Disincarnato has a minion!

Spettro the Whisper

premade profile by Chen

Disincarnato: Italian word meaning `disembody` - to remove the soul from its body.

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“Hell is not hot. It is cold.”

There is a place you may find on the northernmost tip of Subeta called the Arctic Frost. It is different from other lands. Where you might find flowers and grass, ice and packed snow grow freely in this land. Where you might find children and their families, soul-chilled wraiths and frozen statues of things once living inhabit this land. Where sunlight and butterflies usually dwell, snow and harsh north winds ravage this land.

Why might people live here? There are wraiths whose silhouettes are as dim and weak as the sunlight, and there is a small town on the outskirts of the Arctic Frost. They live here, obviously, and though the weather is bitter and cold, those in the town appear to be quite happy.

They are happy. And they have reason to be. My wraiths appear only to those who have wandered far from the safety of the little town and the path they left for brave explorers. They are not happy. And they, too, have reason to be what they are.

The little town is blocked from the worst of the bitter winds by mountains, leaving it safe to live in for long periods of time. My wraiths do not venture there.

Merchants, explorers, mountain climbers, tourists, and all other sorts of people come to that little town, for all sorts of reasons. Some go to the village, stay there for a while, and then leave for their happier lands of sunshine and warmth.

Others decide they want to do more than that, and venture beyond the village and its protective mountains into places not quite certain. Some are satisfied at that--mainly the mountain climbers. Some want to go further still.

Some, as I have mentioned, go beyond what is not quite certain into what is not known, where they meet my wraiths. They appear in the corner of the eyes, at first, ducking out of sight if they sense a head has turned, more like ghosts than their true selves.

As the wanderer goes further, the wraiths become more bold, as does the weather. What little light there was is slowly taken away, sucked into the everlasting blizzard that drains this whole land of life. Pressing on becomes more futile, more dangerous, yet some do. Some even go so far as to see my wraiths so close they could touch them, yet they never quite dare. Whether it is the exhaustion left behind by the Storm`s great, all-consuming power, or fear of freezing to death at that single touch that makes them draw back, I cannot say--all I know is that they do.

My wraiths are not human or Subetan--they are nothing other than the wraith-being I have long laid claim to, although they appear to be familiar things. Their breath fogs like one perpetually frozen, their eyes burn like warm, bare skin to a shard of the coldest ice, and their bodies are mere skeletons, fully covered in a thick flesh of snow. Icicles dangle from their ears, tails, and, when they have them, horns, placed there by the bitter wind. They follow those that have wandered, posed stiffly to blend with the snow of their home, poised and aloof as though they feel no cold, though they feel just as much as the wanderers. They all have the coldest of hearts, and stare the coldest of stares that read: You should not have come here.

They should be heeded, for they know what awaits those that wander.

My wraiths are not born of ice, though even they themselves might say they were. They come here from other, distant lands, come for various reasons. Some come to see, some come to visit, some come to explore the tall mountains behind their home, and some care to come much farther. They all come for different reasons, too varied to group as one, but even as different as they are, they all have one thing in common... They never left.

My wraiths, though not wraiths then, wandered deep into the heart of the polar ice, much farther than they imagined, and too far for them to summon the strength to turn back. They try to fight sleep, though the exhaustion left from the draining powers of the Storm leave little other option once exposed to so much of it. When they wake, they see before them my own self, so much a part of the ice fields they almost fail to see me, even though I am a mere foot away. I wear a crown and armor of the coldest, sturdiest ice, and my hooves and fur have coated themselves in it. I stand aloof as though immune to the cold, for I have lived in it so long, been a part of it so long, it no longer concerns me. They never ask for my aid--one glance at me would answer any possible questions they might have had that would save them from dying in this hell of mine.

Though some never realize it, even after I lead them far away, deep into the heart of the polar fields--the exact eye of the Storm, though they don`t know this until we are there--and I wrap them in snow, never to know warmth again, they have already met death. As of yet, none have thought to stop me, the fields` reigning lord, from leading their souls away from their collapsed bodies and into my realm for good.

They are doomed to wander the polar fields for eternity, perpetually suffering the agonizing pain of freezing to death every second of their existence, following other wanderers and trying to warn them with their presence that they should not travel onward, should not make the same mistake--perhaps out of jealousy of those who managed to travel farther then they did.

There are always those who would seek to ignore their warnings, hoping to explore what is not known and make a map of this strange land. There will always be those who persist in pressing on, never knowing what they are doomed to face, or destined to suffer.