Blood. There’s a constant. Snow falls and melts, dirt swirls in the muddy meltwater, disloyal to the ground and always shifting. The landscape weathers with years of snowfall and rivers of snowmelt, scaring the earth before snow falls again. The sun that powers this chaos cycles and changes, here for weeks then gone for hours at a time, then weeks without it as well, to say nothing of the two moons, untrue to appearance and effect, or of the weather that might shatter any plans or constants you hold dear. Powers of nature, magic and the earth are always fickle, cold, and empty.

Blood has always been here, though. Always stayed true to what it is. There have been many things to bleed on these lands, but they’ve always bled the same. When I was only the howling winds in the ears of a snow rabbit, I felt it’s cry while it was quickly torn apart. The Fox was kind, killed it quickly, but the blood still smelled the same. Desperate. Full of fear and the striving against inevitability. Courageous, in that way, but so very pointless. I wished I could hold that rabbit and tell it, “Well done, good try, you danced your part so very well.” But it was gone, and I was wind. So I, for my part, whistled and howled my winds against crags and glaciers and fjords, my own ode to the vitality and blood of that rabbit, and all that came before it, and all that came after.

Then there were people. Many were foolish and did not respect the striving and vitality required to live. And so they died, their blood dull and empty. But some were wise and cautious, and they listened to the land and its secrets. They listened to me, to my song of desperation and hope and pointlessness, of the fickle land and wind and snow, and the constant life that filled it. They gave me a name, inspired my first body, worshiped me as an elder. And for my part, I taught them, in the way that I do. I don’t think they worshiped me after that, but not for lack of respect, and I appreciated their wariness of what I am. I was the cold wind biting at their skin, the frost clawing at their fingertips. I howled around them while they huddled around campfires, my winds warning them of what would happen if they let down their guard, if they relaxed for even a second. I taught them fear of the cold, the dark, and the empty, so they strove to be everything but. I watched them hunt with such fervor and life, for the knowledge that their survival hinged on their success spurred them on. And when their desperation to survive outmatched that of the poor creature they chased, I celebrated with them, reveling in their fight to live, bright and hot as the blood pouring from their catch. And when they took it back home, and shared it around that fire, I sang to them again, of this dance against death that they lived and would have to dance tomorrow too.

And when one of them finally fell, after a lifetime of fighting to survive, perhaps flayed by a giant seabird or cut open by a wolf that stood on two legs, or simply mauled by a moose, I was there with them as they bled out, to tell them how wonderfully they did, how well they played their part against the inevitable. And the blood that flowed from them was red, desperate as the plea in their eyes, bright with vitality and a fervent devotion to survival. And I reveled in it.

And when their people found their body, they buried them in the snow to the north that they believed would preserve them forever. One final striving against the inevitable. And I sang to them, of their proud, beautiful, foolish courage, and how pointless and wonderful it all was. They did not know the language of the north wind, but they still knew in their hearts what I sang of.

I was surprised when they began to sing too. Made flutes and whistles from old bones and sang without words just like me. They whistled and howled of their own hopes and aspirations. Their dreams and faith echoed across the tundra, my countermelody singing to them of all the reasons they should give up. And yet, they did not. It was no wonder when their sheer life force and vitality began to have an effect on the world around them.

They discovered something I believe you call magic. Their songs brought miracles, conjured fire and ice and lightning out of nothing, their blood glowing so brightly they healed their own wounds and kept going. And I rejoiced at how far they had come against an unstoppable foe, how hard they fought their own death, how far they went just to stand against me. And I sang with them and gave them my power in their most desperate moments, just to see them keep trying for a little longer. As much as I was their enemy, I was what pushed them on, kept them alive and bright and shining against the darkness around them. I was the danger that built heroes who saved their villages from monsters and disasters, I was the horrible end that every story hoped against. That was who I was to them, the roll I played so well, just so I could see theirs. And their bright, constant blood was their roll, and they filled it so well.

And to their credit, they still do. What’s left of them, anyway.

For once, it wasn’t my doing. Not a disaster of the land or the weather, not any plague of mine nor famine in the hunt or harvest. I liked to give my prey a chance, they don’t try very hard to survive if they believe they can’t. No, I wouldn’t have been so shortsighted.

 It was your fault, wasn’t it?

I don’t think your people meant it, not all of them. The first were explorers, I think. Men and women from the southern continents with bright eyes full of determination to go where they could stare death in the face. A few did, that’s why I remember their eyes. They were mostly stupid, foolish to come with so little information and preparation, but the light in their eyes, and the blood that spilled from their bodies, I only knew that kind of heroism from the legends I helped inspire. So, I watched them as they came, amused at their antics, as they became more prepared and stopped dying, started writing notes on the landscape and the people they met, and went back home only a little worse for wear. And I laughed at the fools, at their pride. Such a different determination than simply surviving, but still beautiful. Maybe that beauty turned me soft. I should have shown them sooner that they were wrong.

