The grape vines rustled, and a shower of the little black fruits rolled onto the snow.

Dionysus picking up a shriveled grape. Why, at this point they might as well be raisins! Inspecting the grape vines, the God of Wine noted that all the leaves had withered.

He knelt to the fertile soil, wondering if his past deeds were a kindness or a curse to future harvests. Rotting bodies created ideal growing conditions. But he'd forgotten to heed Demeter's warning.

In the bitter winter air, he exhaled a puff of smoke. "I can't stand being sober for this long, okay?"

Might expand this into a fuller story later.