Nightflier's Land of Ice and Blood

Game Master nightflier

So, as her clan elders tried more and more to bring her to heal in regards to what a young girls should be, she rebelled more often against them. Till, one evening she'd had enough; Taking down one of the ancestors swords from whee it hung upon the great cave's wall, to adding a great fur cloak to cover her too large and equally borrowed chain shirt, she slipped out into the darkness of the valley and was soon lost beyond the borders of her clans' demises.

It was actually many years until Sigourd's wanderings finally settled down in a small valley of her own. Now grown to full maturity and, after more than a few run ins with brothers and cousins, she knew her family had accepted her hard fought for Independence, she st about 'settling' in. It took some little time for her to make the caves 'comfortable', but the hunting and game were plentiful so Sigourd wanted for little.

Now a single being in the wild might come to fear the predators of said environs. Sigourd, however, as a mature Frost-Giantess was in effect the valey's highest level predator. Using her great bow, spears and javelins down to even just bare rocks or her prized family sword- not even the large white pelted cave bears thought of crossing her even larger self.

In time, as a Frost-Giant's life span is longer than most creatures, at the southern, warmer end of Sigourd's valley the game and sport began to change. No longer where deer, elk and moose the common things for the hunt, but bison and cattle began to replace them. Again seemingly in no time at all to the long lived Sigourd, little human steadiness began to pop up like mushroom rings all over the plains her valley opened onto.

Secretly she would often hid within the edges of her forest's pines and watched the comings and goings of these little folk with interest, of course never fear, their distantly viewed existence looked upon with curiosity. Often times her musings being during the expeditions she would mount in which to add 'cow' and 'horse' to her larder.

Now, from the human's perspective, the loss of some of their herds to predators of the wilds was only expected as the way of the world, but to begin to lose prized mounts and other possessions to some creature that could simply lift said animal from a corral. Or worse yet, simply open a large barn door to reach in and pluck prized oxen from their pens, eventually brought the ire of the people of Barlenstead to bear upon the thieving of their lively hood.

Soon, as tales are want to do, the story spread and those of a more marital and adventurous nature drifted closer to learn and 'deal' with the threat to Barlenstead.

The first group to range into the hills were local youths seeking glory and adventure. When they had not returned after many months, with the fear and trepidation growing, a larger and more experience number of adventurers drifted in from the whispered spread of rumors of glory and treasure to be had.

Sigourd, in the meantime, had no idea such things were afoot. She hadn't even met the group of youths directly. Only coming across their path and eventual remains in a snow bear's den. The same cave she'd first tried to make her home in only to find the roof leaked and the opening faced the seasonal storms. These short comings had finally won out over Sigourd's stubbornest, but not before she'd decorated the opening with carved statues in the rocks of a pair of rampant elks and large paving stones as a form of steps, the better to reach the raised cave mouth.

Taking the bear pelt and human trinkets back to her home, she puzzled for a short while as to the meanings of these signs. But not very long as her giant-ish nature came to the fore and so she began to 'prepare' things for any 'guests' she may have of the little folk.

The tales of these encounters make for a much longer tale than this teller has time for, needless to say many an adventurer met their weirds at the hands of Sigourd, their tales becoming nothing more than strands in the Giantess own legend. It was one of these adventurers who's addition had an unexpected turn in Sigourd's tale.

Barlingson Fergasun was the fellows name. As large and loud and feisty a fighter as there ever was. A man just as prone to scream, leaping into a fray as calmly loose arrows into an engagement. It was Barlingson who survived his groups encounter with Sigourd, but in the doing of something else happened. While the size of his frame was not quite up to the standards of Frost-Giants, his spirit, strength and personality almost were.

Long story short, I am sure the reader can see where the tale is heading and so I present the now truncated tale of how Xane the half giantess came to be.

Long before Karl the Bastard was born, a crofter's daughter from outside Jol met an elven minstrel by chance on the road. Within a week, she was gone and her furious father vowed vengeance on his wayward child and the poxy elf who had stolen her away. Ten years passed and the daughter returned, with the elf and a son in tow. Although the young Karl did not know it, they had been forced to flee gambling debts and worse in Varisia.

Karl's grandfather allowed them to stay the night. In the morning, there was no sign of Karl's elven father, and it was not long before Karl and his mother were disowned and sent on their way. Karl's mother did the best she could, but eventually turned to a life of prostitution when she had exhausted every other means of putting food on the table.

At the age of 14, Karl discovered his mother's activities, and left her shack, never to return. He eked out his existence at the edges of the Grungir forest, seemingly better able to spot and surprise the game within than even seasoned hunters. Before long he made a name for himself as a trapper, tracker and guide in the wild spaces of the Lands of the Linnorm Kings. Soon, he had even done well enough to support his mother, but this success came to late. By the time he discovered her whereabouts, she had succumbed to the bloody flux, and lied buried in a pauper's grave.

