rogue_3

As soon as he heard the news, Eikthyrnir returned from the Fjal Vetrtonn to the Sami heartlands, in search of the black blade roaming the forests.

Whether it was the machinations of the Ursus or if they had already paid the price for their arrogance, there was only one thing to do. All invaders must be expelled. It was not a matter of responsibility; the land of Sami was the home of the Sami people, and one needs no reason to defend one's home.

But Eikthyrnir could not shake his uneasiness. It was not often that Eikthyrnir felt uneasy. He was not afraid of death, nor of the manifestations of fear that transcended death.

Falling leaves tremble, wilted branches moan, and the wind brings soundless lament. Sami speaks, but Its words are swallowed by new holes.

The fallen animals have no life in their eyes. Black blood convulses from their wounds, forcing its way out of the blood vessels and forming a stream on the muddy ground.

Death becomes more concentrated as the warriors advance deeper into the forest. Streams converge into a river. Wilted leaves and branches obscure the sky above, but the river is filled with reflections of the stars in the sky.

The air is cold and sticky, condensing the mist into a pallid shroud, welcoming the march of death.

The flames that the Snowpriests call up flicker like candles in the wind. At the end of this baleful river, Eikthyrnir verifies the hypothesis he had formed over the past few days.

The shaman of Colddeath is unrecognizable, but rumors from survey teams along the way and the results of numerous fruitless rituals by the Snowpriests point to the same conclusion: She is Santalla, or rather, she was.

The blade's armor is scattered on the ground, surrounded by the black souls of the dead. Santalla put an end to the Demon's Blade at the foot of this great tree, but did not manage to destroy the death that it spread. The warped space no longer obeys the rules of reality. Black rivers slither and arise in the shadows of a new frozen monstrosity. They soon converge into tangible form, and sharp, black ice spikes hurl themselves towards the struggling warriors with impossible trajectories and unbelievable velocity.

Eikthyrnir would not and need not show quarter. This was not the first time he or his fellow warriors executed a fellow Sami that had been taken, or purged the evil that defiled his kinsfolk.

But gradually, the black curtain falls. The dissonance of countless deaths echoes amongst the living, and the warriors fall one by one, like trapped beasts in an arena. All they can manage is to end their lives with what strength they had left, so that what is left of them will not nourish the demons.

As the last warrior falls, Eikthyrnir is left with no choice but to gamble. He attacks the wall of black rivers with all his strength. Eldritch hues leak from the crack, melting into colorful mud that sprays itself around unnaturally, accumulating and floating in the air. He runs until he reaches the frozen monstrosity, plunging his weapon deep into the calamity's physical form in an effort to stop it.

All the demons freeze in place. Eikthyrnir has struck the core. All that was left was to use his Snowpriest powers to fold and seal it, and this demonic mire will not spill beyond the Sami heartlands.

Then, the blade's armor on the ground begins to roll and leap, assembling a form that should not exist, black spear aimed at his back.

There was no time.

Eikthyrnir knew it was over for him. But the battle was not over yet.

Colder than snow, harder than ice. Bone-chilling rime explodes from within the Snowpriest, covering even wilted black wood in a shell of white.

After a few long seconds, there is neither Snowpriest, nor demon, nor life, nor death.