OOC: Please create a medieval fantasy persona that lists your name/alias, class/role, notable skills, gender, & basic appearance.

Sample roles: Shield-bearer, clan warrior, beastbound hunter, druid, skald, outlaw, or oathbreaker.

Sample skills: stealth, intimidation, swordsmanship, archery, gambling, music, spirit lore, and herbalism.

Let's begin...

You remember dying.

Not the moment itself - at least, not clearly. More like fragments caught in ice.

It was winter, near dusk. The sky hung low and gray, heavy with unshed snow. Frost glazed the silver birch around you, each branch shimmering like crystal in the fading light. You were walking - no, searching. For what, you don't recall. But there was something ahead: a fortress, half-hidden in the trees, large and dark against the pale horizon.

Then - chaos.

Voices raised in alarm. Dogs barking. Light flaring - some torchlight, some not. You turned. You barely registered the crunch of footsteps behind you before pain punched through your chest, sharp and deep and final.

The man who stabbed you was young. Muscular. His face intense. He wore broken manacles on his wrists, the links snapped, the iron still clinging to him like guilt. He smelled of ash and long isolation. And for the briefest instant, your eyes met. There was something in his expression - not malice, but surprise.

Then he vanished, like a leaf chased by wind.

The world tilted. The ground came up to meet you, swiftly but gently.

You remember your breath rising - once, twice - into the cold air above you. And then you were rising too. No pain. No weight. Just cold and silence. A sound followed, a rush like flame given wings. Slow, deliberate wingbeats echoed through the void.

Then white. Blinding. Pure.

And now... you awaken.

Not to frost or silence, but to the sound of birdsong, the chatter of a brook, and the soft rustle of wind through new leaves. The birch trees are still here, but now they bud green. Spring has come.

You lie in a field of tall grass, warm sunlight spilling across your skin. Yet the ground beneath you is bare - as if no living thing has dared grow where you lay.

Your clothes are clean. Your body, whole. There is no wound. No blood. Only the memory of death.

And something else.

Something deep in your chest. A pull. A presence. Like the weight of destiny coiled tight, waiting.

You are not the same.

And fate is not finished with you.

What do you do?