by Feint » 09/21/2008 5:48 PM
Ilektriki saw the Battleheart. He hesitated in his step, head to one side, then fluffed his wings and kept right on walking. If anything unwanted happened he could probably outfly the much larger Battleheart by weaving through tree branches too small for him to fit. Ilektriki reached the base of the great tree and walked in a circle around it, picking a perch. He hopped onto the lowest branch he could find, more than just a few feet below the Battleheart, then groomed his feathers and relaxed. He eyed the bushes and then glanced up at the large one perched in the higher brances. "Sup," he asked casually.
My wraiths, though not wraiths then, wandered deep into the heart of the polar storm. They tried to fight sleep, naive to the inevitability of their fate. When they awoke, they saw before them my own self, so much a part of the ice and cold they almost fail to see me. I wear a crown of the coldest, sturdiest ice, and my claws and fur have coated themselves in it.
I stand aloof to the cold, for I have lived in it so long, been a part of it so long, it no longer concerns me.
My wraiths are cursed to wander the polar tundra, eternally freezing, following mortal explorers and trying to warn them with their presence that they should not travel onward, should not make the same mistake. But there will always be those who persist in pressing on, never knowing what they are doomed to face, or destined to suffer.