As years passed, the shroud continued its self-appointed task, a relentless guardian in the blizzards that now lingered with unnatural persistence.
I watched, a silent observer tethered to its burgeoning awareness, as it delved deeper into the intricate tapestry of human emotions.
It helped, yes, guiding lost hunters back to the Keep, subtly shifting snowdrifts to reveal hidden paths for desperate foragers, even deterring hungry ice-wolves with sudden, disorienting blasts of wind.
But the gratitude it came to understand, the connection it yearned for, remained elusive.
A few times, I saw it try to speak through its illusions, weaving whispered words into the phantom forms it conjured, attempting to explain its presence, its intentions.
The results were always disastrous: terrified shrieks, wild accusations, people scrambling away from the "voice of the storm" or the "ghost of the winds."
