In a time before recored history, uncounted tribes were spread out across the winter lands of Dramoor. These tribes formed the infancy of the great empires that would rise from the great war of Titans. It was a time of deep earthly connection and fobidden dark majik.
The starry depths of a night sky loomed above an immense valley of snow covered pine trees. Surrounding this vast forest, a white capped ring of ancient mountains cast icey shadows. Within the frozen land a figure waited patiently, hidden under a great canopy of snow and ice.
The massive frame of the great man stood, breathing deeply and alert. Onetum, an ancient and hereditary club, rested tightly within the champion’s thick, powerful mitted fists. Dreaded Black hair surrounded his head in huge layers, flowing down the shoulders and back. Framing his scarred and pitted face, a full black beard with a flash of silver billowed over his mighty chest. Multiple layers of fur and leather shielded him, providing warmth and protection.
Steady puffs of hot, moist breath rose into the air, the calm figure unmoving. Slowly the man turned to scan the area and saw his prey, it’s hunched back all he could see. Between two pine trees several strides away, hidden with snow, was the great beast he had been stalking. The foulness of it was muted by the frozen air, but it was no less putrid to see. The beast also stalked him.
He is Gunnvaldr, Son of Giavaldr, grandson of Jatvaldr and champion of his tribe. He had been bred to defend them and educated to lead them as was the duty of his dynasty. The great man narrowed his eyes and reflected upon his fathers lessons.
“Gunnvaldr, by the white of snow you grow tall each day. Your strength will be greater then even mine. You are to be Champion.” Giavaldr grasped Gunnvaldr by the shoulder, staring into the boy’s eyes.
“Father, can no one defeat me?’ Gunnvaldr hung on his fathers words and actions. In his youth he had regarded his father as the source of all things.
“No one? My boy you will not survive long if you have such thoughts. Ha!” Giavaldr laughed and bellowed to the sky.
“Father can you be defeated?”
“Gunnvaldr, such questions afford only one answer.”
“You are our Champion father. None can rise over you.”
“Gunnvaldr, listen to me. To be champion you must not be tricked by the thoughts of absolute power, for you can bleed just as the mighty boar did. Do you remember?”
Gunnvaldr would never forget the hunt his father took him on for the mad boar. The beast was stronger and larger then a horse. His father had used skill and patience as battles with the creature had killed many brave men of the tribe.
The foul thing slowly turned as it sniffed the cold air. Gunnvaldr braced himself for what came next. As the beast made eye contact with him, it flashed its blood crusted fangs and narrowed it’s milky yellow eyes. With a sudden hiss, it sprang forward and moved across the short distance to Gunnvaldr. As the white haired beast reached for Gunnvaldr’s eyes, the ground gave out plunging the hissing creature onto a bed of spikes. Immediatly, the thing sprang up and grabbed the edge of the pit with it’s huge hairy claws. Gunnvaldr didn’t hesitate arching Onetum with all his might, crushing the skull of the beast as it cleared the pit’s edge. The twitching body fell back into the pit sending warm gouts of blood across the crisp white snow.
After dragging the body out and consuming it’s heart, he set off for his Clan with the trophy of the great beast that had killed many children.
2
Countless bright stars cast soft light upon the council of Elders as the elders be Ügan to congregate into the ritualistic Circle of Knowledge. Gunnvaldr sat on the great Skull Throne at the head of the Circle of Knowledge. Central to this, a shallow pit of glowing embers and small dancing flames sent flickering shadows flirting across the faces of the wise, aged men. Gunnvaldr gazed at the flames licked the air, his eyes orange and shifting. Deep guttural sounds echoed across the village as people gathered. Perched atop a mighty spear, set at the edge of the fire pitt, the clean white skull of the Great Beast reflected the orange glow of the fire. A large hole accentuated the side of it, flowers adorning it. It’s great tusks a brilliant ivory.
