Duskfire Glacier the gods call your name

the call from faust rang through the air like a shotgun blast. heavy, demanding, frantic. he sang for blackfell, but svalla would not stand idle. could not. not only was it a chance to right her wrongs, but it was a call for help. a plea. and so she ran from her den, sprinting across the ice of the glacier. carving her way through the snow with an urgence that made her heart thrum heavily. lithe legs brought her far and fast; her lungs burning, aching.

but she was there, sharp eyes gone wild and wide. faust, blackfell, a strange woman she did not know. and then blackfell's woman, who had been kind enough to guide her to this glacier in the first place. blood sat heavily in the air, acrid and metallic. so much she could taste it. gjalla laying in the snow, in a pool of her own blood. everyone in a frenzy. blackfell's anger was a palpable force, while the stranger woman who smelled heavily of milk and pups barked orders.

she wouldn't have listened before. she would have jumped right beside blackfell, despite their fight, to spill the guts of whomever harmed gjalla. to spark a war in which she had already ignited. but that was then, and this is now; now, she listens. her expression pinched with resolution, as she takes her orders. "wait for me, blackfell!" she barked and pleaded, before she was tearing off again. darting back into the tundra and the dead trees.

mind in a frenzy as she recounted the various herbs. horsetail, pine resin—she would find both. and she would return then, to wage a warpath alongside her old friend. no one would cross the north and live to tell the tale.