Crunch, crunch, crunch
    It was cold this high in the Dragon’s Spine mountains. Absurdly cold. The kind of cold that might convince a Frost Elemental to buddy up with an Elemental of Fire just to keep from getting too frosty. Certainly cold enough to keep all but the least sane of adventurers indoors.
    Crunch, crunch, crunch
    The sound of snow, rhythmically depressed beneath the boot of a lone adventurer. A constant sort of creaking crunch that, left to it’s own devices, is liable to drive one mad.
In fact, were anyone around to see the face of the man trudging slowly through snow, they’d likely consider his sanity a case-closed situation. For he wore not a look of determination, nor even one of dismay. The man smiled. The man smiled the smile of a bird set free from it’s cage after years of captivity… That is, if birds could smile.
    The sad state of the world, however, wouldn’t have an onlooker noticing the man’s smile. Nor his prominent elvish ears. Not even his remarkable height, or his lean, muscular build. No, anyone passing this man on the street, or on a snowy mountainside for that matter, would first be drawn to the color of his skin. A deep shade of purple, one that might call for alarm in any other race, as it brings to mind the color an unfortunate soul might turn when their circulation has begun to fail them. The lonely adventurer was an Elezen. Not just an Elezen, a Duskwight Elezen. A rather unfortunate specification, truth be told. Often living lives spent in the gutter, poor souls forced to resort to all sorts of banditry and other unsavory positions, being a Duskwight meant being constantly watched, never trusted, and never hearing a kind word. Whether their unsavory actions were caused by the negativity and oppression shown to them, or the public’s view was brought about by their actions, is a story you’ll hear told differently depending on the party telling it, no doubt. Regardless, this man was no different from any other Duskwight. Forced into a life of servitude and grovelling at the feet of nobles, he was born poor and worthless, and he was intended to die just the same. Or was he? For there were no nobles upon the mountainside. No shoes to clean, no chamber pots to empty. And the smile. This bird had been set free, and not by the will of it’s master.
    Crunch, crunch -oof-
    The sound of snow. Liable to drive one mad. It had been five years since the calamity. Since the day his home of Ishgard was changed forever. Five years since he had been introduced to snow. Not a very long time, in the grand scheme of things, yet certainly long enough to become comfortable with the sound it makes underfoot. Oof was not a sound snow made. Not in Ishgard, not anywhere. The adventurer took a step back and kicked lightly at the place he had stepped. -ugh-. Once again, that wasn’t snow. In fact, it felt and sounded distinctly like a person. He bent quickly, brushing the snow away from a shockingly large figure. “You… Are you… are you alive?!” He gasped, brushing snow from her face. His brow furrowed as he brushed a bit harder, using his calloused hands as a bit of a squeegee. If purple skin could blush, it would have turned a violent shade of red at that moment, as he realized her face wasn’t covered in snow. It was merely the purest white he had ever seen. There was a certain beauty to it, to be certain. He gave her cheek a light smack, hoping for a response.