One of the elders stood and announced “Spirits, father, brothers! Hear me!” The music faded and the villagers sat, allowing the elder to speak further.
“The wisdom of our grandfathers has guided the people of our village throug ∆h the mighty hands of our Champion, Great Gunnvaldr. He has returned from the great forest of snow and ice victorious and strong.” The elder paused and motioned to Gunnvaldr, whose eyes had not diverted from the flames.
Slowly Gunnvaldr stood, focused and proud. “ Listen my sons and brothers.” Gunnvaldr gestured wildly, arching his arms across the night sky. “You have been freed from the vicious hunger of the great beast whose very skull sits upon the Black Spear. I have consumed it’s very heart and have been given the wisdom of it’s father. Listen as I must tell you now.” He diverted his eyes from the glowing pitt and looked at each elder in turn before continuing. “Doom approaches!” The villagers collectively gasped allowing a quiet murmur to settle over them. The circle of elders looked at each other, eyes wide with dread, mouths open with shock.
“What is this Doom great Champion?” The announcing elder spoke up as he knelt before his ceremonial  staff.
“Brother Hoskuldr, this night brings only a message of Doom. A powerful majic that draws closer as we speak. I, Gunnvaldr, the son of Giavaldr, the son of Jatvaldr, must seek the Sighvatr the Shaman of the Mountain. I must seek wisdom from the bones.” Gunnvaldr lifted his great club over his head and bellowed. Turning towards the crowd, he strode through as they scrambled to open a path. The seven elders departed the circle without a word, each of their tribes following behind.
As the villagers returned to their huts, spirits rose from the fire pitt into the sky like smoke from a tiny flame smouldering before an inferno.
3
The home of Gunnvaldr rested on a small hill surrounded by a thick, tall wall of logs, spiked at their tops. It also served as the great hall and council chamber for the elders to meet in without the crowds. It had been reinforced and expanded during the three generations of Gunnvaldr’s family that had ruled since the Dark Times. It contained the trop Óhies of many beasts and creatures, with lavish rugs and golden urns emitting the smell of pine and honey. The lowered floor of the hall was filled with five wooden tables stretching it’s length, draped in cloth and fur. Above, the ceiling came to a sharp angle, massive arches forming a steeple. At the opposite end of the hall a large throne of intricately carved wood sat which long banners of bears, wolves and fish hung behind from the ceiling. An assortment of fruit, meat and nuts laygenerously spread out to be eaten, with barrels of mead stacked in the corner.
As Gunnvaldr entered the lavish hall he was greeted by his advisors and far seers.
“Great Champion, you bring sadness to the people on a night that The Oracle has deemed to be joyous. Have you forgotten tradition and honour?” The hard voice of Vemundr boomed across the mighty hall. The large man’s blood traced back to the beginning of the village and his fathers had served every Champion since.
“Brother Vemundr. You speak true an d proud. All here this moment know of your great voice. What you say can not be ignored.” Gunnvaldr stood, facing his advisors and held out his hand.
“See my hand, brothers. My hand remains as the will of the gods. The message of The Doom could not be ignored this night or any other. By all that is great, not even the Festival of Skulls could merit a higher honour then that which this news demands. This Doom will destroy us all. We must prepare. Now.” Gunnvaldr had been reserved and confidant while he spoke. As Champion, he could not show weakness. The elders shuffled as they stood and whispered.
“I Vemundr, the son of Hulundr II, the son of Hulundr I, the son of Grimundr, the son of this village and it’s fathers bid you Champion, what does your vision tell you?” Vemundr said.
The advisors came closer as Gunnvaldr cleared an area on a table and stood upon it, looking over the small group.
“Gather your spears and slings. Bring forward the shield bearers and prepare the great brew. Have the great fire erect ed and the walls guarded. A great evil will descend on us this very eve. Now go!” Gunnvaldr shouted as the advisors scattered leaving to the quiet.
