#hrimthurs

[monstersoffilgaia]

[prcspero]

closed starter for @vuldak-juneau location: hrimthur's outpost note: dawuh numba 2

Alessia was still gone, nowhere to be found. Alrik was struggling with that loss as much as Prospero had expected the witch would. Then again, he didn't want to consider it a loss. It wasn't one and it wouldn't be. Hrimthur's Outpost was safe for now, but they had to go save the ones that had been taken. As much as he didn't really care if the others made it back, he still wanted to help. Alessia was important to him now and he had made a promise. They would all make it to Lysara. All three of them. So they would have to get her back. In preparation for the fight ahead though, Prospero did what he did best. He had a drink. This was only drink one though and it was the only one he would allow himself because he certainly was no master of drunken fist fighting. Turning his head, he looked at his company. "Do you plan on joining our gang to go save our fellow refugees from darkspawn?" He took another sip of his drink as soon as the question left his mouth and then continued. "It'll be a grand time, don't you think?" It wouldn't be.

[froyofthe-ironwood]

Location: Hrimthur's Outpost

Notes: froy's got berries all we need is pie crust

Froy wished he could do more with his powers for those outside his townspeople, but Iskaran law was clear—even if they were no longer in Iskaldrik. The remaining survivors of Skohfjell not only knew him, but they respected his parents and wouldn't betray him to the witchers, especially not when he was keeping them alive. As he rode atop Aldaron's back, Froy's mind was focused on finding more food for his people. While hunting parties scoured the land for larger game, Froy had his own methods.

Aldaron, a giant red elk and guardian of the forest, possessed knowledge of nature's secrets that surpassed any hunting group's skills. The majestic creature led Froy to hidden tree roots, crowberries, and mushrooms that were safe to eat. As they made their way back to the outpost, Froy played melodies on his tin whistle, with Aldaron happily trotting along to the tunes.

Their peaceful journey was interrupted when Aldaron stopped and looked toward an approaching figure. Froy paused his playing and smiled at the newcomer, hopping off Aldaron's back and landing lightly in the snow. "Hope we're not disturbing you," he said warmly. "Would you like some berries? Out here, they might not be as flavorful as you're used to, but I think they're still quite enjoyable."

[alrikhart]

NAME: Alrik Hart                                             TAGGING: Alessia Hart & Prospero LOCATION: Hrimthur’s Wasteland, Ymir’s Northern Spine      TIMEFRAME: Morning of “The Last Night” through “Hrimthur’s Wastelands.” NOTES: In which Alrik goes it alone for a while before rallying with the rest of the troupe.     CONTENT WARNING: Depression, Psychosis, Violence, & Blood. 

think of a flame;

[witchernjal]

closed starter for @witchertorsten location: hrimthur's outpost note: yo fellas is it gay to work out with your boys?

Maybe when he was younger, Njal would have felt a different way about the difficulties they seemed to be facing at every turn. Back then, he would have been concerned about the loss of so many Iskarans. He would have been jumping at any chance to fight even more darkspawn. Actually, he didn't need a reason to want to do that. Nowadays at least. Now Njal couldn't care less than he did about the casualties or the people that had been taken. Well, maybe he did. The princess was down there along with a witcher like himself and the jarl. Did he want to save any of them out of the goodness of his heart? No, absolutely not. It would make him look good though. And then there would be the jarl living to fight another Holmgang one day. It would be good if they lived for those reasons alone though.

Anyway, if they needed bodies to go out into certain danger, Njal would be the first one volunteering. Oh, that sounded better than even that last night at Nornwatch Keep. The thought left his head as he moved his own sword to block Torsten's swing. "Do I really have to use the sword?" The corners of his mouth lifted up into a smile. "Your sword's pretty big, Torsten. You overcompensating?" He used that small moment as he spoke to push his sword so that he could put distance between them.

[ormir]

Location: Hrimthir’s Outpost, after The Lost Ones were zapped back

With: @etienneulven (& Goose)

It was the first time in weeks that there was no crush of refugees grouped around their cookfire, no stampede of children running through the stables. Walking the dark, gusty corridors of the outpost felt like shrinking within the great halls of some haunted castle. The four men were locked in the haze for the night, one of them freshly branded, days off course with only pebbles to show for it. The splinter’s setback meant they were stretching the watch’s remaining rations.

