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Feeling alone, and cut off from the valley by the loss of the Nexus, Landristin returns to the frozen North to better gauge the impact to Castle Nachtura. After several hours of wondering the halls, praying, and speaking to the Enchanter and servants alike, he returns to the main door, and exits into the blinding snow.
After a short time, his eyes adjust, and he shakes the heavy, wet snow from his cloak and shoulders. He strides down the steps of the courtyard and out the front gate. Such snow he had not seen in a very long time. Even in the Climb, this snow felt different. More fresh, more clean.
His boots sinking in the deep snow he walked over out to gauge defenses of this approach. He had never come this way before, but he knew full well, he would be making this approach often. There was a few nice kill zones, after all, he thought to himself as he stood on the glacier overlooking the gully leading to the castle. This would be a proper first defense if need be. The caves below would allow enough of a warning if forces did approach.
The trek was cold, and hard. This snow chief among them for mortals. He removed his gauntlets, then his gloves, and reached his bare hand into the freezing snow, gathering some to inspect in his hand. For a moment he longed for the sensation of a freezing hand, and melting snow in his hand, but he merely brushed his hands together and smiled to himself.
As a child in Waterdeep, he was unaccustomed to such an element of nature before he arrived in the valley. Though a striking memory returned to him of a particularly brutal and cold winter, where he got to build his first snowman. Slowly, he reached his hands into the snow and began to scoop some into a pile. Time, meaning little at this point... slipped by, and over the next few hours he delicately and meticulously compacts snow into a roughly humanoid shape.
With icicles for fangs, a short carrot for a nose, and amethyst for eyes, he constructs an imposing figure on the glacier above the approach from the thick and deep snowfall. A Snampire? A Snowpire? He will spend the next few hours contemplating a word for his new frivolous endevour.
After a short time, his eyes adjust, and he shakes the heavy, wet snow from his cloak and shoulders. He strides down the steps of the courtyard and out the front gate. Such snow he had not seen in a very long time. Even in the Climb, this snow felt different. More fresh, more clean.
His boots sinking in the deep snow he walked over out to gauge defenses of this approach. He had never come this way before, but he knew full well, he would be making this approach often. There was a few nice kill zones, after all, he thought to himself as he stood on the glacier overlooking the gully leading to the castle. This would be a proper first defense if need be. The caves below would allow enough of a warning if forces did approach.
The trek was cold, and hard. This snow chief among them for mortals. He removed his gauntlets, then his gloves, and reached his bare hand into the freezing snow, gathering some to inspect in his hand. For a moment he longed for the sensation of a freezing hand, and melting snow in his hand, but he merely brushed his hands together and smiled to himself.
As a child in Waterdeep, he was unaccustomed to such an element of nature before he arrived in the valley. Though a striking memory returned to him of a particularly brutal and cold winter, where he got to build his first snowman. Slowly, he reached his hands into the snow and began to scoop some into a pile. Time, meaning little at this point... slipped by, and over the next few hours he delicately and meticulously compacts snow into a roughly humanoid shape.
With icicles for fangs, a short carrot for a nose, and amethyst for eyes, he constructs an imposing figure on the glacier above the approach from the thick and deep snowfall. A Snampire? A Snowpire? He will spend the next few hours contemplating a word for his new frivolous endevour.