Character: Thorne Briers
Status: Serene. In his element. Sort of.

One would think, given his magic's close affinity to ice itself, that the element would see fit to treat him a little more kindly.

Such was the nature of the thoughts that ran through Thorne's head during the seemingly endless trek to Fort Bael's walls. Snow crunched under his weathered boots as he put one foot in front of the other, mindlessly following the disjointed group of travelers' movements. While his thoughts and attentions had long flown off to distant, more agreeable places, an awareness lingered about him all the same; the sort that felt like a bowstring always ready to bend, always ready to let loose a spell or an arrow at the slightest sign of things going south. 

Luckily — or perhaps unluckily, depending on how one saw it — all the travelers around were far too fatigued to move in anything more than a state of perpetual silence, each locked in a tomb of their own thoughts. Occasionally, there would be a murmur, a whispered prayer, some sign of a traveler talking to themself (for who else could they speak to, solitary wayfarers that they were?); yet such things were swiftly swallowed up by the biting chill and wind that wound around them all.

Thorne tilted his head back, looking at the skies above. Vast, clad in the gray banners of winter, merciless and sharp as steel. He'd been found beneath the gaze of such skies, his father had told him. [i]A miracle[/i]. A child favored by the cruel breath of winter itself.

The wind stung at his cheeks. The cold felt like it was burrowing deep into his bones. And yet — even then, he felt that tingle of power. His magic, coursing just beneath his skin, brimming with an energy that sung and delighted in the merciless chill. [i]More,[/i] it seemed ton say. [i]More...[/i] 

If fire could burn to ashes, could ice crystallize till it was no more? Refine itself so meticulously that its very body turned to naught but ashes to be lost in the snow?

...

Thorne lowered his eyes.

The gate was opening.

A man, one who appeared to have spirits that rivaled the stubborness of the cold, got into a bit of a predicament upon accidentally agitating a wary guard, but the incident passed without fuss; it hadn't dampened the aforementioned man's dogged humor, at least. That seemed to liven up the crowd somewhat, if only a little. Scanning the surrounding people, Thorne took note of the weariness that cloaked every single guard that watched them with wary eyes, before his gaze shifted to a man who, even in his pensive silence, possessed a demeanor that was reminiscent of a leader holding court before his people. Young. Clear-eyed. Alert. This was an heir who had yet to chafe underneath decades of ruling.

Right on time, the traveler who'd had a close run-in guard's pike earlier spoke up, boldly addressing the person Thorne had determined to be the young heir of Rotia. He spoke directly, without scruples; he looked straight at the heir without fear. Despite himself, Thorne's brows shot up in both amusement and amazement.

At that moment, he had a thought that most likely went through the heads of all the other people in the area: [i]How the hells had this man survived for this long?[/i]