The mist was thick and tangible, it almost seemed as though it could be sliced open with a blade, leaving behind a physical doorway that anyone could pas through. Not that the wraith that made its way through the lands needed anything like that, no barrier, nor wall, nor door could keep it out. The creature drifted across the lands, not aware of anything save the terrible cold that permeated its very soul. What did the ghost care if there was thick fog about? Or if it was day or night? None of that mattered, if it didn't affect Ivory then it was of no concern, and there was so little that could act upon the wraith.
Ragged wisps of spectral vapour that occansionally took on the image of delicate feet seemed to toptoe over the dew-laiden grass. One moment each part of the wraith seemed real, etched out in perfect detail, the next it was no more than a swirling, boiling mass of white fog, merging into its surroundings without even thinking. Not that the creature could think, whatever it had once been was gone, all traces of a personality had been wiped from the ghost at the moment of its mortal death, however long ago that had been. Now it was just a mixture of needs and desires, forced into continued servitude to Darden by some unknown and forgotten pact to the God.
So cold, so very cold, do not leave Ivory so cold, the sibilant hiss of the wraith's voice not making it more than five feet from the creature. But those that met Ivory rarely understood what it was that they had crossed the path of, so even a little warning would not have aided them. Poor Ivory, come love it, let it hold you close, hold you close and never let you go.
The walls of the city posed no problem to the wraith, it passed through them without even pausing. Perhaps there had once been a time when it would have thought moving through solid walls was a strange thing. But in death all that was gone, the world of the physical was there but at the same time to Ivory it was not. Maybe the ghost saw the world as mortal creatures saw the spirit world, sparse and foreign, seen but never felt, the two worlds might cross occansionally but they would never be one. Those of spirit and of flesh would be aware of one another but they would never be truly together, affecting the other's existence only barely.
Did any see Ivory move through the streets of that Isonian realm? Or did they just feel a cold presence pass behind them? The faint scent of a dusty old grave tantilising their senses for a second and then vanishing altogether? Or maybe no one saw the ghost's passing, its present as forgetable as its past? All that was left in its wake were the frozen corpses of a few thieves, their eyes not open enough to warn them of what stalked the night. Their bodies would not be found till the sun rose over the horizon and even then who would know how they had met their ends? There were no marks upon their bodies, no blood loss to explain the deaths of so many so quickly, only cold flesh, icy crystals decorating their eyelashes.
Ivory moved on, the temples now firmly in its sight, Yes, yes, that is where it must go, to the temples, nasty places, nasty, full of sickness. The Master wants them destroyed, Mistress tell Ivory to destroy them, make the Master happy, reward Ivory they will, oh yes, reward Ivory so well. Non-existant hands formed, fingers rubbing against one another as it thought of the reward that might be its if only the wraith done as it had been commanded. Must not fail, no, no, no, hurt it then they will, hurt it so badly if the nasty temples are not destroyed, make it so cold. And Ivory is so terribly cold now, does not want to be like this, cannot be cold anymore.
It meandered up to the first of the temples to Isonia, its few features twisting in what might have been a parody of hatred if anyone had thought the spirit capable of feeling such a focused emotion. Passing through the barred doors the wraith moved up the aisle, hissing and muttering to itself the entire way. At the front, just before the altar, an old priest knelt in his devotions to his Goddess, drawn from them as the spirit's rambling speech reached his ears. What in Isonia's name are you?, he said as the colour drained from his face.
The wraith looked into the old man's face, wide open eyes that at first seemed as innocent as a child's and only gradually revealed the depraved longings within. Help Ivory, it mewled, pleadingly, So warm you are, spare a little for Ivory, help it banish the cold, make it warm again. Full of life you are, give just a little, all it askes for, just a little to take away the pain. The priest was frozen to the spot by his fear, blood running like ice-water in his veins as he beheld the ghost that served Darden. Ivory ran its hands over the priest, the very life leached from him with each caress, his flesh growing ever colder as the wraith's touch grew more insistant. His limbs seemed to grow heavy, filling with lead at each passing second, his eyes falling shut as the cold that was a part of Ivory's existance spread out into every corner and cervice of his body. The old man fought against the growing chill with every fibre of his flesh, he knew that to fall asleep now was to commit himself to death. But there was no denying the cold, all the heat was being drained from his body as the wraith sought to restore some sembalance of life to itself.
Finally the priest's eyes fluttered shut and his thin chest took one last rattling breath before failing altogether. The ghost let the body slip to the floor where it landed no more gracefully than a sack of potatoes, limbs all askew. Already the heat from the man's body was leaving it, Ivory's brief moment of respite from the eternal cold of death was all too fleeting. It moaned as the cold claimed it once more, but there were more priests waiting in the temples, Waiting for Ivory they are, waiting to give it their warmth, and they would feed the ghost's hunger whether they wanted to or not. The temples would be left empty and silent, the tainted soil that they were built upon rejecting each building that Ivory entered, shaking the very stones that they were made of. And all that would be left when the sun shone down would be the rubble of the temples and the corpses of the priests, their eyes open in horror at the last sight they ever saw.