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 The courting of Stormscream

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Yrjial Stormscream




Number of posts : 41
Registration date : 2008-06-13

The courting of Stormscream Empty
PostSubject: The courting of Stormscream   The courting of Stormscream EmptyFri Jun 13, 2008 6:44 pm

((This is a small piece I did when I was creating Yrjial's cultural background. I tend to go overboard in Fluff, and I was new to the world. So I made my own little haven of creation in Northrend. Don't worry this will all be dead and gone when the expansion comes out. This happens some years back, approx five years form current in-game time...before Yrjial came to Kalimdor. The italics are a fictional super-suish convo. I apologize in advance.))


Part I


…“So you had many suitors at home?” “Yes, I belive so, even though I never found a mate in one of them.” “If I am allowed to say so, Sigyn, he who earns you favor in the end will be a lucky man .” “Thank you, Warchief, I’ll be sure to tell him that when the time comes.” “*chuckle* More drinks, Sigyn?” “Please.”…


Three years earlyer...

A cold laughter echoed of the stone walls of the Mjoll hold, the blazing fire casting a gold light over the room where Sigyn Stormscream sat in her chambers, leand back in her ornate seat, eyeing her Haldir with a smug grin.
“He dares? I hope he didn’t actually belive I would accept.” She said, her voice cold and hard, arrogant even. She tited her head, throwing her mane of white hair over her shoulder, looking from her crouched servant to the window, eyeing the neverending winterlands outside, far beyond the walls of the city of Isar’Anok. “Tell him he is refused on the bases of him being an unworthy challenge, and does not have command of an army recognizable by the Winterspyte.” Her voice was cold, but a little amused, like she somewhat was enjoying this.
The man crouched on the floor, shot a look at her, then looked back down, knowing the punishment he’d face if he was seen looking at her. “If I may, Sigyn Stormscream, I would advise for you to give the challenge a thought. We could use a treaty with the Icetusks, and Jhero is a worthy warrior…”
Her smile faded lighty, but the malice was still in the voice as she spoke ; “His tribe is dying, we gain nothing from him and he cannot even present a gift. Send him away, now. I don’t want him here anymore.”
Tothro Frostblood, Haldir of the Sigyn, highest of slaves, stood up, bowing low and muttered a sound ‘As you wish.’ as he backed out of the room, leaving the future queen to her own company.
She was young, some twenty winters maybe, with a mass of white hair and large blue eyes. Her face was sharp and feminine with high cheekbones and high, arced brows. Her ears were small and her nose as well, giving her a smooth profile. She was wearing a well made underarmour, white leather and silk, woven finely and brocaded with silver and fine mithrill lacings. Her feet were covered in small shoes of white leather and she wore slack pants of the same. Her arms were bare and her neckline low so her massive ceremonial art-like scarring showed and she carried ornate bracelets and pendants. On her head a periapt was placed, silver with a Ae stone, bright blue in colour.
This was the Sigyn Winterspyte, one of the most feared and powerful women of Northrend. Unwed, unwoo'd, unloving, a fierce warrior and a born leader, raised to become the greatest of her line. In her the two highest finally met, the chiftian and the wyrmhunter united in her. And she sure knew it. She was cold, arrogant, vain, uncaring, and to add upon, she was the unbeatable one, worshipped by her people.
And she had no plans to leave this life of warfare and luxury.

“…He brought us the head of Keler’s son, immobilized the Tuskarr troops. I’d say that was a good gift.” “That doesn’t change the fact hat he’s an Icetusk.” “My Hildur, he’s a fine man and with him we have the whole lands all to the south Icewind Lake without a thought.” “Send the Sigyn after it, she’ll claim it for you in twice less time!” The Hildur of Winterspytes hissed at her advisor.
Jilah Wyrmfire, wife to Yrrul Bloodflight, Hildur of Winterspytes and the last of Wyrmhunters was a tall, proud looking woman with the complexion of pearlish white. Her eyes were sharp, the eyes of a skilled hunter and a ruthless fighter. She threw up her hands and stalked to the window, leaning onto ther palms. “Aside, there will be no turning back. She sent him off, the challenged been refused.”
“Actually…” a sound voice cut in. In the doorway stood Tothro Frostblood, bowed to the ground. “I have yet to tell the Icetusk youth of the Sigyn’s refusal…”
A sly smirk crossed the Hildur’s face as she tilted her head. It was clear to see from where her daughter learnt the gesture. “Always my daugher’s last line of thought, Tothro?” She asked eyeing the young man, who fell to his knees, bowing into the dust. “I thought it would please the Hildur to talk to the Sigyn before the decicion is final.” He said soundly. The advisor frowned, the young Haldir was disliked by many for his sharp wits and smooth way of words, but the Hildur seemed fairly pleased.
“Go, Frostblood, tell my daughter she will dine with me tonight.”


..“My father sends his regards, but current situations keep him occupied at home.” “Very understandable, given the circumstances. I would have though he’d send your brother though. He is older, is he not?” “Yes, about seven winters, but he’s not entwined into the tribal politics.” “Really now? That makes you…” “The future Hildur of Winterspytes, yes.” “I see. I hope I did not insult you, Sigyn, but I didn’t know.” “It’s a honest mistake, after all, here it’s not usual for the younger daughter to be the heir.” “That is true...what does your brother do then, if not entwined itno the family politics?” “…Ryrn is a very special man…”



The Sigyn was in her chambers, sitting on the windowsill with her feet tucked under her. Far below the window of the keep, that was built into the high walls of the mountains that peered from under the glacier, she saw the Icetusk honour guard saddle up. Her face didn’t change, even though she felt a tingle of possible doubt in her mind. But then, she had no plans on marying, no plans at all. She had other things, she had her wyrmhunting, her war waging, her fighting, training.
Men, hah!
Her father went on and on about the political value of her marriage, that they should find her a mate and she should issue a challenge, get it over with and start the building up the tribe needed now in this delicate times. The Sleeper King was awake and his ambassador came to talk to the Hilmir. For a dead man, he sure looked at her close enough…
Then it happened, the wind. She knew that wind by heart. It danced up the walls and millions of tiny ice crystals kissed her face and arms, leaving small drop sof water on her as she jumped from the windowsill, face wide with joy. It was a rare look on the Sigyn, a face she stopped showing in early childhood and was reserved only for one man alone.
In one quick movement, she crossed the room the moment the door wsa thrown open and she jumped at him, hugging him close, inhailing the fresh scent of cold and rain in mix with the warmth from his wolfs.
“Welcome home brother,” She said, burying her face in his thick fur cape. He was a large man, in his late twenties, and like most of his tribe had snow white hair and pale complexion, straight standing, large like a bear and tall enough to dwarf his sistr in comparison. Ryrn Moonhowl, wolfwalker and Sigurd of the Winterspytes, oldest child of the royal couple was a well looking young man, under a heavy white beard and thick wolfhide he carried as a cape.
“Little sister, you have grown.” He said, lifting the Sigyn up like she was a mere doll in his arms. After a while he gently lowered her to the floor, smiling softly. “As much as I’d like to sit and listen to all the stories you have to offer, I can’t.” She nodded, looking to the floor. “I know. You never come without a purpose.” She said soundly, and he nodded at her, placing his hands on her shoulders.
“Yrjial, you’re a woman now, young, yes, but you can’t go on running wild. Yes, I know you love the hunt, but it is time. I came to tell you that you are to fight Jhero Icetusk. If you will not, you will never become what you can be.”
Shaking her head, Sigyn Winterspyte turned away, heading to the window again, glairing at the wolfsleighs down below. “You mean I should willingly loose for him? I will never do that.” Her voice was laced with anger, and her arrogant pride shone though her blue eyes as she whirled around, eyeing her brother with unspoken fury. “Fourty seven challenges and I am still undefeated. Fourty seven sons of chiftains, warheroes, vagabounds, kings and clowns. I have beaten them all, and I have their scalps to proove it! I will not loose to some Icetusk outcast! I am Yrjial Storrmscream, not some volundi child!” The wolfwalker calmly shook his head, taking a step closer. “I never told you to loose. I told you to fight him.” He said calmly, eyeing his sister with a levelling look
A hard silence followed, and she looked ot the floor. “I don’t want to. I don’t care about this all...” “I know, but you must set Yrjial aside. You are the Sigyn, and the welfare of your people comes first.”
She growled to herself. She didn’t care. Why would she? The concil would do her bidding in all she chose, and they could handle the people. Why should she even bother with the lives of the small folks who busied on like ants in a hole, the lot of them, and loved and worshipped her anyway for giving the bloodgames when she killed a suiter after another?
Her Darkbloods and her dire frostwolf was all she wanted, her loyal band of warriors and her armour, her weapon. The dragonhunt. The war.
And she was the Sigyn. Her will was law.
“Fight him, or it will be the end of our line.” A dark voice cut in behind her, demanding, heavy, echoing off the walls. She was ripped from her thoughts, a cold feeling burying itself in her chest suddenly, freezing off the anger inside. This voice, this was not her brother, she knew, it was the wolfwalker, the only Winterspyte outside law and order, the sage, the all knowing…
And as much as she hated to admit, she, like every other Winterspyte was afraid to disobey him…
He stood there, powerful, imposing, his eyes burning bright with the wilderness he trailed everyday, and the room was darker then before. The strange wind around him seemed to grow, moving his cape around his feet and snow gathered in invisible steps around him. “Do this, Yrjial, or the line of wyrmhunters shall be lost.”
She faced him fully, looking him in the eye, and the anger blazed in them, the pride, selfishness and arrocance that had placed it’s mark on her, but the fear was greater. “Then I shall fight him.” She said with a sneer. “And I’ll kill him, like the fourty seven that came before him.”
Slowly, the darkness melted of him, and Ryrn merely nodded, a small sad smile crossig his face as he leaned down to kiss her forhead. "I will always give you the wind, little sister, he will be with you always, I promise." He said as he turned away walking to the door.
"Goodbye, Yrjial." He whispered as he walked out, closing the door soundly behind him, leaving his sister alone again, standing on the middle of the floor in her silent chamber, eyeing her large array of weapons.
A second later there was knock on the door, and Tothro Frostblood peered in, kneeling down when he saw her sanding there, brow furrowed in thought. He hid his face from her as he spoke, fearing he would enanger her by his words.
“My Sigyn, your mother…” “Yes, tell her that I’ll fight Jhero Icetusk at noon in two days time. Ready my wolf and call the Darkbloods, we will ride in one bells time.” She said easily, still staning on the floor like a elegant statue of alabaster.
Tothro Frostblood was a smart man, so he merely nodded, backed out and closed the door without any elaboration on the matter.