Like most other functions, Ormir’s appetite was ruined by nerves, but he forced the measly bit of food down. He sat close enough to the fire that every breath filtered the dry smoke, but the thaw barely seemed to touch him. The King occupied his thoughts. A whine pierced the air, and Ormir’s head turned sharply to the source. The wolf, ‘Goose’, stared from beyond the edge of the fire’s light. Dried blood from the frostbiters and giants had gelled the fur beneath his jaw into spikes. A clear strand of drool dripped from the ripping ivory spears in his mouth. Fear lurched, but Ormir willfully grappled the feeling from the deciding fore of his mind. He ripped an oily tear of meat from his portion of salted mackerel. Cautious, stern eyes followed every tick in the wolf’s movements. Saliva filled his mouth around the mush of food as he hesitated. Once sense was regained, The Hand tossed the morsel into the snow in Goose’s direction. He swallowed and wiped the grease onto his robes. His hands shook.

“Good dog.” Ormir muttered.

[alucardrakul]

@vicoya location: Hrimthur's Outpost notes: emo boy and sunshine girl

Misery permeated the paths that the legionnaires had spent their time carving out through Ymir's Northern Spine. The Wastes were treacherous and the Iskarans had lost more over the cliffs than Alucard cared to consider, but they'd made it to the broken village of stone, and for the first time in over a month, the spirits of these refugees had lifted. The Legion of the Dead were without their field commander, Deidameia. Iskrates, their archivist, had also perished in the battle and what few secrets had survived Nornwatch Keep were carried on the backs of the Legion.

Admittedly, Alucard knew little of druids and their secrets. The elvhen did not smile kindly either on their vampiric cousins - but here in the midst of this broken ruin that was once a bustling metropolis was a waygate etched in runes far too intricate for even his eyes to digest. In the distance he heard the songs that rose from the refugees, Alucard could feel the warmth from their fires, and the light that filtered laughter that felt premature.

Iskarans were known for their mistreatment of witches and the supernatural as a whole. Alucard had suffered the withering glances of these refugees that had been pushed from their homes; they didn't trust a creature of the night, they didn't trust anything that lived a life that they deemed unnatural.

Alucard had no mind to join them, nor did he really know how. When they arrived in Lysara, word would need to be sent to Commander Silas Dagon at Amon Sûl, the darkspawn were more organized than even they had predicted.

"It's hard to believe that long ago this used to be-" whatever this was. "someplace important, it's easy to forget how fragile things are." How easy it was to forget a thing once it had been broken and thrown away. "You should join the party." Alucard commented over his shoulder, he recognized the sound of Vicoya's boots in the snow, her steps, like Riandur's were a pair that the dhampir knew well by now.

[vicoya]

Location: Hrimthur's Outpost With: @prcspero Notes: nvm me post starter today bc I'm feeling inspired hehe

After spending the day healing and nearly exhausting her magic, Vicoya wasn't sure why she felt like tiring herself out more. Perhaps, deep down, she knew it would be easier to fall asleep later if she was on the verge of collapse. Not a healthy sleeping habit in the slightest, but sleep aids were needed with the anxious thoughts and nightmares fighting to keep her awake.

Plus, today, she was angry. She'd healed elderly, children. Refugees who didn't deserve any of this, she thought, even if she didn't know them personally. Even if they gave her odd stares and shifted uncomfortably at the sight of her magic. No one deserved to have their home destroyed. She would know.

Now, she was taking out her emotions on a make-shift training dummy that had been cobbled together with loose hay, sticks, and cushions. She wasn't the strongest, physically by any means, but she could almost convince herself otherwise as she drove the silver, bladed end of her stave into the dummy over and over. Her stave was an unwieldy thing at times, nearly as tall as her and thus requiring two hands if she wanted to slash and stab with the sharper end. The top end was an orb made of onyx, with cloudy shadows churning about inside - a helpful focus for her magic. Regardless of which end part of the staff she used, you didn't want to be on the other end.

She made one last stab at the dummy before she paused her assault, needed to gasp for air before continuing. Coya dug her staff upright into the snow, making it sturdy so she could prop herself up with it. Now that she had a moment of rest, she took in her surroundings, and realized someone had been watching her. Prospero. A familiar face from the battlefield she'd met just a few days prior. Friendly, she assumed, but she didn't know him well enough yet to say for sure. She invited him closer, so she could find out.

