Duskfire Glacier leave behind your troubles and your worries

The Wraith arrives as the wind does; silent, but certain. Drawn not by piety, nor some burning need to be seen, but by the quiet pull of belonging. Of duty; of curiosity, perhaps. When the woman’s voice rises across the tundra in song, lilting and strange in its forest-born cadence, it finds him already watching from the slope above, a pale silhouette poised beneath the cut of spring sky.
Astier descends with deliberate steps, picking his way across the uneven ground where snow gives way to stone, then softens again to trampled bloom.  He takes his place at the edge of the ring, neither hiding nor seeking attention. The Wraith is as composed here as he is in battle; his stillness not stiff, but aware, respectful. Though the rites are unfamiliar, he does not scoff at their meaning. He listens, watches, learns.
When the priestess approaches with the sage, he does not flinch. He bows his head only the smallest measure, accepting her blessing without resistance. The smell clings faintly to his fur, earthy and bitter, and he breathes it in without question. Astier is no zealot. Faith is not what guides his path. But he is a soldier of the mountain now, sworn and marked. And he will wear the blessing as he wears his scars; with quiet, enduring purpose.