At the foot of the World can be found both great treasure and danger! Adventure Awaits!
"kara diamos ica" the wind stopped, and for a moment he was deaf to the world, and then his hearing returned.
as he looked around him and his bod began to warm agian after hours of finding a spot to shelter from the winter strom that was raging in the skies.
"IT WORKED!, im safe, now i only need to make my way to the academy"
Frosty the Snowman. Is a fairytale they say. He was made of snow. But the children know. How he came to life one day…
There must have been some magic. In that old silk hat they found. For when they placed it on his head. He began to dance around…
The delicate flower of the deepest Arctic, bearing the essence of ephemeral purity.
A small silver lantern, at whose heart there burns a shard of ice.
At first appearing to be glass, this ring of enchanted ice is a boon to those in wintery climes…
The Icicle Sword is a powerful weapon of cold, but those who use it’s full powers almost allways pay with their lives.
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.
Once an outcast spirit of the cold, now the malevolent lord of a realm of winter unending…
A set of pale white panpipes, etched with images of the winter storms…
Frozen to death by a penny pinching, cruel landlord, the Frozen Woman has found her vengeance against her killer, and now seeks to destroy those who might do unto others what was done unto her.
Carved to bring glory to the Patient One, the silent and frigid Abomination that holds dominion over the frozen wastes, the Glacier’s Fist is heralded as a deadly weapon, but the true purpose of it is a much more subtle thing.
Once merely a minor Realm of an ambitious Prince of the Nether, the Gloom has been conquered and now lies ruled by Winter’s cruel grip.
Known in these times as shalgiel, these beings were guardians created through ancient magic for purposes which are now forgotten.
The tears of a blinded god created it.
Forged of destruction, in the name of hatred, Winter’s Tempest is a cold echo of its parent blades, yet still it bears the destruction of the frozen elements.
Hold through, little Selva, do not close your eyes. It is not sleep, that comes so lightly to you. Soon you will rest under the Shroud, and wake up when the spring comes.
Behold, the Harbinger of ill-tidings, the blizzard rider, the thief of winter, the Stamagast.