by Feint » 10/20/2008 8:59 PM
"Constance!" Saru leaned forward in excitement and somersaulted into the room quite by accident. He landed on his rear, and, unfazed, said something rather obvious. "I think we're on the first floor," he said, then blinked. He had unlocked every single bookshelf in that room, every one, he was sure of it. But this bookshelf in front of him was chained and locked quite well. "Unless," he murmured, "This bookshelf wasn't in that room." Saru walked to the front of the case and examined it. There was only one lock, but this one was large, and centered. The metal was too thick for him to break or bite through. Saru flicked his tail-fire close so he could see more clearly. He blinked. "There's no keyhole!" he shouted. The lock was smooth as the metal case it covered.
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.