Vold




"His breath like silver arrows pierced the air,
The naked earth crouched shuddering at his feet,
His finger on all flowing waters sweet
Forbidding lay—motion nor sound was there:—
Nature was frozen dead,—and still and slow,
A winding sheet fell o'er her body fair,
Flaky and soft, from his wide wings of snow."
-Winter









When the days grow short and the biting chill drives folk to seek the comfort of the hearth and when all is still and dead then is it his time. His stories are passed from mouth to mouth as bodies are huddled together around the fire, seeking the warmth that the sun has denied them. The Midnight King, the Lord of the Winter Court, the Silent Monarch, Old King Vold. Whispers speak of his tyranny, his majesty, as he stalks the frozen roads enforcing his will on all he surveys. For his is the rule of silence and a slow death, of withered crops and frozen streams. His breath is the northern wind, punishing any who dare to brave his desolation. The stories warn not to be caught out at night while the Midnight King reigns, for he is drawn to sources of warmth like a moth to the flame. Warmth, it is said, is his sustenance and the warmth of a living body is his favorite food of all. So beware the endless night, beware the howling chill, beware the biting cold, and beware the Midnight King.