#boreas ;; powder snow

[coldheartxd]

the son of boreas had answered the call, he'd drunk the ambrosia, he's fought monsters and strange creatures, he's witnessed godlings come and go. he's seen them fight, he's fought with them, for them. there's a cold weight in his chest, a loneliness, perhaps, a need to belong that gnaws at him like chattering teeth. this is the life he's chosen, perhaps out of necessity, perhaps because there was nothing left from the before. now, all he is the after.

lars finds himself in a deep slumber, tucked away in his cabin or perhaps another place that he finds comfort. the last few weeks have been long and arduous. near death experiences have been more common than laughter on some days and the attack on camp still lingers within him, the shock and despair of it all. the loss of companions and the danger that they all seem to put themselves in still weighs heavy on his mind. it begins as a soft hum, a gentle baseline that reverberates through his being, travelling through his bloodstream with each passing note. at the edge of his consciousness he can pick up each soft note; a familiar tune. it strums and tugs at his heart, the lullaby slowly growing louder and louder; a siren song that gets clearer through the haze of his slumber. the song reaches out for lars, wrapping him up in an embrace that surrounds the son of boreas like an arctic freeze—it feels akin to frostbite climbing from his toes upwards, like it's encasing him in ice that is intent to harm instead of heal, forcing the air from his lungs as if each organ is shutting down, freezing solid. the tempo crescendos, the speed of the song becoming nothing more than a flurry of cacophonous sounds that bang discordantly within him. it's a battle, a force of will, two pieces of the same person wanting to be heard. when he tries to wake up, he can't. the song only grows louder and louder and louder. divinity calls upon lars once more and he must answer. it's an overwhelming feeling, like being stuck in a white out, being lost in a blizzard, being trapped beneath feet and feet and feet of snow with no way out. then, suddenly, his eyes flash open, his chest rises and falls as he tries to get air into his too tight lungs. he gasps for air and, when he's able to finally choke down a panicked breath, he can see a little more clearly. it's then that a realization hits him. he's no longer back where he remembers falling asleep. was any of it real? had all this been a dream?

WHEN LARS FOCUSES, WHAT DOES HE SEE? WHERE IS HE? IS IT FAMILIAR? PLEASE DESCRIBE WHERE HE IS IN DETAIL.

the ice was waiting.

the snowdrifts banked high before him, jutting out like icebergs from a forgotten seascape. a part of him felt lost at sea too, but a sea of ice and frost. a sea that had no waves or motion, only frigidness. only a long litany of pause, only the stillness of rimefrost.

but he was not out at sea. worse, really. as the crescendo of the godsong in him calmed for but a moment, it gave way to a howling wind that blustered and bit at his face before it blew down a familiar road of the small town he’d once lived. small homesteads bundled together, lost in the blizzard, and he could see shapes that he assumed were people moving through the snow. it was hard to see, though. even the people you knew from the summer were more or less strangers in this wintery daylight, this midnight sun.

all of them were alone, even when they were with each other.

such was the nature of winter.

lars looked down the road and there it was. their home.

helene. tusk.

he knew this blizzard well because he'd lost both of them to it.

the howling wind is a familiar song to his ears, the harshness of its scales, the deep vibrato of its bass to the whistling soprano that threatens to deafen. worse is the endless white, the sea of it, the undiluted milkyness of the powdered slush beneath wet boot prints. this is home, though. the before of it all. the winterscape that could always isolate even the happiest of souls. dotted among the white, clad in winter furs and large bundles, are those faceless strangers. one by one they walk. one by one they trudge through the wintery abyss. one by one they become smaller and smaller and smaller. on this, however, he watches as a figure walks through the snow toward his home, down the road, as if they belong there.

WHAT DOES HE DO?

they passed by him and he passed by them.

it was not unkindness, not a lack of care, but only a shared knowledge: sometimes you had to weather the cold alone, let it burrow into your bones. sometimes the loneliness here was as unthawing as true ice.

but he knew all of them were homeward bound, all trudging towards a house. and so he followed. step by step, inch by inch, the home came to view, the amber light spilling from the windows all but distant beacons, haloed in this wintery light. the world felt smudged, like an unfinished painting. there were no edges, no distinction.

and yet he recognized her anyway. he knew her steady gait, her calm composure, the way she walked through a blizzard like it was only a gust of wind with tusk at her heels most times, tail wagging. he knew where she was headed, too.

so lars followed her home.

like following a kindred spirit, like following a piece of him through the thick snowstorm gale, lars follows. the amber light dances along the endless expanse of snow, painting it in different hues as the blotted out sun seems to reflect off the foot-swept surface. the figure, her figure, stands atop the familiar porch. as lars approaches, though, the figure is...almost shapeless. a trick of the winter scenery, a trick of the endlessness of it all. edges smudge together, blur like watercolors on paper. he blinks, once, twice, thrice, and the figure's form takes more shape.

WHAT DOES THE FIGURE LOOK LIKE? IS IT ACTUALLY WHO HE FOLLOWED OR IS IT SOMEONE OR SOMETHING ELSE? PLEASE DESCRIBE IT.

he didn’t know whether it was dawn or dusk. the daylight did not glow here, but rather cast everything in a perpetual blue. everything was blue, navy, prussian, and so impossibly cold, all except the porch light that he knew was home.

all except her. with each blink of his eyes, each aspect of her cleared: jet black hair peppered by snow, porcelain skin, chapped lips, and then those ice-chip blue eyes. she had a yellow scarf on and it seemed like the only splash of color in this grey world.

then at her feet, a bundle of fur – with her tongue out and tail wagging excitedly, tusk's eyes gleaming at the sight of him. both welcoming him home like always.

“helene,” he breathed out a wisp of white.

the name is whispered like a prayer, floating into the air in a plume of cold breath. it dissipates between them. snowdrift skin and ice blue eyes stare at lars for a moment, smile on her face as if this is an every day occurrence. perhaps, once, it was. with a shake of her head, snow falling from her dark hair. she lets out a laugh before speaking. "took you long enough to come home. i didn't think you were coming." at first, there's a gust of wind, frigid, bitter, a howling reminder of where they air, that cuts over her words. a shiver runs through her, down her spine. lars doesn't hear what she says at first until, finally, the wind dies down, for but a moment, so she can repeat what she said.