He decided to return to his maternal grandfather's home. A reckoning was due. But upon his return to the family croft, the old man was gone. Some said dead, others fled. But Karl knew better than to depend on others. He would see the old man's corpse before all was said and done, and so he tracks him, a hunter in seek of his prey.

Most of Dagmar's childhood was spent following her mother around on her herb gathering trips and learning how assist her mother as she tended her patients. Dagmar was a difficult apprentice though, she always preferred any activity that kept her outdoors and hated being stuck inside tending to expectant mothers and injured hunters. It wasn't that she lacked compassion, it was simply that she found that being inside for extended lengths of time left her feeling claustrophobic. Dagmar loved to take long hikes through mountains, enjoying the beauty of the land and learning of all the animals that made their homes there. She also tended to return from these hikes carrying at least one wounded animal of some sort that she would tend too until it was well enough to get by on its own again.

Dagmar was 15 when her arcane ability first surfaced. Her mother fearfully ordered her to keep her magic hidden and to never tell anyone else about it. Ragna was fearful that her fellow villagers might turn their hatred of Irrisen's winter witches upon the budding young witch in their midst. Dagmar did well at hiding her magic for the first couple years, only practicing her cantrips far away from the village during her long hikes.

Unfortunately, one day it seemed she didn't hike far enough as sheas seen casting a spell by two young hunters who had just happened upon her while searching for game. After spending the past couple years being constantly told by her mother what would happen to her if her secret was found out, Dagmar fled in fear from the surprised men. Too scared to even try to offer any sort of explanation to them.

Too scared and ashamed to go home that night, Dagmar made her way to a small cave that she had camped at before. As she approached the mouth of the cave, she saw the half-frozen carcass of an arctic fox that appeared to have been savaged by a wolf. Stepping over it carefully, Dagmar cautiously went into the cave. Though a bit worried about encountering the wolf, she was quite relieved to find the cave empty. Or at least that was what she thought at first until what she thought was just a ball of snow yipped when she bumped her foot against it. It seemed as if the dead fox had left a half-grown, and half-starved kit inside the cave. Doubtless she was protecting it when the wolf killed her. As Dagmar had done many times in the past, she decided that she would nurse the poor little kit back to health.

After spending a cold night inside the cave, Dagmar spent most of the next day trying to decide what to do. Finally she decided that she should at least try to sneak back into her mother's house and ask her if the hunters had told what they had seen her do. Putting the kit in her backpack, Dagmar started back on the long trek home. What she had found when she returned to her village horrified her.

It seemed that the fear of her discovery had spared her life when it appeared that her poor little village had been set upon by troll during the night. What were once sturdy little house now lay in ruins, several large gaps appeared in the village wall and there were the dead bodies of people she had known all her life scattered about. Dagmar ran to her mother's house, not caring if the trolls were still around or not and found her mother's corpse laying in front of the house, nearly split in two by a blow from a massive weapon.

So lost in her grief, Dagmar doesn't remember anything of the following couple of days. When she finally comes back to herself, she gathers up what few belongings that she can scavenge, vowing to kill every troll she ever meets. Not only that, but she would use her arcane abilities to do it and show to everyone that not all witches were evil.

Of all the families whose stories go untold, Eilif's is both the most grandiose and unimpressive. Sure, to the average Ulfen the tale of Finsbar might be heard by an unusually gifted Skald, but anyone who knows of the descendants of Finsbar know that the tale ends there. Drunks; Idiots; Prostitutes; and, of course, droves of descendants who were unsuccessful adventurers.

However, to Eilif, these ancestors are the greatest heroes of all.

Think about it. In the frozen north of Golarion, a land riddled with barbarians, mammoths, and worse, a family of halflings (halflings, mind you!) carved out a living in this, one of the most brutal regions in the world. Halted not by blizzards, landslides, beasts, and worse, this family carved a niche for itself in the frozen tundra and has refused to budge, a testament to the hardiness and endurance of halflings everywhere.

Eilif does not know fear. When his family's meager herds needed to be watched, Eilif drove off boars, wolves, and all manner of unseemly beasts. When his home town came under attack from a roving band of ogres, he was the first in line to defend it (and one of the only ones to survive it, he is always happy to add). But Eilif never let that get to his head. He knows that, however skilled a warrior he may be, he is nothing without comrades at his back. And when his home was destroyed by a gang of marauding ice trolls, he vowed to find a band of heroes worthy of leading against whatever threat might show its face. With a stout heart, a bowlful of courage, and just a hint of crazed heroism, he leads his allies with a conviction and fortitude in defiance of his shortcomings.