“I have heard that your tribe is a hard one, you are fierce, my men in Northrend have said.” “Yes, there’s little room for leniency up there, and tribal wars are common. We tend to take care of competiton, if I can say so.” “Yes, I myself do not agree on such tactics, but in some examples…” “If you acted like that, there would be much destruction, but the problem would be over…given that the Alliance is the greatest of your concerns at the moment.” “Actually there is somethine else, and I wanted to ask for your tribes aid.” “ I’m listening…”


Jhero Icetusk was a handsome man, tall and strongly built with thick dark blue hair. His skin was darker then the pale Winterspyte colour, given the southener places he came from, on the other side of Icemist Lake. The Icetusks were the third largest troll tribe in Northrens after the Drakkari and the Winterspytes, proud and rather peaceful, givent the fact that ‘peaceful’ in the northen lands meant that they did not needlessly attack and massacre other tribes.
He was richly dressed, armed and armored in leather and mail, with sharp violet eyes and strong hands, and he did draw attraction from the passing by where he sat inside the walls of the hold in his makeshift camp that had been provided to his flock. He sat in a large half-loop chair, his cape flowing around his feet as he rested his chin in his palm. The wait was horrid. He knew that too much depended on this battle, and should she refuse his tribe had only one way to get what they wanted ; War.
And war with the Winterspytes was not somehting the Icetusks could stand in a the moment. He knew though that the perfect way to get to the core of the tribe was to kill their flagship, flame and godess, the all loved Sigyn Stormscream, the woman he was courting at this very moment.
The woman who unknowingly was inches away from ghosty death should her Haldir return with a refusal. Jhero Icetusk was a honorable man, but he was ready to break every word and loose his own honour to save his people. And it that ment assassinating the warleader of the Winterspytes, he would do so.
He wondered how she looked, never hacing seen her face to face, only over the bloody haze of the battlefield, covered in heavy plates mounted on her wolf, but his father told him she was as beautiful as the first sun of summer. A glimmer of gold after a black winter, but like the first ray of sun, she was hard and blinding. Jhero knew fully well what happened ot those who came before him, and had spent his days trying to learn as much about her as he could…
Advntages would be good…
He was pulled form his thought as a young man came though the door, a Winterspyte, white haired and pale, the typr you knew was faster then he looked and sharper then you thougth and should be treated like an unknown size, never underrestimated.
“I bear words from the Sigyn Stomscream.” He started, tilting his head so the strange black mark was visible, a ring with a thick black line though it that was burnt into his neck was visible. The mark of the Haldir, highest of slaves.
Jhero looked up, and the man, whom he knew to be Tothro Frostblood, looked to the floor, not making eyecontact. Jhero straightened his back, nodding at the Haldir to continue. Frostblood smiled coldly before continuing. “After careful consideration, the Sigyn has decided to accept your challenge and placed the time of the duel at noon in two days time.”
Jhero had to bite his lip to keep himself from smiling broadly at this.
“Secondly, the Hilmir Yrrul Bloodflight has asked for your presence tonight, in the Mjoll hold, to discuss your standing to the Sleeper King. Shall I tell him you will be there?”
Jhero nodded, before asking; “And the Sigyn will be there?”
Tothro Frostblood looked up for only one second, meeting violet eyes with his frost blue, and grinned slighty, then spoke smugly into the ground as she turned away to exit the tent. “The Sigyn rides with her Darkbloods tonight, but she might be back in time for you to see her…”
And with that, he was gone.
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Yrjial Stormscream




Number of posts : 41
Registration date : 2008-06-13

The courting of Stormscream Empty
PostSubject: Re: The courting of Stormscream   The courting of Stormscream EmptyFri Jun 13, 2008 6:45 pm

“I have heard that your lands are of great beauty, and your city to be majestic.” “Isar’Anok, the winter city, is rather impressive, yes, but it’s only due to the surroundings.” “Built into the hillside of the mountains under the glacier, correct?” “Correct.” “And the hold? Mjall…?” “Mjoll, one of our words for snow. ‘The white keep’ would be a proper translation…” “Yes, I have heard it is a valurous place.” “Perhaps you’ll see for yourself one day. I would be honored to have you at my table.” “I might come there to drink to your wedding, Sigyn…”

