If she thought the snowstorm a strange phenomenon, it paled in comparison to the stranger’s behavior.

He raged and thrashed in the water, snapping at reeds and screaming obscenities into the air. It was the most peculiar thing she had witnessed in her time within Mythris. Had the water driven him mad? Was he diseased? The ghost queen caught no scent of illness upon him, but then again, he was wounded, his injuries openly weeping.

Eventually, the fit burned itself out. He dragged himself onto solid land once more before unceremoniously flopping over, spent.

Melinoë continued her advance until she stood beside him, gaze cast downward at his trembling form. I can imagine, she said softly. Those injuries do not look well.

With that, she shifted into a sit, eyes studying him more closely. I am not the harbinger of death. I am the guide of the lost, of the dead. I lead so they may find peace. You will not be felled by my hands.

Her tone was neutral, matter-of-fact.

Curiosity urged her to remain. She glanced toward the river he had been fighting moments before, a brow quirking slightly. There was nothing there, nothing worth such fury. Perhaps he had gone mad after all.

Mortals are such strange creatures, she murmured, more to herself than to him.

Then her focus returned fully to the fallen stranger. Who are you? Why do you fight? Why do you wail? What travesties have befallen you?