@sheepstealer
The cold air bites like a dog, sinking its icy teeth into the thickest of the furs you've donned; the journey has been long, and grueling, and has worn you down to what feels like naught but bone.
The ground crunches beneath your feet, and gnarled roots rise from the ground like an ancient spider whose limbs are trapped within the frozen soil. Snow pelts the frail skin of your cheeks and ears. Your eyes water.
And then you happen upon it; the weirwood heart tree said to be at the throat of this forest. Its aged face, carved there centuries ago by the children of the forest, gazes at you invitingly. As you place your hand upon its bark, you see it:
The wicked villains upon dragonback, the bastard princes, the witches and the lords of the North and all who fought and fell in the Dance of Dragons. And they are yours to commune with, if only for now.
My name's of no consequence; you may call me Ash.
any pronouns; 28; minors DNI
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