THE UNENDING COLD

[Songwitch 1440]

 

THE UNENDING COLD

Of Winters Barley

 

And then She cast boundless frost;

. . . in her turmoil and rage, she sought.

 

Fraught of malice and cruelty,

. . . and the crimson lector of blood,

She feasted on the pride of Men.

 

The continent stirred with dark machinations of egregious Lords; as the world of Men dominated, it was a squabble of primal queens that sat in their coves and towers, plotting and crafting their stride for power. Slowly, they planned to ruin the world of Men, and so they employed their own creations and devious curses. As they hungered for blood and scourged the lands with frost, they were met by an unexpecting vixen – a snowstorm rushed through the paved roads of Haense for many days-and-nights; the silhouette of a youthful woman passing back and forth becoming prominent, though unsuspecting.

She wandered without food, stoked of water or the warmth of a bedside. Each and everyday, her solemn words passed on through the mortal realm, though either were discarded or scoffed. As messages imparted back and forth between the realm of Men, it eventually caught the disposition of an ignoble Coven; filled by cold-hearted witches and corpse-eaters, they came to know of this mysterious woman as acclaimed kindred – a Fjarriagua. Unlike this mysterious coven of flagitious witches, she was a stray. A dog without a leash, without the penalties of her Mother. In time, she brought forth many titles, claiming herself to be a Mother who was able to spread their idealistic blessing.  They were hesitant and did not have faith in her words, though found inspiration in their mutual hatred for the disgusted goats of Men; as shepherds carving meat in a farm, they came to an accord in substantiating their aggressions and relying on each other.    Circe stared with ice-cold eyes at the three candidates most suitable to ascend into beyond, where thrones of ice were prepared. These three candidates were Undine, Lynera, and Elizabeth. As powerful were her skills in tempting Men into her trap, the Frost Mother offered these three candidates the opportunity to also join her as Mothers, to spread their frosty curse across the world in hopes of damning the spawn of Owyn. Her charms and words eased into the triad of witches, and they agreed to follow behind her; they found themselves at some frosty-heaven.

 

Sosin Hofkiin, the monumental fortress of Circe – it was carved and shaped to match her allure and beauty, though perfectly conceived her coldness and lack of humanity. Her languid, frosty eyes scrutinised her three candidates, and with placid words spoke. “You will find the ilk of Men, and collect for me mansblood and elfsblood.  This will be required for the Dark Sabbath.”   As the task was provided to the formidable witches, they set off in their hunt; it was not a task, but a sport. They hunted from numerous kingdoms and thwarted the bulwark of many fortresses. Finger-nails were stained by the blood of common-peasantry, nobles and knights – they did not compare in beauty nor strength.   On that day, a lesson was learnt: the strongest of Men were unable to defeat the weakest of witches. Clearly, their pride was best suited at their homes and not in the face of battle; it was a hit of reality that shattered lives and tore families that night.   Upon conquering the battlefield and returning to Sosin Hofkiin with the required-corpses, the Mother – Circe – stared with no reclusive emotions. She looked bored, and her phlegmatic tone reflected this. The ternary of witches passed their task and were now prepared to follow into the path of ardour and spirit; to revoke their humanity and become perfected mantles of Brunhylde.   “You will learn first the law of Ice and the canticle of Youth.” And then it went silent . . . and the three awaited.

With a nonchalant wave, an epoch-making altar of ice heaved out of the ground, surrounded by a hurdle of snow and a thousand harvests of winter. It glimmered a luminescent glaucous-blue, and drew from it an image of stupendous power and might. Circe arranged the bounty of these witches – lifeless carcasses of animals (Men) – in a circle, each surrounding the fledgling. The Unholy Sabbath began, as jeers and cacophonous chants bellowed into the lair; the bodies were drained into the altar, a rancorous vibration emitting its gelid structure. A glimmer of blue cascaded at the top of the altar, and then Circe faced the soon-to-be Mothers.    They were ready to ascend.  They were prepared to be reborn anew.   A sharp ice-esque spike appeared in the hand of Circe, and she plunged it deep into her dark, pulsating heart. It turned cold, and the world could feel a painful turmoil wretch over its clouds, resounding a blaring stentorian roar. The triad of witches felt this pain, and before they could react, a blizzard of snow and ice consumed the room.    In the lost cold, a hand outstretched its icey-cast. Undine was the first, and no longer was her skin made of flesh, but was harkened by the whispers of the First.    In the fruitless night, an arm struck through its frozen-grave. Lynera was the second, and no longer did mortal emotions coil her ephemeral mind.    And through the gelid winds, a heap of snow fluttered out of crystalized ice. Elizabeth was the last, and she was no longer a daughter, but now Mother to her own Coven.   And the world of Men could not stop it.

 

Credit: @Werew0lf (Author & Format)

 

Spoiler

The events described here are explicit knowledge exclusively accessible to the Fjarriagua that have interacted with this 'series', please do NOT metagame its contents.

 

[Cally 335]

 

The screams would bellow and betroth to the far Northwest frozen wastes of vast agony as the three witch mothers were invited to their icy thrones. Their crowns, crystalline and polished to the design of Brunhylde. The hags chased against any mortal men who dared to get within a distance they could smell up in the blizzard. A horrid fear would follow them. Lynera set out with her horrible mace of salts, one wrought of a chunk Circe had blessed only her with. A weapon that could damn all men. She birthed three daughters; Kerry-Anne, Kindrel, and Morgana. Sending them out with a grin to perform the worst.

 

And mankind could do nothing to stop her.

[Nowak 876]

"Winter is coming..." Bruce would mutter softly from his office.