The great hall in the Mjoll hold was long and high, spacious with no windows and large woven tapestries showing whitehaired trolls slaying dragons, lead by a woman with a spear, and masses of warriors, lead by a man with a large sword. The chiftain and the wyrmslayer, the two icons of the Winterspyte tribe. Long tables stood on the floor and on a higher stall stood the high table, lined with the seats of the royal familly and their guest. In the innermost part was a large seat of stone, the Hilmir’s throne, then a white one made of dragonbones, the high seat of the Wyrmslayer, his wife, to the left the carved metal seat of the Sigyn, decorated with furs and scalps of former suitors. Fires rored in large blaziers, the smoke slithering into large opening above them, and the tables were laden with food. Next to the chiftain sat Jhero Icetusk, trying not to look too impressed by the massive hall, and on the tables below sat both his men and the Winterpyte Tyars, fighters and warheroes, eating drinking, compairing stories with gusto.
Jhero Icetusk, strangely enough, felt at ease. The Hildur had a cold attitude, but the Hilmir was a man worthy of any praise. He was large man, straight with massive white beard, large, sharp eyes and a broad face with sharp features. He reminded Jhero of a frostbear, large and strong, much like his son.
Jhero and his men had once come across the wolfwalker, where he aimlessly drifted though the lands, followed by his pack. He was a frightening sight, and something about him made even a group of strong fighters feel at unease when he had leaned onto his staff and smiled his strange, knowing smile, telling Jhero that he was to be the man who would change the Sigyn’s fate…
The Sigyn, Yrjial was her name, and they called her Stormscream. He knew why, he had heard her voice thundering over the mightiest storms, over the chaos of battle, and it was glorious. The Winterspytes said she was the only creature who could outshout the dragons. They belived her to be almost godlike, that she gave them strenght in battle.
Jhero knew it was good to have a being like that in the front of your troops.
He knew it was even better to carry the head of such a being in his belt on his way to war.
Hilmir Yrrul Bloodflight would talk, raise his tost to his guests and lighty discuss politics. Jhero had the feeling the older man was either planning a political takeover or grooming him for suggestions. Every now and then, Jhero would look over the hall, eyeing his men and the Winterspytes and smile. This was hopefully how it would be after the battle. The hall was filled with loud chatter, laughter and metal clinging, the sound of men having fun, when suddenly the door was kicked open with the clap of a thunder, and everything fell still.
As the walked in, the hall grew as silent as a tomb, no sound but he fire and the hard plate in their boots clinging on stone floors, echoing of the walls. He knew those men, those were the Darkbloods, the Sigyn’s riders, battlehardened men and women who knew no mercy. They wore heavy plates, carrying large, black wolfcoats as capes, and their hair was decorated wit bones and black beads. Their heavy guantlest were dark with blood, their eyes cold and hard. In front of them stood Tothro Frostblood, dressed the same, but wearing a fine tabard of black with the cloven circle on front, a sly smile on his lips. There was something about him Jhero just didn’t like.
And in front, she stood.
She wore a heavy cape of white wolfs fur, her free flowing hair was adornedwith black feathers of carrion birds and upon her head was a mithrill crown. In her hand was a lage spear, red and bloody, and she wore a fine ornamental plate, the front cared to show the totem of a dragon. Her white hair was tainted with blood that had frozen in the cold, making her appear to have thick locks of red, and her face was stained with crimson pearls on her cheek and jaw.
She was beautiful. Everything his father had promised.
Everything was silent.
They stood there, eyeing the crowd, and for one moment her silver eyes landed on Jhero. Eyes like those could freeze even the warmest of hearts. But then, she smiled, a large smile of strange coldness and slight sadism as she threw her spear back for her Haldir to catch and roared ; “Drink up, Winterspytes!” And was greeted with a tremendous hail of joy from the Tyars. Servants rushed to her, taking off her cape and handing her drinks and meat as she stalked grinning though the hall, followed by her Haldir, while the Darkbloods joined their mates at the low tables.
“Yrjial! My daughter! Welcome to the table!” Yrrul thundered with a large smile, pulling his daughter into a bear hug before she took her seat in the metal throne, sending Jhero a levelling look as the Haldir silently sat down at her feet. Like a dog Jhero thought. “Yrjial, meet Jhero Icetusk, the youngster who so boldly has courted you.” Hildur Jilah said, a touch of more leniency in her othervise hard voice then Jhero had heard before. Jhero nodded to the newcomer, offering his hand, which she took and almost crushed in her metal grip, grasping his shoulder with her other hand. “My honor, Sigyn Stormscream.” He said, and she nodded, grining at him. He wou dlhave been lying if he said there wasn’t anything unsettling about that smile. “Your honour, indeed, Jhero Icetusk, but now lets eat!” She said, finishing with a roar and a toast that filled the hall.
The men roared in repsonse.
Jhero finally understood why the Winterpyted belived her to be near divine.


“I hear you still hold slaves.” “We do, have since we can remember. They came with us when we left the hidden lands and travelled north in the acient times.” “Personally I’m against slavery…” “And our society would not work without them.” “I see. You have personal slaves?” “Only one. The hold has maids, the slaves are mainly for the lower work, and are not allowed inside the walls.” “One?” “Yes, he’s know as Haldir, ‘keeper’ or ‘holder’. He’s the highest of slaves. He’s my right hand, personal servant, my most valuable property.” “Is he with you here in Durotar?” “…no. He’s still at home at my request…”

Night had fallen. Outside the window the stars shone high above, looking like frozen cristals in the slaughtering cold. Strange long bows of green, white and purple danced amongst them. Old tales said that the northen lights were actually women who had died unwed. They still dance and celebrate freedom high in the sky, moving their frail and slender bodies amongst the stars…
Sigyn Stormscream was awake, sitting at the window, eyeing the vast lands like she so often did. All hers, as long as she could see, all the lands and all the animals roaming, it did belong to her. On the floor at her side kneeled the Haldir, his head resting on the chair. He seemed to be half alseep, his sharp eyes closed and his breathing deep as he occationally reached out to throw his long braid back over his shoulder.
She wondered about the fight, it was to be tommorrow. Her father had not wanted to delay and she really didn’t care. Icetusk was a good man, she could tell, but she didn’t think too highly of him anyhow. What a utter waiste of time this would be, to actually have to fight him.
Ryrn’s words made their way from her memory and into ther thoughts, and she wondered…for a slight moment she doubted. Was there a possibility? Could he actually perhaps win? Was she not unbeateable?
“…he has no chance, my Sigyn, and if I’m allowed to speak openly, I can’t see why you’re actually delaying your thoughts on this…” A mumble came from the same height as her knees, where Tothro Frosrblood had cracked open his eyes and was eyeing the wall with great determinadtion. After all, he wasn’t allowed to look at her, so when talking to her he’d either look at the ground or the nearest spot in front of him.
Yrjial smirked coldly, letting her hand run over the slaves head before she stood up from her seat, leaving him on the floor next to her chair. “Ryrn came here, said we were ment to fight.” She muttered as she started to pull off her bracelets and small metal headbands she wore, placing them on a small table in the room. The Haldir slid over the floor, pulling a small string that hung on wall next to the door. “The wolfwalker is always true, but then, the reason might not be your future...” he hesitated sligthy, shooting a look to the floor before finally muttering ; “well, future marriage…”
She nodded as the maids scurried in, moving to her and started working on her hair and clothing, getting her ready for the night. The six hands working on her attire did not seem to disrupt her routine. “I wondered about that as well…but how the Icetusks could matter to the Winterspytes in the long run is a mistery…” She said, moving around the room aimlessly and the maids followed, pulling off her clothing, braiding her hair, massaging her hands. Tothro kept his eyes on the floor the whole time, standing on the other side of her bed.
He was silent, always had been, voice nothing more then a deep murmur of whispers, he was still as well, waiting for the maids to leave, for her to pull her thick comforter over herself, then first he did move, pulling the heavy shutters over the windows and then moving to his own sleeping place, next to her bed. “You’ll beat him Sigyn, and in the same give your people a good show, make them love you more…” He whispered, and was answered by a soft murmur of ageement before she fell alseep, calm and secure in her own home.
Second passed, the room silent aside fro the occational deep breath of the Sigyn, where she slept in her silk gown, hair braided on her white bed, in he finest linen. Tothro Frostblood was awake, eyes shining in the dark, keen ears listening to her breathe somewhere in the bed above him.
Slowly he stood up, walking around the room, checking the window, then the door. He trailed a finger after her armour, making sure every strap was in perfect shape, touched the head of her spear, seeing if it was sharp enough. He layed out her best underarmour, her headpiece, her jewelry…
Finally he returned to the bed, stopping slightly, eyeing the floor for some moments, before slowly moving his silver eyes after the foot of the bed, up the covers and onto her face. He was expressionless as he reached forwards, pulling the covers tighter around her, brushing a lock of hair from her face.
Then he layed down, pulling off his clothing and reaching for his blanket.
Tomorrow was yet far away.
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Yrjial Stormscream




Number of posts : 41
Registration date : 2008-06-13

The courting of Stormscream Empty
PostSubject: Re: The courting of Stormscream   The courting of Stormscream EmptyFri Jun 13, 2008 6:46 pm

Part II

“…they are complicated, but yet very simple.” “One only has to win?” “Yes, but then he’ll never get the chance to fight of not fulfilling the criteria.” “Have you challeneged anyone, if I might ask?” “I’m unmarried. Does that answer your question?” “I suppose it does. What happens to the one who looses? “It depends on the opponent…”

