Winterfell

Winterfell | The Spirit-guider

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Winterfell is reclusive, quiet and reserved. Even among other three-tailed kitsune, he is exceptionally introvertive and mysterious. As a kit, his home was ransacked by hunters. Winterfell was out learning the ways of his kind from his grandfather at the time, making the pair the only survivors. This has caused Winterfell to be extremely wary of others, and he often steers well clear of anyone that happens to cross his path. Before he died, Winterfell’s grandfather passed down the mantle of duty to his grandchild. It was now Winterfell’s job to ferry and guide the spirits of the dead to the afterlife, ensuring that they have a peaceful transition and do not get lost or bound to the mortal realm.

The night sky was clear, not a cloud in sight. The moon and stars shone down on the sleeping world below in all their glory. Under this celestial canvas, Winterfell crept quietly through a snowy tundra. His pale coat helped him to blend seamlessly with the rolling white dunes of icy snow and frostbitten foliage. Everything was quiet save for the soft crunching of his paw steps. It was calm. Peaceful. Just how Winterfell liked it. For a moment, he sat and looked up at the sky, simply enjoying the moment.

He lowered his gaze to admire the snow. It twinkled and shone in the dim light almost as if it, too, contained a million tiny stars to rival the distant giants of the heavens. One glimmer caught his attention. Unlike the others, it bobbed and weaved in the distance like a child that lost its mother. Cocking his head, Winterfell stood and crossed the distance between himself and the light on paws that glided softly across the snow. Before him floated a small white light. Its flickering form resembled that of a white flame and soft, oval shaped sparkles fell from it, reminiscent of falling flower petals. A mortal soul. It stopped moving as Winterfell approached.

Though it had no face, it felt almost as if the soul was watching him, waiting to see what he would do. To reassure the lost spirit that he was here to help, Winterfell did as his grandfather taught him years before and knelt his head down to gently rest his muzzle beside the soul. He closed his golden eyes, waiting, until, at long last, he felt a soft, warm sensation brush his snout. It was brief and fleeting, but it meant the spirit trusted him and would accept his guidance. Winterfell let out a satisfied breath, then froze.

Had he heard something?

A moment of silence passed. Perhaps he had imagined it.

No, there it was again. A muffled, barely audible crunch. A foot breaking the frozen crust of the snow. A foot that was not his.

Alarmed, Winterfell pricked his ears and whipped his head around to stare over his shoulder with wide eyes. A hunter stood poised at the base of an icy tree. It held a crude spear and protected itself from the cold by strapping the pelt of some creature it had slain to its shoulders. Panic surged through Winterfell’s veins. Every instinct screamed for him to run, but spirits were slow. If he fled, the mortal soul that had just placed its trust in him would be lost to the wild perhaps forever. Fighting down his fear, Winterfell crouched over the spirit, flattened his ears and splayed all three of his tails in an arc over his back.

The hunter paused, assessing the situation. It glanced around the glittering dunes as if expecting to see more kitsune, but Winterfell was alone. Satisfied that they would not be ambushed, the hunter hefted its spear and stalked forward. Winterfell crouched lower and curled his lips, bearing his fangs. He growled and bit the air, warning his aggressor to stay away. The hunter ignored his display. Closer still it came, gaining speed and confidence as it approached. It leveled its spear, preparing to lunge.

Left with no choice, Winterfell dug deep into the core of his being. The snow around him glowed a brilliant blue as an arch of blue flames appeared above him. Foxfire. A kitsune’s ultimate defense. Sensing the urgency of the moment, the hunter drove through the snow, its spear leveled at Winterfell’s heart. Winterfell, in turn, released the foxfire. It flew like a myriad of shooting stars in the direction of the hunter. Spear and pelt alike were set ablaze under the furious flames. The hunter squawked in alarm. It threw its spear down and ripped off the pelt wrapped around its shoulders before turning and fleeing into the night.

Safe at last, Winterfell straightened and looked down. The spirit was nestled between his forepaws as if it were the safest place in the world. Winterfell gave himself a good shake, driving off the adrenaline of his encounter with the hunter, then nuzzled the soul and turned to move in the opposite direction in which his adversary had fled. It would take the rest of the night to reach the moon shrine Winterfell called home but, once there, he would be able to open the way for the soul to cross to the spirit realm, ensuring them a peaceful afterlife as his grandfather had done for years on end before him.