The Blizzard Battle

The enemy of my enemy is my brother

The following is a tale that is being passed from bard to bard across the entire realm of an event that occurred on the 1st of Majestic, the Day of Fools.

High in the Bruu-ga Belimar Mountain range that is part of the border between the Great Wolfen Empire and the Disputed Territories, sits a small Algor Frost Giant village. While they are not loyal to any one group, empire or régime, they are not adverse to said same. The only action that could be claimed as favoritism is the occasional trade with the Wolfen Empire, specifically the Iron Claw Tribe.

Early on the morning of the 1st, the residents of the village are awakened by the sounds of a large battalion of heavy Eastern Territory warriors, as they surround and secure the village. Realizing they are outnumbered and way over matched, the Elders sound the surrender to all members of the parish. As the Elders are brought before the commanders, to answer for their *’crimes against the Grand Duke‘* , a light snow begins to fall. The soldiers are taken aback by the early spring snowfall. The Elders are questioned, in the village square, thoroughly by the intelligence officers; often receiving hard blows that would fell most. Suddenly, the light snowfall intensifies into a mighty blizzard. Visibility is reduced such that those in the square can barely see those that are standing RIGHT in front of them. Then the horror begins.

Screams of the human soldiers can be heard above the loud howling wind; merciless howls can also be heard; the core cluster of officers and commanders form up defensive positions in a circle around the Elders. They try to yell orders above the blistering winds, but to no avail. They stand and wait for their fate. After about half the glass of sands, all is silent save the impersonal wail of the wind. A single soldier staggers through the heavy, thick snow. He is bleeding heavily, leaving a bright crimson trail in the thick white blanket behind him. He stands in front of the Senior Commander and utters one word: *“WOLFEN”*. He falls at their feet.

Then, as suddenly as it began, the blizzard stops; the sun shining down upon those in the square. Before them is unadulterated carnage. Every Eastern warrior that was within the village lay slaughtered on the ground. The Commandant screams out for any of his soldiers to answer. The only response he gets is the head of one his legion commander’s heads thrown from far off, landing squarely at his feet. He stands perplexed at the sight. Movement from the edge of the village stirs the officers from their shock; they ready themselves to ward off any attack. A tall skinny Wolfen, carrying a large, blood soaked Claymore approaches the group, followed by several dozen large Wolfen that seem to emerge from every nook and cranny of this side of the village. A junior officer lets out an alarm of another approaching group from the other side of the village, seemingly led by two Wolfen. One is average looking with black fur, wearing tattered fine priestly clothing. The other is a tall pure white Wolfen with a bold mark on his forehead. Several dozen Wolfen also seem to come out of every crevice, following these two. This second group all has pure white fur; the only exception is the blood speckled on their faces and exposed fur.

All the Wolfen fighters form a circle around the officers; the Giant Elders are coaxed from the small group and allowed to leave the square. The respective Wolfen leaders approach the few remaining *”HOOMAN”* officers. They coldly kill all of them leaving only the Commandant; than a strange exchange occurs. The respective leaders seemingly are unfamiliar with each other. All claim right to the Commandants head. The Tall skinny one states that he is the Witness; the others claim no knowledge of him. The average one states he is the last of his tribe. The one with the mark states he is the leader of the lost ones. After much is discussed and exchanged, the remaining human suddenly screams out: “Regardless of whom you are; You ALL will fall; IF not by my hand then at the hands of my brethren. I accept my FATE!” With that the three leaders all grab an extremity and he is ripped asunder.

None that retell the tale can attest to its validity; only saying that it came from a trusted source.


Evil Jester picture from FireFang1
Frost giant picture from Nate Barnes
Blizzard attack picture from Hoverland
Dying Warrior picture from HD Wallpapers
Witness picture from L-MakesArt
Weylyn picture from Imagui
Lost tribe leader picture from stock photos and modified by LURCH6571
Wolf Attack picture from Jesse’s Hunting Blog


Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.