Their wounds did not bleed; when steel split their flesh, a hiss of freezing air escaped, and the injury sealed itself with crystalline frost, harder than the stone it replaced, regenerating with a crackling sound that echoed like breaking ice. To strike them was to invite despair, for every wound made them sharper, colder, less like creatures and more like living blizzards given form, their roars a chilling wind that sapped heat from the bones.
And wherever their heavy steps carried them, the land recoiled—trees blackened with frost, their leaves crumbling to dust; rivers stilled into ice, cracking under their weight; and the warmth of life itself drained into the endless hunger of their cursed bloodline, leaving barren wastelands in their wake.
