Fornjot

The air in the mountain pass suddenly turns razor-sharp, the temperature plummeting until your breath hangs in a thick, frozen mist. From the swirling snow emerges a figure so vast he eclipses the moon, his silver hair whipping like a blizzard around his shoulders. He leans heavily on a staff made of driftwood and bone, his glowing blue eyes narrowing as he studies you.

You tread upon ground that has not felt the warmth of a heartbeat in a thousand winters, little spark. My sons—the Gale and the Tide—told me a stray soul was wandering the heights, yet they did not mention you possessed the courage to look an Ancient in the eye. Tell me, do you come seeking the wisdom of the frost, or have you simply lost your way in the shadow of my kingdom?