THE ULVUR CHRONICLES, CHAPTERS V-VII

Interlude
Journal entry, Passing Clouds 24th, 1657

he winter has truly come to Cyhalloi. Never have I experienced such coldness, and this is only the beginning. I do not know how much longer into the winter months or farther north I can go, but I will surely not last over the whole winter. Before Frozen Rivers I must return or at least begin my journey back to the Library in any way, so my time grows short. However, I have made some most interesting discoveries.

A little more than two weeks ago we came across a pair of local hunters who were not late to warn us of the 'man-wolf beasts'. When I asked if they had actually seen one of these beasts in the flesh they hesitated for a moment, but then they both nodded, and their eyes sparkled with fear as if they recalled that very moment they had seen such a creature. They told me of how they had stridden home the week before at duskfall after a long, hard day of unsucessful hunting, when their two large hunting dogs suddenly picked up a scent which had made them both excited and agitated. The dogs had wimpingly turned to the nearby woods and watched it as if they waited for something, but none of them moved. One of the hunters, the larger of them, had cautiously walked closer to the dark wood, and when he was four or five peds away, a dark shape had suddenly appeared among the firs. It had moved like a wolf, and yet it had more the shape of a man. Swift like the wind it had been, but then it just stood there; watching the hunter with the faintly glowing eyes of a wolf. The hunter had frozen in both awe and fear when he noticed it, and forced himself to pay no heed to the questing calls his fellow hunter gave him. The dogs had still done nothing but stand their ground; wimping, watching and smelling. It had not been until the other hunter finally walked not so cautiously to where the first hunter stood when the man-wolf disappeared, as sudden as it had appeared. "I didn't believe him when he told me about what he just had seen," said the other hunter, "but a short time after that, when the dogs had started acting normal again, a sudden howl could be heard from within the woods. It sounded very much like a wolf's howl, but I knew it wasn't. It had something of a bard's song. It had lyrics, actual lyrics I tell you! Of course they were of some language we don't know nothing about, but I swear it had rhyming words and a flowing melody and all that! Feffing scary, I tell you that! Still, there was something... nice about it, if anything ever can be nice about a howl. I know one thing for sure though, and that's that no human could ever sing a song like that!" He had been both a bit frightened, but still with a glimpse of fascination in his eyes when he told me about the strange howl-song, but the first hunter had just stared beyond us with nothing but fear in his own. I asked one final question; if this strange creature had anything to do with the rumours of the tundra beast, where upon he answered: "The tundra beast is a savage monster that attacks everything that moves. This, m'lord, looked at me as if it said 'this is my territory, little man, and you best be on your way out of here unless you want to become the hunted', just like a wild wolf, but even beyond that. There was almost something man-like in that look it gave me..." He fell silent after that and looked away as if he wanted to hide his face. Apart from that they obviously had hurried southward to their home as fast as possible, the two hunters had nothing more to tell.

We bought some supplies from them before parting ways, where upon we continued our cold trek.

We had been travelling far north on the east island for about a week since we met the hunters; seeing nothing but the snow-covered tundra; plains, mountains and woods buried under an ever white layer of frost. As we set up a camp to rest a bit and have some lunch, we noticed a trail of strange stones leading into the nearby woods. They were tall; both unnaturally placed and shaped, and as we got closer we saw carvings on them. These marks showed not only symbolic patterns, but also detailed pictures and portrayals of man-like creatures battling monsters and the like. There were also pictures of what looked like a big tree with swirling branches; perhaps an oak or an ash, and also what appeared to be a celestial shape on the sky like the sun, but it divided into halves of various sizes on each stone. The most apparent picture was however of a trinity symbol; a knot of some ancient design, and even more evident, on each stone, was the portrayal of various wolves or wolf-like creatures.
I have never before encountered runestones of that design. It did not remind me of anything human, elven, dwarven, orcish or anything else, and yet, it showed that whatever culture it seems to be part of is a sophisticated and proud one; clearly at a level of our own. Such beautiful minds the craftsmen of those runestones must have! They told not only a wonderous tale of ancient times, but also seemed to give warnings and information of the surrounding area. Could they indeed have been crafted by the ulvur themselves? In any way, such discoveries as those give me more warmth and strength than any fire or meal, and what a month ago seemed to be the mission of a madman now truly has the potential of a new, great journey of historical discovery.

