[Death by Mirrors]

Bob never wanted to be a underpaid freelance journalist. As he lied in the snow, hidden under some fir tree branches, he cursed his boss and the bills that forced him to work for the local tabloid. Winter was no longer pretty when you crouched in the forest, freezing your butt off and waiting for the perfect shot. But he had heard rumours about a snow demon roaming the wilderness. If he could be the first one to take a picture...

He shifted his weight onto the other foot. Rubbed his fingers against his chest. His breath clearly visible in the crisp air, he wished he could light a fire. Maybe even a barbecue. Almost being able to smell the tender steak from his imagination, Bob leaned forward - and lost his balance.

Twigs of dead wood snapped under his body, loud as thunder. Birds rose from the nearby trees.

Then he heard a loud roar.



Fortunately even such terrifying news wasn't entirely bad. After all the beast has already been tamed years ago, or so they say. Maybe (if given enough delicious treats) the beast might even ward off any snow demons. With trembling fingers Bob fished an apple out of his pocket and offered it to the beast.