Soon they came en masse, various groups with different reasons to stand against the cold north. Some were conquerors, looking for territory to make their own. Some were treasure hunters and appraisers, looking for resources with which to gain status. And some were missionaries, emissaries of other gods looking to spread their beliefs. I wasn’t particularly loyal to the natives, but these newcomers were like the fools I had first frozen and cut down. They were proud, arrogant, all of them so sure that they were right, and their way of life mattered most, exactly the kind of fools to die trying to conquer inevitability.

 Unfortunately, these fools had power. I sent blizzards to freeze them solid, monsters of snow and ice, molds that would eat through their food, and all the while, my winds howled balefully outside their ships and rough-hewn huts. But they knew magic too, not magic of raw vitality and the land around them but of books and the written word. They held fire in their hands and so had no problem keeping warm. They generated their own weather and built great walls to keep out threats. And creatures that could cut down walls and block great magic they made quick work of with sword and spear. Even when they ran out of their own power, they prayed to gods fattened on worship like I had never known, who swept me away like I was nothing. A few of the newcomers died, but most were undeterred by my onslaught. And I, never having used power like this before, was tired. So I just watched, as the mortal spirit that I had once been so in love with ran rampant over a world they should have had respect for. The people that had once feared and known me, though they accepted and welcomed the newcomers at first, soon realized your people were not all benevolent. They wanted to fight back, to claim what was theirs, but with their numbers cut down by the travelers’ plagues, they were in no shape to do anything. Neither this world nor it’s people could stop such an invasion.

But I knew we didn’t have to. Nothing lives forever, and eventually I would claim every last one of these fools as they succumbed to old age. Everything returns to me and this land eventually, no matter how brightly their blood burns with pride.

I was wandering through a cold winter morning when I found this quaint little village, the one you sit in now. It couldn’t have been there very long, and the people seemed to be struggling. Many of the buildings were only partially constructed, yet it seemed very few attempts were being made to finish them. I could tell by the feel of the wind through their grain silos that they were running low, preyed on by vermin, and winter was far from over. There were few people out, most probably huddling inside for warmth. The town had no walls, nor any divine protection as far as I could tell, so to say my interest was piqued would be an understatement. I was about to have fun and send some terrible curse upon the whole place when I noticed the gaze of one of the few laborers outside. His eyes glowed, an amber light of strength and desperation and hope against all odds. A vitality fighting to survive, not just for vanity’s sake.

I knew right then what kind of people these were. I noticed the same hope, the same crazed optimism coming from every home. Weak, dampened, but still vital. These were the kind of people I could really have fun with. If I gave these sparks kindling, let their fire catch, I could feed off the determination in their blood for generations. So, I decided to help.

I gave myself the form of a street performer, wearing bright clothes like the bright blood I love. I held a flute of bone, carved with my own enchantments and charms. And with these tools, I thought up a plan.

 The few villagers outside leered warily at me, very suspicious of a piper in such pied clothes walking out of the frozen wilderness to traverse their streets. In fact, I think they called me something along those lines, “The Pied Piper,” yes? I don’t dislike the name, much less dramatic and more unassuming than my previous titles.

I strode cheerfully into the office of the man whose front door said “Mayor.” He stared from behind a shoddy desk, incredulous at my cheery presentation, and stuttered for a few moments, never quite regaining his bearings. But I expected he might be a bit shocked, so I made things clear for him.

“You have a rat problem, don’t you? They’ve been eating away at what little food you have. If they eat much more, almost none of you will survive to see next year.” I could feel the rats eating at their stores, they were some of my favorite creatures, very determined and always hungry. However, they were very stupid and ultimately expendable. “I have quite the skill at charming animals. I could lead them away from here, and you’ll never have to worry about them again. All I ask is a little payment. What do you say?”

He was still dumbstruck for a few more moments, and then managed to squeak out a “sure.” He cleared his throat and reiterated, “Sure. What… What exactly do you want for payment?”

“Oh, whatever you feel’s appropriate!” I quipped. I half danced back to the door, really starting to enjoy this new persona. “No time like the present, I’ll go ahead and get started!”

The mayor suddenly stood up. “Wait! Before you leave, what… What’s your name? Who are you? Where did you come from?” It seemed like he finally regained enough of his sense to ask the important questions. Not that I’d make it that easy for him.

