Herbalists' Cache wind lance

the stars above are eternal. gjalla has always found comfort in that. they blink against the long dark, scattered in an endless stretch of night, and she wonders how many of them are family. how many are watching her now, whispering into the void. she has always listened for them. for their voices. for their warnings. 

tonight, there is only silence. she does not mind it—she needs no warning to know who would come for her. he had already sent away blackfell.

she stands at the cliff’s edge, the wind howling through her thick coat, whipping at her face and biting at her skin. it stings. she welcomes it, winter’s great embrace before the full-fledged dawning of spring.

her breath left her in slow, visible clouds, eyes fixated on the horizon where frost met sky, and she spoke in the old tongue—raw and fervent, a plea from the very marrow of her bones. she does not beg—she never begs—but she asks.

"gods, i know you hear me. bear witness to my blood. give me the spine to stand where i must, the teeth to fight where i cannot. temper my spirit. let me burn bright enough that my shadow reaches those I love. let my heat outlast my body. stand with me, as i stand with you."

if there is retribution to come, let her bear it with honor. let her fight with the fury of those who came before her, with the wrath of the gods. let them see her as she is.

the wind shifts. old snow crunches beneath footfall.

she is not alone, and she is not afraid.