DOES THE VOICE BELONG TO HER? IS IT COMING FROM HER? WHAT DOES THE VOICE SOUND LIKE?

the voice sounds like hers but distant, faraway, each syllable scattered in a gust of cold wind before it reaches his ears. the snow has stolen most of her, so why not her voice, too? why not tusk’s bark, sounding so impossibly away?

he hears her but he hears the storm, too. a low howling in his ears, a constant reminder of his loss. he had heard its echo in every dream he had ever had since that day, a song of ice and grief.

"home," lars echoed. he hung his head. the snow whistled a long funeral note.

"baby, we lost that a long time ago."

the words fall out of him like an avalanche, carried between them like a howling blizzard that wipes the slate of his world clean in a new, thick blanket of snow. her voice is but a memory, drowning along that snow storm, trying to find its own way back to him. helene looks at him before she opens the door, stepping inside. "come inside, lars. the cold is getting to you." she grabs the nearest blanket, bright yellow, just like her scarf, and holds it open for him to step into. "come on, hurry, come home."

come home. come home. come home.

it had been a long time since he had. it had been a long time since four walls and the pulse of snow outside the window, kept at bay by the warmth from the fireplace. it had been a long time since cooking together, since tusk would salvage the kitchen floor for table scraps.

he knew this wasn't real but he couldn't deny how much he had missed it.

and so, after picking up tusk's furry little body from the porch, he looked at the threshold. crossed it.

AS HE CROSSES THE THRESHOLD, DESCRIBE WHERE HOME IS AND WHAT IT LOOKS LIKE. IS IT WHAT HE REMEMBERS? IS IT SOME PLACE NEW?

as he crossed the threshold, blanket on his shoulders, he stepped into a small canadian household that was far from well off but comfortable.

the signs of simple living were scattered amongst the room: a secondhand couch, antique furnitures taken off a thrift store's shelves, some picture frames that helene insisted on hanging up, and a dog beg that tusk never slept in. there was fur stuck onto the sofa. there were dishes waiting to be cleaned in the sink. there was a fire burning low in the hearth.

he was home, or at least a semblance of it.

but it felt all wrong, felt all distant. he took another step forward.

then it all ripped away.

the snowstorm burst through the windows and tore off each and every wall in an instant. the world turned pure ice white. he heard nothing but the wind. there was no home now. there hadn't been for a long time. lars turned back and stared at a lonely doorframe, standing stark against the white like a tombstone. tusk wasn't in his arms anymore. he was lost again. they were lost again. the snow roared.

"HELENE! TUSK!" he yelled at the top of his lungs, felt his throat burn from the ice.

it was so cold. it was so cold. it was so cold.

the snow is not a kind thing when it rips worlds apart. icicle fingers peel back each layer of the home, crumble the walls in a giant snowy fist as everything that lars ever loved is torn from him. it only takes a heartbeat of a moment, a simple blink, before everything is turned icy cold, as white as the outside. snow fills his home, drowning him, burying him beneath it. ice closes his wind pipe as he yells, yells, yells for his family. but there is no answer. now, buried beneath the ice, in the ruins of a home that he once cherished, lars will die here. a piece of him will, at least. buried in ice, frozen and alone.

WHAT DOES HE DO?

the snow rages past as an endless cascade. he strains to see anything beyond it but comes upon no landmark or beacon, no homestead or shelter. his voice yells towards towards an expanse of nothingness. it has no answer. winter only knows the language of death and loneliness. it has no answer.

he stands there for seconds, minutes, years, centuries.

both a moment and forever. the ice presses down, down, down. he could give up. he could lay down his weary bones and let the snow fall a hundred feet deep over him. it would be peaceful, serene, and a few years back, he had longed for this sort of icy lonesomeness where nothing ever cracked or thawed. his heart was already encased in rime, so why not the rest of him? why not everything? lars kyarsgaard, always content in his own loneliness, wearing it like a funeral. it was easier that way. it was always so much easier.

he looks back at the skeleton of the doorframe, stark against the blizzard. it calls him back. turn back. let it go. lay down. stay. stay. stay.

a tear leaves his left eye before it freezes, too.

yet what is winter but a test of survival?

what is winter but strength and survival against it all?

he faces north again - the true north this time, the polar expanse, a snowscape where he imagine tusk running for miles - and resists the urge to turn back.

if i look back, i am lost.

one foot fights to trudge forward, then another. the ice may have rimed his skin, his bones, even his insides, but it hasn’t fully reached his heart, pumping hotly against all odds. his heart preserves. his heart urges him to soldier on. he can hear it in his ears, can feel it as it pulses out a bluish glow.

if i look back, i am lost.

so ahead he went, northward bound.

if i look back, i am lost.

each heavy footfall is a thudding heartbeat behind frozen ribs. the elephant graveyard of his chest is home to many things in this snowdrift expanse. but it is still home. even now, with icicles dripping from his skin and a coldness that settles in soul deep. there is a place called home living inside of him and it is alive. thump thump, thump thump. each heartbeat is something warm: a hand in his, a body next to his, a rowboat. each heartbeat is a simple truth of his own survival. loneliness is the absence of something, a loss, a form of grief. and what is grief, except love persevering? and what has lars done since the day the white winter swallowed everything he loved whole? survived, persevered, continued forward. he does so now, too, trudging through the thick of it, allowing the snowy winds to bite along his cheeks, stinging his eyes as they howl a song that can not truly be sung back. the snow continues to fall, threatening to overwhelm him, but he knows his way north, he knows his way through the winter.

AS HE CONTINUES, DOES THE SNOW CHANGE? WHAT DOES HE DO? WHAT DOES HE BEGIN TO SEE AS THE ENDLESSNESS OF THE ICY NORTH STRETCHES OUT BEFORE HIM?

the memories of warmth come in specks and grains: simon’s body, gabriel’s heat, simon’s hands. so rare and so few between the cold but he holds onto them. he doesn’t let them go.

if i let go, they are lost forever. no more. no more releasing his hold on the things he hold dear. his heart is grit and muscle, and so much stronger now. it can endure the wrath of winter. it must endure.

as he trudges forward, unrelenting, the snowscape becomes a tundra.

the north wind howls in his ears.

but he can see it now. he can see them. at the horizon, breaking the litany of grey skies, sheets of kaleidoscope lights dance across the clouds in so many vibrant colors. the northern lights.

and under them, a small white shape blended against the snow—tusk—chases after the aurora like a ball tossed.

that’s when he runs.

