Duskfire Glacier When gods forgive

Intruder in Darukaal!
All welcome ofc!

Faust of Darukaal had not come to beseech the gods for aid, had not summoned their voices, nor paid any heed to their whispers. A man of the north who no longer feared these wrathful and mischievous deities enough.

As for Aspa, she was resolutely determined to grant a second chance to the war chief—the kaan, and his warriors. She had crossed the glacier, carrying with her, wrapped in a hare's skin, a few items that would surely be of use in seeking the gods' forgiveness. Without the slightest hesitation, the sorceress had ventured into the lands of Dakuraal, treading its paths while awaiting the moment she would be intercepted by one of its warriors.

aspa.
his voice fell low, like stone dropped in snow. a breath—sharp, quiet—fogged the air between them as he stepped down, broad shoulders shifting with the motion. the glacier creaked beneath his weight.
you're far from nova peak.
no warmth in it, but no threat either. just the plain weight of truth. his green eyes studied her, slow and unreadable. she smelled of ash and old prayers, of something older than this war, older than him.
his gaze lingered on the bundle she carried, wrapped tight in hare’s skin. not a peace offering. not exactly. she was no diplomat. she was the kind who came when the air thickened, when something unseen twisted just out of reach.
he stood steady in the wind, silent for a long moment before his voice came again, quieter.
why now?

He had appeared almost instantly, as though summoned by the mere act of her crossing into his domain. But where were his people? Had they ever truly existed? The North teemed with scents, with traces of passage, yet despite the restless murmur of the land, Aspa had encountered few mortals.

Så sandt. Her står jeg på din gletsjer, she said, amusement curling at the edges of her voice. Jorden skælver, skrøbelig og åndeløs, mens den venter på tordenens brøl, lynets slag! A pause.

Og dog så jeg dig ikke ved min hytte, Faust af Darukaal.

She set down her provisions, weaving her way toward the colossus with the sinuous grace of a viper—perhaps just as cunning.

Ser du ikke de tegn, guderne efterlader for dig? Her voice was inquisitive, edged with something sharper. Eller vælger du bevidst at vende blikket bort?

Slowly, the fur along her spine rose, bristling, while her ears flicked and swiveled, possessed by unseen whispers.

De taler, ved du… og deres tålmodighed rinder ud.

She met his gaze, unwavering—small beside such a titan, yet never so small as to be diminished. After all, had she not walked among the gods? A mere mortal would not be enough to unnerve her.

i wasn’t there, faust said, low, ’cause nova peak ain’t exactly fond of me. never has.
he watched her as she wove through the snow like smoke, the scent of bone and herbs clinging to her like second skin. he didn’t shift under her gaze, though it clung tight to him. a thousand gods might’ve been whisperin’ in her ear, but none had ever come to him. not without blood.
i’m not a religious man.
the words fell like frost. honest, rough around the edges. he wasn’t afraid of gods, only of what men did in their names.
his gaze dropped, briefly, to the bundle she set down, then returned to her. even the glacier seemed to hush.
what do they say, then? he asked at last, voice scraping with tired gravity. since they’re speaking to you.
he did not mock her. not quite. but there was a challenge in the way he stood—scarred and still. he didn’t know how to kneel. not to ghosts. not even to gods.

Så… De undrer sig over, hvorfor Nova Peak skræmmer dig så meget—dig, en kriger! she sneered, weaving sinuously between his powerful legs, her gaze roaming over him, tracing each scar, each testament to past battles. Men jeg tror, det er den Hvide Dame, der hjemsøger dig.

She circled him, drifting first to his right, then to his left, amused, though he stood like an unmoving colossus of ice.

De har givet dig utallige chancer for at hugge dit navn i legenderne, for at indskrive dine bedrifter dybt i Nordens hjerte… she declared, unblinking. Og alligevel bliver du her, tronende på din gletsjer.

Her tail sliced through the air with a sharp yet subdued snap, and this time, her lips curled with a flicker of irritation.

Vore guder har formet deres mænd til erobrere, til frygtløse krigere, til væsener velsignet med krigens gave… Og alligevel, du, iskolossen, og bjørnemanden på den anden side… She flicked her nose toward the neighboring peak, Nova Peak. I gemmer jer i jeres frosne rige. I bliver fede!

i am not the kind of northman @Skorpa claims to be, faust grunted, his voice a low thrum, a rockslide too slow to stop.
she weaved around him like a shadow in snow, her words biting at the edges of his patience. he did not follow her with his eyes—he didn’t need to. he’d been stalked before. by gods, ghosts, women. warriors.
i don’t run, he added. i plan to take this conflict head on. whether it’s blood or ice waiting—so be it.
his shoulders lifted in a long, drawn breath that steamed from his nostrils like smoke from a dying fire. her words lingered like old wounds reopened.
don’t fault him, he said after a beat, quieter, though no softer. his wife is pregnant.
there was a flicker of something deeper in his voice—buried beneath the warstone and frost. something near to regret. or respect. he didn't know anymore.
he’s protecting what’s his. that’s not weakness.
then, lower: but i am not him.
he let that hang between them, carved into the cold. his eyes narrowed on her at last, steady and sharp. so speak, aspa. if the gods sent you, say what they want.

tag for mention

So many excuses, so many words of reason—too many words of reason, urging logic rather than reckless war. These men were far less mad than those she had known, and yet, among them, it was she who seemed the mad one.

