Hoarfrost

Icy hoarfrost gathered on the branches and leaves of the sparse vegetation of the Plaguelands. Much like his namesake, Hoarfrost perched in the eves of the gnarled tree at the entrance of the lair scrutinizing the snowfall. Winter always calmed his nerves, jittery from the constant dangers of his home. To many the cold meant short hunting days and hungry nights, but for the small ice mage the chill helped cut through the cloying scent of decay that hung low in the air in the warmer months and sent prey and predators alike scurrying for their dens.

He flutters his wings as their tattered edges began to fill in with frost, their fragile summer form crystallizing into powerful, gleaming pinions of ice. His damaged wings leave him landbound for much of the year, relying on his clan mates for survival. He jumps, gliding through the biting air with glee, surveying the land below as the red rocks and rot pools slowly begin to disappear under a layer of soft snow. A clean canvas. A chance for him to forget the trials of his past and his torn wings and to start anew once more just like the land below.