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The cold ...
Khyron had never felt such cold. Even in his home of Termalaine in IceWind Dale the winds would never have been able to cut straight through the layers of furs he now wore. But Termalaine was surrounded by a wall that acted as a windbreak, and his home was a sturdy building, constantly warmed by glowing embers. He had no such shelter here, lost somewhere on the Spine.
It was those damn orcs fault. Constantly raiding and warring against his people. It was because of them that he had been forced to take up the life of a warrior instead of being a simple fisherman. And where had that gotten him? Endless patrols through the frozen tundra, with ice caked in his hair and mucus frozen in his nose and eyes.
The latest of these patrols had drawn them far into the mountains of the Spine, tracking a band of orcs. They had traveled too far. They should have turned back. But their leader Hafstrung would not have it. "I want an orc scalp for my wall!" he kept saying as he pushed the men ever onward into the mountains, through the deepening snow.
One day . . . two days . . three days travel and still they had yet to catch the orcs. The tracks they followed were never more than an hour old, but they could not seem to close the distance, no matter how much Hafstrung drove them along.
On the morning of the fourth day Hafstrung had them all up well before the sun saying "Today, today is the day we will finally catch those bastards." Khyron could barely see his hands in front of his face, much less feel them as the biting cold drove the sensation from his extremities. He heard the other men grumbling. None of them were even sure if they were going in the right direction, but Hafstrung was sure of himself and he drove them onwards.
They fell upon the orcs just as the blackness of night began to give way to the cold greys of a dawn hidden by the clouds. They were just breaking camp and preparing to continue their flight when Khyron and his companions rained a volley of arrows down on them. In the muted light, many of the arrows fell far from their marks, but the darkness seemed to hamper the orcs little, if at all.
With a roar the orcs drew their weapons and closed the distance faster than Khyron would have expected. In the initial charge Hafstrung was impaled on the spear of a large orc who had an arrow sticking out of his shoulder. The human fell with his eyes wide in disbelief as his blood stained the ice a deep crimson.
Khyron had no time to dwell on the fact that his leader was now a quivering corpse. Another orc had descended on him and he had barely time to draw his battleaxe before a curved blade came slashing towards his head. He ducked the blow just barely, then brought the haft of his weapon up into the chin of the orc as Khyron recovered from his dodge. Shards of teeth and blood shot out of the orcs mouth as he fell back into the snow unconcious.
Khyron grasped his battleaxe in both hands and raised it high above him as he prepared to deliver the deathblow to the orc at his feet. Before he could let the blow fall though, he caught a glimpse of the battle raging around him. More than half of the men who had marched with him lie dead or dieing in the snow. Those few of the patrol who had managed to survive the inital charge were fleeing.
Khyron lowered his weapon and ran. He had no idea where he was going, but that did not matter. To stay was to die, and he wanted to live. The humans who had been the hunters, now found themselves to be the hunted. In this fugue, it was every man for himself and each man ran his separate way with no thought to help those who fell behind. Panic and self-preservation were their only companion now.
Khyron had no idea where he was as the dull northern daylight began to wane and darkness began to take its place. The sweat that had poured from him in his flight now froze his furs to him. He had no food, no water, no shelter and night was coming. Death was coming. The thought should have drove him onward, but already his thoughts were becoming muddied by the chill of the night that fast approached. Tired beyond belief, he sat with his back against a snow bank and considered his fate as the cold overcame him.
He sat there, barely able to keep his eyes open. Not that it mattered, the grey of the day had turned into pitch black and there was nothing left to be seen. It was not long before the cold began to ebb and he felt a warmth fill him. He knew that the end was near - the warmth that comes before the final freeze was well known in the north and he sunk into that warmth waiting for the end.
But as quickly as the warmth came, it was gone - banished from his body. And the cold which he thought had already pierced him completely returned a hundred times magnified. His scream of pain froze in his throat as a hand emerged from the snowbank behind him and slender fingers wrapped around his throat.
Khyron willed himself to move, but his limbs would not respond. All he could do was twitch slightly as the icy hand closed his windpipe.