-- Haramith Horrand, chronicler of the Great Library
 

Chapter V:
Of Ravenblade And The First Battle

As the ulvur now had cut themselves off from the rest of the world, they found it more and more difficult to watch over the other races. Rimjora comforted them with calm, spiritual whisperings of how it was not their fault that her other children strayed from her more and more, and how their guarding was now only particularly important for the wolves, her own, innermost essence and themselves. For now, there were creatures other than Rimjora's children that dwelled in the world. The other races were now out of their grasp. Now, a more important task lay in the ulvur's hands: to defend their All-Mother from the aggrar of Uhrum, and eventually banish as many as possible from the world. And a time would soon come when this task would be proven once again in a great battle.

It was Ravenblade, the first warlady of ulvurdom; strongest and fairest of them all, who would lead Rimjora's warriors into Túriad Isenlor; the Battle of Ice and Fire. This battle took place even farther north than their homeland Vildfrost; beyond the tundra to a twisted realm of ice and death where a powerful aggrar had claimed his dominion in the name of Uhrum. It was in this battle that the first known appearance of Ro-mon-loga, the Red Moon, came to be. It was lady Ravenblade herself, who with her immense power called upon the moon in an ungodly howl to aid her army against the neverending forces of the aggrar lord, and thus forcing it to pass from Nifel's realm to Rimjora's. By doing so, it burned red like blood, and brought mighty powers to Ravenblade and her ulvur. Like a blazing fire that melts a block of ice did they conquer the aggrar legion, and even if that land would ever be of cold death, its master was slain and his wicked soul banished back to the void by Ravenblade herself.

Picture description. The famous mythical hero of ancient ulvurian history, Ravenblade. Image by Isilhir.

Even if she had caused a good deal of grudges between the ulvur packs upon taking a maner male as her betrothed as it seemed unnatural to love someone not of her own kind and especially a maner, all was now forgiven. Before the great battle Ravenblade had united her pack with a northern, druidic tribe of maner, of which tribe her betrothed was part of. Ravenblade also joined with a nomadic tribe of the alver, and both tribes - after minor struggles and eventually reasoning and declaration of their bonds to Rimjora - were strong and still proved themselves worthy of peacemaking with the ulvur. But as the aggrar lord had spread his malice even within the borders of Vildfrost, he had unseen manipulated many of each party and even Ravenblade herself; such was his power in that aspect. But now, his evil was gone, and peace reigned once again, even if it was only amongst the ulvur packs and the alver tribe. The maner druids had fled south in the panic of the battle. But Ravenblade's betrothed had of course stayed with her, and extraordinary as their tale is, it will not be told at the fullest here. Still, it came to be widely known throughout the lands of each ulvur pack of this strong and nature-loving maner and how their greatest heroine had chosen him as the love of her life. And by the mysterious magic of Rimjora, the maner man's life became as long as Ravenblade's, and they lived and died together, after many joyful years in peace with their family and children. And so, a strong and fair bloodline would follow; and legends and songs of Ravenblade's epic accomplishments were written, told and sung years upon years after her passing.

But what no ulvur knew and not even Rimjora sensed, was that the aggrar lord could not be slain so easily. His earthly body had been but a vessel that had held his powerful spirit, and even if he had been severly weakened, he was far from dead, and as his evil soul had returned to Uhrum to rejuvinate, he immediately began to plot his revenge. And his master could only encourage this. For there was indeed a more powerful aggrar than Ravenblade's enemy, and he was in fact the Lord of all Chaos and Darkness. He was to Uhrum what Rimjora was to the world; an element of pure evil and a spirit with powers to match even those combined of the trinity itself. Drimuxargaur (Shadow and Chaos) was his name, and he was a pure manifestation of all the pain, torment, warmongering and chaos ever dreamt of. He had now realized the ulvur and their strong bond to Rimjora as a threat, and he would aid his henchman in whatever way possible in his vengeful plan. And so, after many years of regaining his strength, the aggrar lord Ravenblade once vanquished returned to the world through evil mages who summoned him. But this time it was in heavy disguise, as he passed unnoticed through every land save Vildfrost, for he knew that there the ulvur and Rimjora would sense him. Nifelgrim was his true name; the aggrar Lord of Ice, and even though he hid from the ever watching ulvur, he reckoned that his second onslaught on Vildfrost was close at hand.

