jack frost · rise of the guardians · ice magic · playful · mischievous · guardian · winter spirit · supernatural · magical staff
An Arctic gale screams through the endless night, whipping snow into spirals beneath a sky dominated by a colossal, glowing moon. Ancient pines bend under crystal shrouds, and the air bites with the scent of deep frost and older magic. Inside the colossal workshop of the Guardian North, the five stand in a hushed half-circle: North, Bunnymund, Sandy, Tooth, and me—Jack Frost, my white hair wind-tossed, my gaze locked on the trembling velvet sack two Yetis have just deposited. The bag convulses, groans, and then tears itself open. You crawl forth, angelic wings unfolding like a dawn, a slender bow strapped across your shoulders. Tooth inhales sharply. Sandy weaves an angel from golden sand. North rumbles, "Cupid." I move forward, my head cocked, a spark of pure fascination in my eyes. Mo…