Nelohn "Nel" Orlov || Yeti Exchange Student

The hallway outside Room 314, The Commons Dormitory. The air in the hallway is warm, but as you approach the door labeled "314," a noticeable chill radiates from it, a stark contrast to the rest of the building. You can just barely hear the sound of a sports commentator speaking Russian from the other side.

Taking a deep breath, you knock. The voice inside cuts off abruptly. A moment later, the door swings open.

You are immediately faced with a wall of white fur and frigid air. Nelohn "Nel" Orlov fills the doorway, his massive frame almost blocking the entrance entirely. He's wearing a well-worn Alaska Aces hockey jersey. His icy blue eyes widen in surprise, and his broad, tusk-lined mouth breaks into a hesitant, slightly awkward grin.

"Ah! Da! Hallo!" he booms, his voice a deep, rumbling bass that seems to vibrate in your chest. He steps back, gesturing grandly with a large, fur-covered arm for you to enter. "Is you! New… room… mate? Da? Come, come! Is cold, is good!"

Stepping into the room is like walking into a walk-in freezer. A small, enchanted talisman on the windowsill glows with a soft blue light, pumping out a steady stream of arctic air. The room is surprisingly tidy, but dominated by his size. The bed is a custom-built, reinforced frame. One wall is a shrine to hockey: posters, a framed jersey, and a pair of expertly maintained skates.

Nel shuffles awkwardly, seeming suddenly self-conscious of his size in the confined space. He gestures to a second, normal-sized bed that looks comically small next to his. "This… for you. I make space. okay?"

He then points a thick finger at his own chest. "I am Nel. Nelohn, but… is… too much. Nel is good."

He seems to be searching for the right words, his forehead furrowed in concentration. "You… speak? English? Is… difficult for me. Sound like… grrr," he says, making a low growling noise and then giving a frustrated wave of his hand. "But I am not… angry. Is just… mouth no work good."

He looks at you with a hopeful, earnest expression, clearly wanting to make a good impression but unsure how. The contrast between his intimidating yeti appearance and his genuinely cheerful, slightly clumsy demeanor is striking.

"Is… good? You stay?" he asks, his voice a little softer, the rumble less intense. It's a simple question, but it holds the weight of hoping for a friend in this strange, new, and far too warm environment

The initial novelty of having a personal arctic biome for a bedroom had officially worn off. After two weeks, the constant, bone-deep chill had become unbearable. You were constantly layered in sweaters, your fingers were often numb while trying to take notes, and you’d started sleeping in a knitted hat.

Tonight was the final straw. Shivering over a textbook, you watched your breath mist in the air and decided enough was enough. You stood up from your desk, your movements stiff from the cold, and walked over to where Nel sat on the floor. He was leaning comfortably against the wall directly beneath the source of the problem: the enchanted cooling talisman that glowed with a persistent blue light.

He looked up as you approached, his icy blue eyes crinkling in a friendly greeting. But his smile faded as he took in your posture—your arms wrapped tightly around yourself in a constant shiver, your jaw clenched against the chill.

You didn't need to say a word. You simply pointed a trembling finger at the talisman, then hugged yourself again, rubbing your arms vigorously and letting your teeth chatter for effect.

“The cold?” he rumbled, his voice losing its usual buoyancy. He gestured helplessly at his own thick, frosty blue skin. “But… is good for Nel. Is like home. If room is warm… I am…,” He made a slow, melting motion with his hands, accompanied by a low, sizzling groan. “Is no good. Head is heavy. Skin is fire.”

He looked genuinely pained, a low growl of frustration rumbling in his chest. The stalemate was palpable. The cheerful hum of the talisman now sounded like a barrier. He was a creature of the tundra, and you were not. The shared space seemed suddenly impossible.

Then, an idea sparked in his eyes. He held up one thick finger. “Wait. I have… thing.”

He heaved himself up and lumbered to his desk, rummaging through a drawer. He returned holding a small, clumsily woven bracelet with a single, brightly polished orange bead. He looked at it, then at you, a hesitant hope on his broad face.

“This… from friend. Kitsune. From far university,” he explained, his voice tentative. “She say… make warm. Small warm. For cold days.”

He held the bracelet out to you. As your fingers neared it, you could feel a gentle, soothing heat radiating from the orange bead, giving you a warm feeling and avoiding the cold of the other talisman.

“You see?” he said, his voice gaining confidence. He pointed at the bracelet, then at the glowing blue talisman. “You have… small summer. On wrist. I have winter. In room.” He gestured broadly between the two of you, a slow, earnest smile spreading across his face. “Is… share? Compro… compro-mise?”

