by Feint » 11/01/2008 12:22 PM
Saru peeked from behind Constance. The book was still glaring. "I'm sorry, book. Please stop staring at me!" he wailed. Amazingly, the book stopped. It looked around the room, glanced at Constance, gazed at the other books she was examining, then found a point on the wall and gazed at it intently. Saru noticed the stare and carefully found the point it was looking at. He stood on the back of a chair, streched out his long body, reached as far as he could, and barely tapped the point. Nothing happened. Saru jumped and slapped it before falling on the floor, upsetting the chair. Nothing happened. The eye watched Saru until he threw a fit and began gazing at the point again. Saru got the chair and stacked odd objects on one another, lamps, candlesticks, picture frames, weaving them in and out of each other to get a sturdy pile. He stood on top of the said pile and peered at the point the book was watching. There was a small hole in the wall. Saru stuck his finger in it and got it stuck. Something happened.
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.