Upon the snows of Elcon, there lies a coneman cursed from birth, to be a bright easily spotted red. We’ve seen this fellow before, he with but a little less fear than his fellows, enough to stand on snows alone, apart.

Within him a vitality strong, cold cynical pessimism, he would say realistic, for narrow are his flights from maw. He has glimpsed the robe corner of the Wizard of Death and been kicked out of the way after freezing in fear!

Towering ambition he has, hunger for more. He thinks himself right, and others wrong, assured in his measure! In his heart the seeds of greatness, if only he were a little braver surely he could be of legends and myth, for what does he pause, what thought does he hold?

Red Coneman: -If I made an army of snowmen, one at a time, could I control them or would they always rebel?-