4
The dark forest beyond the village gate grew quiet as the night pondered on. Men with shields and spears paced along the walls edge, listening. The silence of the village was only interrupted by whispering voices and the crackle of the enormous fire that raged shedding intense heat and light. Within the central area of the village, rock throwers and torch bearers stood in groups, waiting for orders. A group of men sat upon the only horses in the village, Five muscled mounts of purest lineage. True horse for long, cold winters, their manes ran thick and dark. The riders had great spears and heavy clubs. A dozen or so villagers had formed a group of defenders wielding farm tools and other improvised weapons. Huddled with the villagers, Sighvatr the Shaman stood uttering in tongues with his eyes rolled back.
Gunnvaldr surveyed the men before him then began to speak.
“All who come to protect our ancestors shall sit at my table when we stand victorious. For those who wage battle and die shall sit at the tables of our ancestors and celebrate the same victory! Do not be fearful. The spirits....” He was cut off by sound of the gate-horn. Its distinct hollowness, signalling approach.
Gunnvaldr turned to his riders. “Great Riders, Your ancestors summon you. Go the gate, enforce their will. I must lead these men in your path.” As he descended the Hall stairs, the riders raced towards the gate. Gunnvaldr bellowed and rallied the defenders to follow him as he gripped Onetum tightly.
As the horn completed it’s call for help, a crooked old mule with a hunched man riding upon it emerged from the forest path and came to a stop several strides away from the gate. The man’s black robe kicked at the icy wind, snapping at the air. A thick, wet mist flowed around him, obscuring the mules legs. The stranger sat motionless. Silent.
“By the ancestors of this village. Who are you stranger ˇ? Why have you come?” A guard shouted through the gate.
The stranger glared back through the blackness of his hood with eyes of frost and blood uttering no sound.
Gunnvaldr, followed by the horde of defenders, surrounded the entrance way to the gate. As the semicircle formed, Gunnvaldr stepped forward, club in one hand and a large torch in the other. He lifted the torch and bellowed as only the champion can do. His guttural voice echoed throughout the village and remained for much longer then any could believe.
Outside the gate, the dark stranger sat upon the old mule and slowly raised his hand, clawing at the air as he did so. The lips of the stranger uttered forgotten words, the words of the cursed. Slowly the wooden gate began to crack and warp to the wicked majic sending small splinters into the air.
Inside the village, Gunnvaldr stepped towards the gate as it crumbled. The guards of the gate stepped back behind Gunnvaldr and readied themselves.
As the ferocity of the siege increased, several of ˛the villagers militia had run away for safety, leaving their haphazard weapons behind.
The gate heaved abruptly, ripped free of the walls by the dark majic. As the ruined gate collapsed to the ground, the mist slowly crept into the village. As the mist rose, the man on the mule calmly rode in. The guards and defenders that had remained with Gunnvaldr began their assault without hesitation or prompting. They had defended once before, and knew the consequences of inaction. Rocks rained through the air with brutal accuracy only to explode as they impacted with an unseen force, casting dust upon the stranger. The mule continued his slow step into the village trailing cold, heavy mist behind.
The villagers began to flee as their efforts at attack failed. Several guards attempted to engage the dark man in melee to only find themselves suddenly set upon by intense cold as the mist billowed forward. Their bodies now stood petrified within black ice to remain in their last throws of war.
Guards had now begun flee ing at the site of their frozen brothers and sons, dropping their weapons and howling as they sought their wives and families.
The stranger continued his slow approach while several strides ahead of him, Sighvatr the Shaman had taken to his knees at his staff and begun chanting, shaking a string of bones and pine needles. Set out in front of him, a fire smouldered with embers of white. A thin wisp of bright white smoke trailed into the shaman’s face.
The dark man, on his mule, stopped before the white fire and spoke for the first time. “You are useless to me.” His cruel, snapping voice fell upon the meditating shaman. Slowly and deliberately the stranger touched Sighvatr’s staff hand, sending a blazing aura of blue and white spinning into the air. A flash of light burst from the contact spot leaving the frozen body of the shaman, cold and black.
