The Legend of Frostmaw – Ice Dragon of the Hollow North
Beyond the tundras, where the land lies frozen under stars that never set, a chill rides the wind that even the fiercest predators refuse to challenge. This wind is his breath. The storm is his wake. And the glaciers remember his name: Frostmaw.
Frostmaw did not slither from egg nor fall from the sky. He rose from the ice itself, a spirit of cold made solid—born when the first auroras danced across an untouched sky. His body is a cathedral of sculpted crystal, carved by blizzards and glistening with ancient frost. His wings crackle like frozen thunder, and with every beat, he commands the snow to obey.
The Northmen speak of him with both reverence and fear. They say his presence silences all—no birds, no wind, not even one’s own heartbeat. Just the slow crunch of ice as he moves through the frostbitten stillness. He leaves behind not ruin, but stillness—an untouched quiet that seeps into the soul and demands reflection.
Yet Frostmaw is no cruel tyrant. He is the dragon of endurance. Of clarity. Of the kind of strength that comes not from rage, but from unshakable stillness. He watches centuries pass like falling snow, untouched by time, unmoved by heat. He is the still heart of winter, the spine of the mountain, the final breath before transformation.
Those who survive his presence speak of strange visions—memories sharpened like shards of ice, regrets frozen in time, and hopes preserved like frost flowers in the dark. Frostmaw does not melt hearts. He preserves them—so they can be examined with honesty.
And when the frost recedes, those who return are not the same.