And yet, she smiled again. The thrill of encountering men less docile than usual. Men of greater cunning.

De kræver, at retfærdigheden bliver udført i deres navn. De kræver, at du og dine krigere indgyder frygt og respekt blandt vores fjender, she growled. Man udfordrer ikke Norden, ej heller dets guder, uden at påkalde deres vrede. She stepped away for a moment, retrieving her bundle.

Jeg har bragt med mig det, der skal til for at velsigne dig og dine krigere med vores guders velsignelse, she proclaimed. Hvis du accepterer at frygte dem, tilbede dem, respektere dem. Hvis du vil knæle foran dem. She smiled.

Dette er din sidste chance, Faust fra Darukaal, iskolossen, for at opnå tilgivelse fra dem, du alt for længe har ignoreret!

his shadow broke across the snow, great and quiet as he listened. the sorceress's tongue lashed like flame, demanding reverence, demanding kneeling. he had not bowed to gods. not ever. not once.
but there was a memory—blood upon bark, blackfell’s voice like smoke, the bone-deep chant that rose between them.
he had knelt.
not to the gods. not then.
but to his kin.
faust drew in a long breath, eyes narrowing slightly as the she-witch retrieved her bundle. he did not bristle. did not bark. instead, he moved closer.
i will worship none other than my wife.
his voice was low, calm, unwavering. a vow made of stone and marrow. a truth.
if she worships gods, then so will i.
his green eyes fell to the bundle. the gifts. and he did not turn away from them. instead, a paw moved and he accepted them with a quiet nod.
respect, he said, lifting his gaze again, voice edged with something close to tired, but not quite soft. i can do.
the gods would not have his devotion. not yet. not unless his wife willed it. but respect, as earned by blood and kin, he would offer.
show me what to do.

He remained, after all, a man. Aspa had nodded, while the gods continued to murmur.

Så, Faust af Darukaal, det vil være respekt, indtil de lærer dig at frygte dem, og derefter vil der kun være én ting tilbage for dig: at kravle og bede dem om nåde. She had finally prophesied. Her words were threats, yet Aspa showed no sign of hostility. Wasn’t she, after all, merely their messenger?

Dine krigere og du, spis leveren fra jeres bytte, lad ikke noget gå til spilde. She had advised him. In her bundle, she had just taken one—most likely from a marten, which she had crushed beneath her paws.

Luk øjnene. She didn’t wait for him to comply, instead rising to her feet and pressing her paws onto his eyelids, spreading the thick, oozing paste over the giant’s face. Guderne vil se gennem dine øjne, de vil vejlede dig i din kamp. They were clearly not vengeful—or were they? The rest of her bundle now belonged to the kaan.

Der er planter, som din helbreder sikkert kan bruge til de sårede. Jeg er ingen helbreder, jeg ville ikke vide, hvad jeg skulle gøre med dem. Yet she added, Der er også en plante, der bringer kampens raseri til dem, der er værdige… dem, der er værdige for guderne. De andre, derimod... The jimsonweed... a true game of Russian roulette.

faust did not flinch.
not when her paw pressed to his brow, nor when the paste burned hot against the colder flesh of his face. the smell was bitter. copper and soil. ancient, like something long buried but still whispering.
he accepted the bundle without comment at first. its weight felt strange in his grasp—not heavy, not light. not burden, not gift. something between. something earned.
finally, aspa finished her rites, and the cold wind swept in again. he stood still for a moment, breathing in the scents: gods, blood, rot, something sacred and spoiled. and then, he spoke.
maybe i will fear them, he said, voice low and rough as gravel. not mocking. not mocking at all. but thoughtful. testing the taste of it on his tongue. and maybe they’ll teach me why i should.
he opened his eyes. red burning behind the dark. his gaze settled on the sorceress, unreadable, but not ungrateful.
my thanks, he offered, simple, but meant. he looked down at the plants, the liver, the bitter roots and strange leaves. i’ll have my bone seer sort through them.
then a faint breath, almost a laugh—dry, brittle. and maybe i’ll try the leaf myself. see if they think i’m worthy.

Then, he heard only the threats, which seemed to amuse him all the more. Was it the wrath of the gods that Faust of Darukaal sought? Did he hope that through suffering, he might rediscover the strength to fear them once more? Every man turned his gaze to the gods in his own manner—such was the path of the ice colossus. Aspa merely smiled.

Du udfordrer faren, Faust af Darukaal… du vandrer ad en farefuld sti! she murmured, a hint of mirth in her voice, entertained to find that the colossus, behind his mask of frost, still had a few secrets to unveil. Guderne begunstiger dem, der tør. With that, she took a step back from the giant.

Og du bærer disse mærker med stolthed. she observed his eyelids covered in the brownish mixture. Må guderne vandre med dig i kamp, og må du og dine krigere vise jer værdige i deres øjne. Her serpentine tail coiled and uncoiled behind her.

Vi skal mødes igen – efter din sejr. She revealed.

Fade to the end?