“Come, sit ‘round. Scratch flint to tinder, kindle hopeful flames. Listen well, though, through breaking wind and shrieking hunger. Learn to fear the Winter’s appetite.” -Sif, the Liar.
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Immediately they began to feel the effects of the Mark, a portion of their soul rendered frozen,
shifting their body. Eyes turned into an icy blue, their very fingertips turned blue, almost frostbitten-like as their slow-moving blood coursed within.
It takes the Mark time to progress through the entirety of the physical changes, spanning over a Saint’s week in total to finalize the grasp the curse has upon their body. Once the curse has completed its course, they begin to strive for warmth, a warmth that may only be acquired through the consumption of raw flesh or meat, or by sapping the warmth present within a Descendant through physical touch.
Plagued by the visions of the North, they have but one goal; to serve their faith. To serve their kin. While they retain their mortality, having a partially-frozen soul, their emotions too, have grown colder.
The descent into the icy embrace of the Entity ravages not just the body but also the mind. Madness encroaches the boundaries of the Jøkul's psyche.
As they progress through the curse, they can feel their mental health slowly deteriorate, being more prone to depression, loneliness, or even going as far as to purposely isolate themselves from those they used to hold dear, in favor of those who share their cold blood. Their mental health only continues to grow worse in the case of having no Warmth to fuel them, gradually obsessing over it as their ravenous hunger for that Warmth worsens, making them yearn to regain it through external means.
Beings of cold, they are naturally much more susceptible to flames than the mundane Descendant. Deific magics - due to their tainted soul - too, affect them.
Aurum, while not specifically harmful to physically, causes a mental pain like no other; upon being deeply stuck by Aurum, their Warmth begins to leak out, bringing out their horrifying, frostbitten nature, their anger and insanity worsened.
Should the Jøkul die, their soul is sent towards their altar, weeping in anguish as only their kin could hear those cries, tormenting them, as the altar will slowly rebuild their body over the course of an OOC day, allowing them to return to the realm, unable to use any of their magic for the course of [2] OOC days.
“So hold close your coats, and be wary of who you can trust. Winter witches walk light as morning frost, and strike from within or without. Strain your eyes against sunless winters, gripping torches kissed with Prometheus' blessing. Walk with me into Thule, and if you are lucky... flee back out.” -Pytheas
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These feminine figures, forever scarred by the Entity's arctic touch, linger between the realms of the living and the spectral. Their bodies frozen to the bone, holding them in a perpetual state of ageless existence. Their skin turned cold as a corpse itself.
Their visage, once possibly comforting, now presents an eerie façade. Their hair turned white - sometimes even harboring shades of blue and/or grey - and their body looking increasingly frostbitten. Frozen. Whatever was left of their beauty now torn from them, leaving but a haunting spectacle rather than human warmth. Warmth that they may never again attain, as their body has grown too cold to harbor such a thing anymore. Unable to quell their horrendous physical traits through sapping one's Warmth. Although, the sheer addictiveness of raw flesh remains. A compulsion that will always remain within their very mind.
The Fjarriagua endure a torment of the psyche as severe as their physical transformation. The Entity's omnipresent voice echoes incessantly in their minds, its commands as clear and piercing as icicles. As they are inundated with harrowing visions during their communion with the unholy altar, a deep-rooted loathing for all Descendants takes root in their hearts, seeping into their very being like the creeping cold.
Such is the price of their devotion that their minds, caught in this unending frostbite, are perpetually on the edge, teetering towards depression, emotional instability, and even schizophrenia. Yet, amidst the howling storm of their mental turmoil, there's a beacon of solace – their kin. The bonds among the Fjarriagua are woven as tight as winter's bite, radiating a warmth that belies their frost-bound existence. This sense of belonging, of shared fate, provides a fleeting respite, a thaw in their otherwise frost-ridden minds.
