Old Man Winter
(a.k.a. Anemoi,The Cold Father, He Who Waits, Biter of Fingers and Breath)
In Balgrendia, Old Man Winter is not feared.
He is endured.
The people know him not as a god of malice, but as a force of purpose—a cold truth in a world that lies too easily. He is the stripping wind, the hollow silence after the last leaf falls, the thin whisper heard on frostbitten mornings when the fire has gone out and no one speaks.
He is not cruel, but uncaring. And he has his reasons.
Where others pray for warmth, Balgrendians kneel for resilience. They do not beg the Cold Father to spare them; they ask only for the strength to outlast his touch.
A shepherd’s crook left frozen in a field
A circle of antlers buried in snow
A blue handprint on stone
During Winterreach, the longest night of the year, villagers gather in silence around his shrine. No songs are sung. No fires are lit. They share a bitter root tea, cold and sharp on the tongue, and pass around a single wolf-pelted cloak, wrapping the oldest child in it for luck.
Splintered bone charms, carved with curling wind-runes
Spears of ashwood or ice-brittle iron, never warmed by flame
His followers never start fires. To do so is seen as challenging his will. But they may warm themselves by the flames of others—so long as they ask permission.
They wear shrouds of rough wool, crusted with snow and blood, and speak rarely. When they do, it is with the weight of ice cracking underfoot. They act as both wardens and executioners, bringing judgment and bitter clarity to those who’ve grown soft or forget the price of survival.
Some of them hear the wind speak back. And those who do are feared even by other Old Faith priests.
In Balgrendia, Old Man Winter is no enemy. He is the test the land gives each year. He does not want your death. He wants to see if you’re worth keeping alive.
He is endured.
The people know him not as a god of malice, but as a force of purpose—a cold truth in a world that lies too easily. He is the stripping wind, the hollow silence after the last leaf falls, the thin whisper heard on frostbitten mornings when the fire has gone out and no one speaks.
He is not cruel, but uncaring. And he has his reasons.
Where others pray for warmth, Balgrendians kneel for resilience. They do not beg the Cold Father to spare them; they ask only for the strength to outlast his touch.
Lore and Names
He is never depicted fully. No face can hold his glare. Instead, he is represented by:A shepherd’s crook left frozen in a field
A circle of antlers buried in snow
A blue handprint on stone
Some call him:
The White Stillness Breaker of Seeds He Who Waits in the Trees In whispered myths, it is said he remembers every breath you ever took to keep warm, and when your count reaches its end, he comes to take one back.Shrines and Worship
Each Sacred Grove bears a place for him: an open ring of stones, never roofed, never warm, set with spears of blackened wood. No offerings are left here, only tokens of sacrifice: a lock of hair, a broken tool, the first knuckle lost to frost.During Winterreach, the longest night of the year, villagers gather in silence around his shrine. No songs are sung. No fires are lit. They share a bitter root tea, cold and sharp on the tongue, and pass around a single wolf-pelted cloak, wrapping the oldest child in it for luck.
Rites of Endurance
The Bone-Chill Trial
Initiates or those seeking favor strip to the waist and lie in a bed of packed snow. They must remain until the morning sun cracks the frost, unmoving and unspeaking. To survive is to be marked by Winter’s breath—some never speak again, others hear his voice in the crunch of ice forever after.The Silence of The Grove
A private rite where one seeks wisdom through deprivation. The supplicant spends seven days alone in the grove, eating nothing, drinking melted snow, and speaking no words. If the snow around them melts, the Cold Father has passed them by. If not—he may yet be listening.Symbols and Implements
Blue paint mixed with frostrot fungus, worn across eyes and shouldersSplintered bone charms, carved with curling wind-runes
Spears of ashwood or ice-brittle iron, never warmed by flame
His followers never start fires. To do so is seen as challenging his will. But they may warm themselves by the flames of others—so long as they ask permission.
His Priests
Called Winterbinders, these are men and women who have been claimed by the cold and survived. Many are maimed—fingers blackened and gone, noses crumbled to scars, voices rasped by frostbite—but they walk upright, their backs never bentThey wear shrouds of rough wool, crusted with snow and blood, and speak rarely. When they do, it is with the weight of ice cracking underfoot. They act as both wardens and executioners, bringing judgment and bitter clarity to those who’ve grown soft or forget the price of survival.
Some of them hear the wind speak back. And those who do are feared even by other Old Faith priests.
Whispers in Balgrendia
“He doesn’t take your life. He just stops holding it for you.” “The frost at your door is his kiss. If it comes inside, that’s your fault.” “You don’t pray to Old Man Winter. You confess.”In Balgrendia, Old Man Winter is no enemy. He is the test the land gives each year. He does not want your death. He wants to see if you’re worth keeping alive.