During this, Gunnvaldr had run to the bonfire and seized the Black Spear, ignited it’s great tip and returned to see the shaman in a blaze of light. Without hesitation he hurled the giant, mystical weapon with ungodly might, howling with rage. The ancient weapon cut the air, penetrated the invisible force and impacted, unerringly, the chest of the dark man, sending him back through the gate. His body, impaled on the spear, disappeared into the darkness of the forest with tremendous force. Sounds of wood spitting rang though the air as the dark man impacted a tree.
The mule reared and baying while foam spewed from it’s mouth and nose. Blood began to seep from it’s dense hide as it fell to the ground, smoking. Immediatly, the body began to writhe and twist as it’s bones broke and cracked tearing the body apart.
Gunnvaldr stared in shock and wonder as the bloody mess of the mule began growing and changing. Within moments, the dead mule had been replaced by the massive form of an ice troll. Hulking and dense with thick, coarse, white hair and pupiless blue eyes, the creature turned it’s neckless body to face Gunnvaldr. Tree like limbs with gnarled claws flexed as th ey prepared to render chaos on the village.
Giavaldr had told Gunnvaldr of Jatvaldr’s journey to kill an ice troll clan that had destroyed a fishing village and killed it’s villagers. The tale told of three trolls that stood five times bigger then Jatvaldr and how he had bested them all by using fire.
Gunnvaldr turned and ran towards the bonfire, with the troll bounding after him. The intense warmth of the fire halted the lumbering beast as it neared, keeping it several long strides from Gunnvaldr. He turned, clu b in hand and taunted the monster to attack.
The troll stared for several moments pacing at the outer edge of the heat and appeared to puzzle over the stalemate. After a short time the troll grunted and dug it’s massive claws into the frozen ground heaving a chunk of earth at the bonfire. The bonfire exploded as the dirt slammed it sending fire through the air. Several huts caught fire quickly igniting into towers of heat. Rolling to avoid the rapidly spreading fire, Gunnvaldr was immediatly set upon by the ice troll who no longer feared the bonfire’s touch.
Grabbing Gunnvaldr by his arm, the creature launched him into one of the flaming huts. The walls of the tiny structure collapsed, bringing the roof down in smoke and flames, Gunnvaldr’s body lay limp and broken.
The starry depths of a night sky loomed above an immense valley of snow covered pine trees. Surrounding this vast forest, a white capped ring of ancient mountains cast icey shadows. Within the frozen land a figure waited patiently, hidden under a great canopy of snow and ice.
 |
| Onetum |
The massive frame of the great man stood, breathing deeply and alert. Onetum, an ancient and hereditary club, rested tightly within the champion’s thick, powerful mitted fists. Dreaded Black hair surrounded his head in huge layers, flowing down the shoulders and back. Framing his scarred and pitted face, a full black beard with a flash of silver billowed over his mighty chest. Multiple layers of fur and leather shielded him, providing warmth and protection.
Steady puffs of hot, moist breath rose into the air, the calm figure unmoving. Slowly the man turned to scan the area and saw his prey, it’s hunched back all he could see. Between two pine trees several strides away, hidden with snow, was the great beast he had been stalking. The foulness of it was muted by the frozen air, but it was no less putrid to see. The beast also stalked him.
He is Gunnvaldr, Son of Giavaldr, grandson of Jatvaldr and champion of his tribe. He had been bred to defend them and educated to lead them as was the duty of his dynasty. The great man narrowed his eyes and reflected upon his fathers lessons.
“Gunnvaldr, by the white of snow you grow tall each day. Your strength will be greater then even mine. You are to be Champion.” Giavaldr grasped Gunnvaldr by the shoulder, staring into the boy’s eyes.
“Father, can no one defeat me?’ Gunnvaldr hung on his fathers words and actions. In his youth he had regarded his father as the source of all things.