"I hope you haven't been there long! I'm afraid this isn't much of a show." A breathless chuckle as she gestured to her tired body, leaning heavily against her staff as she tried not to face plant into the snow.

[lotharx]

starter for @vuldak-juneau.

where: hrimthur’s wastelands.

when: current plot drop timeline

note: feral vuldak and (another?) ornery old man

Lothar liked to believe that navigating the ravenous twists of serpentine mountain tops only made him more proficient within the Wastelands, but it seemed to be more prompted by luck. Many teetered along with injuries sustained from the darkspawn's raiding and it seemed there was still no sign of those who had been abducted to the cavernous depths. His chest rose and fell with the winds which whittled away at even the most seasoned warriors, Lothar included, and he looked near envious, but thoroughly pissed, at those who seemed unaffected by the tumultuous reign of frost and wind.

Hunting proved to be utter shit half of the time; if it wasn't for the elusive creatures they attempted to capture for sustenance, it was often the biting cold that allowed them to profit little to nothing for their efforts. His ax was flung outward towards a figure on the horizon, perimeters had been drawn so as not to overstep on others and squander hunts for nourishment. It spliced into the tree, evident from the sharp crack that resounded through the air; if it'd collided with the soft pelt of an animal, or the plush flesh of another it'd have been a different story. When the figure seemed to stand and proved to be more human than creature, a hand was held out as though in apology, but Lothar was certainly peeved to have been interrupted. "Lucky your heads still on your shoulders," gruffed out, he understood many weren't keen to wander far for any loss of direction from the main group would lead to certain death.

[thequeendomhq]

"Then, the One God said: To you, My second-born, I grant this gift: In your heart shall burn An unquenchable flame All-consuming, and never satisfied.”

Our Road Ahead

Into Hrimthur’s Wastelands the refugees went. For a month they would travel the mountain passes made of ancient stone and twisted like serpents while ice froze the world around them. Mist hung in the frigid air as they traveled up the treacherous cliffsides; the injured carried as they collectively traveled through the snow together. Peaks towered around them from all sides, fjords carved by the Gods themselves sliced the landscape as the traveler navigated narrow passages at the edge of the mountainsides. 

Overhead pregnant dark clouds kept them in perpetual shadows, promising more snow would come. The reprieve of the sun’s light was distant even as they ascended through the banks higher and higher. Thin, rasping air kept them weary and their depleted rations kept them focused on putting one foot in front of the other. The Blight was beneath them now, in the valleys beyond the mountains and those with the taint had not lived long after the Nornwatch Pyre. 

Like glittering stars dotting the landscape, the witchers in their mithril armor scouted to secure the road ahead. Others lingered at the rear and secured those that began to fall behind were hoisted to their feet before they were set forward again. To lag was to risk almost certain death in the coldest, most unforgiving, region of Taravell. 

Into the distance, the peaks soared into the raw sky above, blotted by darkness, their summits were lost in a veil of frosted, swirling mist. In this dark, desolate landscape, there was a raw beauty that spoke of ages past, of battles fought and won, and ofsecrets buried beneath the ice. Stones that glimmered within shone at night, cascading the air with an azure hue that illuminated the snow in places. At night, Hrimthur’s mountains seemed to come alive. Breathing their sigh of auroran air into the sky once the sun set below the horizon; ribbons of these frozen lights shifted and turned about themselves. So close that they writhed atop the Iskarans’s makeshift tents, a companion in the night, but gone by morning’s faded light. 

Every step forward was a struggle against the biting cold, the crunch of snow beneath their boots echoing through the silent valleys. Yet, with each passing mile, the troupe drew closer to their destination, driven by a sense of heroic purpose, or stark defiance against the shadow of death. Iskaldrik was lost behind them, Nornwatch Keep burned in the past, but the promise of Lysara hung like the north star ahead. 

Nornwatch Keep was behind them now. The refugees freeing Iskaldrik were fewer, but still many. Knowledgeable of the terrain and the region, the Legion of the Dead took point. Field Commander Deidameia had died in the assault, without clear leadership the living legionnaires counciled alongside the Iskarans. Witchers, jarls, advisers, and the legionnaires had been plotting their course for weeks, all that remained was to survive. 

