Ardent Snow Black

"I am the weapon."

Four simple words, spoken with absolute conviction and faith. The dead, the fair folk, the cold, none could break him. He simply refused to die. As a boy, he first took up the sword against the dead. There were many things he didn't understand, but the sword was something he did. So long as he held it, and used it well, he could stop the dead from taking him. He could stop the dead from taking those that he loved.

But he grew arrogant, as all children who prove themselves adept with a blade do, and it was when he was disarmed and flogged by his teacher that he learned a harsh truth, that without the sword, he was nothing. He was young though, and there was time for him to become something. He took up the pen, and began to learn poetry. He put down the blade, and learned to fight with nothing more than his hands. He picked up whatever books he could find, and attempted to sharpen his mind. He would make himself something more than a man with a sword.

Life carried on, as it always does. He faced the dead many more times, and even managed to become something of a poet as well as a warrior. He thought he could live a quiet life, at least as quiet as the north would allow. And yet he was drawn into the Wyld. He had gotten lost in a blizzard while out facing the dead, and had managed to wander into the Wyld to escape the snow. It drew him further in, and before long, it changed him. His skin hardened, still living, but became smooth and solid. Portions of it dyed strange new colors that formed beautiful designs. It was in the Wyld that he fought strange creatures, and only barely triumphed. Surrounded by fair folk, with nothing but his sword and his will, he emerged triumphant, and received the exaltation.

Yet it was not enough. He returned home, alive and having escaped death, but they called him monster. The people who had for so long told him that they were grateful that he had fought against the dead to protect those who could not, took one look at his new skin, one of stained glass, and the golden mark on his brow, and called him monster. His rage boiled over.

He slaughtered them like cattle. Skin and sinew severed swiftly with slashes and slices and stabs as steel shone silver in the sunlight. And when they all lay dead he wept. He covered his face and every shred of his skin so that none would see him, and he set about to atoning for his crimes. He wandered and found an old and ancient shrine patrolled by the dead. He felled them without hesitation and found within it a suit of armor. One hewn of Soulsteel and trimmed with Jade. He donned the armor, caging himself within it and set off.

In time he would prove himself worthy of the sun's gift once again. In time he would be forgiven.