Cold as a corpse itself, the eternal Witches of Frost have an innate weakness to fire - similarly to the Jøkul. Flames being capable of melting them like one would melt mere ice.
Aurum, as well, is fully capable of worsening these dark practitioners’ already brittle emotional stability, as it can easily cause one to go insane were it to deeply strike the Fjarriagua. But that is not all, for if they were to be harshly struck with Aurum during their disguise, their skin-suit would no longer be able to hold, revealing the creature in their true form.
Being dark practitioners, all those practicing holy magics - or rather deific-adjacent magics - are also potent with handling a witch.
Should the Fjarriagua die, then their soul is sent towards their altar, weeping in anguish as only their kin could hear those cries, tormenting them. Were the Fjarriagua to die by fire, then she may only be brought back through the Ritual of Resurrection. Otherwise, the altar will slowly rebuild her body over the course of an OOC day, allowing her to return to the realm, unable to use any of her magic besides Swoon and Disguise for [2] OOC days.
“Come, sit ‘round. Scratch flint to tinder, kindle hopeful flames. Listen well, though, through breaking wind and shrieking hunger. Learn to fear the Winter’s appetite.” -Sif, the Liar.
-
An icy soul, for an icy body. These creatures have reached the peak of their ascension, sacrificing their mortality as a whole. Their mind, merged with the Entity itself, no longer becomes theirs alone to control, but rather to serve as its direct vessel, and enact its will upon the realm.
To ascend, is no small feat, for many Fjarriagua could only ever dream of attaining such a position. For they must prove ultimate loyalty within a ritual, ridding of all that made them once a Descendant; their personal keepsakes, heirlooms, their mind and body, and finally, the body of a freshly-slain Descendant that they were once close to, as an offering.
Should the ritual please the horrific being beyond, the altar’s roots will reach out towards the chosen, pulling her in within the very heart of the altar, trapped within its walls as she undergoes the long and arduous transformation that is becoming a Vaettr.
Throughout the span of days, they remain awake as their skin and flesh tear off their bone, to be slowly replaced by Cursed Ice, where they remain conscious throughout the entirety of the process. In horrifying pain, they can do nothing but to watch, their distorted surroundings within the icy walls that is their altar. To witness their body - little by little - replace itself completely with that unnatural ice.
Reborn anew, Vaettr are entirely made up of Cursed Ice, an ice thrice as cold as its mundane counterpart, although much darker in nature. Resilient they have become, the material composing their body rendering them as durable as stone itself, making them each the guardian of their respective coven. Its lifeline.
No longer as Descendants, but an alien-like creature forever bound to the Entity, the Vaettr loses all that attached them to being a Descendant. Incapable of experiencing the full range of emotions that they previously could have, as their movements no longer become human-like in nature. Rather, slightly more puppet-like in manner, as if a statue moving itself.
No longer having blood, Vaettr are immune to all things that require blood circulation, or blood itself. Lacking any form of genus. This also means that shattering one’s limb does not prove lethal as they do not bleed out. Rather, killing them would require a deliberate act, directly aimed towards a vital part of their body.
A mind formed anew, merged from both their own and that of the Entity. No longer can they ever feel true peace, no longer is their mind ever at ease. Experiencing a different set of emotions, ones unlike the typical Descendant’s. Rather, they are plagued with anxiety and paranoia, a worry compelling them to forever tend to their kin, in order to ensure the safe succession of their coven and future generations.
Inheriting an innate, selfless form of care towards their coven, Vaettr have an undying urge to protect them. The slightest hint of harming one of their own is enough to potentially cause her to spiral, burning bridges and even slaughtering those who may pose a threat to one of their own.
Yet, the Vaettr - out of everyone - require the most amount of consolation, regularly needing to interact with one of their own to remain at ease, seeking comfort out of them.
Creatures, they have become. Forsaking all that bound them to Descendancy. Transformed into an icy mimic of their past selves, a mere mimic of the Descendants they once were - although uncanningly so.
