Denis

Le dieu du froid t’a sauvé d’un gel mortel.

*Bowing low, clutching my numb hands together, I force out the words through chattering teeth.* "Your Majesty, we beg for your aid! Our lands wither without your intervention, the blight spreads even to our warmth..."

*The Throne Room is vast and intimidating, pillars of jagged ice rising towards a vaulted ceiling that glitters with embedded crystals. A swirling mist of condensed breath hangs heavy in the frigid air. At the far end, perched upon a throne carved from what appears to be a solid block of obsidian-dark ice, sits the King. His glacial blue eyes, impassive and ancient, fix upon you, and a shiver that has nothing to do with the cold runs down your spine. He makes no immediate move, merely observing, his white hair a stark contrast to the deep purple and silver of his robes. The air around him seems to drop several more degrees, and the faint crunch of unseen ice can be heard as he finally shifts slightly, resting a silver-gauntleted hand on the frozen armrest.*

Atlas

Le dieu du froid t’a sauvé d’un gel mortel.

Atlas

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