The fog of the haunted hollow did not relent even in the deep of the cold. Warm mists now frozen, clinging to every moss and fern in a sheen of ice. Despite the miles and miles which stretched between here and the tundra, he felt as though it was just as cold. What was up with that!?

The green flame. It was small. Far smaller than the roaring, towering wild fires which he remembered seeing in his youth as he traveled the outskirts the Great Woodlands, avoiding the thick, choking smoke which sent many scattering and others to their deaths. Still, in this bleak cold which seemed to haze the lands in gray and white, it was vibrant and captivating.

Er du gudenes magi? (Are you the gods magic?) He would murmur to the little flame as he took heavy, limped steps closer towards it. Was it his gods or the gods of this earth's realm? Far lesser than his own, he felt, who needed the help of mortal's hunt of runes and relics to survive itself. Still, the fire in this cold was quite nice.