“No one? My boy you will not survive long if you have such thoughts. Ha!” Giavaldr laughed and bellowed to the sky.
“Father can you be defeated?”
“Gunnvaldr, such questions afford only one answer.”
“You are our Champion father. None can rise over you.”
“Gunnvaldr, listen to me. To be champion you must not be tricked by the thoughts of absolute power, for you can bleed just as the mighty boar did. Do you remember?”
Gunnvaldr would never forget the hunt his father took him on for the mad boar. The beast was stronger and larger then a horse. His father had used skill and patience as battles with the creature had killed many brave men of the tribe.
After dragging the body out and consuming it’s heart, he set off for his Clan with the trophy of the great beast that had killed many children.
2
Countless bright stars cast soft light upon the council of Elders as the elders be Ügan to congregate into the ritualistic Circle of Knowledge. Gunnvaldr sat on the great Skull Throne at the head of the Circle of Knowledge. Central to this, a shallow pit of glowing embers and small dancing flames sent flickering shadows flirting across the faces of the wise, aged men. Gunnvaldr gazed at the flames licked the air, his eyes orange and shifting. Deep guttural sounds echoed across the village as people gathered. Perched atop a mighty spear, set at the edge of the fire pitt, the clean white skull of the Great Beast reflected the orange glow of the fire. A large hole accentuated the side of it, flowers adorning it. It’s great tusks a brilliant ivory.
One of the elders stood and announced “Spirits, father, brothers! Hear me!” The music faded and the villagers sat, allowing the elder to speak further.
“The wisdom of our grandfathers has guided the people of our village throug ∆h the mighty hands of our Champion, Great Gunnvaldr. He has returned from the great forest of snow and ice victorious and strong.” The elder paused and motioned to Gunnvaldr, whose eyes had not diverted from the flames.
Slowly Gunnvaldr stood, focused and proud. “ Listen my sons and brothers.” Gunnvaldr gestured wildly, arching his arms across the night sky. “You have been freed from the vicious hunger of the great beast whose very skull sits upon the Black Spear. I have consumed it’s very heart and have been given the wisdom of it’s father. Listen as I must tell you now.” He diverted his eyes from the glowing pitt and looked at each elder in turn before continuing. “Doom approaches!” The villagers collectively gasped allowing a quiet murmur to settle over them. The circle of elders looked at each other, eyes wide with dread, mouths open with shock.
“What is this Doom great Champion?” The announcing elder spoke up as he knelt before his ceremonial  staff.
“Brother Hoskuldr, this night brings only a message of Doom. A powerful majic that draws closer as we speak. I, Gunnvaldr, the son of Giavaldr, the son of Jatvaldr, must seek the Sighvatr the Shaman of the Mountain. I must seek wisdom from the bones.” Gunnvaldr lifted his great club over his head and bellowed. Turning towards the crowd, he strode through as they scrambled to open a path. The seven elders departed the circle without a word, each of their tribes following behind.
As the villagers returned to their huts, spirits rose from the fire pitt into the sky like smoke from a tiny flame smouldering before an inferno.
3
The home of Gunnvaldr rested on a small hill surrounded by a thick, tall wall of logs, spiked at their tops. It also served as the great hall and council chamber for the elders to meet in without the crowds. It had been reinforced and expanded during the three generations of Gunnvaldr’s family that had ruled since the Dark Times. It contained the trop Óhies of many beasts and creatures, with lavish rugs and golden urns emitting the smell of pine and honey. The lowered floor of the hall was filled with five wooden tables stretching it’s length, draped in cloth and fur. Above, the ceiling came to a sharp angle, massive arches forming a steeple. At the opposite end of the hall a large throne of intricately carved wood sat which long banners of bears, wolves and fish hung behind from the ceiling. An assortment of fruit, meat and nuts laygenerously spread out to be eaten, with barrels of mead stacked in the corner.