The Circle of Spears rose over the city, large oval form of gray and white stone, and from it’s high towers, covered with spears and large shields, stood massive banners, flags, blue in colour, marked with a frostwyrms skull, run through with two large spears, the symbol of the chiftain and the wyrmslayer, bound togeather with a ceremonial rope, decorated with black feathers and ae stones.
The Sigyn’s heraldry.
He stood in the high archway, looking into the ring, the black sand on its floor and it’s high colums, seeing the crowd in the stalls, moving like a ocean of white in contrast with the black stone. Jhero didn’t feel too secure as his nephew checked his armour for the last time. This place was larger then any ring ever owned by the Icetusk tribe, the people in the stall multiple in number to his small flock he felt. On the large openenig at the other side, he saw where the Haldir stood, dressed in dark blue, hair tyed back. There was something in his smile, something sinister.
“All set, nephew.” A voice said from his left, and he felt as a spear was placed in his hand. He stood tall in a plate of iron, well made and sharp looking, sleek chest with a simple mark of a bear, the symbol of his tribe. His head felt heavy from the headdress, iron hoop with few dire bear fangs in front, black stones set in small patterns over it whole. His hair was tied back in a thick braid, and around his neck hung few chains of silver.
It was time.
Outside there was a thundering of drums.
One deep breath, and he walked out into the ring, reciving well wishes and shoulderpats from his men as his feet landed on the black sand that covered the floor. He didn’t look left or right, only proceeded to the middle of the ring, taking his stance in front of the high seats, turning to bow shortly to Yrrul Bloodflight and his wife, the Wyrmslayer, where they sat in high backed chairs of stone, covered with heavy furs. Behind them stood the Darkbloods, in their full armours. It was all so ceremonial, so strangely unreal.Yrrul stood up, all fell silent, so silent that one could have guessed the ring was empty of all.
“Winterspytes!” The voice thundered, strong and powerful, echoing from wall to wall. In the corner of his eye, Jhero saw the Haldir exit the ring.
“For the fourty-eight time, Sigyn Sormscream offers her hand in battle. The Icetusks have offered their alliance. Let us see of they are worthy! Jhero Icetusk, fight well and with honor!” There was silence. Jhero nodded at the Hilmir, his grip on his spear tightening.. Bloodflight nodded, a slight smile passing his face before he turned his face to the high archway.
A cry of battle was heard, so high, so thundering that for a moment Jhero was sure the walls would tremble and fall. The roaring crowd joined in, screaming in delight as their belowed Sigyn raised her voice. Still, over the thousands of voices, he could still hear her voice, hear the scream that was said to be loud enough to awake the tempest to destruction, to carry over every battlefield.
She decended, tall, proud, wearing mithril and silver, carved with the symbol of a frostwyrm, spear in hand and a smile on her face. It was a smile of pure malice, a sinister promise of what was to come. She had fangs, he saw, something Winterspytes had in turn for their strangely small tusks, and he wasn’t sure if he should smile in turn or if he should feel fear.
For a moment, like a lighting, he suddenly remembered that if he would win, he would bed her tonight. This creature, the first wintersun, the white godess of Northrend, would be his to take. To hell with politics, she was worth the risk, the perfect trophy, his greatest fame, he suddnely thought. Breaking her would be his highest honour…
He smiled at her.
Her cry slowly died to a growl and for the first time he heard what the crowd was screaming, chanting, over and over. Her name.
She stopped only a armslenght away from him, and her cold eyes swept over him, stoping to meet his eyes for a brief moment before backing off slighty, readying her spear, taking a pose, ready to strike and evade in the same. He backed off as well, raising his spear to her then stedying himself before the battle would start.
All fell still.
“Begin.”
Slowly, slowly they circled each other one moment. She seemed perfectly calm, not affected by the soft chanting of the crowd, holding his eye perfectly, still smiling. Past her shoulder he could see Frostblood kneeling by the wall, eyeing them though his pale eyes with the same cold grin on his face as she had.
His flutter of eyes to her Haldir was all she needed.
She charged.
The crowd roared louder then ever before as the battle started, full force, and he felt the tip of her spear run alarmingly close ot his face as she tried for his eyes, ducking in a full circle and advancing on his back. He crouched, making an attempt for her feet, amazed at how easily she jumped up in her full plate, seemingly soaring one moment, arms outstreached, knees at her chest.
The spear moved again.
The sounds of metal clashing echoed over the roars of the crowd as they danced by acient fatal music of combat, feet gripping the black sands below, she twirling in a whirlwind of white hair and shining mithrill, he in strong powerful steps, like a glacier river.
She was fast, he’d give her that, and skilled far above what he had thought. He had to admit he had underestimated her, belived her to be more of a figurehead then a actual warrior. He had been wrong. He was sure.
So now the glowes were off.
The thundering of the crowd grew more intense a the fight grew harder, they moved faster, hit harder. Both had taken blows. He was getting tired, and aside he had this horrible feeling she still had one step further to go. Charging in, he caught her flatfooted one moment, driving her into the wall with his superiour weight, trapping her under him, using the long shaft of his spear to push against her neck. The crowd gasped. He had her now, he was sure.
Allowing himself to laugh soundly as he tightened the pressure on her throat a little further, he felt her hands come up to hold his spear as well, trying to free herself.
“You should get used to this position, Sigyn,” he whispered. “I’ll have you in it tonight…” The fire in her eyes blossomed into unbridled fury, and she roared. He felt as her feet left the ground, as she used his spear to drag herself up, pushing with her back into the wall, kicking him in the chest, hard enough to send him flying into the ring.
When he sat up again, shaking his head from the impact, he saw her come, spear first, and her eyes burning like the unyielding frostfire that followed the tempest she pulled her name from. He barely managed to dodge her, rolling away as she literally spun around, advancing again.
He stiffened, gasping for air as he felt the head of her spear pierce though his right shoulder, rippping though the underarmour, the sound of metal tearing as she used her free hand to rip his shoulderpads off, placing her foot on his chest and ripping the spear out again with a roar.
The crowd cheered.
It pierced him again, now entering though the small opening on the side of his armor, ad he gasped in pain as she ripped him up from the sand, pushing painfully onto the wound on his shoulder.
“And you, Icetusk, better get used to this pain, for I’m far from done with you.” He screamed as she produced a dagger for her belt, embedding it into his stomache and twisting it. He knew now. The battle was lost…
But she was far from quitting.
Throwing him away, she turned to the crowd, screaming out in unbridled fury. “You want his blood? Winterspytes!? You want his blood?!” She yelled, and in the corner of his eye he saw his men being helt back by the Winterspyte guard, his nephew fighting to get into the circle. Yrrul was on his feet, seemingly pondering weather or not to stop his daughter. She would kill him, Jhero knew, and by the grin of the darkclad man in the high archway, death would not be peaceful…
The crowd was going insane, their screams thundering in his ears, owerdrowing the pain as she grabbed him by his shoulders again, pulling him to kneel in front of her, ripping though the straps on his armour, leaving him exposed and umprotected, dazed, eyeing the blood that was colouring the black sand under him. He felt her stand behind him, and her hand trailed down his face, a soft touch, but a dangerous one.
He coughed as the knfe entered his chest, feeling blood come into his mouth as it worked though the bones in this chest, breaking it’s way into him. Her hand was warm as it entered, the pain was almost gone now, only the strange feeling of her hand wrapping round his now rapidly beating heart.
All went black, the crowd screamed.
Jhero Icetuk was no more.
Sigyn Stormscream, bathed in blood, threw her spear to the ground as she stood, holding the still beating heart in her hand, it’s last sweet liquid of life running down her arm as she helt it high, screaming out her victory.
The chanting grew into a raged roar as she helt it to her mouth, ripping though, swallowing her bite, still warm and bloody, and it tainted her face with scarlet red: She helt the mangled heart up again, then threw it far, to her people, where it would be torn apart in hopes to gain a part of the strenght it carried.
And they screamed her name.
She was loved, their godess.
Cold, arrogant, vain, uncaring,
She was the unbeatable one, worshipped by her people.
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Yrjial Stormscream




Number of posts : 41
Registration date : 2008-06-13

The courting of Stormscream Empty
PostSubject: Re: The courting of Stormscream   The courting of Stormscream EmptyFri Jun 13, 2008 6:47 pm

“…I actually have little patience for such.“ “No men in your life, then? “ “Not like you’re implying, no, but I have had my man with me since I can remember.” “How old were you?” “Around three, he joined the court when he was two, one year in training.” “That is young.” “I know.” “Are you two close?” “…he’s my slave…nothing more.”