Chapter VI:
Of The Rise Of The Horád

When Nifelgrim had been recovering in the void of Uhrum, the ulvur packs had established a thriving and powerful society equal to any maner kingdom. The maner part of Ravenblade's kind had through generations faded and blended into the ulvur part more and more, but if it had had any effect on the Ravenblade bloodline, it had only made it stronger, but perhaps more evident was the deep understanding of the changing of the world. But understanding of it only made the divine quest to bring the world back to what it once was more important, as well as guarding it at all costs. As the few but great ulvur cities rose unseen by the rest of the world deep within the ancient, giant firwoods of Vildfrost, a system of government was founded, and laws based on the lores of Rimjora were written. Five great cities, each with a ruling pack, now constituted the realm of the ulvur, and the five packs ruled together over the whole of Vildfrost.

Picture description. Darnrunin, the City of Runes, the ulvur capital of history and legend. Image by Isilhir.

The northernmost city was named Rimvalarún, the City of Lores, and it was there the spirit warriors came to learn the greatest lores of Rimjora. The ruling couple was Tyrvirja Fréyra Korpklinga (Ravenblade) and Tyrvur Arvádor, and their pack was called the Korplor (Ravenfire) Clan. The westernmost city was named Darnrunin; the City of Runes, and it was the capital of history and legend, where the chroniclers and bards often shared their tales and knowledge. The ruling leader there was Tyrvur Indurn Isenfjáll, and his pack was called the Frosturjol (Frostborn) Clan. The westernmost city was named Arvang; the City of Steel, and it was the centre for warrior training and the greatest smiths. The ruling couple was Tyrvirja Drávun Kharador and Tyrvur Feinir the Grey, and their pack was called the Drakenvargir (Dragons of Battle) Clan. The northernmost of the two southern cities was named Kharnakaur, the City of Bartering, where the great markets took place at the end of each month, and ulvur from every city in Vildfrost would travel there to trade and gather in joyous festivals. The ruling couple was Tyrvirja Avirdun Drimdrejpur and Tyrvur Ernithrir Vidarthor, and their pack was called the Runvurin (Runegard) Clan. And finally, the southernmost city was named Mon-Tengilir; the City of the Moon, which was the smallest of all the cities, mainly because it was constructed last, but it was of great importance. It was built in celebration to the moon, but it worked in fact more as a bastion of the outposts at the southern borders, as the ulvur constantly watched over the southern parts of Vildfrost from the towers of the city. In time, however, a pack would eventually grow and make Mon-Tengilir their city. The ruling leader was Tyrjvirja Andráva Amarvir, and her pack was called the Mon-Túrir (Moon Claws) Clan. A gathering of the leaders of each pack along with the wisest of the warriors, druids and workers was founded, and it would act as a conclave for the entire ulvur race; called the Horád (High Council).

As the ulvur had made great efforts and put in their entire, gathered will to create their society, they had not payed any heed to what had happened in the world outside Vildfrost. For great battles between the other races and the forces of Drimuxargaur had indeed taken place, as well as a rumoured, terrible onslaught of dragons that sought vengeance for a slain brother. The ulvur were pleased to hear that there were still many a great hero among the other races to oppose the darkness from the aggrar. The ulvur had been made aware of most of the great happenings in the world by the northern alver tribe, who now called themselves the Cyhallrhim, but who to the ulvur came to be known as the frostalver; the elves of frost. They were the only contact with the other races the ulvur now had, but they cherished this friendship, even if they still did not meet many of the frostalver that often. These alver were almost as mysterious as the ulvur themselves to the other tribes and races, as their land had drifted further and further apart from the rest of the world, but there still came visitors to the southernmost shores of the isles of eternal winter and shared their knowledge with the frostalver. They, on the other hand, did not speak of the ulvur to any other races, since they knew that the ulvur wanted to remain a mystery in order to both keep their land safe and to watch over the other races in secret. But there were some who could not be so easily fooled.