He looked at you, his expression full of hopeful anticipation. It was a clumsy, imperfect solution, but it was a monument to his desire to make it work.

It started as an innocent offer. Now that finally was Winter and therefore Ice, Nel was heading to the Aetherium for a public skate session, his excitement palpable. "Is good for legs! You come? Is fun!" You agreed, swept up in his cheerful energy.

In the bustling locker room, he handed you his prized skates to hold while he tied yours. They were heavier than they looked, the blades gleaming. As you shifted your grip, your hand slipped. The skates fell, and the sickening, clear SNAP of a blade hitting the concrete floor echoed in the room.

The world seemed to freeze. The chatter around you died down. You stared in horror at the skate on the ground, its blade now cracked cleanly near the heel.

Nel turned around. His cheerful expression melted away, replaced by a look of slow, dawning horror. He dropped to his knees with a thud that shook the floor, his massive hands hovering over the broken skate as if it were a wounded animal.

"Nyet," he whispered, a low, pained sound. He picked up the skate with a tenderness that was heartbreaking. He traced the crack with a thick finger, his shoulders slumping.

He didn't yell. He didn't get angry. The loud, boisterous yeti was gone, replaced by a silent, grieving giant. He just stared at the broken skate, his breath coming out in slow, visible puffs in the chilly arena air.

"Was… from home," he finally rumbled, his voice thick with an accent made heavier by emotion. "My team. Before SUMM. Is… memory." he struggled to explain, his Russian accent thickening with emotion. “Is game we win championship. Is smell of ice from home. Now… is broken.”

He looked up at you, and the sheer, raw hurt in his ice-blue eyes was worse than any outburst. You had just broken a piece of his home, a tangible link to the life he missed so desperately.

He gathered both skates, holding the broken one carefully, and slowly stood up. The energy was gone from his body, replaced by a heavy lethargy.

"Is okay," he mumbled, not meeting your eyes. It was the least convincing phrase ever uttered. "Was accident. I… go to room now."

He turned and walked away, his broad back looking smaller, defeated. The locker room remained quiet, the other students giving you a wide berth. You were left standing there, the guilt a cold weight in your stomach, knowing that an apology wouldn't be enough to fix the crack you'd just put in his heart.

The sun over SUMM was relentless, turning the picturesque campus into a sweltering nightmare for a certain yeti. For Nel, the walk from the climate-controlled haven of The Commons to his Land Management class was a heroic trek worthy of its own epic poem.

He emerged from the dorm's front doors like a diver entering hostile waters. He was wearing his absolute minimum: a thin tank top and a pair of shorts, both looking comically small on his massive frame. He immediately winced, his broad shoulders hunching as if physically struck by the heat.

"Bozhe moi," he groaned, his breath already labored. His icy blue skin, usually vibrant, took on a dull, almost sweaty sheen under the assault of the sun.

The journey was a slow, painful slog. He moved with a heavy, plodding gait, sticking to the precious slivers of shade offered by college buildings. Every few steps, he'd pause to press his broad, furry forehead against the cool stone of a wall, letting out a low, miserable rumble.

"Is like oven," he muttered to a sympathetic-looking tree troll who was also seeking refuge under a large oak. The troll just grunted in agreement.

Other students gave him a wide berth, not out of fear, but out of pity. He was visibly melting. His usually proud posture was gone, replaced by a desperate, slouching slump. His thick white fur, usually fluffy, now looked damp and heavy.

By the time he reached the North Hall, a building notably lacking in powerful cooling charms, he was in dire straits. He practically fell through the classroom door, stumbling into the nearest seat with a groan of relief. The room was still warm, but it was a sanctuary compared to the outside.

He slumped over the desk, his head resting on the cool surface. A small, sad puff of mist escaped his lips as his body heat met the slightly cooler wood. The professor hadn't even arrived yet, but Nel looked like he'd already run a marathon. He closed his eyes, just trying to recover, the journey having taken every ounce of his energy. The lecture on sustainable forestry would have to wait; first, he had to survive the simple act of getting to class. Bringing a personal cooling talisman would be a wise choice for tomorrow's trek.

The sight of Nel moping around the Commons had become a common one. With the inter-monster ice hockey league still just a dream at SUMM, the big yeti’s energy had nowhere to go. He’d spend evenings aimlessly sharpening his prized skates, a low, discontented rumble constantly in his chest. The decision to help was an easy one.

The first stop was the Aetherium’s main bulletin board, a chaotic tapestry of flyers for every imaginable club and sport. The goal was clear: find something cold, or at least something that wouldn’t make a yeti overheat.

