"Are you lost in the frost?" A lone giant speaks, a cloud of chill air escaping his blue-lipped mouth.
In the distance, through a thick fog, you can see more of them coming out a cave lit by blue light. Almost like a portal to the netherworld is it’s eerie glow. You can feel fear growing in your belly. These aren’t normal giants. Their skin is blue, their hair and eyes silver. Stone jewelry hangs about their bodies making them look like brickwork monsters.
"Tiny man," The leader speaks, icicles breaking and falling from his jowls. "What brings you so far north?"
Adapted to the coldest of inhabitable worlds, the stocky Snowborn are the Starkin’s frozen cousins, set to defend them from threats from outside, using their terrible world itself as a weapon.
Concluders haunt the frozen lands of their home in search of knowledge.
There was a flicker through the workshop. Most Elfs did not realize it had happened. They kept working like nothing happened. Toby didn’t understand how he knew, but he felt more solid, more real; which for an Elf - a spirit of Christmas- was pretty amazing. Toby knocked on batteries he was putting in some toys, they seemed more solid too. This odd feeling did not last long, as the Ultra Naughty Alarm went off. Someone was threatening Christmas itself. He quickly reached into his tool kit. Toby hefted his monkey wrench which felt amazingly stable and solid. The Elfs were going to fix this naughtiness straight away.
The D’athri took to space in such a way to make Terrans look "gun shy". They can be found in small numbers in and around every space port in Known Space.
The Frozan are revered as creatures so old and ancient that only the very ice caps and glaciers are older than they are.
If Kasal comes for me with the inevitability of death I know, I shall go willing. But know that I will not go easy and I will be honored in the life beyond for my efforts.
-Mourngrymn Dasha’r, chief of Fajro Mang’i tribe.
AutoMedon – A mechanical poet of renown not for his vast catalog of poetry, but for his complete lack of anything written or spoken, having had no output in his programmed profession. His creator is unknown or at least unaccredited, and there are those in great number in the artistic world who wonder and marvel at his inability to produce poetry, crediting that flaw to his creator who is unknown or at least un-credited. There is also a small faction of scholars who believe that when he finally, finally speaks, it will be the most beautiful or sorrowful verse ever spoke or will ever be spoken. Whether his creator is among either group or dead is unknown. AutoMedon sits alone under a tin roofed enclosure, upon a stone chair, with his gaze off in the distant as if thinking.
“It’s strange to look at this mechanical man and think what thoughts are working through its’ workings or even if the damn thing is” – Aralis of Qurim, poet and pottery salesman