The night was cold, and the wind didn't give the small village of wizard a quarter. Thunder crashed down from the skies and trees started to fall left and right. Some of them fall on the little wooden houses. Killing the ones who took shelter there. Death didn't discriminate, it took the young and healthy, the old and weak. Haghor Rane, lost his son. When a tree crashed down on the place he called home. His wife wasn't better off, but the death of his son almost broke him. He was a master wizard, but his magic wasn't strong enough to save his little boy. The rain started to fall, mirroring his feelings.
The morning came, and punished Haghor once again. The sun shone bright as if the storm of last night hadn't happened. Which was a lie, the distraction of his village was for every one to see. Now house was spared, the death outnumbered the living. Haghor kneeled inside his crushed house, holding his son's body inside his hands. The empty eyes stared back at him. He didn't know how he would survive without his boy. A spark of unknown magic blossomed inside him, he didn't know it. But instead of the normal heat that rushed through his body, this magic brought the coldness of death. Instead of fearing it, Haghor embraced it. The magic took over his body, and made its way to his hands. Slowly the black tare that resembled the magic poured into his son. He didn't know how long he sat there, but one moment his son was death and at the other he started to gasp for air. Tears streamed down over his cheeks, dripping on to his sons' face. His boy was a life.
Others inside the village were shocked by seeing his son, back on his feet. Asking Haghor how it was even possible. Haghor told them about the cold magic, and he even used it on another child. The villagers started to duplicate his instructions, and it didn't take long before everybody that had died during the storm was back on their feet. They even helped to clean up the mess.