My friends, let me tell you of he, of the far flung north.
Can you hear the roars echoing off the mountains?
The snow as it tumbles in their wake?
And then you see him, lumbering into sight, an abomination unto God.
Fur matted with dry blood, fangs and claws brown from the ichor he has spilled.
He is always hungry.

Always waiting for travellers to go astray before he pounces.
Before he devours. His mountain range is wide and long.
Hunters have been sent in their multitudes.
They have never returned.
All have died in that frozen wasteland.
Fed upon by the Yeti.

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