You're Todd. That's all there really is to say on the matter.

You meditate and sit on the icy ground of your frozen surroundings. You are calm, you are still.

It's cold. But then again, you guess it's always cold so there's no shock there.

You should build something. You have all of this ice around you, but you've done nothing with it.

Todd: Do you wanna build a snowman?

> Do an Elsa. Let it go.

...Like... a castle?

Yeah. You think that would be cool.

You get up, and you raise an arm... The ground shakes beneath you. You feel the force of your power crack and split the ice, forming it and making it into its completion. Its last image of intimidation. You watch with the sun reflecting in your orange shades as your castle grows. And it grows. And it grows... until it's complete. And you stare upon your immense fort with the very same indifference that lead you here.

> Todd: Do you wanna build a snowman?

A castle needs guards, doesn't it? You extend your arm again, and with little effort, forms and human structures begin to make themselves up in the ice with your intense power and strength. You feel the cold surging through your reattached arm as you clench your fist and cause them to appear and grow from the ground. Your army of men of ice. Not quite snowmen... but they'll work.

Make the icemen do a choreographed dance.

There isn't much to say. Your grandma was a supermodel who abandoned you for long periods of a time, and you grew to resent her. During your session you went through a long stage of depression from your life which slowly grew to feeling like an uncaring societal ghost. As part of your land quests, you found yourself trapped in ice as a young girl and stuck for what felt like tens, of hundreds, of thousands of years. Left to ponder and think and meditate, and think about everything in the world at the ends of your ice-cold, frostbitten fingertips. And you emerged a new man from the center of that mountain, with the knowledge of being able to wield ice to your weaponization and attacking. To your defense. You became the Douche of Ice, in that very moment. Truly realizing your place in where you were, and feeling a distinct uncaring feeling of everything around you. So yeah. Not a big deal.

> Make the icemen do a choreographed dance.

It's you again. You sit in place. Frozen. Not literally frozen, but you're pretty still. You are a king in your castle of cold. Your domain. You know you will be looked for soon. Your occasional trips to Prospit foretell it.

You are ready for them.

You look down at your chair. Some would call it a throne. Though you find that an injustice. It is just a chair. You look around your main room. It is a large open space supported by pillars and large blocks and walls of ice. Various icy platforms stick out of the walls and floor. Their purpose is unknown, but you foresaw them in your cloud visions. They are there for a reason.

You are the Douche of Ice. You are the slow melting ice on the top of the lake, resting its final rest in the November air under the sun. You are the feeling of brisk coldness that sends shivers down your spine. You are the way water drips down the top of your freezer and freezes mid-drop. You are cold. You

are...

...

kind of fucking bored.

What will you do?

Okay. You float off of your chair and fly directly up. The ice shapes and molds a hole into the ceiling that closes underneath you as you ascend above through it.

You zip to France.

You sit on your throne.

You take out the GET ALIGHT.

You look down at it and inspect it in your hands. Your fingers spin it in between them into a firm, cold grip. You flick the flint, and it lights.

You lift your head. You feel... confident. Trusting. Something is happening. You know what it is. Go get her, tiger.