bounding across the snow almost blindly, even as the flurry of ice picks up pace, towards something that never wanted to leave him.

the northern lights, that kaleiidoscope of color, is a beacon of many things. a compass to the north, where his heart yearns to be, the promise of something besides the bleakness of winter, the iciness of it all. but what's more, is the hope that it brings, and beneath it, bounding through the snow, is tusk—snow white, but coat reflecting each shift in the lights ahead. lars picks up his pace, the snow unrelenting, but lars is nothing if not persistent, if not a survivor, if not someone who will continue going because that's all there is left. giving up is never an option. if he lets go, he loses them forever. if he lets go, he gives in. if he lets go, he will lose himself, too. as he continues forward, the surrounding landscape turns harsher, the tundra an open expanse of falling snow, of a gale of wind, of shards of ice battering against him. ahead of him, chasing the lights, tusk barks, it echoes throughout the expanse and it's a sound he's not heard since that day, the memory of it lives pressed between his ribs like a flower. like the call of a lighthouse to a wayward boat, wading through the ice, tusk barks, beckoning him forward.

the snow is unending.

each flurry of white rushes past with indifference, oblivious to everything in its path. winter doesn’t know friend or foe, it only howls alone. he was like that, too. so utterly alone, so placed in the far reaches of his world, so content to be a flake of snow adrift across nothingness.

yet the northern lights rage on ahead. that’s where he needs to be. ahead, ahead, ahead, because there is something more than this tundra of sadness, this stretch of hollow ground. tusk barks again, the sound echoing deep within. even in his dreams, she is loyal. even in his dreams, she is guiding him away from the loneliness. little church grim, little faith keeper, he knows that if he follows her, she’ll bring him home. but he wants to yell at her to sit. tusk, sit. tusk, wait, tusk, stay. his legs are aflame. nothing burns like the cold. yet lars doesn’t let it win. he charges ahead, bounding across the snowy white, and tries to catch up with his guide through the tundra.

ATHLETICS CHECK: 1D20 (18) + 10 = 28

DESCRIBE WHAT HE DOES AND WHAT HE SEES WHEN HE ARRIVES.

dead man bounding across miles and miles at a breakneck pace. dead man walking. dead man trying to shake off the numbness of ice and frost, of everything he has entombed himself in, of every bit of loneliness. it feels like a race against something ancient and impossible. his lungs burn from the ice like the rest of his body, overexerted to the brink, yet he doesn’t stop. tusk is closer now. he only has to hold on. that’s all he ever needed to do. helene, kieran, gabriel. he faintly hears each of their voices in the wind, or so he imagines. but he holds onto them like the moon in the arms of a winter sky. he doesn’t let go, let go, let go. tusk is there. there, so close. with a roar lost to the howling wind, his determined heart pulses out a wave of blue energy before his feet are no longer touching the ground. before he is airborne on the north wind. before he is flying towards all those lights, all that brilliance. he reaches tusk’s side this way. she cocks her head towards at him mid-run, tongue out in a dopey grin. he returns it even though it hurts to smile. “hey, girl.” the snow beats against them but they do not falter. there is no more ahead. in the now and here, the auroras are blinding above them, dancing vibrantly in sheets of blues and violets. and beyond them, stars. a dazzling vault of winter stars, shedding cold blue light and spinning ad infinitum. for the first time in a long time, he feels weightless. for the first time in a long time, he feels infinite, too. “hey, tusk,” he asks. “you wanna go for a walk around the stars?”

alongside tusk, he doesn't feel the weight of winter solidifying his bones. alongside tusk, he feels a weightlessness in his chest that makes him feel as if he can ride the winds, as if the flurry of snowfall will carry him to whatever destination he sees fit. alongside tusk, he feels as if he's home, even with his feet truding through the snow, even with the northern lights above him. this, he thinks, is worth it. stars blink above them snow falls around them, and as he asks tusk, she barks back in response. she turns and runs, runs, runs. every now and then, she looks back, that same dopey smile on her face, her human beside her once again. somewhere, over the howling sound of the north wind and winter snowfall, he hears her barking, it echoes and echoes, it fills him entirely. tusk runs, chasing the stars and the northern lights, and lars runs, too, chasing after something that would never leave him. and then he wakes up. a cold sweat clings to his skin, the bed is drenched, the sheets warm and sticking to him. his heartbeat thuds like broken shutters during a wind storm for a moment as the realization of everything that happened was just a dream. even if it felt so real, even if it was more than he could ever imagine, it was only just a dream. perhaps it takes him longer to fall back asleep, perhaps he needs to do something in order to fall back asleep, but when he does, he feels himself gaining strength. he feels something inside of him shift, like a missing piece of himself has slotted itself back into place. maybe it's a closure, maybe it's the closing of one door to open another. maybe it's knowing, somehow, that things will be okay. maybe it's knowing that the winter can be harsh and unforgiving, but there is still beauty within it.

[michininja]

“Shar is the best! He likes to go fish blasting with me, but his snowballs freeze the water. But that just means we can skate around on the ice!”

- Klee

⛄️ Name: Shar Weiß (Weisz)

⛄️ Title: Frosted Innocence

⛄️ Rascal of the 8th Company

⛄️ Vision: Cryo

⛄️ Constellation: Pupulus Nivalis

—

Vision: Cryo

Weapon: Catalyst

Birthday: December 20

Constellation: Pupulus Nivalis

Region: Mondstadt

Affiliation(s): Knights of Favonius

Special Dish: Sausage Soup - Warm-Me-Uppy

—

Ascension Materials

Gem: Shivada Jade

Boss Drop: Crystalline Bloom (Cryo Hypostasis)

Local Specialty: Calla Lily

Enemy Drop: Divining/Sealed/Forbidden Curse Scroll

Talents

Normal Attack: Snowball Fight

Normal Attack Throws up to 3 snowballs, dealing Cryo DMG. Charged Attack Consumes a certain amount of Stamina to deal AoE Cryo DMG after a short casting time. Plunging Attack Calling upon the power of Cryo, Shar plunges towards the ground from mid-air, damaging all opponents in the path. Deals AoE Cryo DMG upon impact with the ground.

Elemental Skill: Snowdrift Flurry

Summons a flurry of snow and ice from his palm that deals DoT Cryo DMG.  Holding the skill will cause it to behave differently. Hold The longer the opponent is targeted by Shar’s snow flurry, the opponent will be encased in a golem of snow and ice, freezing them in their spot. Once frozen, continuous freezing prolongs the effect.

