The blizzard’s scales are crusted with ice which cracks and falls to the ground as it prowls the streets. It is an ancient creature, with flanks that long ago faded from green to yellow to white. It tastes the frigid air with a dry and rough tongue covered in polyps the size of a grown man’s finger. Its eyes are pale, grey, and unblinking. The asphalt is scarred by its hooked claws.
Men approach it with torches and spears. The leader gathers his courage and hurls his weapon. The shaft clatters off of the blizzard’s armored hide. It considers the men for a moment, tilting its head to one side. Then it breathes an avalanche of frost over them, killing them all.
Birds alight on its back from time to time. When they try to fly away they find their feet have frozen in place. Still it prowls.