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In the heart of a desolate wasteland, where the icy grip of winter knows no mercy, lies a realm of eternal snowstorms. Here, amidst the vast expanse of white, where the land stretches out in all directions as far as the eye can see, nature's fury reigns supreme, shaping the landscape into a frozen wasteland of unparalleled beauty and danger. As far as the eye can see, jagged peaks rise from the icy plains, their snow-capped summits piercing the leaden sky like the fingers of giants reaching for the heavens. The mountains stand sentinel over the land, their rugged slopes cloaked in layers of pristine snow, while icy winds howl through the rocky crevices, sending plumes of powdered cold swirling into the air like spectral phantoms dancing in the snow.
Beneath the shadow of the mountains, the land stretches out in an endless expanse of frozen tundra, where the ground lies buried beneath a thick blanket of snow that sparkles like diamonds in the pale light of the winter sun. Here and there, frozen rivers wind their way through the icy landscape, their surfaces glazed with a sheen of frost as they meander towards the distant horizon. In the midst of this white, cruel wilderness, the snowstorms rage unabated, their fury unmatched by any force of nature. Blinding sheets of raging snow sweep across the land, driven by howling winds that whip through the air. Visibility is reduced to mere inches, as the swirling snowflakes obscure the landscape in a veil of white, leaving wanderers disoriented and lost in the icy maze.
No matter how brutal this chilled, extreme land might be, it was not this terrifying in His eyes. Giant paws step through the storm, as opal blue eyes glow into the dark, cutting deeper than any wind. He leaves no sound as he walks, any noise being completely cancelled by the harsh uproar in the skies. Any sign of life is no more. A few inches forward, and his pawprints are long gone behind him, like he was never there to begin with: he’s just a phantom among the dead. He passes by bones and moose skulls, a rancid reminder of the fate of most who end up here. In no time, those are bound to disappear into the snow, just like anything in here. A wave of familiarity and comfort washes through him, as if he went mad. At least, this is what his former pride would say if they’d see what became of him.
He finds himself at a crevice in the walls of the mountain, granite made rocks standing tall, dominating the landscape. A small entrance of a cave, a savior in disguise. A smile creeps on his lips, as he lowers his head and makes himself at home. Inside, it is not as spacious as you’d believe: while the creak is bigger than most, it just hides narrow walls that barely fit his sheer size. He gathered buffalo fur from old, rare hunts, twigs and moss, making this cave become a true luxury in such a forgotten land. He curled up, a habit he got ever since he first came here. Memories start flooding his mind and he is soon bothered by them.
He vividly remembers everything… the way his pride looked at him in pure disgust every time he walked by when trying to feed, the way his siblings and other cubs of the pride refused to play with him, nor approach him. His mother refused to accept that such a “brute” was born out of her, deeming him as nothing else, but an ill sign from the Gods, being too ashamed of herself. As days went by, his feeling of loneliness and estrangement only grew. He was indeed different. His body, despite the stunning glow it had into the light, making him seem as one with the ice statues, was double a normal lion’s size. His fur was rougher, but thicker and more resistant. Every move he made, muscles tensed and relaxed, as his sharp, sabertooth fangs poked out of his mouth, almost stabbing his lips. The primal youth was never given a second chance, as no one would get close to him. He never truly felt the kindness of grooming and playing, nor the acceptance of his kin. Soon enough, the King of the Pride saw him as only a threat to their pride. He was just an year old back then, his mind confused and scared. He lacked both the experience and will to fight back, as he himself felt the need to disappear.
And this is how he got here… he ran for hours and hours, until his paws went numb and his claws dull, from scratching onto the rocky grounds of the earth. He barely remembers how he came across his new home. It took him by surprise, closing his eyes for just a moment out of exhaustion and waking up covered by thick snow, staring into the white void of nothingness. He could feel no scent, he could hear no voice. It was quiet…and he needed it.
Food was scarce. It has always been. But the ferus needed to adapt, and his young mind blessed him with enough force and determination. Heavy steps were taken everyday, visiting every frozen river, every battered, frozen tree. He found a trick that only prey knew, that for him was just as important: under all that layer of frost and ice, if you hit and scratch, and pound and tug, you might find vegetation. It’s not much, but it’s enough for the little animals the wasteland has around. The trees hold the snow away during storms, so it has the role of refuge. Occasionally, the lion will find himself a small herd of mooses, searching for greenery. A single kill feeds him for the following days. His hunts are cruel and vicious, flesh ripping apart, fur falling everywhere as he finds comfort in what he felt as the only warmth he ever came across too: the warmth of fresh blood. When he stares into the eyes of the terrified creature, he takes his time, not to kill it faster, but to hear each crack of its bones and each scream. He never found it unusual. For him, when the animal gives its last breath and everything falls silent once again, he enjoys every last second of quietness and comfort.
No matter what others might believe, amidst the chaos of the snowstorms, there is a haunting beauty to be found, one that only he considers as home. The air is filled with the sound of silence, broken only by the mournful howl of the wind and the occasional crackle of ice beneath the King’s feet. The land is a canvas of white, its pristine surface marred only by the tracks of wandering creatures and the occasional glimpse of frozen vegetation poking through the snow. In this frozen realm, where the cold seeps into the bones and the snowstorms rage without end, there is a sense of isolation and solitude that pervades the landscape. This is the true birthplace of what he had became, the baptism of his new identity, which is now only a whisper into the voices of travellers: Frost King.
Written by - Velvet (#465211)
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