Slowly an arm emerged from the snowbank behind him. It was followed by a glittering feminine form covered in snow, with glowing blue-white eyes that captured his gaze and held him spellbound. It was a moment before Khyron realized that this wasn't a woman covered in snow, this woman was made from the snow! Her frozen lips curled into a cruel smile as she watched him sitting there, unable to struggle.
He had never seen anything so beautiful. The lights of her eyes twinkled and danced while the snow and ice that made up the curves of her body sparkled in the darkness. This was She, The Frost Maiden, The Cold Goddess, it could be no other. He had been raised to fear her, to revile her. But now, confronted by her beauty and power, all he could do was worship her and desire to be hers. In that moment his heart froze, and from that day forward her will was his own.
Sensing his complete submission, she withdrew her hand and his pain ceased. The icy figure held out her hand and his weapon, which had fallen forgotten in the snow, rose gently and settled itself in her grip.
Khyron struggled to his knees. The figure did not speak, yet Khyron heard her words nonetheless. "Mortal, you will serve me. You will take Auril's Bite to the people in the valley known to men as Sundren. Go to Geimhredh and grow powerful in My name." As the words entered his mind, a cold blue light surrounded his battleaxe, imbuing it with a sliver of the power of the Goddess.
She leaned forward and pressed her lips to his forehead. To call it a kiss would be presumptuos, but Khyron could think of it in no other way. At her touch, the sensation of cold changed from painful to almost pleasant. The color drained from his dark hair and his eyes changed from there original deep brown to an icy blue. Suddenly he could see Geimhredh in his mind and he knew the secret paths that would lead him there.
The figure pulled away and left his now blessed battleaxe in the snow at his knees. A cold wind rose and the flakes that made up the icy form evaporated into the wind. Only her eyes remaining for a split second longer, glowing brilliantly before fading from his vision. Khyron struggled to his feet and reached out to the rapidly dissolving form, but it had ceased to be before he had taken a step, leaving him blind in the dark.
Khyron retrieved his weapon from the snow and set out immediately. His eyes could not see but his feet knew the way, and his Goddess would brook no delays.
Khyron had never felt such cold. Even in his home of Termalaine in IceWind Dale the winds would never have been able to cut straight through the layers of furs he now wore. But Termalaine was surrounded by a wall that acted as a windbreak, and his home was a sturdy building, constantly warmed by glowing embers. He had no such shelter here, lost somewhere on the Spine.
It was those damn orcs fault. Constantly raiding and warring against his people. It was because of them that he had been forced to take up the life of a warrior instead of being a simple fisherman. And where had that gotten him? Endless patrols through the frozen tundra, with ice caked in his hair and mucus frozen in his nose and eyes.
The latest of these patrols had drawn them far into the mountains of the Spine, tracking a band of orcs. They had traveled too far. They should have turned back. But their leader Hafstrung would not have it. "I want an orc scalp for my wall!" he kept saying as he pushed the men ever onward into the mountains, through the deepening snow.
One day . . . two days . . three days travel and still they had yet to catch the orcs. The tracks they followed were never more than an hour old, but they could not seem to close the distance, no matter how much Hafstrung drove them along.
On the morning of the fourth day Hafstrung had them all up well before the sun saying "Today, today is the day we will finally catch those bastards." Khyron could barely see his hands in front of his face, much less feel them as the biting cold drove the sensation from his extremities. He heard the other men grumbling. None of them were even sure if they were going in the right direction, but Hafstrung was sure of himself and he drove them onwards.
They fell upon the orcs just as the blackness of night began to give way to the cold greys of a dawn hidden by the clouds. They were just breaking camp and preparing to continue their flight when Khyron and his companions rained a volley of arrows down on them. In the muted light, many of the arrows fell far from their marks, but the darkness seemed to hamper the orcs little, if at all.
With a roar the orcs drew their weapons and closed the distance faster than Khyron would have expected. In the initial charge Hafstrung was impaled on the spear of a large orc who had an arrow sticking out of his shoulder. The human fell with his eyes wide in disbelief as his blood stained the ice a deep crimson.