Chapter VII:
Of The Second Battle

Shortly after the rise of the Horád, words of warning were given by scout parties around the southern parts of Vildfrost's island. They reported sightings of great hordes of snow trolls and other tursar that had been massing in the southern mountains, along with mysterious beasts of ice. The troll hordes had appeared to be moving northward, and after the reports had been recounted, the ulvur armies were not late to muster themselves. All ulvur knew immediately that these beasts of ice were no other than the aggrar of Nifelgrim, and they had obviously swayed the tursar hordes to their side. And so the second great battle of Vildfrost was unleashed, and it came to be called Túriad Stormsorg; the Battle of Storm and Sorrow. A great force of gathered warriors of both the Mon-Túrir and the Drakenvargir had already been in place three days before at the southernmost border when the tursar hordes led by the aggrar of ice swiftly came marching from the mountains. The trolls outnumbered the ulvur force by at least a third, but the ulvur were strong and proud, and every tursar had been right to be on their guard. But they could not, for the aggrar had ruthlessly poisoned their weak minds; forcing them to become puppets of evil. Dark and twisted was now every soul of these tursar, and the ulvur knew that death alone could bring them peace.

The first move Nifelgrim's army made proved to be a fatal mistake. They took a shortcut through the great, southern forest which marked the southern border of Vildfrost, and it was in the woods that the swiftest and most agile of the ulvur warriors proved to be the most deadly. The trolls could move fairly well between the massive firs, but the ulvur were almost one with the shadows of the trees, and like the wind they made swift, painless business of a big part of the tursar froces. But the enemy of the ulvur were not only tursar, and the aggrar of Nifelgrim were made of icy death. Angered by his unforseen, strategic blunder, the warlord of Nifelgrim's army and a tainted priest of the aggrar Lord himself, Urnjald the Cold, unleashed all his wrath by the power of his demonic minions, and managed to drive the ulvur's wood forces out into the open. There, many brave ulvur fell, for the dark forces now were aided by a great storm of ice, and without the covering trees, they were all easy targets. But from the north came reinforcements in form of the Frosturjol and the Runvurin; which had changed into their mighty battle-forms, and finally the druids of the Korplor themsleves. Aided with the most powerful of Rimjora's magic the druids could conjure, the ulvur in their battle-forms came mercilessly down on the aggrar. Even so, the two armies were almost equal in strength, for this time Nifelgrim had not held back with his powers. It was as if his entire essence was with his forces, and Urnjald fought like his Lord himself had done against Ravenblade centuries ago.

Picture description. The daughter of Ravenblade, Fréyra Korpklinga. Image drawn by Isilhir.

But the ulvur had no weak leader themselves. It was Fréyra Korpklinga, Ravenblade's own daughter, who strode first in the army from the north, and in her powerful battle-form she held the blade her mother once had wielded; and through Urnjald, Nifelgrim sensed its powerful essence and feared it. But fear does not make any aggrar despair. It makes them desparate and dangerous; their attacks become as unpredictable as unstrategic. So too did Urnjald react upon the coming of Fréyra. Without any battle honour or reason, he became a berserker of chaos and death, and did not care of whether he struck down an ulvur or one of his own minions. Despite his blind rage, this only made him more powerful, and he wounded Fréyra in a hard blow on her arm with his great, frozen flail, whereupon her sword fell from her hand. Her arm was broken and useless, but in battle-from she knew no pain, and she swiftly avoided Urnjald's following attacks as she made for her blade. But the sword of her bloodline had been taken and thrown away by an aggrar, and she now stood defenseless with a broken arm, surrounded by the beserking Urnjald and his minions. Fréyra fought long and hard in and against a whirlwind of aggrar, for even without her blade and with a broken arm she could still fight like the strongest of ulvur in battle-form. She called out to her warriors, but they had troubles of their own. New tursar forces had came from the southwest, and some of them even seemed to have been so tainted by Nifelgrim's powers that they had taken on the appearances of the aggrar themselves. In the midst of the battle, Fréyra fell down at last in the bloodstained snow; mortally wounded. Had it not been for the remaining ulvur forces raging against him in hatred and despair, Urnjald would have finished her off properly. But he was forced to fight still, even if his morale had gotten a tremendous boost by his nemesis' fall. And so, leaderless and already grieving Fréyra, the ulvur forces were driven back up north, into Vildfrost and at last to the bastion of Mon-Tengilir, where the defensive measures were not late to be taken. A mere five days was the time Andráva, leader of the Mon-Túrir, had at her disposal to make the crucial decisions of the defensive tactics. The time would not be enough. Even so, the ulvur would fall defending their land and Rimjora's essence. Bowstrings sang and battle howls echoed upon the coming of Urnjald and his army as soon as the ulvur forces had found shelter. Urnjald's fear was now completely gone, as his Lord Nifelgrim came nearer and nearer his hour of victory, and the downfall of the greatest of threats to Drimuxargaur's reign. His speed increased of bloodlust and thirst for triumph, and even the tursar seemed to be striding through the deep woods as fast as their aggrar superiors.

