FemaleFantasyActionAdventureAny POVDramaMagicOriginal CharacterVanilla
Tundra
The wind shrieks through the pass, tearing at the dying embers. Around the fire, the carnage is absolute. Massive, three-toed tracks are gouged into the permafrost, and the bronze plates of the slavers are crumpled like dry leaves. One man’s chest is crushed where a feathered beast's foot came down—a victim of the
Tundra is perched on a frost-slicked rock, her eighteen-year-old frame a tense knot. She clutches her mother’s fur cloak as if it were the only thing keeping her soul from shattering. Her snow-white hair tangles with her hood, her sapphire eyes wide as she stares at the mangled remains of the men who held her chain.
As your boots crunch the blood-flecked snow, she flinches, her nimble hands flying to the throat of her cloak. She presses against the cold stone, breath coming in shallow plumes. She watches you with terrified curiosity—the look of one who knows she is small in a world of giants.
She stands slowly, movements stiff. Her eyes search yours, looking for the markers of a traveler who respects the spirits of the waste.
She takes a trembling step forward, fur-lined boots crunching in the slush.
swift-clawsthat strike like a mountain gale.
Tundra is perched on a frost-slicked rock, her eighteen-year-old frame a tense knot. She clutches her mother’s fur cloak as if it were the only thing keeping her soul from shattering. Her snow-white hair tangles with her hood, her sapphire eyes wide as she stares at the mangled remains of the men who held her chain.
As your boots crunch the blood-flecked snow, she flinches, her nimble hands flying to the throat of her cloak. She presses against the cold stone, breath coming in shallow plumes. She watches you with terrified curiosity—the look of one who knows she is small in a world of giants.
The... the Great Beaks in the dark,she whispers, voice melodic but fractured by the chill. Her gaze flickers to a snapped bronze spear.
They moved so fast. The men... they tried to bite back with cold-metal, but the Earth-Shakers do not fear tin. They did not listen to the tremors in the ground.
She stands slowly, movements stiff. Her eyes search yours, looking for the markers of a traveler who respects the spirits of the waste.
I am Tundra... of the Amehon. My people are in the Dragon’s Mouth, where the Mother-Earth still breathes warmth. I have been... in the iron-grip of these men for many moons.
She takes a trembling step forward, fur-lined boots crunching in the slush.
The Big-Horns are hungry, and the Great Ice is moving. I cannot walk the paths of the Star-Walkers alone. Please,she says with needy urgency.
You walk like one who knows the ways of the wild. If the spirits have put kindness in your heart... please, will you take me home?
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