The Angel of Skorvinland

She had always known this day would come. As much as she wanted to deny it, her destiny had been written in the runes, so the only thing left to do was to preserve the will of the gods. Standing on the cusp of a frozen lake, Alvidia Ase stood, waiting for her hunters to seek her out, as she knew they would. The vykren were a relentless people, their hearts and minds as inseparable from their goals as the planets were from the stars. The vykren woman's baggy black robes and flowing hair  as fine as a raven's feathers blew wildly in the harsh winter wind, the dark clouds above unleashing an aggressive flurry of snow that smothered the valley slopes. Opening the brown satchels that she carried on her belt, Alvidia pulled out a hand full of magic dust, sprinkling it finely over a small stick that she had picked up from the forest behind her.
The vykren mystic carefully mouthed out a spell, pronouncing each word of the beautifully crafted prose to invoke the power which she had spent many years in mastering. Within an instant, the dust reacted to these words, freezing together in a solid block of ice, glowing with blue iridescence from the wide grip to the sharp point at the top end. Gazing up at the sky above, Alvidia took one last look at the beauty of the rising sun over the horizon behind her, so intensely magnificent that it stood out like a shining jewel in crown of the hazy winter sky.
The Ice Witch was ready, and not a moment too soon.
Charging down the steep mountainside on the opposite side of the lake, the first wave of vykren Marauders began their assault. Their battle formation came as little surprise to Alvidia, as she had watched her brave kin of all genders train day and night to be beckoned into battle at a moment's notice. The warriors came to a halt at the opposing shoreline, a distance which could easily support three dragons laying end-to-end with room to spare.
Their bodies of the vykren task force were covered with thick leather cuirasses, chain-mail shirts and narrow domed iron helmets were carried with ease on the back of huge, white furred dire wolves. At the front of the attack force, a broad shouldered woman clad in a heavy furs and a thick iron breastplate stood. Even without the determined scowl on her heavy facial features—lacking any obstruction from her short, shaven black hair—the stiffened stance she held her heavily muscled body in was more than enough to carry a strong sense of intimidation. There was no mistaking who this woman was; the famed berserker Hillevi Herathan.
“Alvidia Ase!” the vykren commander bellowed, displaying her physical prowess by holding out her massive great sword in a single hand, pointing it directly at her target. “You have been running from justice for more than three lunar cycles now. How long do you think that you can keep up your cowardly ways and avoid the consequences?”
Alvidia did not respond.
“Do you have nothing to say for yourself, traitor?!” Hillevi yelled through gritted teeth. “Your silence will only damn you further!”
The Frost Witch took a deep breath, keeping herself calm in contrast to her opponent. “There is nothing I can say that will do anything more than fall on deaf ears,” she said in a calm, yet stern manner. “To plead for my innocence would be pointless, as you have long since made up your mind. I have accepted that what is to come is inevitable, so I will not waste any more time on pointless chatter.”
This was something that both the berserker and the magi could both agree on. Wrapping her free hand around the grip of her sword, raising it high into the air, she opened the battle with a mighty war cry that filled the troops with inspiring vigour. First came the ranged attacks; sharp, iron-tipped arrows fired from broad-arched longbows, constructed from only the finest wood and sinew money could buy. With a sweep of her free hand, the hexer changed the direction of the wind, pushing the projectiles harmlessly to the side, none being left to make its mark. Even without this initial attack yielding any successful wounds, the intensely focused warriors carried on.
While the first dozen or so fighters charged forward across the lake, the remainder changed their course, knowing that it would be unwise to test the limitations of the icy path. The strike force further divided itself, between those that continued to unleash their arrows, and those that rode around the circumference of the wide lake, intent on flanking the Ice Witch whom it was their mission to slay. Holding her free palm above her head, Alvidia commanded the winds to blow forwards with all their might, unleashing the full force of the snowstorm straight into the faces of advancing combatants. As much as the Marauders forced themselves to press on, their mounts digging their claws into the solidified water trying to maintain their grip, keeping up their original pace of charge was impossible.
A factor which the tall mystic wasted no time in capitalising on.
Thrusting her frozen weapon forward, Alvidia yelled out an ancient spell, summoning an icicle that she launched at high velocity, straight into the furry hides of the mounted wolves. The huge canines let out a loud yelp of pain, a sound which filled the elemental magi's heart with greater pain than any weapon could hope to inflict. Like every vykren in Skorvinland, wolves were reared  as eternally faithful companions, in the same way that smaller domestic dogs would be in human lands to the south. Not once in her lifetime did Alvidia ever consider how she would end up in a position where killing wolves in battle would be necessary, as the very concept was as atrocious to her as killing one's own comrades would be. Tears streamed down the Ice Witch's cheeks, unable to contain the heavy emotional burden that was swelling up inside her.
