Billowing clouds of chilled breath spill from the dark recesses of a fur trimmed cloak as a lithe figure rushes through the ice covered streets of Polaris. Bird tracks betray his lineage in the snowy pathways as he hurries onward. His cold-palsied talons shakily pick the locks of a nondescript iron-bound door and throwing it aside, release a hissing stream of heat into the darkness of the alley before hastily retreating inside the back of the establishment.
Stark relishes in the warm steam exuded by the public saunas, allowing it to wash away the lingering remnants of Polaris' unforgiving icy tendrils from his bones. The last vestiges of frosty snowflakes melt away from his crimson feathers as he makes his way down a dark escarpment to a back room.
An audible sigh of relief escapes Stark's beak as he enters the impromptu altar room of Lord Fire. Soothing flames lick at the surrounding walls without consuming them, while the crackling fires whisper with Kossuth's warming promises.
Stark seats himself at a rickety desk, plucks a feather from his arm and sets the quill in a vial of oiled ink. From a flame embossed scroll tube, he withdraws a length of warm parchment made of salamander skin and prepares it to receive his report.
His quill scratches hastily upon the pebbled parchment, the penned runes set in barely recognizable script... likely little more than chicken scratch to the uneducated observer.