As Gunnvaldr entered the lavish hall he was greeted by his advisors and far seers.
“Great Champion, you bring sadness to the people on a night that The Oracle has deemed to be joyous. Have you forgotten tradition and honour?” The hard voice of Vemundr boomed across the mighty hall. The large man’s blood traced back to the beginning of the village and his fathers had served every Champion since.
“Brother Vemundr. You speak true an d proud. All here this moment know of your great voice. What you say can not be ignored.” Gunnvaldr stood, facing his advisors and held out his hand.
“See my hand, brothers. My hand remains as the will of the gods. The message of The Doom could not be ignored this night or any other. By all that is great, not even the Festival of Skulls could merit a higher honour then that which this news demands. This Doom will destroy us all. We must prepare. Now.” Gunnvaldr had been reserved and confidant while he spoke. As Champion, he could not show weakness. The elders shuffled as they stood and whispered.
“I Vemundr, the son of Hulundr II, the son of Hulundr I, the son of Grimundr, the son of this village and it’s fathers bid you Champion, what does your vision tell you?” Vemundr said.
The advisors came closer as Gunnvaldr cleared an area on a table and stood upon it, looking over the small group.
“Gather your spears and slings. Bring forward the shield bearers and prepare the great brew. Have the great fire erect ed and the walls guarded. A great evil will descend on us this very eve. Now go!” Gunnvaldr shouted as the advisors scattered leaving to the quiet.
4
The dark forest beyond the village gate grew quiet as the night pondered on. Men with shields and spears paced along the walls edge, listening. The silence of the village was only interrupted by whispering voices and the crackle of the enormous fire that raged shedding intense heat and light. Within the central area of the village, rock throwers and torch bearers stood in groups, waiting for orders. A group of men sat upon the only horses in the village, Five muscled mounts of purest lineage. True horse for long, cold winters, their manes ran thick and dark. The riders had great spears and heavy clubs. A dozen or so villagers had formed a group of defenders wielding farm tools and other improvised weapons. Huddled with the villagers, Sighvatr the Shaman stood uttering in tongues with his eyes rolled back.
Gunnvaldr surveyed the men before him then began to speak.
“All who come to protect our ancestors shall sit at my table when we stand victorious. For those who wage battle and die shall sit at the tables of our ancestors and celebrate the same victory! Do not be fearful. The spirits....” He was cut off by sound of the gate-horn. Its distinct hollowness, signalling approach.
Gunnvaldr turned to his riders. “Great Riders, Your ancestors summon you. Go the gate, enforce their will. I must lead these men in your path.” As he descended the Hall stairs, the riders raced towards the gate. Gunnvaldr bellowed and rallied the defenders to follow him as he gripped Onetum tightly.
As the horn completed it’s call for help, a crooked old mule with a hunched man riding upon it emerged from the forest path and came to a stop several strides away from the gate. The man’s black robe kicked at the icy wind, snapping at the air. A thick, wet mist flowed around him, obscuring the mules legs. The stranger sat motionless. Silent.
“By the ancestors of this village. Who are you stranger ˇ? Why have you come?” A guard shouted through the gate.
The stranger glared back through the blackness of his hood with eyes of frost and blood uttering no sound.
Gunnvaldr, followed by the horde of defenders, surrounded the entrance way to the gate. As the semicircle formed, Gunnvaldr stepped forward, club in one hand and a large torch in the other. He lifted the torch and bellowed as only the champion can do. His guttural voice echoed throughout the village and remained for much longer then any could believe.
Outside the gate, the dark stranger sat upon the old mule and slowly raised his hand, clawing at the air as he did so. The lips of the stranger uttered forgotten words, the words of the cursed. Slowly the wooden gate began to crack and warp to the wicked majic sending small splinters into the air.
Inside the village, Gunnvaldr stepped towards the gate as it crumbled. The guards of the gate stepped back behind Gunnvaldr and readied themselves.
