Frostbite

A herald of cold, Frostbite carries with him chill winds. Where he treads, the ground freezes over and trees drop their leaves.

Where this fridgid skeleton goes, autumn follows, with winter close on its heels. Frostbite does not bring a propserous autumn of apple and rhubarb; wheat and parsnip; blackberries and clementines. His autumns are short and stunted, with the chestnuts shedding their leaves in a great frenzy and having no time time to make conkers.

All too soon, winter will be here, and this will not be like the autumn: This winter will take its time, it will make itself comfortable in your lands, settling in for a good long snow.

Where Frostbite walks, the people do not eat harty winter soup, brimming with five different vegetables and every spice they can muster. They do not eat medley crumble of every fruit in their pantry and enough sugar to necessitate a change in wardrobe. They eat mangelworzel, and sloe, and forget the taste of sweeter foods.

Frostbite's bones are encased in a thick body of perfectly clear ice, marred by decades of leaflitter in browns and reds. He is a walking time capsule, and deep within his ribcage lies evidence of long-extinct species.