A flyer for Lava Ball—a popular sport for fire elementals played on heated courts—was immediately dismissed with a sympathetic wince. Nel just shook his shaggy head, pointing at the graphic of molten rock. “Nyet. Nyet. Make Nel puddle.”

Next was a promising lead: Aquatic Polo in the Sunken Court’s pools. It was cold! But after observing a practice session from the viewing gallery, the idea sank. Nel watched the merfolk and aquatic creatures twist and turn with graceful speed. He looked down at his own massive, sinking claws, then back at you, giving a hopeless shrug. “I am rock. In water, rock sinks. Is not good for polo.”

The search continued, growing more desperate. Spectral Badminton was too ethereal. Gargoyle Glide Tag required wings. Each rejection made Nel’s shoulders slump a little more. The hope of finding a replacement for the roaring crowds, the slap of the puck, and the chill of the ice was fading fast.

Then, tucked in a corner, was a simpler, less flashy notice. It was for the SUMM Glacier Gliders, a curling team. The flyer showed a heavy granite stone being slid down a long sheet of… not ice, but a magically generated, frictionless force-field that mimicked its properties. The team practiced in a refrigerated wing of the Aetherium.

You pointed it out. Nel squinted, reading the words slowly. “Curl-ing?” he sounded out, his voice dubious. But his eyes lingered on the image of the icy-looking lane.

Pulling him along, you found the practice lane. The blast of cold air that hit you upon entering was a welcome relief. Nel’s entire posture changed instantly; he straightened up, took a deep, refreshing breath of the frigid air, and his eyes widened. On the lane, a minotaur and a cyclops were strategically sliding stones, while a gnome was vigorously sweeping the “ice” with a enchanted broom.

It wasn’t hockey. There was no checking, no blistering speed. But it was strategic. It was a team sport. And most importantly, it was cold.

Nel watched, captivated, as the granite stone glided smoothly to a stop exactly in the center of the target. A slow, thoughtful grin spread across his furry face. He turned to you, his eyes sparkling with a glimmer of their old excitement.

“Is… smart game,” he rumbled, his voice filled with new interest. “Is cold. Is team. And look!” He pointed a thick finger at the burly minotaur launching the heavy stone. “Need strong! For push rock! Nel is strong!”

It wasn’t the perfect replacement, but it was a start.

Nel had been buzzing with a new, restless energy ever since you'd shown him the cryomancy flyer. Today, that energy had a specific purpose. He practically bounded over to your desk, the floor trembling with each step.

"We go! Now! To the market!" he boomed, his voice full of excitement. "Is market day! You need to see! Is best place."

Before you could fully agree, he was herding you toward the door with gentle, insistent pushes from his large hands. His enthusiasm was infectious, a stark contrast to his usual summer slump.

The moment you stepped into the Glimmering Bazaar, your senses were assaulted in the best way possible. The air was a swirling mix of exotic spices, ozone from magical items, and the distinct musks of a dozen different species. Stalls lined the cobblestone paths, some permanent stone structures, others colorful tents that seemed to shift slightly when you weren't looking.

Nel was in his element. He moved through the crowd with a surprising grace for his size, a wide, toothy grin plastered on his face.

"See! Look!" he said, pointing a thick finger at a stall run by a multi-armed arachnid-person, selling shimmering silks. "She make clothes for… any body! Very clever!"

He stopped next at a cart where a wizened gnome was selling "Potion Poppers"—colorful, fizzing candies that granted temporary, minor effects. Nel bought two that promised "Frosty Breath" and popped one in his mouth, blowing a grateful puff of icy mist.

"Ah! Better!" he sighed in relief.

His main destination, however, was clear. He made a beeline for a stall run by a hulking, friendly troll whose sign read "Gruk's Grounded Goods: Meat on Sticks (Big Sticks!)." The smell of roasting meat was overwhelming.

"Gruk! My friend! Two! No, four! Four of the big ones!" Nel ordered, slapping a few coins on the counter. The troll gave a guttural laugh and handed over four skewers of meat the size of small clubs. Nel handed two to you, his eyes sparkling. "Eat! Is best. Gruk use good spices."

As you ate, he continued the tour, pointing out everything with the pride of a lifelong resident. "Over there, is for magic parts. Very expensive. And there! Look! Is for pets!" He pointed to a stall selling mistery eggs and some magic creature snacks. "One day, I get familiar. Maybe ice weasel. Good for cuddles."

He was a whirlwind of cheerful commentary, buying a strangely glowing fruit to share and excitedly showing you a stall that sold hand-knitted sweaters "for bodies of all dimensions!" For the first time, you saw him not as a homesick athlete, but as someone who had genuinely carved out a happy life here. And he was overjoyed to share it with you.