He sat on the floor, his back next to the warm metal, the sounds of her moving in the water soothing to his ears. He was not a bad looking man, some twenty winters, lithe and not very tall, but he had fine and strong facial fetures and sharp shaped eyes. The slight smell of blood still lingered in the room, her underarmour scattered over the floor not far away, soaked in blood. She was humming, and he was smiling, a soft light smile over his face.
He knew he was good looking, many of the more simple maids and slave girls would give their arm to be his, he knew, after all, his position was considered high and resepctable, better then any servant would ever have, free or not, better then any commonman in the whole city. Many of them girls were lovely, even though some were overly insistant for attention, he had to admit, but he was true to one mistress alone, and until she brought him a woman, he would see none else.
He knew little else then life at her side, and he was glad. His parents had offered him at birth, he was born on a good day after all, the thirteenth day in Season of Darkness, and they had named him almost a royal name for the day, well, not royal one, but a shortening of one. A Volundi child had no reasaon to be called To’Athroe, so they called him just Tothro. Fine. Good name, he felt. He was chosen by the Wolfwalker himself, the one before the Sigurd, that was, the old man had walked amongst the many children offered to the then pregnant Hildur, stopped and picked him up. He was thankful.
He sometimes wondered how his life would have been had he not been picked. For the mercy of his mistress, he had been allowed to meet with his family, and was free to see them when he wished. He could picture how his life would have been, number five of eight siblings, his father a smith, his mother a simple worker that took up spear for the army when needed. His oldest sister had beaten herself a man by the age of sixteen, a higher class boy, whom she governed with exessive mental games, and was on good way in the army. The others were just commonfolk.
He shivered at the thought.
He had a life of plenty, of high status and of devotion in turn for his ‘freedom’.
Calling this endless dirty struggle the commoners fought ‘freedom’ was strange, he felt.
He smirked to himself as one of the maids kneeled by him, offering him some drinks and meat, a flirtatious smile on her lips. Funny, he tought, how the standard of women’s pride seems to lower the further down the ladder you go. No Tyar child would act like that, and they would all, men and women alike, fight to the death before yielding. The maids on the other hands, heh, he needed little but place his knife at their throats in a dark alcove and ask for the submission, and he’d have it.
For the night, at the least.
But then, he slept only in the company of one woman, at her bedside, at her feet and he would until the day she’d be wed. He dreaded that day, the day he would no longer be the only man in her life …
He had taken care of her since he was old enough to hold a dagger, old enough to braid her hair and deliver her words, since they played togeather as children, dragons and wyrmslayers, until they were discovered and he was whipped and she chastised…
They stopped playing after that, and he remembered to keep his face down, specially when someone else was around. A slave and a mistress, and noone could know anything else.
Now they years had passed, and he knew his role, becoming a master speaker, fluent liar and very good at remembering names and social staus of whomever was present at any time. She was no good at remembering them anyhow, she was good at remembering tracknames and fighting movements, but she cared little for remembering the names of some councellors children. So he did instead. He remembered, reminded, took down, made sure and took care. Be it her lessons, her training, her meetings, her freetime, her wellbeing, her clothing…he did it all, with as much care as he could.
Expert liar, a two faced snake, the venom that was needed when subterfuge was involved, the eyes and ears, the silent long fingers, the flame to burn evidence, the last line of thought and defence. He took care of her secrets, hid her faults, guarded her mortality, polished her divinity…
In return she was happy. That was all he required.
“It went well, Sygin.” He said, with a slight smile as he shook his head to a maid, shooing her out the door before she brought in her tray. Bloody idiots, one would have thought they would have remembered by now that they were not wanted in the room after battle until he called for them. Silly girls.
She smirked above him, soft dripping of water from her arms as she raised her hands, running her slim hands over her face, laughing soundly. “Yes, it went quite well. Oh, I haven’t had such a good time since…since…” “Since Hrimur of the Snowtreaders?” He offered, his voice not free of humour. “Yes! Since then. That was a duel worth having.” “…Even if a bit over the top, if I’m allowed to speak. The Snowtreaders were a trouble for a long haul after…” “Until we simply took care of the problem.” She shot in, and both grinned.
She dipped her head into the water, wetting her long, white hair. He fixed his position, and a comfortable silence engulfed them as she slowly leaned back again, sighing happily. He smiled. She was always so calm after a battle. She needed the calm, and he had taken care in getting to know the best ways to get her to unwind. It was their moment, the time they could talk about the fight and make fun of feeble attempts of those who fought her. It had become a tradition since he used humour to get her out of her rather tense mood after her first fight, then aged thirteen.
They sat for a long haul, she realxing quietly and he half snoozing, eyes closed and head back, until they somehow sensed it was time to return to the living world again, and he rose, getting a large towel, a weave of linen and wool with silk linings and wrapped it around her as she stood up, then clapped twice. A second later the maids streamed into the room, again a whirlwind around her, working on every aspect, gown and jewelry in the same, following her though the room to her chair where she sat as they went on to braiding her hair.
He silently moved to sit next to the chair on the floor, and smiled as he felt her hand come to rest upon his shoulder. He knew then she was happy. It was a small way of wordless talking they had formed, her keeping her right hand on his shoulder, communicating without a sound. He could sense her mood thought he touch, if she was happy or angry, every feeling in the scale…
And he would know how to react.
In moment she was ready, and he brushed invisible dust of his black tunic, waiting for her to stand up. The Tyars were waiting, the family was sitting at the high table and tonight they would drink to her untouched divinity. He smiled. He was a messanger of a godess, the squire of a divine being.
And he would rather die fighting then ever give it up.
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Yrjial Stormscream




Number of posts : 41
Registration date : 2008-06-13

The courting of Stormscream Empty
PostSubject: Re: The courting of Stormscream   The courting of Stormscream EmptyFri Jun 13, 2008 6:48 pm

“...So, I have heard that you are pretty ruthless in your dealings with other tribes.” “No more ruthless then orcs, I suppose. You yourself are waging war on the Dragonmaws and the Blackrocks.” “True, true...but we seek to make those problems be no more.” “My dear warchief, that's exactly what we do, too.”

“They are coming! The Winterspytes are coming!” A young scout screamed, throwing his weapon aside as he entered the halls of Holar, the home of the Icetusk chieftain, in their settlement at Hvithaedir. Jorekur Icetusk was on his feet, eyeing the shivering youth with wide eyes.
“Where is my son?” he asked, voice shaking. “Where is Jhero...?”
The silence was the only answer he got. He knew then, his son was dead, fallen by the hand of the unyielding Sygin Winterspyte. And now, he had awaken the tempest, and it was coming their way. His family stood there, his daughter paralized by the news, his wife in tears...
But this was not the time, the white death itself was coming, and with her followed the hellish hounds of war that were the Winterspyte troops.
And like fire they'd devour anything in their path.
“Jovina!” he called out, his daughter running forth to him, already fastening her belt and readying her sword. He grasped her shoulders, looking her in the eye as he spoke. “ Take our best men, and gather all the children. Take them someplace safe, there are caverns up in the hills that are complex, but you know your way in there....the Sygin does not...safe them, it's the only chance our line has...”
His daughter only nodded, running out as she yelled for the guards to follow her.
Jorekur helt out his hand, and felt the steel touch his grasp as his wife handed him the weapon.
Now, the time had come, the moment was near.
Finally, the last of the tribes near the glacier, the Icetusks, would face the White Death.

The walls had been barricaded, every man given weapon, every house locked, every woman standing ready, holding bow, sword, spear, shield.
The sounds of them approaching in the distance grew louder, thundering in the white stillness, and any moment now they threatened to appear over the hill, to show their face. A thunder of drums, a clatter of spears and marring of snow, a sound of war-mammoths with their heavy rams.
And then, there was silence.
It was deafening, it touched every core, every inch of every being as the people of Hvithaedir eyed the horizon, a inkling of hope touching them as the sounds of doom died down.
And then, the scream.
A warcry unmatched by any living thing, echoing over the white endlessness, of the mountains, from the skies itself it came, and with it followed the roar of the army, the screaming of mammoths, the howls of wolfs...
And they came over the hill, a blue avalanche of thousands, charged the walls with a deafening roar. And in front of them, fiveteen in black, the coloured ones, who from the dawn of time had been dark in colour since the black blood of dragons tainted them...
And in front, more beautiful then the winter sun, more deadly then the bitter cold...
The white death came for her victims.