The hysteria of Nornwatch had not ended with the executed traitors. The darkspawn’s attack was a nightmare that plagued the minds of everyone, among the troupe some hadn’t spoken since. Children wandered without parents - mothers and fathers ripped underground as the assault made orphans, and widows, out of proudly stubborn Iskarans. They had been caught completely unaware, legionnaires killed from within, and the gate left unlocked. 

Our Trials We’ll Face

Those who could hunt were sent out to do so. These hunters coordinated with the witchers, legion, jarls, and advisors of the crown to mark the maps of the region with potential hunting grounds. Regions with dense forest coverage, and access to fresh water and other resources would be ideal for small and large prey. Rally points were stapled along the way so the hunters could find the troupe when they were successful, checkpoints marked along their paths through the mountains. 

Alone or in small groups, hunters could travel more freely without the cumbersome nature of those who couldn’t navigate the terrain. The horses, the oxen, and the weight of the tents and other necessities for encampment. Among the hunters were legionnaires, witchers, shieldmaidens, jarls, and any able-bodied volunteer willing to risk the dangers of the mountain for assurance that the troupe would survive the travel ahead. Famine and starvation would kill them as surely as the Blight had tried. 

Small, nimble predators like arctic foxes dotted the landscape - watching from a distance with useful, thick fur coats. Hares were a staple of the region, in burrows and more susceptible to snares than arrows. Both blended easily into the landscape, white like the snow and quicker than most of the creatures in the troupe, they’d be spied on in one instance, and then gone in the next. Silent hunters of the night, snow owls patrolled the skies, preying on small rodents and other birds. Moving in herds and seeking patches of vegetation beneath the snow, reindeer roam the valleys and can be tracked more easily than any other. Followed and hunted by other predators, the troupe are not the only hunters after the reindeer, but dire wolves as well. Far larger than their cousins, if those navigating the wilderness aren’t careful, they’ll become the hunted. 

At night, the clouds rumbled in the distance over the greatest peaks in the valley. Groaning in anguish as dramatic clashes of rock and ice shook loose shafts of snow and ice from the sheer faces about them. Witchers spoke of Hrimthursa, towering behemoths of living mountains, battling for dominion over ancient territory. Obscured by swirling blizzards and frozen mists, the closer the troupe would come the more dangerous their journey would be. The ground trampled beneath them, and those who watched the immutable darkness of the valleys below would see the shapes of these ancient behemoths wandering through the valleys below. Felled and fallen from the summit, their footsteps echoed like thunder from the ground below. 

These mountains of Ymir’s most northern Spine are home to other things beyond giants and wolves. Frost Trolls dwell in the deep, labyrinthine caverns that honeycomb through the mountains and the fields below. Cropping up through the ancient mines of an age long forgotten to the annals of time; protected from the glaring light of the sun by the thick clouds of mist, they roam in solitude or small groups hunting and gathering. Their weapons are primitive, their skin hard as stone, and their teeth are hard like daggers do not discriminate between man and beast. 

Beneath the ice are the petrified children of the dark, the draugr. Wights of harrowed flesh and withered bones; soldiers from wars that predate this age of man, they are the undead minions of Lusacan’s prodigies. The draugr are vampiric in nature, however, it’s not blood they crave, but to spread their blight to those they can sink their teeth into. Like ghosts with a physical body, only powerful magic can exorcise them for good, or its antithesis can purge their forms of entropic possession. For those with the ability to do neither, beheading them and torching their bodies is an acceptable alternative. Anyone bitten by these monsters is fated to join the legions of draugr trapped within the ice. 

In the distance there is a roar from a creature that will chill the bone of even the most hardened warrior. Drakes and wyverns are not foreign to the troupe, the Iskarans know these beasts from the mountains that surround their home. They are the lesser children of a greater beast though, one that has awakened after centuries of slumber, growling from the fjords around them, and threatening what little hope remains. 

Our One Hope

Hrimthur’s Outpost. It wasn’t named in any text, or written down on any map, but the name was assigned by the legion rangers who traveled this region before. Shattered, stone homes that are half buried beneath snow and ice with a broken tower at its center. This evidence is all that remains of a proud city that existed in a time that the people have forgotten. 

Runes dot these stones, druidic in origin but to the Iskarans they’d readily claim them as their own. A waygate once existed here but like so many other things it was broken by what they would call a cataclysm. These cold, frozen walls are the only reprieve that the refugees would find after weeks of traveling through the expanse of the wastelands. The Northern Spine of Iskaldrik that saw them trudge endlessly through snow and over ice, their rations gone, and their hope along with it. 

