Beginnings

Upon hearing news of Jormund Osrigard’s fate, Grimligg Ironmask journeys north toward The Wolf Lands, venturing alone as he leaves the marsh behind. As he sets forth on his path, his companions appear one by one, without uttering a word, they bow deeply and present him with their finest weapons for the journey.

After a week of traveling north, crossing the sea via Cairn Bay, Grimligg sets foot on the frozen shores of The Wolf Lands. That first night, as he sits by a fire near the port settlement, mapping his route to Jormund’s last-known location, an old woman approaches, wrapped in thick furs, seeking shelter from the cold.

“My fire is yours, come warm yourself. I am Grimligg,” he offers.

“Blessings upon you. I am Arda, a humble traveler. Ah, at last, a proper fire! My bones have nearly turned to ice. A Heron warrior, here of all places…How unusual,” she observes.

“I go where I must.”

“To the glacial tomb of Jormund the Lancer, I suspect? It is said none should tread there,” she muses.

“You know of it?”

“Three days northwest, past the great marker-stones on the plateau. If the storms and wolves permit, the journey itself is not impossible—but the ice sealing that place will not yield without fire. Only an Icebane sword could melt it, the ever-burning blades wielded by the Tundra Hunters.”

“I have heard of them. Outlaws. That means they stand between me and my task.”

“They would sooner die than part with such a weapon, especially to a southerner. And then there is another matter—the white dragon Jormund slew, Corthax, had a sister. Assurian still lingers in these lands. Should she wake, I fear what she might do.”

“Dangers all,” Grimligg acknowledges. “I owe you thanks for your wisdom, but the deed must be done.”

“You believe Jormund still lives, encased in ice?”

“I do not assume. But I will not leave a friend trapped in such a fate. If he cannot be saved, he will have a warrior’s grave. Dragons or tundra hunters be damned.”

“A fearless heart,” Arda murmurs. “Take this, then.”

A breeze stirs the flames of the fire and sweeps them around Grimligg in a warming embrace.

Ordo, Crystalis, Flamis, Intete.

“Speak it each dawn, commit it to memory. It will stave off the worst of the cold for a time. May it serve you well.”

“Who are you, really?” Grimligg whispers as the flames return to normal.

“I am Arda.” She turns and walks away into the night.

The Wolf Path

After clearing camp in the morning, Grimligg sets out on the narrow ravine weaving though the base of mountains.

From the northern and southern passes, wolves close in. As one nears Grimligg, he deftly strikes out with his spear, impaling the wolf and driving the weapon deep into the ice below.

With his spear now embedded in the frozen ground, he whirls, unsheathing his curved blade, and cleaves the next attacking wolf through the jaw. A third wolf leaps over its fallen packmate and lunges at his exposed back, yet its fangs and claws fail to breach his scale mail armor.

The biting cold assaults Grimligg as he summons a burst of strength to flip the wolf onto its back. Stumbling briefly to regain his footing while the remaining wolves circle menacingly, he steels himself against the frigid air.

Recalling the spell of Arda, he utters the magical words and plunges into the wolves in a whirlwind of blades, dispatching the final three wolves in swift succession. Feeling his strength ebb away and the freezing temperatures overwhelm him, he realizes he cannot retrieve his spear from the ice. Noticing the glint of spear tips carried by distant tundra warriors, he makes the difficult decision to abandon his weapon and press on.