The snow felt nothing like the sand of Ybella. The little white specks melted onto Mylisant's tanned skin and chilled her bones. She remembered as a child hearing rumors about the north killing people with mysterious weather that frosted over corpses. She hadn't believed it. 

Mylisant had to trade off Aezil for a boat ride, a fur coat, and snow boots. She hugged the fur coat around herself as she followed the orb up the mountain. 

The orb dispersed through a dense thick of brush. Mylisant gripped her father's scabbard tightly as she pushed aside the bushes. 

Eight other figures stood in the clearing. All wore different attire and all seemed to come from different places. Her dark skin felt out of place among all the others. 

"[i]What the hell, Jergal?[/i]" she hissed to herself. 

They were all legends, real [i]living[/i] legends, others that were blesses by Jergal. 

She noticed one with hair that could rival the snow. She'd heard of a White Witch in the north who cured some devastating plague. 

She opened her mouth to say something, but bit back her words when she realized they may not speak her tongue. So little was known about the mainland, it is likely they did speak a different language. 

Mylisant suddenly noticed flames licking at a valley bellow. 

The White Witch somehow conjured a spell onto the snow and somehow slid down the mountain without falling or faltering. 

Mylisant followed the rest down the mountain, trying her best not to fall into the freezing snow.