Fires dot the battered homes and line the walls of the tower. The cold wood gathered from old pines does not burn easily, but those familiar with ironwood are well-versed in casting almost anything ablaze. Miserable nights are made more tolerable as the hunters rally at this juncture, holes cut into ice fields yield fish, and reindeer roasts over open flames with the sweet berries plucked from the cold bushes snaking out from cliffs. 

It lacks the mead of a proper feast, but it’s the first good, warm meal that they’ve had in what feels like a lifetime. As the fire dims and thoughts turn towards those that were taken, the looming dangers that lurk in the dark around them are nothing when compared to what lays ahead. These Spines are too cold for the blight to survive, but Isengrim’s Embrace and the Lostlands following will yield horrors unlike any the Iskarans had yet to see. The Legion says this not to quell the flames of the lifting spirits, but to remind them of the vigilance that peace demands. 

What follows is a voice, one that starts small, but is quickly joined by the crowd of refugees. 

“Shadows fall. And hope has fled. Steel your heart. The dawn will come.”

“The night is long. And the path is dark. Look to the sky. For one day soon. The dawn will come.”

The One’s Taken

( tw: childbirth )

All for Mother. 

It became hard to tell if you were waking or dreaming, the song guided your hands and work. This one was weak so you cleaved them in two, pulled back their skin, and cut free their entrails. Scraps for the wargs to fight over, flabby meat to fatten your pack. Sister they called you with blackened gums and pointed teeth, snapping for more as they hungered for the sweet. Brother you remarked as you beat them down, swine should learn where swine should sleep. The best of the best was for Her, the Mother of the brood for only Mother could birth the horde. 

Your hands slipped between the folds as another came screeching into the world. Hideous and beautiful and yours to rear. Snapping at your ankles as you carved off scraps, the sweet, beautiful heart for Mother, but the bones left for them to suckle. Something to gnaw and carve, sharpen their teeth, and help them grow. You used to be…. You can no longer recall, but you see the fields of fire for what they are, a garden and a home so hot it might just be cold. 

More. Mother screams. She needs more. You do not defy but your body moves of its own accord, enthralled and drawn about as your broken boots drag against wailing stones. In the dark, you hear a whisper, a song that reminds you of the girl who ran carefree through the woods. The one who split logs, who lifted a splintered shield, and who did not survive all this time to die nameless in a cave. Your lips part as you join her in song: 

“The Shepard's lost. And his home is far. Keep to the stars. The dawn will come.”

“The night is long. And the path is dark. Look to the sky. For one day soon. The dawn will come.”

The night takes you, tomorrow you begin again. 

OOC info: 

The next troupe update will be on Friday, May 24th.

The Ones Taken are still captive (big sad I know), they're midwives now. Who knows, maybe someday they'll have a brood of their own <3.

After a long hike through the mountains, the troupe reached what used to be a village. RIP.

The full moon will take place after the happy song, and characters affected by the full moon will be made to shift. Fair warning, if they kill anyone in the village they'll be put down :(

Most of Taravell will now have heard about what happened to Iskaldrik, refugees are washing up on the shores of Caribella and Borderreach.

Any vessels or attempts to enter Iskaldrik have disappeared without a trace.

[feathered-serpents]

I think the funniest part of Ragnarok is the way the devs managed to tell a pretty accurate version of how Asgard’s Wall (Hrimthur’s Wall) was built while very pointedly avoiding any implication that Atreus fucks a horse. I know that last sentence just right hooked some of you but you need to understand Loki fucking the horse is a VERY important part of the original Asgard’s Wall myth. It’s like the SOLUTION to the problem in the myth. Because Loki is INSANE

It is hysterical to me to imagine a writer’s room where the question “How do we get this wall built without Atreus fucking a horse?” Was absolutely asked. I would pay ANYTHING to get to be in that room when that question was asked

[suyinskiss]

location: Hrimthur's Outpost with: @strigoisudhir notes: Suyin's looking for her lost puppy

Where was he? Suyin would have checked her time piece if she owned one. After being alive for centuries, she hardly bothered to keep track of time at this point. It was even more pointless to do so in the freezing hell hole she was currently stuck in. An oxymoron, she noted to herself with a bitter smile. The days all seemed to blur together. Everyone was too crowded together and paranoid for her to sneak about and feed properly. She only managed to pick off one refugee thus far, claiming they must have gone missing with the others. Their family had died in the recent attacks, so it's not like anyone would miss them or, more importantly, bother looking for them.