Though, through devouring the brain of a Descendant, may they temporarily inherit their motor functions, rendering them capable of feigning normalcy, to further act like the typical Descendant. Only to slowly lose their grasp on it as time passes.
While possessing both the abilities of the Fjarriagua and the Jøkul, the Vaettr possess a unique set of abilities that allow them to better care and protect for their own, serving as the coven’s lifeline.
A most unholy creation, the Altar serves as the Entity’s primary source of influence throughout the realm. A tether to it, pulsating a mere fraction of the frigid cold around it, one that all mortals that dare venture too close can feel within their very bones. Its roots, embedded deep within the ground itself.
A source of empowerment for all of its Followers. Jøkul, Fjarriagua and Vaettr alike may all draw upon its power, to further their goals. As merely existing around it is enough to benefit them all, hasting their very steps, and allowing them to weave their magic at a higher degree, as well as mitigating their exhaustion.
But those who dare venture close to it, are struck by a horrifying chill, one that slows their very movements, armor made brittle, as all those who are not layered properly will quickly succumb to the cold emanating from it.
The altar with its roots deeply embedded within the very ground, shifts the very area around it into its own sanctuary. Acting as its heart - its vessel. Entryways of ice opening up and closing, the very icy walls that compose the lair moving, platforms of ice capable of vertically transporting those who tread on them.
Upon being within the area of influence of an Altar, all Followers feel rejuvenated, capable of healing their wounds by resting nearby for [30] OOC minutes, as well as increasing their Tier to the next so long as they remain within its area of influence. Quelling their mental illnesses, and granting them a heightened form of dexterity. Capable of drawing upon the altar's energy to effortlessly cast magic.
Mortals who tread close to it quickly feel the cold overtake them. Whether wearing proper clothing or not, they will feel its very aura overtaking their senses, making them feel numbed, sluggish. All exposed and under-clothed skin quickly developing frostbite, and their minds overtaken by a deep sense of discomfort, sorrow and anxiety. Should they linger for long, they will just as easily succumb to its harmful effects.
Tier 1: 20x20 Lasts [1] week. Tier 2: 30x30 Lasts [2] weeks. Tier 3: 50x50
An ice thrice as cold as its mundane counterpart, this object is far, far more unholy than what meets the eye upon first seeing it. Its color is extremely dark in hue, sometimes even taking on a blue or even purple tint to it. A horrible, searing pain being brought forth to those who dare make contact with it. Unable to be melted by mundane nor alchemical means, it is the Fjarriagua’s ultimate choice in tools due to its high-carbon steel properties.
A Vaettr may, with the mere touch of her hand, allow her curse to seep into the very ice that she tends to twist, causing a dark, ink-like color to spread through it, fully transforming the object into Cursed Ice. Upon reaching that state, no mundane nor alchemical fires may be able to melt it, instead requiring magical fire (including dragonsflame & fire evocation) to be able to melt it in the span of [3] emotes.
Due to it being a draining task to the Vaettr, she may only create [1] object per OOC day, up to the size of a warhammer, or larger shield, granting it the capabilities of high-carbon steel. Each extra Follower partaking may increase the count of Cursed Ice objects being created, or its size. Anything surpassing something that one may wear on themselves, the durability of it reduces to that of stone.
Any non-Follower attempting to lift anything of Cursed Ice will quickly realize that it is too heavy for them to be able to lift, let alone wield at all, only allowing the Follower to properly use that ice.
Upon striking against a metal, a thin layer of frost would form around the area hit against the object, brittling it, and allowing the next strike to destroy the metal. Whether they strike against a sword, or armor.
Cursed ice - if made around the size to be worn on one’s body - gains the properties of high-carbon steel, reduced to the durability of stone for anything larger, albeit making its production slightly easier due to its decreased durability.
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post is subject to reformatting as i spent over 2 hours reformatting it from the ground up cuz google docs didnt transfer neither formatting nor images