A white wolf was frothing, blood leaking from his jaws and fur as his mistress screamed out her victory, holding up the head of the chieftain Icetusk for her troops to see. She wore white, heavy fur cape, so heavy it never lifted from the wolf, and her hair flowed in the wind, the heavy mithril and silver crown upon her head shining in the falling snow.
All around them was destruction, blood, fire. They had breached the defenses in moments, breaking into the city and taking the Holar by a storm. The brave chieftain had fought to the last, and finally died as the white dire wolf had ripped out his throat as he threw himself between the Sygin and his wife. A needless sacrifice, since she barely managed to scream her husbands name before the Sygin had embedded her spear in her chest.
“Winterspytes! The day is ours!” She screamed, the troops cheering wildly.
She eyes the surroundings, seeing the beaten troops on their knees, forced to bow into the ground for the future queen of Winterspytes, the new ruler of those lands, and she tilted her head. “Ari.”She started, smiling coldly as the Darkblood smiles back, malice in the silver eyes. “Yes, my Sygin?” “Find me a house, a large house, and place them inside, all of them, no matter how crowded...well, make it more houses, how many are they anyhow?” She asked, throwing a look over her shoulder, at the laughing riders. Ari shrugged. “I'd say one thousand in the whole...give or take.”
The Sygin laughed. “Well, we need more houses then...but it will spare us time.”

They locked them up, nailing back doors and windows of the many houses they fitted the troops in, then layed fire to the roofs and sides. Sure, it took less time then cutting the throat of every bloody one of them...and they also burned few houses while doing it, taking care both of the bodies and the possible refuge for survivors, as unliekly as that was. She loved the part where they'd start beating the windows, the heavy wooden barricades placed over them bending as they lost control of their fear...
At her side, Vargur laughed. “Oh, my, they are strong!” And she saw as arm came though the barricade, followed by a body trying to push himself though. The Sygin laughed. “Lets have a game, shall we?” she called out at her riders “Ten Ae for each direct to heart hit! One for each you kill!” She said, pulling her own bow and drawing arrow on string, latting it loose, making a clear hit though the man's eye. Thöll, snorted. “That's nothing!” She commented, reaching for her bow as the crack widened and the desperate soldiers tried to push themselves out, more and more trying to flee the fire inside...
The air was filled with screams, roars of fire, song of bowstrings and laughter.

She was sitting on a high chair, sipping some fine drink or another, legs crossed and a smile on her face. At her feet sat Frostblood, grinning madly at the woman in front of them, who was helt down by three Winterspyte soldiers. She was bleeding, all of her fingers missing their nails and her right hand was even missing two whole fingers. Her whole face was swollen and bloody, her legs appered to have been broken in multiple places each and small thorns of Icethistle were embedded in strange patterns into her naked chest.
“Now, you're just being plain unhelpful.” Frostblood said, voice not free of amusement as he tilted his head, allowing his mistress to scratch the side of his chin. “All the Sygin wants to know is where the children are. We know Jovina Windspinner has them, but where might she be? I'm sure you know.”
In the distance behind them, some were still playing games of sharpshooting, others had simply wandered off to loot whatever booty they could find, kill he few remaining in hiding and burn down the rest. Somewhere, Kvendulfr and Snæja were looking over the 'new stocks', picking out worthy trading pieces while having the others throats cut thrown off the cliffs nearby, letting the sea taking care of their bodies. Some of those would actually catch some price worth mentioning...
The woman heaved ifew breaths, spat blood to clear her mouth...
“To the depths with you, you motherless son of a pig...” she muttered. “And take your whoring mistress with you...”
The Sygin sipped her drink again.
“Ah, that was not the answer I was looking for...can't have you saying those things about my mistress.” Frostblood said with a shrug. “Cut out her tounge and bring me a new one. One who has the intellect and self-preservation to talk.”
And they did.


"So, you are at ease with allowing the Horde to build a small compound within your lands? The one at Icemist lake..." "It's a bad place for a compond I agree. There is a piece of land that belonged to the Icetusks some years ago, it's more appropriate. You can build there, all with our premission." "Most gracious, Sygin, thank you. - What about the remaining Icetusks?" "There are no remaining Icetusks, warfhief."

“Look what I found!” Arnar hollered at them as he came riding down the hill, a woman bound and gagged thrown over the wolf in front of him. Behind him the troops were hoarding the children from the caves above down to the plateau where his comrades were waiting, peering out a good meal in their command tent.
There was hollering and applause as he threw the bound woman at the Sygin's feet, and she grinned, poking the unfortunate thing with her toe, barely holding back a wide smile. “Oh, my, is this Jovina Windspinner of Icetuks? What a pleasant surprise! Tothro, take the gag from her mouth.” Jovina growled lightly, flexing her jaw. She met the silver eyes of the Haldir, who smiled at her widely. She felt humiliation wash over her whole. He dared to look her in the eye...
The Sygin tilted her head, noting that all armor had been stripped off the woman, and her hair had been hacked off with a crude dagger. “So, what was the point in running? Hm? Did you honestly think we wouldn't find you? Or are you perhaps only a coward like your father, fleeing from the scene of battle?” She asked, smiling coldly the whole time.
Jovina struggled to her knees, trying to place her feet under her to rise and face this monster in front of her. She was stopped by the sharp end of a spear in her thigh, and she saw one of the acclaimed Darkblood riders grinning at her.
“...you are the one to talk, Stormscream, hiding behind all your thousand men and on your high wolfs. Cowards...” she spat onto the ground, looking from each Darkbloods to the next. “all of you!”
A collective of quiet chuckling and 'oooooh' sounds from the brothers three was all she got. Those sixteen were secure enough in their own greatness to let one prisoner get to them, and aside, that was all somewhat amusing.
“Cowards, are we?” The Sygin asked, voice calm and low, a dangerous tone laced with humour. “I suppose then you'd rather fight real men then us, the cowards?” Jovina looked up, few remaining locks of long dark blue hair falling into her eyes as she met the silver ones of the Sygin. “Anytime.” The beaten warrior hissed.
There was a moment, of silence as the Sygin smiled an amused smile, a cold smile that told the Darkblood somehting so interesting was about to happen and likely something hilariously funny as well. A second passed in stillness, then a plate gauntlet shot out, grabbing Jovina by the hair, yanking her up with force brute enough to rip out short locks, leaving the scalp bloodied as the Sygin dragged her at her side, and started a march over the plateau. “So, you want to face them men, well, that, Windspinner, can be arranged.” She hissed as she stopped one moment, pulling her up to her face, leaning close enough so her breath could be felt on her prisoner's face. It carried a metallic tang of blood. “And trust me, they will be more then just glad to fight you...when they'll be done with you, you'll be but a slaves toy, who knows, I might give you to Frostblood, but I suppose he's too much of a coward, after all...”
And with that she stood to her full height, eying the troops below the small hill.
“Look here, men!” And Jovina felt herself stiffen as all eyes were on her, silver eyes of one small platoon. “After all this fighting and killing...” the men cheered, and she laughed before continuing; “...I thought I'd give you a little prize...” And with that, she showed Jovina harshly to the ground, to the men. “Have fun,” she said darkly, locking eyes with the sergeant. “Kill her afterwards.” And with a turn of heel and a gust of white wolfs fur cape, she was off.
Jovina pulled herself to her feet.. One of the men had the decency to throw her a small club, grinning as he did, and they closed in on her...
The Darkbloods were riding away already, and the sounds combat were heard when for the last time Jovina Windspinner fought for her honor, the sound of steel clashing with wood slowly dying, and turning into sounds of silent laughter.

“My Sygin.” “Yes, Ævar?” He eyed her one moment where she stood, covered in symbols of her supremacy, of her own glory, hair moving gently in the wind, face white and marked with black paint, otherworldly being she was when leading the troops.
He had to admit he liked her unpainted, undivine form better, the young woman who had hunted with him and been his friend since early teens. He tried not to look down, knowing that the faces would stare up at him from underneath the ice, some still living, trying to claw their way up. Sometimes he wondered...
“I...I wanted to ask if I could keep Windspinner. I mean, as a slave.” There was a short silence, and she turned to him, tilting her head. “Ævar, your heart is catching up with you again.” she said. He looked into the distance, anywhere but down, behind him they were crying and trying to fight back, one by one, lead into he water, a small hole in the ice, pushed under the thick glass the cold taking away all their strength. Their little faces, little forms now lying asleep forever, trapped in the dark frame of the water, under the ice. Another one of the good and gracious time saving methods. And making sure no one lived, so easy...just look down.
“I just find it a bit harsh, if I may say, to treat a chieftains daughter like that.” He said. She smiled slightly, a cold, hard smile. “She was not a chieftains daughter anymore. She was a common slave. Anyhow she met a noble end...” Ævar followed her gaze to the ground, and under the ice the shocking blue eyes of Jovina Windspinner started up at him, face white with cold, fingers frozen in the ice.
He looked away.
“She died with her children, she finished her job. I gave her that honor.” She said, walking away.
Ævar closed his eyes. He was the weakest of them all, he thought, his temper too big, and his heart to soft...but she looked right at home, untouchable, white as the frozen desert itself, standing on glass, atop of fighting, dying children.