As the ferocity of the siege increased, several of ˛the villagers militia had run away for safety, leaving their haphazard weapons behind.
The gate heaved abruptly, ripped free of the walls by the dark majic. As the ruined gate collapsed to the ground, the mist slowly crept into the village. As the mist rose, the man on the mule calmly rode in. The guards and defenders that had remained with Gunnvaldr began their assault without hesitation or prompting. They had defended once before, and knew the consequences of inaction. Rocks rained through the air with brutal accuracy only to explode as they impacted with an unseen force, casting dust upon the stranger. The mule continued his slow step into the village trailing cold, heavy mist behind.
The villagers began to flee as their efforts at attack failed. Several guards attempted to engage the dark man in melee to only find themselves suddenly set upon by intense cold as the mist billowed forward. Their bodies now stood petrified within black ice to remain in their last throws of war.
Guards had now begun flee ing at the site of their frozen brothers and sons, dropping their weapons and howling as they sought their wives and families.
The stranger continued his slow approach while several strides ahead of him, Sighvatr the Shaman had taken to his knees at his staff and begun chanting, shaking a string of bones and pine needles. Set out in front of him, a fire smouldered with embers of white. A thin wisp of bright white smoke trailed into the shaman’s face.
The dark man, on his mule, stopped before the white fire and spoke for the first time. “You are useless to me.” His cruel, snapping voice fell upon the meditating shaman. Slowly and deliberately the stranger touched Sighvatr’s staff hand, sending a blazing aura of blue and white spinning into the air. A flash of light burst from the contact spot leaving the frozen body of the shaman, cold and black.
 |
| The Black Spear |
During this, Gunnvaldr had run to the bonfire and seized the Black Spear, ignited it’s great tip and returned to see the shaman in a blaze of light. Without hesitation he hurled the giant, mystical weapon with ungodly might, howling with rage. The ancient weapon cut the air, penetrated the invisible force and impacted, unerringly, the chest of the dark man, sending him back through the gate. His body, impaled on the spear, disappeared into the darkness of the forest with tremendous force. Sounds of wood spitting rang though the air as the dark man impacted a tree.
The mule reared and baying while foam spewed from it’s mouth and nose. Blood began to seep from it’s dense hide as it fell to the ground, smoking. Immediatly, the body began to writhe and twist as it’s bones broke and cracked tearing the body apart.
Gunnvaldr stared in shock and wonder as the bloody mess of the mule began growing and changing. Within moments, the dead mule had been replaced by the massive form of an ice troll. Hulking and dense with thick, coarse, white hair and pupiless blue eyes, the creature turned it’s neckless body to face Gunnvaldr. Tree like limbs with gnarled claws flexed as th ey prepared to render chaos on the village.
Giavaldr had told Gunnvaldr of Jatvaldr’s journey to kill an ice troll clan that had destroyed a fishing village and killed it’s villagers. The tale told of three trolls that stood five times bigger then Jatvaldr and how he had bested them all by using fire.
Gunnvaldr turned and ran towards the bonfire, with the troll bounding after him. The intense warmth of the fire halted the lumbering beast as it neared, keeping it several long strides from Gunnvaldr. He turned, clu b in hand and taunted the monster to attack.
The troll stared for several moments pacing at the outer edge of the heat and appeared to puzzle over the stalemate. After a short time the troll grunted and dug it’s massive claws into the frozen ground heaving a chunk of earth at the bonfire. The bonfire exploded as the dirt slammed it sending fire through the air. Several huts caught fire quickly igniting into towers of heat. Rolling to avoid the rapidly spreading fire, Gunnvaldr was immediatly set upon by the ice troll who no longer feared the bonfire’s touch.
Grabbing Gunnvaldr by his arm, the creature launched him into one of the flaming huts. The walls of the tiny structure collapsed, bringing the roof down in smoke and flames, Gunnvaldr’s body lay limp and broken.