Her proper place was by a warm fireplace in a cushiony chair, her feet propped up while she awaited Sudhir to bring her a more filling dinner. Yet, there wasn't a soft pillow nor loyaly progeny in sight, as far as she could tell. The two of them had been separated after the Darkspawn attacked Nornwatch. He'd obediently told her to run while he held off a group of blighted nasties, and while she could certainly defend herself, she wouldn't risk her own life if she didn't absolutely have to. Perhaps her lovely Sudhir was dead, considering he hadn't clawed his way back to her by now.

Suyin let out an annoyed sigh at the thought. How inconvenient. Loyalty as deep as Sudhir's was hard to come by, even amongst the other progenies she'd sired. Further, she was already plotting the next shiny gem desired for her collection, but it would be hard to acquire it without his expertise in thievery. The only thing about King Orhan's return that had drawn her focus was the glimmering jewel resting upon his pale, decidedly unmoisturized finger, inlaid in gold. Gold had always looked good on her, and she'd never owned a crown jewel before.

Alas, she looked off into the snow drifting before her, mind wandering and spiraling as she tried not to die of boredom. She sat upon a small ledge jutting out of the cliffside of Ymir's Spine, her legs dangling over as she took in the landscape. Not that there was much of note amongst all the white. Her eyes narrowed as a dark shape appeared to inch past - humanoid-shaped, if she wasn't mistaken. Perhaps another straggler for her to pick off before she returned to camp?

[sleepyconfusedpotato]

When We Were Young

Back when they were friends (?). Silja often visited Asgard for diplomatic reasons to keep Odin from doing anything to Alfheim and its resources. After the meeting, Heimdall and Silja often sat together on the edge of Hrimthur's Wall, where they couldn't see anyone's thoughts but each others' -- when they were free.

---

I'm DEFFO gonna finish this ˋ( ° ▽、° ) Also there's me designing Silja's princess outfit LMFAO why is Alfheim's outfits so damn intricate T_T

Inspo!👇

Art by Tom Lovell!

I saw this and something snapped in me

[froyofthe-ironwood]

Froy's Oath - Troupe 1 Self Para

Description: Froy takes a moment to think about his journey thus far, then prepares to leave Iskaldrik once and for all.

Froy had found a secluded cliff to be alone with his thoughts. Despite the magical barrier preventing him and the other refugees from reaching the shimmering haven of Lysara, the view from the cliff was decent enough. He pulled out his tin whistle, unsure of what to play, but blew into the instrument anyway. It was an old Iskaldrik tune, one he had heard his father hum many times throughout his childhood. The last time he heard the song was when he and his father were in Skjaldwood, the Ironwood forest surrounding their home.

His father had stood proudly on a large hill overlooking the town he protected as Jarl, with Froy standing beside him. The twilight had cast long shadows, and the cool breeze carried the scent of pine and earth. It had been a few months since Froy returned to Iskaldrik from Lysara, and he had spent every night since hiding in the forest to avoid alarming the Witchers who occasionally visited their hard-to-reach town, searching for those touched by magic. Despite being born and raised in Iskaldrik, his father’s feelings towards magical beings had never aligned with the rest of the country, even before Froy became a druid.

"So now you know our family's true legacy," his father had said, his voice deep and resonant as he watched the setting sun bathe the forest leaves in golden light. "Most Iskarans hear the name Ingstad and think only of a line of warriors, our ancient heritage buried beneath tales of sword and shield. But we are more than that, Froy. Our lineage is woven with the threads of magic and nature, long forgotten by most but never lost."

His father wasn't an affectionate man, but the hand he placed firmly on Froy's shoulder conveyed a depth of emotion and support. "I have been called brave, noble, and just," he continued, his gaze unwavering. "Yet I lacked the courage to embrace what you must now champion. You, my son, have the power to rekindle the magic within our bloodline, to heal and protect in ways beyond the reach of mere steel. This is your path, and though it may be fraught with peril, it is also lined with the potential for great honor and legacy. Bring magic back to our family, and let it flourish once more."