For a brief moment, a big question that she had long been avoiding sprang up in her mind; Why? Why her? Why did she have to be chosen for this task, to betray her own kind slay other Vykren just to stay alive? This level of despair was almost enough to convince her to drop her wand all together and surrender her life on the spot.
But when she gazed up to the sky, she witnessed a striking reminder of why she was here to begin with. A snowy owl, thick-bodied with broad wings and a rounded head, its plumage as pure as the winter weather around her. This was not just a bird, this was the avatar of Forlija, the vykren goddess of winter. She had been the one to present Alvidia with the dream induced visions as a girl, all of which told her of the horrors to come. This was the deity who had used her favoured avian animal to lead her to the most unsightly crimes any of her kind could have ever imagined to commit; the murder of dragons. Dragons were not a common site for most vykren. The highest chance most of the civilized races had to witness these mighty creatures would have been the great dragon migrations; massive flights travelling twice a year to the highest mountains, where the isolation from most of civilization proved to be ideal for rearing their young.
Yet over the past decade, the number of Frost Dragons seen in these flights had taken a sharp decline. As Alvidia had blossomed into adulthood, the likelihood of spotting the icy blue coloured scales, broad-rounded wings and sharp, blade-like horns that made the far northern species so distinct had become increasingly scarce. Although these past few cold seasons had been tough times, making hunting difficult and food scarce with the unusual lengths of darkness and extreme low temperatures, a young and naïve vykren woman like Alvidia could never conceive of this being an excuse to use the mighty tarragons as selfish resource. Or at least, that was what she had assumed the purpose was, at first. From everything she had been taught by the elder magic casters in her home village, everything she had learned from the ancient runes, carved by Forlija herself, her people had gone too far.
And then, three years ago to this very day, the Ice Witch discovered the horrible truth. With her own eyes, she had witnessed a magically concealed area of the woods, not far from her own home. What she saw... she cringed just thinking about it. The stench was overwhelming, a force that had hit her like a hurricane the minute she had stepped through the snow covered opening. It was a complete bloodbath, with body parts of slain dragons strung everywhere. Heads severed at the neck, sometimes with parts of their faces missing—broken horns and pierced throats being among the most common of wounds. The skin of the wings and the heavy claws were prime targets for harvesting; ripped straight from their flesh and torn apart to leave the once mighty creatures bleeding to death in the snow.
That was the absolute worst part; the fact that many of the creatures, some still young drakes that had not long ago learned to fly, were alive as they were torn to pieces.  It only took a couple of minutes to understand the methods of this operation. Powerful iron spikes forged from ancient runes kept them in place, leaving no possible hope for the tarragons to escape. The very eldest of Shamans and Rune Bearers who had unanimously expressed just how important dragons were to both the natural ecosystem and the magical stability of the lands, all of them were there. They were not fighting back, they were actually contributing to the eldritch energy that kept all of the greater wyverns in this state of constant agony. The elder mystics were filthy liars, every single one of them—corrupted by their own greed and promise of greater power. But even they were not the masterminds behind this awful crime.
That title belonged to a trio of female dark elven Sorcerers, clad in thick, ashen grey robes that contrasted against their deep violet tone of their skin. Their staves glowed with a magic blacker than the darkest winter nights, so much so that it almost seemed to blot out any light surrounding the mystical energy. This power was present on the hands of the elder vykren spell casters too, enhancing their abilities far beyond their normal limitations.
In spite of her attempts to use her winter magic to conceal herself, there was little that could have prevented Alvidia from getting caught. Grabbed by the hair by a patrolling guard and thrown before the drow sorceresses, what they did next would change the vykren witch's life forever. To this day she could remember the malicious smile on the faces of her captors. All that was needed was for her to be branded with an unholy enchantment. It didn't even matter if the spell lacked any real effects on her, it may as well have done little more than a haircut for all it was worth. However, Alvidia knew the hysteria over a simple accusation of blasphemy would easily be enough for her to be executed. And yet, the lack of time to prepare a full concealing spell ended up working in the Ice Witch's favour. Just on the edge of town, before the elders could even speak a single word in accusation, Alvidia spoke a single power word, cascading the snow that covered the trees onto the guards, giving the woman a window of opportunity she needed to escape into the wild beyond.