Khyron had no time to dwell on the fact that his leader was now a quivering corpse. Another orc had descended on him and he had barely time to draw his battleaxe before a curved blade came slashing towards his head. He ducked the blow just barely, then brought the haft of his weapon up into the chin of the orc as Khyron recovered from his dodge. Shards of teeth and blood shot out of the orcs mouth as he fell back into the snow unconcious.
Khyron grasped his battleaxe in both hands and raised it high above him as he prepared to deliver the deathblow to the orc at his feet. Before he could let the blow fall though, he caught a glimpse of the battle raging around him. More than half of the men who had marched with him lie dead or dieing in the snow. Those few of the patrol who had managed to survive the inital charge were fleeing.
Khyron lowered his weapon and ran. He had no idea where he was going, but that did not matter. To stay was to die, and he wanted to live. The humans who had been the hunters, now found themselves to be the hunted. In this fugue, it was every man for himself and each man ran his separate way with no thought to help those who fell behind. Panic and self-preservation were their only companion now.
Khyron had no idea where he was as the dull northern daylight began to wane and darkness began to take its place. The sweat that had poured from him in his flight now froze his furs to him. He had no food, no water, no shelter and night was coming. Death was coming. The thought should have drove him onward, but already his thoughts were becoming muddied by the chill of the night that fast approached. Tired beyond belief, he sat with his back against a snow bank and considered his fate as the cold overcame him.
He sat there, barely able to keep his eyes open. Not that it mattered, the grey of the day had turned into pitch black and there was nothing left to be seen. It was not long before the cold began to ebb and he felt a warmth fill him. He knew that the end was near - the warmth that comes before the final freeze was well known in the north and he sunk into that warmth waiting for the end.
But as quickly as the warmth came, it was gone - banished from his body. And the cold which he thought had already pierced him completely returned a hundred times magnified. His scream of pain froze in his throat as a hand emerged from the snowbank behind him and slender fingers wrapped around his throat.
Khyron willed himself to move, but his limbs would not respond. All he could do was twitch slightly as the icy hand closed his windpipe.
Slowly an arm emerged from the snowbank behind him. It was followed by a glittering feminine form covered in snow, with glowing blue-white eyes that captured his gaze and held him spellbound. It was a moment before Khyron realized that this wasn't a woman covered in snow, this woman was made from the snow! Her frozen lips curled into a cruel smile as she watched him sitting there, unable to struggle.
He had never seen anything so beautiful. The lights of her eyes twinkled and danced while the snow and ice that made up the curves of her body sparkled in the darkness. This was She, The Frost Maiden, The Cold Goddess, it could be no other. He had been raised to fear her, to revile her. But now, confronted by her beauty and power, all he could do was worship her and desire to be hers. In that moment his heart froze, and from that day forward her will was his own.
Sensing his complete submission, she withdrew her hand and his pain ceased. The icy figure held out her hand and his weapon, which had fallen forgotten in the snow, rose gently and settled itself in her grip.
Khyron struggled to his knees. The figure did not speak, yet Khyron heard her words nonetheless. "Mortal, you will serve me. You will take Auril's Bite to the people in the valley known to men as Sundren. Go to Geimhredh and grow powerful in My name." As the words entered his mind, a cold blue light surrounded his battleaxe, imbuing it with a sliver of the power of the Goddess.
She leaned forward and pressed her lips to his forehead. To call it a kiss would be presumptuos, but Khyron could think of it in no other way. At her touch, the sensation of cold changed from painful to almost pleasant. The color drained from his dark hair and his eyes changed from there original deep brown to an icy blue. Suddenly he could see Geimhredh in his mind and he knew the secret paths that would lead him there.
The figure pulled away and left his now blessed battleaxe in the snow at his knees. A cold wind rose and the flakes that made up the icy form evaporated into the wind. Only her eyes remaining for a split second longer, glowing brilliantly before fading from his vision. Khyron struggled to his feet and reached out to the rapidly dissolving form, but it had ceased to be before he had taken a step, leaving him blind in the dark.
Khyron retrieved his weapon from the snow and set out immediately. His eyes could not see but his feet knew the way, and his Goddess would brook no delays.