“I’m already giving you peace of mind and fuller stomachs, and now you’re asking for more?” I widened my smile, probably more than looked natural. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

The mayor, startled, took a step backwards, almost falling into his chair, and I took the opportunity to swing the door open and step back out into the cold toward the silos. It took my wind no time at all to find a small hole in the ground inside one of the barns, one of the many entrances to the rat’s den. Many lived there at this point, but that would be no problem at all for me. I took my flute and sang the song I new so well. A keen of hunger and frostbite, of fear and despair, of hope and bravery, of the vanity of it all, my song rose from my whistle. And with the enchantments woven into it, the rats mindlessly crawled from their den one by one. I played my tune and turned on my heel, the rats following in a line behind me. I paraded them back through town, for all the people there to see. Some cheered, but most just stared, stunned by the absurdity. I laughed between notes at their ignorance, and cheerfully strode out of town.

The rats were drowning in a blizzard before the realized where they were. They fought very hard to find a way back, to find a way to survive, but it was futile. In the end their blood stained the fresh snow, as constant as ever, and I got my entertainment. Now to see just what the townspeople thought of my entrance.

When I walked back, I was met with a mob of humans, each one holding a stick with something metal on the end. Some of them could even be called weapons. The mayor and a woman lead the front of the crowd.

“I… I’m afraid we can’t give you the payment as promised. We’ve agreed-“ The mayor was cut off by the woman stepping in front of him. I judged her to be some kind of spiritual matriarch. She looked haggard, with a weathered but kind face and crumpled clothes. She wasn’t very tall, and might have been about 60 years of age, but she held a power and charisma even I found impressive. There was a great vitality burning in her eyes, the kind that usually only heroes possess, but also of someone who didn’t know when stop trying to play the hero, or when to listen.

“Oh shut up, Alfred, don’t apologize to it. Hey! I know what you are!” she stuck an accusing finger out at me, and despite how she shook, she didn’t show any signs of backing down. “You’re a devil, aren’t you? We’ve heard stories of creatures like you up here. Like we would ever go through with a deal with a monster like you!”

I laughed at how brave she was, beautifully, pointlessly brave and determined and strong against such a hostile world. I almost wanted to congratulate her on her boldness. But she had no respect, just like the rest of these outsiders. No respect for the powerful forces of this land, and just like I thought I would, I knew I had to teach them.

“So be it! Insult fate, and fate will insult your legacy.” I wasn’t harsh in my words, or even ominous in tone, but the crowd still tensed, not that it changed anything. Before they could react, I put my flute to my lips, and they all found themselves paralyzed.

One by one, all the children of these foolish villagers stepped out of their homes and into the snow. Their bright eyes were fixed on me, utterly entranced by my song, not noticing the cold or the wind or the panicked expressions of their frozen elders. And I slowly led them out of the village, one by one, out into the gathering dusk while their parents could only watch.

You came here to solve the mystery, yes? To figure out what happened to those children? I’ll tell you. You’ll be happy to know they weren’t messily torn limb from limb, nor frozen to death while they cried for their parents. As the cold and dark and winter I may be cruel, but only sometimes unnecessarily so. These children knew nothing of endless fights to survive and cold nights where you pace instead of sleeping just to keep from freezing to death. They were fattened on the rations their parents denied themselves, happy and cared for. They had been loved. So I did a rare thing, and was kind. They, charmed and unaware, walked into the dead of a winter blizzard, and were utterly consumed by it. Their bodies and life force became a part of the winds and land, and their souls didn’t know they were dead until they had already safely passed on.

Their parents were the ones to be pittied. I remember hearing wailing from that village for months after. At least they didn’t have to ration anymore, I took care of that problem in a few ways, though I’m sure they weren’t grateful. They survived though, and while their spirits were broken, they had been humbled and learned a valuable lesson about respect.

I’m sure you’re disgusted by me, you mortals generally find such truths reprehensible, but look at where the village is now. With that and other prodding, it’s grown and gotten strong. Only a few decades later, it’s a fortified city-state, with citizens bearing blood bright and strong and eternal. Those lost in the dead of a northern winter weep with joy upon seeing this city on the horizon. Through my blessing, these people have become a constant in the inconstance around them. The strength of their blood is unmatched.

I’m sure they’ll send heroes, people just like you but more powerful, out into the snow one day to find and kill me. I can’t say I’m not excited. Life and blood has stood against me since their dawn, and this is just the next step. I exist to be conquered, to be fought against with the insane desperation to survive.

I really do hope that one day soon, I’ll get to meet the hero that slays death itself. I want to see the burning in their eyes, the light and will to live in their blood. A true constant, enough to stop the winter wind itself.

Documents discovered, copied, and mailed by Professor Hailenstein on his sabbatical to the northern continent. Copy and send ASAP to the potential threats department and the northern exploration department, as well as the comparative mythology research team with the tags “North Wind,” “Winter Spirits,” “The Pied Piper,” and “Blood Magic.”