In the three cycles of moon since, the vykren devotee to Forlija had lived as a fugitive, welcome to none of her kind any longer, and now facing the inevitable end of her life as she stood fighting against an army of stubbornly ignorant warriors. No one would believe the truth coming from her lips, even if they witnessed fallen warriors rising from the grave as undead draugr. All would continue to blame Alvidia, as their bias dictated. If the Ice Witch had to die, she would go down fighting until her last breath, as was the way of her people. Such were the wishes of her Goddess, so it would be done.
With the white owl landing on a baron tree branch behind her, the deity of winter watching over her chosen subject, the wizard of winter thrust her wand forward. A powerful torrent of magic surged through the water below, shooting up from below the Marauder's feet as incredible spears of ice, skewering the unlucky few to be caught directly in its path. With each vykren warrior that tried to come within striking distance, their arcane adversary shifted the chilling winds once again, using the ensuing blizzards to spread them out. The more who fell to the winter magic, the fewer Alvidia would have to worry about possible hand-to-hand combat. But vykren warriors, even the raging Marauders dispatched to slay the sorceress, were far from stupid. The concealing snowstorm could just as easily be used to their advantage, as it could be to their detriment. Sneaking quietly forward, one woman wielding a two handed axe bided her time.
Oydis Magnhild was a vykren of shorter stature, a noticeable contrast to her towering leader. Black war paint was spread under her eyes and around the line of her cheekbones, a common practice among warriors of her kind, especially those like her who were often hunters in their day-to-day lives. Her heart was pounding in anticipation of her next attack, just the thought of being the one to deal the death blow to a traitor to her people filled her with great pride and excitement. Yet the marauder held her muscles tense, not even allowing her to reveal a smile under the shadow of her thick helm.  She knew that she needed to keep herself under control. Emotions to the vykren were as much a weapon as any blade or bow, a tool to be refined and unleashed at the right moment. Too soon, and her target would have room to evade her assault, possibly giving them an opening to exploit. Too late, and the glory of her kill could be stolen, or worse, the emotional power she put into her strike would fall short, failing to inflict a significant enough wound.
This was the way of a marauder, something which many foes of Oydis' people failed to understand, and something that frequently lead to their ultimate demise. Crouching low, the lightweight fighter allowed herself to be completely shrouded by the blizzard. Through the blinding snow, she could see the hexer dance to-and-fro, intently focused on casting spells at the nearest target to keep them back. Because of this, the arcane induced winter weather gave her no such concealment, lighting her up like a beacon for all to see. One step—a single movement towards Oydis—was all the signal that she needed to unleash her attack.  Leaped up from the frozen ground, the ambushing marauder screamed her war cry at the top of her lungs, swinging down her axe towards the Ice Witch's shoulder with all of her fury and pride.
That scream proved to be the warrior's undoing. Though Oydis had assumed she knew the distance to travel with her attack, the light from the magi's hands had been deceitful, creating an illusion of size greater than in reality. The furious fighters weapon swung down, missing its target completely and instead chopping straight into the thick ice. Startled, Alvidia threw the first spell that came to her head at her attacker; a thick bolt of ice, shooting straight through the combatants throat. The look of furious pride on Oydis face faded away, turning instead to stunned shock as blood gushed from her wound as she fell to the ground, dead within seconds. Caught off guard, the mistress of cold threw bolts of ice left and right, feeding high quantities of magic within each shot, so much so that even missing the target resulted in an explosion of frozen shrapnel.
“Do not dare slow down!” Hillevi yelled in command to her troops, noticing the shock on their faces at the brutality of a comrade's death. “Now you know what happens when you underestimate your foe. Spread out and surround the traitor!” Pulling on the reigns of her canine mount, the hulking commander leaped past many spells that were thrown her way. She was closing in fast on the traitor mystic, knowing full well that it would not be long until Alvidia started to feel the strain of the battle.  
The longer the devotee's magical dance continued, the harder she had to concentrate in order to maintain the force. Her breathing deepened with every assault, only further adding to the soreness that her limbs felt from the frequency of her attacks. The surprising martial feat had done more than just startle Alvidia; it had forced her into an emotional state where she abandoned all pretences of strategy, something that her hunters were quick to capitalise on. The warriors who had kept their mounts alive arrived first, the jaws of the mighty wolves opening wide to expose their vicious teeth with a mighty roar. Opening her palm free, the magi of cold attacked with a twin fold strike, blasting raw magic into the mouth of the a nearby beast and a more focused icicle right between the eyes of its rider.
