Adjusts beard crusted with ice, eyes gleaming in firelight
Har! Gather 'round, you southern throwers, and I'll tell you of Tag #59, the Winter Shaman. Born in the kind of winter that makes wolves hide and ravens fall frozen from the sky. I remember it well - the night the aurora danced like drunk giants and the standing stones hummed with ancient power.
Last of the frost-speakers, this one. Learned the old ways from a hermit who knew the tongue of icicles and could read prophecies in snowdrifts. When that old mentor vanished in the Great White Storm, our Shaman inherited bone-carved runes that whisper winter's secrets.
Takes long drink from horn
But it was the Mountain's Trial that truly marked them. Three days buried in snow's embrace, they say. Emerged with hair white as a wight and eyes that mirror the lights above. Now they walk among us, speaking in whispers that sound like wind through frozen pines.
Leans forward, voice dropping low
Mark my words - I've seen their kind before, beyond the Wall. When they throw, the very air grows sharp with frost, and discs fly true as if guided by spirits of the ice. The old powers are stirring in our league, friends. Winter isn't just coming - it's choosing its champions.
HAR! Now there's a tale worth telling over warm mead!