneers at him, showing her rusted iron teeth as her face twists into an even more twisted and ugly appearance.
The wicked old woman puffs a ring of smoke, and cackles, "Happy New Year, old man."