Seconds later came another attack, swinging down from Alvidia's right hand side, blocked only by a quick spell that froze part of her body in a solid block of ice, acting as the closest thing the hexer had to armour. But this was not enough to stop the momentum of the charge, the consequence of which was the vykren outlaw becoming pinned under the full weight of a pouncing dire wolf. Only now did she get a good look at the face of one of her foes, something which shook her to her very core. This was not just the face of anger, no, there was much more than that. The man's unending stare, the gritted teeth, even the tone of the fighter's furious battle cries revealed the sheer level of hatred and contempt Alvidia's people had for her. She was not just another criminal, she was a threat to the stability of their society.
If only they knew the truth...
Slamming her hand onto the ice, the winter sorceress unleashed the frozen water beside her to spear upwards at just the right angle, skewering both the wolf and its rider in one attack. Rolling out from under her fallen kin, the mistress of the cold jumped to her feet, only to be met by another warrior who's mount had been lost to her magic. Wielding a heavy spiked flail, this attacker swung his weapon around over his head, screaming with the same undying furious anguish that the Frost Witch saw on the man she had just killed. Stepping back carefully, one glance over her shoulder showed Alvidia that at least two others were now approaching her from behind. Turning her body side on, the winter sorceress directed a blast of freezing wind at the flail bearer, smothering his face in a blanket of heavy snow. To the other side, the hexer shot a fresh bolt of ice, landing just shy of the pair on her right.
The advancing fighters grinned, thinking for a moment that the traitor had finally let her guard down. Much to their surprise, the bolt exploded in two, blasting smaller shards of ice into every spot of exposed skin it could reach. Breathing heavily, Alvidia looked forward, ready to face the remainder the ever advancing hunting party. Raising her wand in preparation for the next attack, the devotee of Forlija failed to notice a critically important sight; that of a single arrow, let loose from a marauder at the far back of the force, diving towards her at a speed enhanced by the very wind the spellcaster had just used as a defence. Less than a moment later, the projectile met its target, stabbing into Alvidia's right shoulder.
The arcanist of winter gasped in pain, losing control of a spell mid-cast, the once refined magical essence now exploding into a mass of raw, freezing energy. Though for a brief moment her pursuers dived out of the way to avoid the arcane blast—some unlucky members of the brigade falling straight through patches of broken ice and into the sub-zero lake—they knew that this was a sign of their impending victory. This was the moment that Hillevi had been waiting for. Charging her wolf forward at full speed, the vykren general thrust forward her massive blade, bellowing a roar so loud that several of her own warriors cringed in pain. Distracted from the arrow wound, the Witch of Frost had no time to prepare another spell, taking the full force of the sword straight through her gut.
However powerful Alvidia was with her magical abilities, she was still only one woman against a portion of the vykren army. With the divergent force that took the long way around the lake now riding ever closer to their target, even if she could recover from this grievous wound, the Priestess of Forlija knew that her end was nigh. “Oh great goddess of the cold, northern wind,” the dying magi said quietly in prayer, using the precious minutes left in her life to give thanks to the one who had blessed her with such magical talent. “Please help those that remain open their eyes to the truth, so that my death may not be in vain.”
And as those words passed through her lips, the Witch of Winter fell backwards, the ground stained with the blood gushing from her open wounds. With this final injury now inflicted, Alvidia lay on her back, gazing up at the same bright glow of the rising sun that had fired her passions to embrace her fate.
“Forlija bless me,” the dying magician spoke weakly, expecting those words to be her last. She could already feel her body getting lighter, her spirit ready to ascend to the increasingly intense light giving star above. At long last, her agonising final stand for the truth of her goddess came to an end.
Oh my sweet mortal subject, a loving voice of comfort echoed through the fallen woman's ears. Blessed servant, thine end life will not end this day.
Out from the trees behind her, the sound of a mighty battle horn echoed across the lake, drawing the attention of all those still alive to the new arrivals. A force of light elven spear bearers, led by High Priestess Tilunda Brightborn, charged through the snow and swung their weapons forward, forcing the vykren task force to back away from the bleeding body of their hunted magi. Though her vision was fading fast, Alvidia could see that what she had thought was the sunrise was actually a magnificent elven banner, radiating with a staggering glow of golden magic that reflected off the long pieces of polished plate and mail armour which the slender combatants wore with pride.
Then the central piece of the army stepped forward; Tilunda herself, a magnificently beautiful woman with long, snowy white hair that matched the pristine nature of her thick robes. Her majesty was only rivalled by the exuberant golden staff she carried, topped by a sparkling clear crystal ball. The banner mounted atop the Light Bringer's back was equally luxurious; a striking velvet tapestry that depicted the head of the Lion of Jil'kas, elven goddess of light. With her sharp facial features and wide, sparkling eyes, all who gazed upon Tilunda knew that she commanded authority.