Elemental Burst: Powdered Snow

A icy haze settles over the field dealing AoE DoT Cryo DMG, and Cryo attacks dealt within the AoE have Cryo DMG increased by 20%.

1st Ascension Passive: Let It Snow

The duration of Cryo-based skills are increased when within Powered Snow’s AoE.

4th Ascension Passive: Snowscape

The DMG and duration increase scale off of Shar’s Max Elemental Mastery.

Utility Passive: Warm and Toasty

Displays the location of nearby heat sources in Dragonspine on the mini-map.

Talent Materials

Enemy Drop: Divining/Sealed/Forbidden Curse Scroll

Talent Book: Ballad (Domain of Mastery: Realm of Slumber)

Boss Drop: Spirit Locket of Boreas (Andrius)

[hyuccubus]

@hollyannewrites offered a prompt that inspired me: "The first snow of winter always signaled a joy and a tragedy. You aren't sure which one this is supposed to be, though." __ We first met when the canvas upon which our love would be painted blanketed my forest. Boreas had blown a particularly frigid wind across the Nidže range, dressing my trees with piles of bitterly chilling powder. The last few winters had been sparse, calm, the sort that I'd expect to see further south of me, and it seemed that the bringer of winter was making up for lost time. I knew the rumors and legends of my kind that made their way down to the humans nestled in the crook of the valley below, but I had no intention of cavorting around naked while I soothed the animals in my forest, preparing for a hibernation that would have to happen earlier than normal. I drew my woven shawl tighter around myself, my breath escaping in foggy clouds. I was so preoccupied with the chill in the air that I nearly missed the prints in the snow. I could tell they'd not been made by a feral sort of beast; their shape was much like my own, even down to the size. Made by a cothurnus, from the impression it left in the powder.

I did not often see humans in this forest, least of all in weather like this. It was true that the agreeable climate had made me complacent over the last few cycles of seasons, but I was shocked I'd let myself fail to notice this. Even as I tracked the prints, there was no indication that they were made by a pack. The single trodden path seemed almost lonely, and I thought that is was especially sad for a human, so aware of its need for companionship, should be wandering my forest all alone. In fact, when I reached the end of the trail, that familiar crying that all sorts of animals let out when they are overwhelmed in their isolation was what greeted me.

The human was a woman, clearly matured enough to survive on her own but new to the idea of having to do so. I could see the glint of light off of the streaks across her red face, even in the dimness of a clouded forest. There was an axe fallen into the snow by her side, and a tree with several gouges in it. She turned to look at me, seeming no less confused.

"Are you lost?" I asked her.

She did speak her answer, she just shook her head.

"No? Do you live here, then?"

She pointed behind me, suggesting she'd taken a straight course from her dwelling to this particular spot.

"Why do you not speak? Are you frightened of me?"

She shook her head, but still said nothing. She pointed to her throat, shook her head again.

"Oh. Oh! Well, then how do you communicate with other people, there must be some…"

She shook her head, pointed to herself, then in the area around her, then shook her head.

"There are no others?"

Finally, she nodded. She seemed stricken with inspiration, and retrieved a fallen branch, scratching the language of her people into the snow, a single word I knew well: "cursed".

"Ah, so they sent you here as a way to cleanse themselves of some sort of… disfavor with the gods?"

She nodded, then sobbed a few more tears. She shivered in the cold, the adrenaline of an unexpected encounter ebbing from her slight frame.

"Well, if no one wants your company, you can have mine. I'll not let you die in my forest, at the very least."

I came closer to her, reaching out a hand, waiting for her to accept my help. She placed hers in mine with little hesitation, and I lifted her off of the snow, following her tracks back to a house that seemed to have been built in a haste. The area around it found trees that were hardly worth the time to cut down. I helped her through the door, into a single room, nearly empty with its lack of possessions. There was a straw mat with a feather-stuffed sack in the corner, and a small, rough-hewn table and a stool with uneven legs. A few tools sat on the table. A high, shuttered window was on the opposite wall, and near it in the corner were several sacks of grain. To my left was a simple fireplace, currently dark and seeming to have not been used very much.

I laid her onto her mat, covering her with the length of wool she used as a blanket. She looked at me with appreciation mingled with slight apprehension.

"I guess you were probably trying to get firewood?"

She nodded.

"I can't beleive they would leave you out here to freeze to death."

She lowered her head in sorrow, drawing the blanket around her tighter.

"Well, I won't let you. You stay warm, and I will get some for you."

It did not happen quickly. It was a subtle thing, a strange sensation that needed tending, just like that first fire I built for her. It was in the corners of her mouth when she smiled at the device I fashioned for her from the plants in the river valley, so she might write her language out to me on the discarded sack-cloth, and then on broad leaves when that ran out. It was in the way my hands seemed meant to cover hers as I helped her work the land around her home. The way our gaze seemed meant for one another when I helped to stave off the isolation around her mind. I had my own duties, and had to leave her often. But the winter time was for us, and I waited for the first snow each passing cycle, each time finding myself more impatient for it to come. She understood that I was not like her, that even as her body grew older mine stayed ever constant. I knew her fear, knew she wished to have more time together.

Deeper still, I knew what I was experiencing, and knew that I should fear it. I'd heard from my kin that falling in love with a human was folly; the heartbreak when they died long before your own demise was more than many could stand. But I could not stop my heart, and thought that there must be a solution. I had many seasons to consider it, watching her age with each passing winter. And then came that bitter frost that found its way to her, threatening her young life, far before was fair. My first resort became my only resort, and I found myself seeking an audience with the only one that could help that would also understand my plight.

"Wise, beautiful Aphrodite, I call on you in a time of greater need than any I have ever experienced."

"Speak then, Oread. With what matter could I offer assistance?"

"I have fallen in love with one unlike myself, one whose life is tragically shorter than mine, and I cannot bear the thought of knowing that I must exist for so long without them once they leave this world. I would ask that you make this creature as I am."

"I pity you, fair Oread, but I also ask; what is it that would endear you to one so fragile?"

"It is her spirit, Goddess, the way in which she was able to find her will again, the way in which she sees me. The beautiful mind that I am given witness to."

"Would you say that she is more beautiful than me?"

"There is no living creature more beautiful than you, Goddess, but it is not you that I love, for appearance is not what stirs my heart."

