This was our writing prompt from the first session with Cathy McSporran

He tumbles down the street, ice cold anger, burning hot rage; some of this becomes stuck in the small cobblestone alleys; where he rips off shop signs, and freezes window panes until they crack from the arctic chill. People tumble like leaves; hoods, and scarves held tightly with both hands, they fight against the rage, bend over–standing upright is impossible–yet they push forward. Shelter is so close. So close. A woman shouts above the howl; trying to tell her husband she found an open door. Yet all she sees are blurred shadows; snowflakes are slung at her face and eyes, so hard that the tears keep running. She cannot see her husband. He cannot hear her. With all her might she pulls the door open; it smashes close behind her. All of a sudden there is silence. And now her tears stream on their on volition.

Meanwhile, he keeps howling, raging, hauling microscopic ice shards at everything in his way. One goal. One goals only. That building up on the hill, the highest point, in this small town. Granit grey with coloured glass windows. He can see it; despite his rage blinding everyone who is caught up in the anger. There must be reckoning. He screams now as he heaves his full might at the building. They have angered the ancient ones.