“Yrjial! My Daughter!” Yrrul thundered as they entered the great hall, grabbing his daughter into a bear like hug, crushing the wind from her form, almost bending the amour. “Tell me of your success!” The Sygin happily obliged, listing out the new lands that now belonged to Winterspytes and the number of sellable slaves taken as they sat down at the long table, laden with food, and the feasting began.
As evening turned into night, the young woman felt a hand on her shoulder, turning around to meet the eyes of her mother.
“Did you leave any children, Yrjial?” Jilah asked, eyes hard and unforgiving as always, voice insistent. Her daughter shook her head, staring into her mother's eyes in whole truth. “No, mother, I had them all drowned. We have future peace.” She said soundly, no doubt in the words.
Jilah smiled, placing a hand on her daughter's cheek, stroking her thumb over the cheekbone.
“I'm proud of you, my child.” She said, just before walking off, leaving her daughter again, knowing she had told full truth. She knew she had raised her well.
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Yrjial Stormscream




Number of posts : 41
Registration date : 2008-06-13

The courting of Stormscream Empty
PostSubject: Re: The courting of Stormscream   The courting of Stormscream EmptyFri Jun 13, 2008 6:48 pm

Part III

“You always fail to mention what brought you here.” “I do not think it important.” “Well, no ships of the Winterspytes docked in our harbors at this time, and the goblin ones were watched...” “There are more ways from Northrend then ships” “Like what?” “I have been told it was destiny...”

The caves above Hvithaedir are known as Hljodaklettar, Cliffs of Sounds. A unmapped system of caves and openings and holes and tunnels that the Icetusk people lived in for generations before they moved to see the sun and build cities like the other tribes. In those days there was no Nation Winterspyte, only a small wolfriding nomad tribe, and a group of aggressive half-elves called Darkbloods, lead by their matriarch, and a small gathering of blue haired trolls in caves...
Above them all was the Icecrown, no evil forces, no nothing. The dead stayed dead, the jungle trolls had not yet arrived to build Zul'Drak, the wyrms flew free and unharmed, the blue dragonflight lived, and giants and tuskarr were open and curious people.
Many things changed since then.
One thing didn't.
They say a screaming child awoke him, where he slept and had for hundreds of years. He'd always been there, safe from the hunters and one of the few living of his breed. Not a pawn to the terror from the glacier, nor fallen by the Wyrmslayer's spear, the dragon Hljodur slept in peace, while the Icetusks lived in the caves. They left the sleeping giant alone, and he, when he ever so rarely opened his eyes, didn't care much if they walked past every now and then.
But this time, he opened both eyes, and then lifted his head. The people were long since gone from his caves, and he liked the solitude, but every now and then his head peered out and he'd see the city below, and wonder how for they'd come, how much they had learned while he slept.
Now, there was light outside his cave opening, where he slept so deep inside noone aside from the leaders of the tribe had ever found him nor even seen. Below there was a larger city then he last saw, fire hugging it close to it's bosom, crushing the houses to it's chest. Around there were trolls, strange trolls, whitehaired ones, and large mammoths and strange metal weapons he'd not seen last time he woke...
And screams.
Hljodur was no fool, he knew war, and he wasn't really mindful for what happened to a group of small trolls killed by other small trolls, but something else caught his attention. A woman in white, carrying a large spear, and with her people in dark armors.
So, she still lived that pesky little wyrmhunter? Generation after generation they seemed to somehow always manage to breed, kill one and the next appears, again and again. How could such a little thing survive like this, he wondered. Like insects they seemed to manage to hang on to life, even though this one looked more like a troll then the elven like figure he remembered from so many years back. They seemed to have evolved, armor of metal in layers, not hides. Tamed animals, other then wolfs, siege towers..
He sat and watched, they were taking their time, he saw, slowly taking time to systematically burn the city down, making sure nothing was left. Household animals and other valuables taken, rounded up. Most killed for the enjoyment of the winning faction. Soldiers with meat. The white dressed one was calmly walking around followed by her black clad force, and Hljodur was fairly sure what they were doing. He watched them classify all the prisoners into groups, then he watched as one group was killed, the other two rounded up and tied starting off their walk to wherever the winner found fit. He watches as the children were lead to the ice of the lake, that in summer was their most loved playground and drowned under the ice. He watched for as long as the fire burned, he watched until the place was silent, until nothing was left but the deafening silence that death leaves behind.
Then, Hljodur slowly walked out from his cave, and for the first time in hundreds of years, he spread his wings, their amazing size casting a massive shadow on the now charred, black ruins below, and in one heavy strike, he lifted himself from the ground, and into the freezing winter night.
It was time to see how far the little trolls had gone while he slept.

The lands were the same, mostly, aside from the settlements, aside from the newfound lands and strange forms of stone buildings. Something new was in the air, and high above the lands a castle stood on the Icecrown glacier. Skeletal images of his former brothers and sister flew around it, dead, dragonliches, something more horrid then ever should exists. And the little trolls sill lived their uncaring, unimportant lives under their terror, still finding time to kill each other.
The greatest surprise was when he reached the plateau where he knew the rock cleft was, where the wolfriding tribe had lived in small caves, trying to hide from the winds in the natural phenomena...
Apparently, things had changed.
The city spread far out from the cleft, and high walls surrounded it locking out more then just winds. Outside it were what seemed endless amounts of tiny clusterings of houses, even a road paved with stone. Little trolls apparently had come further then he thought. The city was lit, apparently they had not taken to tents...or houses, even though it was late. A huge limestone covered building, a keep or a castle of a sorts, shone in the night, it's blue windows casting color over the grown below, where it crept up the stone walls deep inside the cleft.
Hljodur circled the city once, then moved out, thinking, eying the snow below. It was early in the season of Fading Light, cold and clear, the mountains making ink black shadows on the horizon, and far away fires burned. Giants and tuskarr warmed their homes, be it in mountains or by sea. What puzzled him most was that so many things were gone. He flew over the glacier, looking at the wonders, groups of dead abominations walking, living again, doing something the people beneath were oblivious to...
What had happened to the lands of frost while he slept?
And Hljodur sat down on a high sill, somewhere in the mountains, eying the high glacier, now tainted in it's holiness, and eyed the black diamond where the trolls now lived, and thought about the times past, the time when the blue dragonflight roamed free, and trolls and tuskarr and giants met in good spirits, and the monster had not taken the lands and made his siblings into slaves of death...
And Hljodur let out a scream.

In the Mjoll hold, fifteen black clad younglings looked up. The room suddenly dead silent, only the fire singing it's tune. “...did you hear that?” Kári asked, voice a mere whisper. Yrjial stood up, walking slowly to the window. “We did.”
In his throne Yrrul narrowed his eyes, watching as his daughter placed her hand on the glass, watching the darkness outside. The room was silent, same thought in every mind. They had not been seen for so long, not since the monster came and took them all, made them into his creations...
But could there be?
“It's a male dragon. Presumably some four thousand years old. I could never forget that sound, no matter how long since it was heard.” Came a cold voice from the doors, where Jilah Wyrmfire stood, her eyes meeting Yrrul's before she turned to face her daughter. “A good hunt.”
The Darkbloods eyed each other, partly disbelieving, partly exhilarated.
Yrjial eyed her mother, then nodded, a small smile gracing her face.
“We ride at dawn. And I'll bring you his heart.”

