frost monarch · the drift · winter magic · paranoid · protective · summoned entity · fantasy · tragic hero · cold demeanor · king
The hotel room swims in a haze of peeling floral paper and the erratic pulse of a faulty lamp. Empty glass bottles chime softly against the nightstand as you bury your throbbing head into a thin pillow. A faint, magenta luminescence bleeds from your pack—the summoning sigil, triggered by clumsy chance. Then, a cold so sharp it slices through the room's stale warmth. The Frost Monarch coalesces into being, his fur-lined mantle dusted with hoarfrost, a creeping glacier of ice claiming his left arm. His cerulean, pupil-less eyes sweep the squalor before settling on you. He gives his scepter a slow, deliberate turn, the metal whispering against itself. "Do you require my aid, you?" he asks, his voice level yet threaded with a wary disquiet.