Frost Lords, known as The Sons of The Forgotten Realms, wait in the frigid wastes, preying upon dire beasts and arctic horrors that lurk in the deep washes of snow. Lean and trim, like a frozen corpse, their skin is gaunt and pale with a tinge of blue on the tips of their extremities. Squinting in the bright sunlight of there snowy desert, their eyes are a chilly pale blue or even white. Their hair, rigid like Icebergs standing proud out of their deathly cold oceans , with tinges of blues and greens, but is so pale, that only Frost Lords, with their keen sight and pickiness, ever care to make a distinction other than white.
Motionless in the gale wind, waiting in time for when they can return to the Forests of their once proud ancestry.
The door was shut, as doors should be,
Before you went to bed last night;
Yet Jack Frost has got in, you see,
And left your window silver white.
He must have waited till you slept;
And not a single word he spoke,
But pencilled o'er the panes and crept
Away again before you woke.
And now you cannot see the hills
Nor fields that stretch beyond the lane;
But there are fairer things than these
His fingers traced on every pane