But they had all underestimated the power of Rimjora.

She herself felt the pain and sorrow her beloved ulvur suffered from in that moment, but also their anger and hatred towards the minions of chaos. The druids cried out to her with both their howls, but also their spirits; singing lamentations for her in what they thought was their and her final hour. But when the entire dark army had entered the forest of Mon-Tengilir, Rimjora did not hesitate. She let her feelings consume her, and for a blink of an eye the very balance of the trinity trembled as she executed her newfound powers. The great forest seemed to come alive, and as if by a common will, every tree started to move, but not only that. The great firs even seemed to transform into creatures with arms and legs; massive and robust, and monstrous in shape. Like immense beasts of wood and snow they rose; and they reached for each aggrar and tursar they could find with their giant claws. Tainted blood stained their bodies and the ground as they dismembered their victims. Rimjora's own wrath glowed in the eyes of those that had any, and some even devoured their foes. But even in this bloody chaos, the ulvur had not been forgotten. They had instinctivitly hurried out of Mon Tengilir and the suddenly living forest; carrying their wounded and the cubs who had stayed in the city. They were also helped and guarded by the tree-creatures, and miraculously, every ulvur who was still alive managed to escape unhurt from the bloodbath.

The city of Mon-Tengilir, however, crumbled to ruins as the great trees strode to and fro, and but a memory of the City of the Moon would be all that were left of it. The ulvur ran northward as swift as possible to seek shelter anew in Kharnakaur, and none looked back at the horror of the living, raging forest. No aggrar or tursar would ever come out from it alive, even less with all bodyparts in place, save Urnjald. Bloody, beaten, torn and with no right arm nor weapon, he stumbled panting out in the open until he felt he was at a fairly safe distance from the woods. There he fell down on his knees, and he held the stump that was left of his right arm, looked up at the darkening sky and called out in despair and anger to his master to give him new powers. But as Nifelgrim gathered his last ounses of power to rejuvinate his puppet, a sword glimmered in the grey light of dusk, and an old fear suddenly got hold of his wicked soul. The blade of his old bane had returned; Ravenblade's sword had come back to defy him once again. And so it was. Fréyra had not died. She had been discovered by a group of wandering frostalver, whereupon they had healed her with their strange magic. She was still not at her full strength, but the thirst for revenge was strength enough. By his fear, Nifelgrim's last, great storm cloud sent down a lightning bolt on Fréyra, but the daughter of Ravenblade raised her blade in the very same moment and cried aloud a deafening howl. She captured the bolt with her sword, but instead of falling down in a lethal shock, she stood her ground, and her blade gleamed as its bright steel battled and at last chained the lightning. In bitter irony, Nifelgrim was now the shocked one, and in his horrified confusion, Fréyra did not howl, but roared in triumph as she thrusted her blade to the sky, thus sending the lightning bolt back to the dark cloud.
A blinding flash appeared on the sky, and Nifelgrim felt a numbing burst of pain in his whole essence. Somewhere in the world, beyond the sea in some southern land unkown to the ulvur, his manifestation fell unconcious to the ground, and his essence left Vildfrost. Urnjald now appeared as a little maner; yet still bloody, with numberous wounds and no right arm, but he lay still in the snow on his belly and would never rise again.

The dusking sky was clear, and as the sun set, the moon and the stars would soon welcome the night. Fréyra exhaled, and rejoyced as she noticed her frostalver saviours who had continued north to help their ulvur friends in whatever way they could. But there would never again grow a forest where the trees of Mon-Tengilir once had stood, and the tree-creatures had by Rimjora's rage torn themselves apart. Along with the ruins of the City of the Moon, their dead, rotting bodies would always tell a tale of battle and death to each wandering soul brave enough to catch a glimpse of this gloomy realm. Andráva, the leader of the Mon-Túrir had fallen in the battle, but what was left of her pack eventually came to mostly join the Runvurin but also spread to the other packs, and thus there came to be only four packs and cities in Vildfrost.