"Then if you were to make use of my abilities, I would demand a sacrifice. If appearance means so little, you will live with your beloved in total blindness."

I thought nothing of myself, only of her, growing frailer with each passing day. I took this deal, and felt my sight struck just as swiftly as a flame catches kindling. Flung back into my forest, I called out to my lover, searching the void for her. Then, from my hand, I felt that familiar warmth, leading me back to safety. I explained what I'd done, that now we were free to live the lifetimes that humans could only dream of. She could still offer no words of comfort, but her fingers traced her thanks across the small of my back.

The conditions of the trade are many; she had her own duties to tend to now, the sort that would see her departing just as I had. Each time, I fear that this might be our last thaw together, that she may finally grow bored of me. I cannot look to the sky for the snow, I must feel it, in the chill on the wind, the quiet of the forest. I must believe that the sting of the snowflakes on my outstretched palm will be nursed by the familiar feeling of her hand in mine.

[abookishdreamer]

Character Intro: Pagoniá (Kingdom of Ichor)

Nicknames- The Ice Queen by the people of Olympius

Mom by her daughter

Age- 33 (immortal)

Location- Skyline district, New Olympus

Personality- Much like her domain she can be cold, distant, & emotionally unavailable at times. More often than not she keeps the few people in her social circle at arm's length. She can be incredibly self-centered, but she's also sensual, intelligent, and creative. She's in a "situationship."

She has the standard abilities of a goddess. As the goddess of ice, her main ability is cryokinesis (on a much more powerful scale than her daughter) that also includes ice mimicry & blowing a powerful cold breath from her mouth. One of the deadliest abilities in her repertoire is the ice kiss- being able to freeze a person solid, thus shattering them, through a deep kiss.

Pagoniá currently lives in a luxury apartment at Bolt Towers that was bought for her by her lover. Before this, she used to reside in the Underworld. Her new apartment is the epitome of an icy wonderland. Inside the interior colors are shades of white, powder blue, silver, & gray. The thermostat is set a couple degrees below freezing. The flooring is snow white mink carpeting with glittery silver trim. There's a gorgeous chandelier overhead in the kitchen that's dripping in ice crystals and white diamonds. Many nude portraits of her are scattered throughout the place. There's a safe built into one of the walls where her more expensive jewelry is kept. Pagoniá has a single pet- a bichon frise; a boy named Snowball. She also owns a bungalow in the state of Thrace. She mainly gets around in her sleek silver sports car (that has platinum chrome spinners).

She usually starts off her mornings with a soak in the bath. The tub is filled with ice cubes & ice cold water and is then added with a few drops of essential oils of white tea, white grapefruit, peppermint, white sage, and vanilla bean. Her personal masseuse then comes over to give her a massage as well as a session of acupuncture.

Pagoniá lacks an affinity for cooking, so she usually dines out or eats in through take-out. For breakfast a usual order (through use of chariot service) is two breakfast burritos (with scrambled egg whites, bell peppers, & turkey bacon) from The Bread Box along with a stack of egg white pancakes (with ricotta and banana & drizzled in white chocolate syrup from The Hearthside Diner. Most of the times she'll settle for a bowl of Earthly Harvest honey vanilla toasted rice cereal with ice cold milk.

Notable features of the ice goddess is her distinct breathy speaking voice, her natural hourglass shape, and her platinum blonde hair, which she keeps in a bob of voluminous soft curls.

Pagoniá's immediately family includes her older sister Eváeros (goddess of air & the zodiacs), her nephews- Boreas (god of the north wind), Zephyrus (god of the west wind), Notus (god of the south wind), & Eurus (god of the east wind), and her only child Chione (goddess of snow).

She was able to get pregnant on her own through the use of the fertility services of Gaia (goddess of the earth). Pagoniá's pregnancy came about during the time of a deep depression when she felt the most alone. She wanted a person "who'd love her truly, no matter what." A fond memory she has of Chione was when she instinctively made her first snowflake at just three months old.

Pagoniá's relationship with her sister has always been contentious. She's always been insecure about her status as a minor deity & the fact her sister achieved heightened status (her own star on the Pantheon Walk of Fame), Pagoniá feels more overlooked. With her nephews, she's more closer to Boreas.

Go-to drinks for her include ice cold water, cool blueberry lavender zero sugar Strengthify water, peppermint tea, classic martinis, & the white lady cocktail- a drink made with gin, triple sec, lemon juice, and an egg white). Her usuals from The Roasted Bean is a large white chocolate mocha and an olympian sized flat white.

Pagoniá has never been shy when it came to her sexuality. She was a genius when it came to crafting her public persona- being this alluring mysterious sensual being. At home & her vacation bungalow, a lot of her time is spent in the nude. She was even the first centerfold of Zeus' men's magazine. On the cover, she was laying on a snow leopard blanket wearing noting but sheer garter belt stockings, her body decorated in scattered decorative crystals.

Her favorite piece of jewelry that she always wears is her white gold necklace that has a diamond encrusted charm that's in the shape of a classic Megaleio handbag. With the permission of Clymene (Titaness of fame & renown), Chione designed & made the necklace.

One of her favorite desserts is the mille crepes cake from Salon du Sucre. She also likes baked alaska.

She loves watching rom-coms & drama films. Pagoniá will often have a weekend movie marathon with her daughter and her daughter's good friend Despoina (goddess of the arcadian mysteries, frost, winter, & shadows) while they pig out on truffle oil popcorn & pizza bianca.

Her favorite sweet treat is marshmallow ice cream, opting for a double scoop when she goes to The Frozen Spoon.

Pagoniá's main source of income comes from having the largest manufacturer/distributor of packaged ice products in Olympius (Chaíre Spíti) like ice vending, packaged ice, block ice, & cold storage for some examples. For cost effective reasons, the company is located in the Underworld. Her other sources of income comes from modeling for/endorsing Heavenly Spark, atelier fantaisie, Ice Stones (her daughter's jewelery brand), Megaleio, Diamond Ave., Stella Ferrea, & Euryphaessa.

She doesn't have many friends in the pantheon. Pagoniá is however close with Mnemosyne (Titaness of memory & language), Asteria (Titaness of falling stars, magic, astrology, & nocturnal oracles and prophecies), Dione, Kósmima (goddess of adornment), and Kéfi (goddess of mirth), as well as some of The Ourea.

