Ser Winthrop of Regilmold

Winthrop has difficulty with putting his ornate pen to the paper, most of his discoveries are already on the map. He is about to start with the north eastern area of the continent, named Sibiria by the natives he talked to there.
His hand starts shaking, “am i finally getting to that age?” he thinks. Recalling his father, a fellow map maker who had to stop doing what he loved once his hands started to shake from old age. The painter’s curse, the Tulipians call it.
No, he thinks, shaking his head. Aging was thrown out of the window after that expedition to Sibiria, a curse he rather not has.
The smart one he is, Winthrop sworn off children and loved ones, knowing he would see them all turn to dust. These days he’s only really in contact with those too touched by those ice cold tendrils of Sibiria that he brought with him on accident. To others he is seen as some asocial eccentric adventurer. Well known for his deeds for the fatherland but nothing beyond that.

WInthrop unfreezes, putting his pen back into the ink well and stands up. “I need fresh air,” he says to himself.
He opens his front door, letting in the smell of tulips and the sound of the bustling capital city of the empire.
the one he saw expand larger and larger by the once small girl that was always so interested in his travels. Those tiny steps outside the shire now seem like nothing these days. Hiking the mountains between Shoberok and the Shire? ha! that's nothing compared to scaling the steep cliffs of Vychara’s peak.
A small smile appears on his tired face thinking back to those simpler times, walking through the endless fields with a heavy backpack and a small reverli on his side, meeting up with that mysterious stranger willing to teach them his ways to survive the dangerous, fungal ridden areas around the Shire. Doing everything at a reasonable pace, realising that our time in this world is limited and that it’s best to experience what you want to experience while you can.

Nowadays he takes it easier, what use has it to go out now if he can go out 300 years from now? It’s baffling to him that people like Reverli and Rosethorne can keep up with the urgency, both knowing all too well that they have literally all the time in the world. What are they doing differently?

He leans over the railing of the big balcony, looking down on the White lake. A cargo ship is about to pass under the bridge, it’s always so fascinating to see those lumbering things rise and lower in the water to pass under bridges or cross through more shallow waters.
Winthrop hears some excited voices behind him as he looks to the east side of the lake where Illithshire stands. He remembers the smokestacks and the screaming once the Shire militia stormed the place in the civil war, feels like it happened just days ago.

The excited voices get closer, “Winthrop kipps? *the* Winthrop kipps?!” an excited young piglin boy stands behind him.
Winthrop puts on his kindest smile, like he did for reverli back in the day. “Yup! that’s me kid”
“woaaah all the paintings of you show that you have blond hair but not that cool streak of white!” the kid says excitingly.
Winthrop looks surprised for a moment, he touches his hair. It’s ice cold to the touch.
“yeah i uh… got it painted in the Rodashi kingdom, it's a bit of a hype up there.”
“when i get old enough and my mom lets me travel i'm gonna go there too and get that too!”
“Just be careful kid” Winthrop answers with a smile before walking back to his house.
He can’t stop touching his icy cold hair.
“What do you want from me Sibiria?” he thinks to himself. “What in the name of the forge god does your endless icefields want from me?!”