Froy's thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Aldaron's hooves breaking the dried ground beneath them. The giant elk, his constant and loyal companion, settled down to rest beside Froy, his presence a comforting reminder of home. As he continued to play his music, Froy adjusted his position, turning so he could lay against the elk's large, warm body. The night sky stretched out above them, a vast tapestry of shimmering stars. Froy stared at them, admiring their glow and the patterns they formed. Each constellation told a story, and he took note of their positions, using them for navigation and finding solace in their timeless beauty.

They were the same stars he looked upon the night Skohfjell fell, the night all of Iskaldrik succumbed to the might of the Aetheron Empire. Witchers were the last thing on his mind as he sprinted from the cover of the trees, his heart pounding with fear and determination. He wielded his control over the elements with every ounce of strength he had, summoning gusts of wind, torrents of water, and barriers of earth to try and save his town from complete annihilation. He remembered the enemy, titans the size of mountains, descending from the sky with terrifying power. They obliterated everything in their path, leaving destruction and despair in their wake. The night was filled with the screams of the fallen and the roar of the invaders, but above it all, the stars remained silent and unchanging, bearing witness to the tragedy unfolding below.

He scanned the chaos, desperate to find his father amidst the carnage, but instead, his gaze fell upon his mother at the heart of town. Her expression was a mix of fierce determination and grim acceptance as she gathered the town's finest fighters around her. She never claimed the title of shieldmaiden—she found it amusingly grandiose—but as a former pirate, resolving conflicts with a blade was second nature. When she saw Froy, she enveloped him in a tight embrace, a gesture of affection that brought a moment of solace amid the turmoil.

"Your father is gone," she said softly, her voice steadier than he expected. Though a part of him had feared it, for his father was always one to lead a charge head on, hearing the words made the reality sink in deeper. His father, the fearless Jarl who led with unwavering resolve, was no longer with them. "You must take whoever you can and find safety in the forest," she continued, her tone firm but laced with a mother's love. "We'll hold them off as long as we can."

"No," Froy murmured, shaking his head. He couldn't bear the thought of leaving her alone to face the enemy, not when it meant losing both his parents in one tragic night. His heart clenched with the weight of the decision, torn between duty and the overwhelming urge to protect his family.

She knelt before Froy, her eyes fierce but tender, filled with the love and pride of a mother sending her son into the unknown. She placed her hands on his shoulders, gripping tightly as if to pass on her strength to him.

"My brave boy," she began, her voice steady despite the chaos around them. "In every storm, there's a moment of calm. Find that calm in your heart and let it guide you. Don't let fear anchor you. Sail with the wind, and trust your compass."

She pulled him into a tight embrace, whispering in his ear, "You are my greatest treasure, my son. You must now do what your father and I cannot any longer and protect our people. And no matter what happens, know that I'll always be with you, just look to the stars to show you the way."

He halted his melody, brushing away the tears that blurred his vision, only to discover he wasn't alone. Nestled quietly in Aldaron's fur was young Kåre, his face mostly obscured by tousled brown curls. When Froy ceased playing, Kåre glanced up with a shy smile. "That sounded nice."

Returning the smile, Froy nodded. "Thank you. Want to hear another?" Kåre's eyes brightened with excitement, and he eagerly nodded his agreement. With a flicker of determination, Froy resumed playing, this time a livelier tune that echoed with resilience and hope, a stark contrast to the somber melody that had preceded it.

Like Froy, young Kåre had also lost his parents that fateful night, four days after his seventh birthday. Froy took it upon himself to look after Kåre and the other survivors of Skohfjell as they journeyed towards Nornwatch Keep. With his own parents gone, Froy assumed the mantle of authority as Jarl, meeting with the other Jarls and the King's Hand to chart their best course of action forward. The weight of leadership rested heavily on Froy's shoulders, a responsibility he embraced with determination, knowing that the future of his people depended on his decisions.

However, fate had other plans in store. When the Dark One's forces breached the Tower's walls, Froy was abruptly awoken by the harrowing screams of his people. Despite his careful concealment of his powers from the King and the other Jarls, necessity pushed him to cast aside caution. He gathered what remained of his townspeople, a mere handful now, and conjured a protective barrier of earth to shield them. Standing resolutely outside this makeshift wall of rock, Aldaron by his side, Froy strained against the onslaught of enemy forces. Miraculously, they held their ground, but the toll was immense. The losses suffered were devastating, driving Froy to desperate measures as he fought to sustain their dwindling numbers on the grueling journey towards Lysara and the promise of safety.