A guilty pleasure for her are the soft & buttery breadsticks from The Crown, Zeus' high end restaurant.

As a gift Pagoniá got a snow white La Petit Amour velour tracksuit from Kósmima.

Pagoniá loves wearing the Olmorfia lip gloss in "Crystal Lights", a glittery iridescent color. Before putting on the lip gloss, she lines her lips with a nude lip liner.

As a Summer Solstice gift, Mnemosyne gave her a Diamond Ave. perfume bottle crystal shaped jeweled clutch. Kéfi gave her the stiletto crystal shoe shaped jeweled clutch for her birthday. Both cost well over 5,000 drachmas!

Pagoniá's love life has been tumultuous to say the least. She once drunkenly made out with her sister's ex Aegaeon (god of sea storms) while they were still together. Other former lovers include Hydros (god of water), Priapus (god of fertility, vegetable gardens, livestock, sexuality, & masculinity), and several mortal men.

Her current lover is a Hyperborean Giant named Krýstallos. He's a financial advisor on Acropolis Street who's also married with a wife and children. The buffer for them is Pagoniá's bungalow when she travels to Thrace a few times a month. She likes how he makes her feel safe and the fact that he constantly showers her with expensive jewelry- her favorite thus far being the platinum & diamond cuff bracelet which has a huge teardrop shaped diamond in the center. In her bouts of melancholy, Pagoniá will anonymously stalk his wife's Fatestagram profile.

Her and Krýstallos has been phorgraphed in public once at a grand opening of the messenger god's high end restaurant. She looked immaculate of course- her hair in its signature soft curls, her pouty lips covered in matte nude lipstick, & she wore a see through skin tight crystal encrusted floor length gown with matching gloves. Nothing covered her breasts and she wore a nude colored thong.

Her all time favorite food is the vichyssoise along with seared scallops and oysters in a mignonette sauce topped with beluga caviar.

In her free time Pagoniá enjoys writing in her journal, shopping, gardening, reading, skiing (in the Underworld), clubbing, and sleeping.

"I'm cold as ice, but in the right hands, I'll melt."

[mechagalaxy]

John T Mainer 28840: Forty Shillings

Forty Shillings

This was the end. The last battle. We had come together as the Legion of Vega, just a handful of castaways caught by the chaos of war to stand in defense of a world that was about as attractive as a social disease on a plague rat, battling in a frozen hellhole for hills of radioactive snow and slag that no one will remember or care about.

We had taken the starport from Atari, burned them out of the sky then hunted them through storm and ice. We had faced challenge from Sirius Chaos, in a tangle of falling snow and burning mecha. We had fought like brothers, like champions, to carve a legend no one would ever care about, and for a banner none of us claimed.

Throw away soldiers, in a nothing war on a frontier civilization wouldn’t wipe off its shoe, but by all the gods, we made war, and we made it pure. Myeponym soared over the snow in his Novums, white Troopers looming from the snow as half seen shadows beneath the half seen snowy owl shapes of the Novum as they swooped upon unwary prey. The ice caves piercing the glaciers and mine tunnels of the hellscape showed Lewis Reed’s Red Ants lit by hellish light as his lasers made the deeps echo to fire and thunder like the memory of dwarves from mankind’s memory.

Able Hunter and Stroker Spot limped along, leaking freezing coolant like clotting blood, but their guns were seeking and they laughed with the quiet hunger of wolves on the scent of wounded prey. Mike was a half seen shape in the snow as his Slate popped the covers on its missile racks to howl forth his hate in a wave of Amnesia Torpedos, and hiss his defiance from the muzzles of his Leviathans as they lanced killing cold straight into Capellen teeth.

I spat blood and the acidic metal tang of Misery snow from my shattered cockpit as I watched the recovery teams working to pull Mk Mathews from the wreckage I had made of his mecha. The record shows me the winner, but my medcomp tells me if I cough hard right now I am going to puncture my lung before the nanites can put my shattered ribs together. It was, how you say? Ah yes, a “near run thing”.

This was a meaningless battle, this was a nothing war. Tomorrow we would free the gates from the terrorists and return to our home clans. This will mean nothing tomorrow, no one will care. I spit blood and cough, feeling my ribs grind. Tomorrow it means nothing, but tonight they fight for the Legion of Vega, they fight like champions. I gave everything I had, every fight I know I can win, and we were just short of even.

I found myself singing a song that was old when we loaded our powder loose, and hammered the ball down the muzzle, marching in pretty ranks in ugly wars for rich lords who would never tread a battlefield, nor bleed out for the kings shilling in some foreign crap hole.

“Here's forty shillings on the drum

For those who'll volunteer to come

To 'list and fight the foe today.

Over the hills and far away.

O'er the hills and o'er the main.

Through Flanders, Portugal and Spain.

King George commands and we obey.

Over the hills and far away.”

Justin Verrett loomed on my scope, I can get him, sometimes. Sometimes not. I was far from healed, my ammunition light for a major fight, but we could not give up this ground if we hoped to win.

A voice cut through the howling of the energy bleed of half synchronized shields, and badly tuned sensors. It was Terry Cole.

“Do you want me to push them back, give them a bit of a hill to climb?”

His machines were scarred, but moving well. Powerful and smoothly moving through the shifting snow and scree as if it was a flat and stable firing range, I picked out the sword armed rat of the Legion of Vega banner proudly on his shoulder pauldrons and leg greaves. Tomorrow we were enemies yes, but tonight? Tonight we were the Legion of Vega, and it was time to do unto others.

I nodded and keyed my implants. “Push them hard, make them have to risk it to come to us”

Out there in the darkness our mecha advanced on the flanks of the hill to push again, and Terry Cole roared out a challenge as he closed on Justin Verret. On our own channel he offered cheerfully.

“Righto, getting it done”

Justin’s front line has to be seen to be believed. Two Penner, two Cyberdon, a Kami, and Charon. As a pilot Justin is scary enough, but as a tactician he is better. He doesn’t just build mecha, he builds combined arms formation where each machine is calculated to not only perform as an individual fighter, but whose secondary effects best enhance the lines performance.

