The Endless Frost
- The Fairest Beldam
- Planar Powers: Bel | Dispater | Mammon | Fierna/Belial | Levistus | Glasya | Baalzebul | Mephistopheles | Asmodeus | Pazuzu | Orcus | Graz'zt | Baphomet | Demogorgon | Dagon | Abyssal (magic) | Abyssal (war) | Abyssal (trickery) | Ravanna | Malkizid | Zuggtmoy | Juiblex | Paush | Eltab | Pale Night | Obox-ob | Abraxas | Kostchtchie | Tymphal | Crozhen | Haknian | The Sequence | Pisaethces | mother | Kezef | The Endless Frost | Dendar | Cackles | Atropus | Tharizdun | Mak Thuum Ngatha | Yeenoghu | The Drowning Man
| Aliases: | Granny Winter |
| Gender: | Female |
| Demonym: | Empty Ones |
| Power Level: | Planar Power |
| Symbol: | Grasping four-fingered claw formed of icicles. |
| Alignment: | Neutral Evil |
| Portfolio: | Winter, Ice, Skaljaard |
| Worshipers: | People of Skaljaard, Frostbitten Travelers |
| Domains: | Evil, Cold, Trickery |
| Arelith worshippers' alignments[1]: | LE, NE,CE |
| Aspects: | War and Destruction, Nature |
Death does not pound at your door, nor does it rage and howl or gnash its teeth. No, Death creeps patiently; Death slithers through cracks and crawls up windows, trailing beauty in its wake. Death does not need to hasten you into its embrace; Death knows it can wait, and Death is very good at waiting.
Death was not cruel to the man walking alone in the tundra.
He had bundled up in all the furs he could carry, and yet the cold still pricked at his fingers and toes, reminding him of the Death surrounding him. Frost coated his beard and eyelashes, and the moisture of every breath settled on his lips and froze, only to melt- just barely -with the next exhale. Though his cap covered his whole head and fastened snugly beneath his chin, he couldn’t feel his ears.
The taste of Death on his tongue hurt his mouth; was he freezing or burning? He couldn’t tell. Sweat collected on his chest and under his arms. It trickled down his spine and settled. Once, he had carried a sword, but only when he looked down did he realize it was no longer in his hand. The rushing of his blood pounded through his skull. He tried to cry out, but frost gleefully collected in the back of his throat, able to brave even the warmth of his breath to choke back his words.
Warmth was a distant memory... no, wait. What had he been thinking? He was warm now, despite the ice crawling down his arms and chest. He was so warm- too warm. Burning. To be cold would be a blessing now. The man fumbled at the leather ties of his furred cloak, fighting to be free of the smothering warmth. It flopped forlornly into the snow behind him. It wasn’t enough. He was still too hot. The gloves! He worked at the gloves next, weeping with ecstasy as his blackened fingers met the cold air. Tears froze on his cheeks.
The man stumbled on and on, shedding garment after garment and every scrap of fur that had burned and weighed him down. His fingers did not hurt anymore. Nothing hurt anymore. He was not warm or cold. He merely was.
And then he was not.
“Do not travel alone in the tundra,” the locals would say. “Keep company, so the lure of the frost cannot tempt you.”
While travelers to Skaljaard speak of the seasons, they refer to both the Freeze and the Thaw, as if they are separate times and not merely a marking of the exhale and inhale from the same being. The villagers know better.
When in lands that can go untouched by snow, the frost is a tame thing. It plays at danger, hissing along the wind and catching only the few unwary and unfortunate. But that frost always melts and sleeps and spares the lands for the rest of the year. That frost is weaker than the sun and warmth. It cannot stand before green buds and birdsong.
But where snow crunches underfoot year-round, where a pail of water left out in Kythorn freezes during the day, and where locals know that confidence can kill... The Endless Frost is not to be tamed. It is patient, but it is merciless. It tempts the foolish and tests the experienced. And every year, when it releases that breath, to freeze the very waves and trap those who dare to live within it? Every year, it stretches just a bit further.
“And when you do travel with another,” they continue, “It has to be someone you know. Or when you shake their hand, be sure their skin is warm.”
They don’t often like to talk about those people, the ones who went off into the Frost and returned with emptiness in their eyes. Their fingers and toes are blackened, and ice covers them from head to toe- sometimes, they’re mistaken for undead. But the color soon returns to their skin, the life to their gaze, and they can seem like they had never gone out there in the first place.
Do not be fooled.
The Endless Frost lives in their flesh, and nothing will return warmth to them, though they can smile and laugh and make merry. One may believe they can be trusted. And perhaps they can. For a time. But when the Frost calls, and they suggest a walk out to the tundra or up a mountain, or even just in the forest... Only one will return. Rarely, perhaps even both, with cold flesh, blackened fingers, and blank faces.
“There’s just something that draws people back to Skal,” the locals say, some with a shrug. “And it’s usually the empty ones.”
The Endless Frost is the more well-known name given to the being that wanders the tundra of Skal. Few, even among her pacted, realize the full truth. She is no unimaginable power, but a winter hag, freezing those unfortunate enough to wander the wastes alone and dining on their chilled flesh.
However, those who agree to serve her, most often by bringing her other victims, will be spared… but forever touched by her chill.
