This is the starter to the above mentioned roleplay. The character, Ryith, is the son of Khione, the Greek goddess of snow, and a mortal man. This is where his story begins-- you choose where it will continue.

" Easy ol' gal..."
Kneeling upon the jagged cliff of smoky granite, the guardian youth of the mountainside tenderly stroked the muzzle of his eldest ewe, who like the rest of the herd in the last few passing hours had become increasingly distressed. And while his flock of mountain goats were of an ancient silver-horned and silver-white fleeced breed long since thought to be wiped out of existence, known to be prone to becoming easily unnerved, their jittery behavior was enough to bring a slight frown to the young man's face.

Even the great hunters of these treacherous peaks knew better than to venture upon this stony flat where his home rested and the herd he sheparded grazed. It been so for several years now, as result of his victory over the savage Seral, the monstrous cougar that'd once slain several of his finest beasts--and now lay a dormant pelt, formed into a cloak and hood in which he'd lined with snow hare fur about his shoulders. Staring out upon the snowy expanses of his domain, he rested his palm to the ice-encrusted rock beneath his feet.

-Something's amiss...-

Ryith's fist curled tightly upon the great spear which he leaned upon much like a walking stick. The piece of weaponry was as strange as theone who bore it, appropriately enough. He was the halfling son of a legendary mountain warrior chief for a father, long since slain in the heat of battle as the last to fall; and a mother who was the daughter of Boreas, god of the winter, a lesser-know goddess of the ice and snow, whose holy name was Khione.

Standing at a modest height of six feet flat, with skin as fair as
healthy mortal blood would allow, Ryith had a limber, lankily
powerful body frame--toned and sleek in it's strength, in a manner much like a wild cat. Gently sloping, angular but prominent shoulders, long-fingered work-hardened hands. Loose curls the color of dark chocolate fell halfway down the expanse of his neck, framing a straight nose, sharp jawline, lips that curled up at the edges in a feline manner, and high cheekbones gave him a look of modest nobility. Beneath high brows and dark lashes, almond-shaped eyes of the most startling flawless glacial pale blue--the color of a sky untouched by man's influence--contained an unexpected warmth to their soul-piercing depths.

His attire remained simple. A tunic robe of the same fashion the
Romans were accustomed to, pale silver-white as it was woven of his flock's wool, fell flexibly to his knee, tightened at the waist by a sheepskin belt where a satchel bag and summoning horn hung comfortably at his hip. He wore no shoes--immune to the cold around him and familiar with every rock of his icy kingdom, they were pointless and cumbersome--but about his left calf, a strap in which a hunting knife lay sheathed. His only accessory was a pendant that supposedly belonged to his father--a crystal the deep ruby of spilled blood greeted upon each side by a cougar's ebony claw, hung loosely by a string of leather about his neck.
His spear, carved of the mountain's towering redwoods and polished to a flawless shine, carried a head of ice as hard and sharp as cut diamond and immune to the sun's rays, was his faithful companion in this unforgiving terrain.

This was his home. While he had a gentle, generous soul and a bearing a heart of gold, let any figure, man or beast, or otherwise, threaten it's tranquility, and they would fall victim to it's artic wrath.