Justin’s Cyberdon Cassie opened up first with an Okhra for 2250 points, howling shields reflected some back into his teeth, but first blood to Justin. Justin’s second Cyberdon Yokiko carved deep into Terry’s Cyberdon Cittycat, its strange energies unbalancing the engine shielding and critical killing it. I wondered if this would break Terry’s charge, but Pennkiller cut loose with and ACM salvo to stagger Justin’s Cyberdon Cassie. Justin cut loose from his personal mecha Chaos Penner and tore the heart out of aaaKami (the Kami). In a few short seconds, Terry’s front rank was scrap and the fight looked over.

The song still sounded on my lips, the ancient song of forgotten wars, fought by throw away soldiers for countries that probably never deserved them.

“King George commands and we obey.

Over the hills and far away.

If I should fall to rise no more,

As many comrades did before,

Then ask the fifes and drums to play.

Over the hills and far away.”

Terry’s second rank advanced to the tap of the drum and the skirl of the pipes,

Reggie the Regis howled his defiance with a Wide Forking Flagere in a one mecha volley that rocked Justin’s unblemished rank with the slap of challenge and kiss of flame. Living up to its name, the Pike advances in line calmly lancing out like its namesake to impale the charging Capellan mecha on nigh three thousand points of flame forking over two of his machines. Blasts of fury and flame cross in the howling maelstrom, but Terry’s Regis Reggie is done playing and his next Flagere claws out the throat of Justin’s Charon, causing emergency pilot ejection to spare the cockpit a crematorium’s conversion.

Big Bore the Boreas cut loose to lay Winter’s Grasp on Justin’s Chaos Penner and lay its wreckage in the acidic slightly radioactive snow as Terry’s mecha advanced calmly at the drum, come fire or fall, one step and volley in magnificent pride and power.

Tomorrow we would be nothing, and the Legion of Vega tossed back onto the scrap heap of history. Tonight, we were brothers, tonight we were the Legion of Vega, and the Legion will advance. If the Capellans want gold, they need to cut if from our corpses.

https://youtu.be/-Fy3tSim3to

John T Mainer 28840

[gaminghardware0]

Making it in Unreal: how Kinoko simulates the changing seasons

For millennia we’ve told the story of the passing of the seasons with the help of supernatural figures. The ancient Greeks had three: Zephyr to bring the summer breeze, Notos to conjure autumn storms, and Boreas to blow the winter cold. In Terry Pratchett’s Discworld novels, the Wintersmith dances eternally with the Summer Lady, who is described as taking the shape of the smell of apples, or of shimmering heat on a road. Now games are contributing their own myths to that tradition. In Kinoko, you play the cloaked and hatted forest spirit who ushers in the spring - personally shovelling away the snow, knocking the white powder from the trees, and planting the flowers until the job is done and the year has begun anew. The tellers of this new legend are not ancient Greek priests nor acclaimed fantasy authors, but a small gaggle of students training as designers, programmers, artists, and musicians in Dundee, Scotland. That’s where the GTA series began, and it’s where the Kinoko team has turned heads with its visually arresting take on the changing seasons. Beneath the blanket of snow are an array of rules and technical tricks that make its dynamic beauty possible. from https://www.pcgamesn.com/kinoko/kinoko-unreal-engine-4

[shapcomp]

Larry and I on top of McCullough Gulch.

Heading up the trail on Boreas Pass.

Now that Larry and I have become summer “residents” of Colorado. I have challenged myself physically more than any other time in my life. It is my Rocky Mountain boot camp. I return home thinner, stronger, healthier—and already thinking of our next adventures in the Colorado Rockies.

Our daughter Julie came out to Eagle County, Colorado, in 2003 for a one year teaching position at an environment school. Fresh out of college, she fell in love with Colorado, the Rockies, and Sam —not necessarily in that order. Fourteen years later, she, Sam, their daughter Sylvie and their dog Neva live in Frisco, Colorado, seventy miles from Denver on the western slope of the Continental Divide.

Until 2015, we would come out to visit them every year for a couple of weeks. Since our granddaughter arrived, we rent a condo close to their home for a couple of months to escape the Florida heat and enjoy being Zayde and Gammy.

As Frisco is located 9100 feet above sea level, Larry and I take a couple of days to acclimate to the altitude. Once we have our mountain lungs, we take advantage of all the area has to offer.

Larry plays in a  pickle ball league three or four times a week—their motto is “We play with an Altitude.” On those days, I leave our condo, pick up my “granddog,” and Neva and I take the trail up to Rainbow Lake. It’s an easy one mile hike to the lake, only made a little tricky by its popularity. Neva and I have had to share the shoreline with up to twenty people and almost as many dogs. On quieter days, we have the lake to ourselves. We play Neva’s version of fetch: I toss a stick into the freezing water; she fetches it; I chase her down to retrieve it. Then we head around the lake, making our way back along a rushing creek home.

When Sam and Julie took us on hikes the first years we visited, I was intimidated by their longer excursions. Would we get lost? Could I handle the steep climbs? Would I fall off a narrow precipice, my body found by the rescue team a week later? Would we run into a moose or bear? After many years of hiking, my moments of terror are limited only to a few dicey paths that are a little too narrow or steep for my taste. “I’m scared,” I utter under my breath.

One of our favorite hikes, Lilypad Lake, takes us along a steep path to a sturdy wooden bridge that spans a rushing creek. Climbing up the stream, we come to a section that overlooks Frisco and Lake Dillon. Another thirty minute climb through forest paths and wildflowers brings us to a lake on the left and a pond filled with lily pads on the right. As chipmunks beg for crumbs, we enjoy water and a trail bar before heading back down.

The longest, most difficult hike we took this summer was to McCullough Gulch, south of Breckinridge. The entire trip is in the shadow of Quandary Peak, one of Colorado’s fifty-three mountain peaks that have an elevation of at least 14,000 feet. A few miles drive up a dirt road took us to a parking lot and a half-mile hike to the trail head. The path up the trail got steeper, muddier, and—in my wimpy opinion—less passable. At one point, a short section of small boulders required some scrambling. Above us, two mountain goats grazed. About one and a half miles up, we made our way to White Falls, a waterfall that cascaded from the lake above us. The sky, up to that point blue with fluffy clouds, got darker. From the waterfall, we made our way up to the glacial lake above us.

While not difficult to follow, the path got steeper and required more scrambling around slippery rocks. At one point, we got slightly off trail and needed to climb over some boulders. “I’m scared!” I whispered loudly. Although we were never in any imminent danger of falling, I was saying prayers for our safety. I tried not to think of what our children would say if the broken body of their sixty-something mother was found at the bottom of my imagined crevice. Just as we got to the top of the boulders, a young boy bounded past me to meet the rest of his family on the trail. Pretty embarrassing for me to be so afraid when child regarded it as standard playground fare.

