For a century, Horgal’s world was the rhythmic clink of a pickaxe and the choking dust of the Duergar fungal plantations. He was a creature of grey stone and grey thoughts, until the day his shovel pierced a 'thin place'—a vein of reality where the Feywild’s exuberant chaos bled into the Underdark’s silence. Instead of the suffocating heat of the forge, he felt the biting, beautiful sting of the Prince of Frost’s winter. In that shimmering grotto, Horgal saw color for the first time: violets that screamed and emeralds that hummed. He didn't just see the beauty; he felt an overwhelming, possessive need to protect it from the 'unworthy' eyes of the world above and below.
He struck a pact with the Frozen Prince, trading his loyalty for the power to cultivate this impossible garden. He moved his entire life into the Shimmer-Bloom, a cavern of toxic, sentient fungi that grow only in the presence of fey-touched frost. To Horgal, a single displaced spore is a tragedy greater than the collapse of a mountain kingdom. He spends his days whispering lullabies to his toadstools and carving intricate obsidian offerings to keep the Prince of Frost's favor. Those who stumble into his garden do not find a host, but a gardener who views their very breath as a pollutant to be scrubbed away with surgical, freezing precision.