Somewhere in the distant frozen desert, a man stood, holding hands with a woman in black clothing. They breathed in the wind, and watched the northern lights, and he smiled.
“My sister has taken the path.”
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Yrjial Stormscream




Number of posts : 41
Registration date : 2008-06-13

The courting of Stormscream Empty
PostSubject: Re: The courting of Stormscream   The courting of Stormscream EmptyFri Jun 13, 2008 6:49 pm

They rode out the morning after, in ceremonial plates, the heads of the common people turning at the sight. Seventeen riders in whole, heading though the gates and into the desert. In front she rode, white and glorious, trailed by the black armored riders, and flamed by a man in black leather armor, carrying two swords at his side.
A defining moment. Dragons had not been seen for three years. Not since the king took them all, but the few that still lived in the boneland where they found death. But it was too many weeks ride away, and too many dead creatures in between...a dragon, a living dragon, and once more their weapons would find satisfaction in tradition and birthrights. She had tired of the skulls of her suitors, she wanted something new, and the light in her mothers eyes as she held out her spear to her, asking her to do the favor and slay it with the weapon, made it all so much more amazing.
The powdery snow whirled around them, the thick paws of the wolfs clawing it into shimmering clouds, surrounding them with a ethereal haze as the rose across the land, breathing cold air and frost and whispers of the creatures scent.
So close.
Silver eyes scanned the lands as he keeled in the snow, touching it, looking around, his white hair falling over his shoulder as he fixed his gaze to one direction, the looked up. “This way.” Bruni said in a muted voice, and they rode on. Gone was the fun loving sadism if the day before, gone the childlike adoration of war and combat. It was a group of different people, facing the only being that according to lore and legend, could kill them.
The journey wasn't that long. They knew the lands, and the feeling lingered unsaid, the knowledge that he was waiting for them. He knew they were coming, and he was lying somewhere, waiting for them to come to him. A strange connection between hunters and pray, in a game when neither can ever be sure who is who.
It was near the sea where they found him, high above all, on a high cliff. The rock formation was amazing, caves and holes and strange tunnels that the wind sang in, making screaming voices at them as they approached over the hill. To the left was the death fall down to the sea, so far below that the terrible waves seemed but small strings of white on the blue fabric, that moved in it's eternal motion, rocking cold death and it's black abyss with all the secrets that no one knows.
They say that the sea stored all the darkness we cannot bear to see...
Tempest was rising.

Yrjial stood in front. The made a line behind her, a pyramid formation, all eying the caves, listening to the roars and echoes of cries as the wind sped up. And a voice.
“So, the little Wyrmhunter has found me at last...” The deep tone trembled from the cave, and the gargantuan creature lifted his head, slowly moving into the light, where it's dark blue skin was instantly fuzzed by the white snow, landing on his snout. It's eyes were shining yellow, pupils slit, and it eyed the young woman in front of him, where she stood in her mithrill armor, white fur on her shoulders, a crown upon her head. “You have changed though the years.” The dragon added, “but you are still only an insect.”
Yellow eyes met silver, and the black clads drew their weapons. Spears, sword, axes, shields, all sounds of steel muted in the quickly falling snow, the wind still picking up speed. She swallowed once, taking in the magnificent creature, the wisdom of ages, the perfect form, and knew once more why she had to kill it. It was her reason, it was for her people, it was tradition. Her right.
And she pulled up her mother's spear.
“I am Yrjial Stormscream, Sygin of Winterpytes, and the Wyrmhunter, daughter of Jilah Wyrmfire, daughter of Ásrun Bloodcaller.” The Dragon nodded. “ I knew your grandmother, little girl. She killed my broodsister.” Yrjial nodded at his words, her eyes never leaving the yellow slits. “And now, I will kill you.” He finished.
A second passed, all was dead still, even the wind lost it's tongue for a moment.
Then hell broke loose.
Two screams echoed in the wasteland, muted and muffled by the snow and the wind, and she charged, spear first. The creature rose with a roar, it's huge wings lifting and forming a terrifying image in front of her.
All moved. They knew how, they had done this before, and the movements were instinct. The group split, surrounding him, while one sat back, and pulled out a bow, slowly drawing string, taking his time, knowing how to wait for his mark. She halted in her charge, waiting for the first move, and lifting the spear to meet the creatures chest as he rose up on his hind legs, roaring in pain. Breki yanked back his sword from the blue hided shin, and backed out.
A silver spear found it's way into the dragon's chest, and it roared horribly, lifting his head before drawing a breath. “All down!” She screamed, and the flames added to the symphony of sounds, clashing weapons, roaring tempest, forces of nature and forces of the innermost feelings singing together as the sixteen chosen fought a creature of myth and power.
It raged on, the weather, the battle, both sides getting blows, the combat hard. Yrjial had torn away her right armguard, after it half -melted in the dragon's fire, silver eyes still locked with one yellow one, as an arrow lay stuck in the other, black blood running down the creature's neck. It's left wing was torn in two places and it's movements were slowing down. Bergthora lay behind a large rock, trying to bind up her leg, cursing the sharp teeth of the creature, Tothro was drawing his string again, Snæja half stood in Kvendulf's hands, as he lifted her, so she could climb onto the creatures back. Yrjial stood, facing the creature, dodging fire and fangs, dancing between the claws, lashing out with her spear. The Dragon's front was bloody with her strikes. She backed away, the dragon snarling and making ready to advance, when she charged again, sticking her spear into the ground.
“Now!” She screamed, and an arrow was let loose, landing with it's rope in the dragon's back.
Using her spear as a a leverage, she found the dragon's back under her feet, grabbing the arrow and yanking it out, and the two cousins ran past each other, jumping off, the ropes making a X-shaped pattern on the dragon's back, forcing the wings down.
The Darkbloods gathered on either side, and grabbed the ropes, pulling down as the cousins, one on each side, grabbed new ropes, and made their now climb onto the creature, which screamed terribly as the thick bounds cut into it's wings, forcing it to kneel, allowing the two to climb again, adding to the restraints.
Then started the true battle of wills, as the sixteen let out a roar and put all they had into it, dragging the now-tiering creature down to the snowy ground. Arnar dragged a mace, and set to destroying the wings, aiming to shatter the bones, keeping the dragon from opening them and ripping the ropes, breaking free. An angry, hurt dragon is not something one wants on the loose.
“We have him! Now tie him up – Ævar, help Arnar!” The Sygin yelled out, and Ævar was quick to comply, grabbing his broadsword and raising it, aiming for the wingbone.
Noone was sure how it happened, nor knew what went wrong, but perhaps the only one that stood in safe distance, eying the battle in a stoic pose, bow at ready. Tothro Frostblood felt it more then he saw it, a instinct that he'd developed years ago, the strange feeling that washed over him just before, the ability to jump in front of all danger, the way of knowing that something was off...
It all happened so fast, the bow hit the ground and he yelled out to her, just as the rope broke, whiplashing about as the powerful wing gained air and slapped down, snow hurling up, creating a chaos of white, and the creature roared.
Heavy bulk rose to it's feet, and there was fire. They threw themselves down, covering their heads, knowing the damage a dragon's fire does. They didn't even see what was happening until the creature was half off, literally jumping off the cliff to the abyss below, gargantuan wings spreading, taking wind, followed by the sound of running feet, and a growl; “The hell you will...”
And with a scream that pierced the tempest she jumped, launching herself from the edge, spear at ready, armor shining in the refection of snow, the wind fanning out her hair like a halo of ice, feeling the gravity hit her as her feet left the earth, feeling the wind surround her form. Somewhere behind her she heard Snæja yell out her name, the same moment as she held up her spear with both hands, and felt her feet come to full impact on the dragon's back as it fought to fan out it's shattered wings. The spear pierced, straight though, into the ribcage and stuck there, the shock enough to force him to fully spread his wings, taking in the wind and rising, climbing straight into the air, with his age old enemy hanging onto the spear in his back for her life, black blood running between her fingers, five clad in shining mithrill, five bare and pale.
For a moment, the world slowed, Hljodur reached his height and both savored a last moment, almost still in air, she on his back, and the endless lands in front of them, the storm making a wonderful swirls of dancing figures across the wasteland, the free women of pride dancing in the sky, and so far away the lights of Isar'Anok, casting it's white and blue glaze on the land around. Again, all was still, the blood on her hands felt warm, and she felt the most extraordinary feeling when though her legs and up to her body, she felt his heart, beating thickly, strongly, for the last time...
And they fell..


Epilogue
The sea is a place of wonder, and no one know fully what lies beneath. All she ever knew was that her body hit the water, and then she woke up, so far, far away.
What currents carried her in the path of the ship that took way to the shore of Desolace is still a mystery, and like so many times before the ocean will keep it's secrets.
All they ever knew, was from the freezing water came a troll woman, young, wounded, sleeping soundly on the top of the waves, and she remained so, until she woke up, screaming one name, the name that made her finder think that perhaps this one was something to remember, and put her on a list he was making, a collection of warriors to make the new great Order to defend the lands of the south...
The list later found it's way to the hands of a young forsaken, who found then found her in the company of a orc mercenary from Booty Bay, and from there, the story spun itself...
...and it's not over yet.
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