After climbing a final steep grade, Larry and I reached the beautiful glacial lake at the top of McCullough Gulch. Beyond the lake was the magnificent site of Pacific Peak, a 13,900 footer. We had made it! We ate our snacks, drank some water, and enjoyed the spectacular view. Although the wind was strong, the sun was shining and the clouds were fluffy when all of that suddenly changed.

Hail! The skies opened up, and we were being pummeled with pea-sized pellets. We put on  our raincoats and slipped our way down the mountain, this time avoiding the “rock climb.” By the time we got to the waterfall, the hail had turned to spitting rain. A mile further down, the sun came out. Four and a half hours after we had started, we had completed the hike, tired but so glad we had done it.

Larry and I completed a number of hikes during our eight weeks in Frisco, each one providing breathtaking views of mountains, lakes, waterfalls, and wildflowers. We experienced heat and rain and thunder and lightening and occasional bug swarms, but only once did we have to cut our hike short.

Our last weekend in Colorado, Sam, Larry, Sylvie, Neva and I hiked Black Powder Trail on Boreas Pass. Our two-year-old granddaughter soon tired of riding in her carrier on Sam’s back and decided to tackle the hike on foot. This worked until Sylvie and Neva found a pile of dirt created by burrowing animals that they regarded as more fun than further climbing. After a half hour of digging and snacks, all twenty-two pounds of her led us the way down the trail.

When I share my pictures on Facebook with friends and family, many comment on how strong and brave and fit we had proven ourselves to be. When I share descriptions of our hikes with native Coloradans, however, they are less impressed. “Oh yes! We did that hike in the winter with our snow shoes,” they comment. Or “If you enjoyed McCullough Gulch, you should try the thirteen mile hike up Meadow Lake Trail.” I can see clearly why GetYourFitTogether.com has named Colorado the most fit state in the country. And I know already that my  granddaughter and I will fit right in.

Onto Our Next Adventure Now that Larry and I have become summer “residents” of Colorado. I have challenged myself physically more than any other time in my life.

[abookishdreamer]

Character Intro: Boreas (Kingdom of Ichor)

Nicknames- The Cold One, Lord of Winter, Lord of the North Wind by the people of Olympius

The Bore by Apollo

Frost Boy by Artemis

Bo by his brothers and Chione

Age- 18 (immortal)

Location- The Underworld

Personality- He's aloof, cold, distant, and apathetic. He doesn't concern himself with the daily drama of the pantheon, instead only focusing on looking out for himself, his immediate family, & his boss Zeus. He's currently single.

Being the god of the north wind (& essentially winter), he has many abilities. He can fly due to his large frost white wings and has the ability of aerokinesis. As offensive attacks, he can give a person frostbite and hypothermia (as well as creating weapons & armor out of ice). He has bountiful abilities with cryokinesis. He always emits an aura of coldness, making others around him feel slightly cold. He also has the ability of pyrokinesis (cold fire manipulation). He is also able to communicate with pegasi as well as shapeshift into one.

Bo's main abode is in the Underworld (he loves the cold weather). He lives in an opulent palace built entirely out of ice, crystal, and everlasting snow. Inside, there's always a cold wind blowing. Most of the furniture is also made out of ice & snow. In Olympius, he resides in the Bolt Towers- an ultra exclusive & high rise apartment building in the Skyline neighborhood of New Olympus. He also has a cottage in the state of Thrace. In his apartment, the thermostat is set to below freezing. Bo also has a few arctic animals as pets. There's three polar bears named Avalanche (called Ava for short), Blanket, & Juneau, a snowy owl named Antler, and even a wolverine named Blizzard. He has thought about getting an ice dragon, but they're extremely rare & hard to come by. In Olympius, he gets around in his sleek white sports car. In the Underworld, he travels by the use of his wings.

He's the oldest of his brothers & is aware of how he's painted- being the "bossy overbearing party pooper." Bo still cares for his brothers even though he has trouble showing & verbalizing it. He's not in contact with Notus (god of the south wind), but he does have a pretty good relationship with their cousin Chione (goddess of snow). Bo adores his mother Eváeros (goddess of air & the zodiacs). She visits him often. He's also friends with Despoina (goddess of the arcadian mysteries, frost, winter, & shadows) and Aeolus (god of wind). Bo also doesn't mind his aunt, Pagoniá (goddess of ice).

His go-to drink is a snow cap (a drink made with bourbon, heavy cream, orange liqueur, powdered sugar, & nutmeg). He also likes hot white chocolate, lemon-lime soda, mint infused sparkling water, and martinis.

Bo's favorite colors are white, purple, silver, & dark blue!

His favorite dessert is baked alaska. He also likes his mom's ambrosia salad, served cold!

His main source of income comes from working for Zeus. He models for Platinum Alchemy as well as being a contributing writer for his magazine.

Bo doesn't have much of a rapport with the other members in the pantheon. He thinks that Apollo (god of the sun, music, poetry, healing, medicine, archery, plague, light, & knowledge) is an idiot and that Chrysos (god of gold & riches) is too full of himself, saying "You'd think he'd have gold shoved up his ass." He doesn't mind Hestia (goddess of the hearth) or her dark chocolate peppermint cake.

He hasn't had much success in the romance department, but he does have feelings for O, a popular singer and oread (mountain nymph). Bo remembers the first time he saw her in person- when she was performing at the palace for a private party of Zeus'. Her beautifully haunting voice stirred up something in his heart and he was a puddle of tears during her piano solo. Even Zeus took notice of it. After the party he had sent her a friend request on Fatestagram & a few weeks later, Bo received a notification saying that she'd accepted it. Aside from liking a few posts here and there, they have not actually communicated. In the meantime, O became the muse and inspiration of his poetry & love letters- that he keeps locked away. It was just a few weeks ago when he mustered up the courage to anonymously send her a gift- a gorgeous pair of garnet earrings.

His favorite meal is the vichyssoise and snow crab legs (with extra garlic & butter). He also likes the garlic risotto. His favorite takeout order is the pizza bianca.

In his free time, Bo loves reading and working on his poetry & ice sculptures. He also enjoys active activities like snowboarding, skiing, hockey, and figure skating.

"Nothing burns like the cold."