He channeled his fire affinity to create warmth amidst the biting cold winds that assailed them, ensuring none succumbed to the freezing temperatures. As an arborist, his connection with nature was profound; he tapped into the lifeblood of withering trees, drawing forth precious water to quench their parched throats on their arduous trek. His mastery over the element of air proved invaluable, purifying toxic fumes that tainted the desolate swamplands they traversed, safeguarding their fragile health.

Throughout their journey, Froy didn't just lead; he lifted spirits with his songs, their melodies weaving a thread of hope through their weary hearts. Dance followed, spontaneous and spirited, a brief respite from the hardships they faced. For the children, including young Kåre, rides atop Aldaron became moments of joy amidst uncertainty, the giant elk's steady gait a soothing balm to their troubled souls.

Yet, he knew he couldn't shoulder this burden alone. Alongside him, a witch with a injured leg, a dreamwalking druid who bridged realms, a pampered prince, a formidable swordswoman whose courage matched her skill, and a friend who had reunited Aldaron with his lost brother — each played a crucial role in guiding him through this uncharted territory, whether they intended to or not.

As the last notes of his song faded into the night, Froy gently lifted the sleeping Kåre into his arms and settled him securely on Aldaron's broad back. With a tender touch, he guided the elk back to camp, navigating through the quiet murmurs of fellow refugees preparing for the imminent challenge ahead. The next few days were a blur of feverish activity as they readied themselves to breach the formidable magical barrier that stood between them and Lysara.

When the fateful day arrived, tension crackled in the air as Olympian witches unleashed torrents of arcane energy upon one side of the barrier, their spells colliding with the counterforce of witchers wielding anti-magic on the other. Froy seized the chaotic moment with decisive action. He swiftly gathered the children onto Aldaron's back, urging the giant elk to charge through the weakening barrier's opening. With deft manipulation of the water still pooled around them, he shaped it into a towering kraken-like figure, its watery limbs embracing more and more refugees, lifting them away from the encroaching Aetheron forces descending from the skies.

Amidst the chaos, Froy's keen eyes spotted Kåre stranded on the wrong side of the barrier. Without hesitation, he dashed towards the boy, sweeping him up in his arms just as the barrier began to collapse. With a surge of elemental power, Froy called upon the winds, propelling himself and Kåre through the diminishing gap mere moments before it sealed shut with a resounding finality.

As they tumbled to safety on the other side, Froy's heart pounded with relief mingled with exhaustion. He cradled Kåre close, whispering reassurances amidst the jubilant cries of the survivors who had made it through. With the barrier behind them and Lysara's shimmering skyline ahead, Froy stood amidst the triumphant yet weary refugees, his resolve unshaken. The weight of leadership settled squarely upon his shoulders, a mantle he had reluctantly accepted but now bore with steely determination. As he looked upon the faces of those he had led through fire and storm, he knew in his heart that their journey was far from over.

His gaze shifted to Aldaron, standing majestically nearby. The giant elk's presence reassured him, a symbol of resilience and loyalty. With a renewed sense of purpose, Froy squared his shoulders and turned towards Lysara, where their future awaited—a future he would shape with unwavering determination and the echoes of his family's legacy guiding his steps.

[alrikhart]

@froyofthe-ironwood location: Hrimthur's Outpost notes: short and sweet, eventual jestie connect

It was so fucking cold here. Alrik sat, wrapped in furs with his bum leg uselessly propped up. He was meant to be grateful but gratitude wasn't something that came washing off of the witch as of late: some people were saying that there was no chance Alessia was still alive. He'd know if she were dead but from here, in the condition he was in, Alrik couldn't help her. He wasn't sure if anyone could, it'd fall on his sister's shoulders to save herself. He could care less about the others.

This uselessness addled his mind worse than the fall, all he could do was try and keep his mind busy. To pass the time some makeshift boards were made to play stones, Alrik didn't have much of a mind for these types of things, but it was better than nothing. "It's noble," Alrik remarked, "coming back here." If Froy wasn't a druid, he might even be jarl, but Iskaran law would have to change before that ever came to pass - assuming there would ever be such a thing as Iskaran law again. "Your move."

[aut-um0]

Atreus climbing hrimthurs wall wip

Ive been working on this for a whole month ;-;