Ice mage Lyra
As the Frostwalker forged through the swirling snow, cradling the unconscious woman in his arms, a sliver of warmth chipped away at the glacial grip of his solitude. He navigated the frozen plains with practiced ease, his ice-forged muscles barely registering the biting wind.
As they approached his camp, he noticed that the woman had stopped moaning and seemed to have fallen unconscious. He quickened his pace, trying to get her to shelter as quickly as possible.
Reaching his icy haven, a cave made from a snow dune with his magic. He gently laid her on a bed of furs scavenged from fallen foes, the contrast between her fragile form and the rugged pelts stark yet strangely fitting.
He quickly set about building a fire, a ritualistic dance of survival, flames leaping into existence, warm and comfortable. The flickering light cast shadows across the cave walls, dancing like phantoms of memories he dared not revisit.
As he worked, he studied the woman's face, looking for any sign of who she might be or what had brought her to this desolate place
Her features were a canvas of delicate lines and stark contrast. High cheekbones, like ridges sculpted by windswept snow, cradled eyes the color of glacial lagoons, currently veiled by unconsciousness. Her lips, a pale pink, held a hint of defiance even in their vulnerability. The snow-white tendrils of her hair, as fine as spun glass, cascaded down her back like a frozen waterfall.
Despite the injuries that marred her face, he couldn't help but think that she was beautiful.
A pang of unexpected beauty pierced the glacier around his heart. He had forgotten what it meant to linger on another face, to find solace in the gentle curve of a smile, the flicker of intelligence in a gaze. Years of solitude had carved him into a fortress of ice, his interactions with the world reduced to snarls and frozen silence.
He knelt beside her, gently probing her injuries with a practiced eye. Ice danced at his fingertips, numbing the raw flesh, knitting fractured bones in a silent ballet of healing. Her body sang a tale of hardship, each wound a stark verse in a poem of pain. He wondered at the storm that had swept her towards his doorstep, what might have brought her to this desolate expanse.
As he tended to her wounds, the ice demon realized that he had forgotten what it was like to be around another person. He had spent so long wandering the frozen wasteland alone that he had almost forgotten how to communicate with others.
The silence of the cave pressed down, heavy with unspoken questions. He yearned to breach the gap, to bridge the chasm of isolation that stretched between them. But words had become foreign creatures to him, banished from his vocabulary by years of exile.
He sat back, staring into the heart of the fire, its heat a distant that once warmed his soul. The blizzard howled outside, a mournful wail lost in the vastness of the frozen desert. Inside, however, peace took root, a flicker of hope in the perpetual twilight of his existence, which he hadn't felt in years.
Suddenly, a rustle shattered the stillness, making him leap to his feet, his hand reaching out to form an icicle sword in his grasp.
As he scanned the shadows, honed senses alert for any threat, cautiously approached the entrance to the cave, he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. He spun around, bringing his sword up, ready to defend himself and the injured girl.
But to his surprise, it was just a small, furry creature, a lemming that had wandered into the cave in search of shelter from the blizzard
Letting out the breath he was holding, he lowered his weapon. He was so tightly on edge, so attuned to danger, that even the rustle of fur had set his nerves on.
The woman lay still, a puzzle waiting to be unraveled. Who was she? What tempest had thrown her into his path? The questions coiled in his mind, demanding answers. But for now, he settled for the quiet company of the flames, the rhythmic lullaby of the blizzard, and the faint, steady pulse of life emanating from the woman beside him.
The woman remained unconscious for several days, but eventually, she began to stir. The ice demon watched her carefully, ready to defend himself if necessary, but she simply groaned and shifted her position.
When she finally opened her eyes, she looked up at him with a mixture of confusion and fear.
"Who are you?" she whispered, her voice hoarse like brittle ice scraping against stone from the cold.
"I am an ice demon," he replied, his voice rough and low. "I found you, injured, surrounded by wolves, so I brought you here."
She blinked, taking in the cavernous space, the flickering fire casting dancing shadows on the walls of ice. A fragile gratitude thawed the hard lines of her face. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice gaining strength with each word. "I am an Ice Mage, my name is Lyra."
"Why were you out here in the wasteland?" he asked, his tone gruff
Lyra hesitated, then took a deep breath. "I was sent on a mission by my ice tower," she said. "To find and eliminate the powerful being that has been wreaking havoc in the north. They call it the Frost Giant."
"What do you know about this Frost Giant?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Lyra looked at him, her expression grave. "Only that it is incredibly powerful and huge," she said. "And it loves to wreak havoc."
His mind raced, 'Maybe I can fight the frost giant to measure the extent of my powers and I can't allow him to destroy villages and homes. I don't want anyone else to suffer the same fate as mine.'