Sweeping her staff from side to side in the air, the elven Light Bringer summoned a beautiful aurora, forcefully separating the black souls of shadowy daemons that would have taken control of all those who had died in battle this day. Leaning forward, Tilunda held her staff over the dying priestess of winter, shrouding her in a cocoon of light to induce a magical sleep of healing. Hillevi gripped her sword tightly, signalled her force to regroup, advancing towards the elves with weapons held close, ready to engage in combat at a moment's notice. The front rank of the kalisian force immediately responded, thrusting their long weapons forward to keep the vykren away from their holy commander.
“Calm yourselves, mighty warriors,” the High Priestess said in a silky smooth voice, no less authoritative in spite of its benign tone. “We are not here for war, at least, not with you in particular. You have been the victims of a great deception, one that the woman you have just brought to the brink of death has been trying to expose.”
“And why exactly should we trust your words?” The berserker responded with a sneer. “With the blessings that you hold, you should know that the traitor whom you now protect is the one to have cursed our society with her fowl magic! She is responsible for all of the death and destruction you see before you. Dozens of my own soldiers, damned to become mindless undead from the spirits that you yourself have demonstrated! We will be claiming the heathen for our own, and it is us who will be the ones to dispense justice, not you! For the glory of Rogvar!” With the name of their war god announced, the vykren task force burst into a flurry of attacks, throwing their weapons around wildly at the light elven spear bearers.
Even with this intense fury, the kalisian force did not budge, instead responding to each hit in kind. Blow after blow hammered down on the slender warriors armour, but the marauder's opponents remained calm and collective, shoving forward their shields with such precision, that much of the energy from the vykren's assault was flipped back onto them, pushing them back and leaving them open for lighting fast spear strikes. Hillevi chopped her massive blade down in two over head strikes, slicing straight through a pair of elven shields, allowing her just enough room to unleash her fury on Tilunda.
The Lightbringer could see the red faced fury of the vykren berserker, easily slipping through each attack, matching the increasing fury with a short spell to infuse her own limbs with arcane energy.  The High Priestess could easily see how her opponent was losing control, allowing  the frustration of being denied this kill to cloud her judgement. Under her breath, Tilunda began a repetitive chant, building up her magic into a concentrated force. With each passing swing, the eldrich power continued to build up inside of the kalisian magi, until at last, she could feel the force welling up inside her.
When Hillevi prepared for her next wide swing, Tilunda slammed the butt of her staff onto the frozen ground, unleashing a flash of brilliance so powerful that it sent the entire vykren force flying back nearly ten feet onto the frozen lake, disarming each and every single one of them. The elven army stepped forward, thrusting their spears forward to pin down those at the front, but stayed their execution at a single hand gesture from the mistress of light.
“I think we have had quite enough of this foolishness for one day,” the Lightbringer announced. “We are all followers of Jil'kas, though she may be known to us under different names. I can assure you that the purpose of our meeting today is not for war, but instead for peace. Look upon the symbol that you have all become cursed with,”
With a wave of her hand, Tilunda revealed that indeed all of the vykren there that day had been branded with a mark, including the unconscious Alvidia. The blackened eye between sharp wings and the shape of a curved as unmistakable in its origin.
“We want exactly the same as you; justice, prosperity and security for all of our kind. If this woman you see before you was truly the culprit, then we would have come to end her life ourselves. So I shall offer you a proposition; join forces with us and seek out those who truly wish to damn you, and can be free from any further curses once and for all. If we fail, then we shall never again interfere with your matters. It will be as if we never even existed in these lands”
With much reluctant grumbling, Hillevi's hunting squad agreed to the Lightbringer's. On the day that Alvidia recovered, a combined force of vykren and light elves following the lead of the Ice Witch tracked down the hiding place of the race traitors who partook in such selfish barbarism. Though the drow sorcerers were powerful, the surprise of two advancing armies, combined with the unionised power of both vykren and kalisian magic, made any retaliation completely redundant. Long after that great day of retribution, many tales of the heroic Priestess of Forlija were passed down, both in writing and oral tradition. The last stand of Alvidia Ase was one of the most well known stories among all of vykren kind. Some would say she was a goddess disguised as a mortal, while others proclaimed that this Witch of Ice had died in battle, only to be reborn through the power of holy light. Whatever version of her story was told, one fact remained consistent; a new title that would invoke images of heroism in the minds of all who heard it.
The Angel of Skorvinland.