At an early age, she knew she was a bit different than her 'simple' parents. Cold never bothered her, and even as a child her snowballs were more vicious than her friends. Other things happened as well. She kept her talents hidden as well as she could, until one day her mother observed her use one of her powers. Her mother did not react with, the amazement and horror that Amelia feared, but however explained to her that every third generation female for the last 400 years had been blessed with strange powers. After learning as much as her mother could explain about her history, Amelia knew she had to move on to figure out what her destiny held. On the next ferry trip, she bade her parents farewell, and hopped off the ship, taking in the large city of Kalsgard.

Since her arrival in the city proper, Amelia has taken to listening to the many skalds that congregate in the Fire Quarter. She still doesn't quite fit in to the rough and tumble, raucous area, but she suffers through it to listen to the stories about the ice giants, elementals, and demons, imagining how each of them might have blessed her with her powers.

Typical gnomish wanderlust eats at Amelia, and if a particular rumor were to strike her fancy about another similar sorcerer, or other possible explanation for her power, she would love to journey to explore it.

Str 8
Int 12
Wis 10
Dex 14
Con 16
Chr 19

Feats
Sorcerer Bonus: Eschew Materials
Level 1: Elemental Focus (Cold) (assuming it works on DC for Rime Blooded Bloodline Arcana.
DM Bonus:

HP 6 + 3 Con + 1 FC= 10

Skills (2 + 1 Int)
Diplomacy
Spellcraft
UMD

Traits:

“Mama, Angulf told me he lost a dagger down there when he was younger, so I went to get it.” My Mama's face went even more pale than normal, and a strange look passed over her face.

“Svalk, who do you mean when you say Angulf?”

“You know Mama, Angulf, Papa's father, who killed the troll.” I told her, wondering how she could have forgotten who Angulf was. She had only told me about him in storied at bedtime over and over again, how could she not know who he was now?

She gasped. “Svalk, you know that Angulf has been dead since before you were born. Stop making up tales and climb this rope out of the well.” I did as she told me, knowing that when she got that tone in her voice, the only smart thing to do was what she told me to. However, I couldn't resist showing her my treasure, long submerged in the cold well water. When she saw the dagger I had recovered, she fell down in shock. “Svalk...that is Angulf's dagger – I remember seeing the linorm engraved in it's hilt when I was a girl. But how? How could you have known it was there?”

“I told you, Mama, Angulf told me. Just a few minutes ago, he told me he lost his dagger down the well when he was younger, so I went to get it.”

That was the first time my ancestors spoke to me. It wasn't the last, not by a long shot. They rarely speak to me directly as my grandfather had that day, but often in half remembered dreams, and in signs and omens. Sometimes it's only a feeling or an urge to thrust my spear just a bit more to the left, or to say sweet endearments to a lass just a little differently. Other times, it's knowledge that comes to me unbidden, as if I had always known it, even though I haven't. I remember the first time I encountered goblins, in a raid on Hagsreach, and I heard them speaking in their broken tongue. Suddenly, I knew what they were saying, and was able to speak back to them, before the town guard and I charged to where they were hiding and slaughtered them. It seems at least one of my ancestors learned their language and gave me that knowledge. They also show me how to use the blessings of the gods to help myself and my fellow Ulfen in battle, and afterwords, tending the wounded.

It's not all magical benefits, battle prowess, and tips with women though. There are downsides to being possessed by my ancestors. First, is that I'm never really alone. The ancestors make themselves felt in the physical world, not just the spiritual one. It's as if they sometimes forget that they're dead and only guiding me, and mistake my possessions as their own, moving them around to places that I never put them. It seems like I spend at least an hour a day just finding things that I've put away. Then there's the fact that people treat me differently. They try not to show it, but they know I've been touched by the ancestors and the gods, and I'm not like other men. They can't help themselves. Some act deferentially, as if I'm better than them, others ask me to pass messages to their departed kin, or to intercede with them for favors or blessings. Then there are the ones who shun me, and treat me as if I'm cursed, or will become corrupted. Those are the worst.

Finally, the worst thing about having my ancestors constantly watching the world around me and my actions, is the sense that I feel as if I'm constantly being judged, and that I won't live up to their standards. I've never actually gotten a sense of disapproval from them, but I can't help but feel as if one day, I might. I don't know what I need to do to earn their respect and live up to their standards, but one thing I do know is that I am not meant to be a guard or something else mundane. I need to go find my destiny, and live up to the great deeds that my ancestors have done before me, joining my tale to their saga, and the stories told throughout the Lands of the Linorm Kings...perhaps even becoming one myself.

Str 12 (2) Dex 13 (3) Con 14 (5)
Int 14 (5) Wis 18 (10+2) Cha 14 (5)

Traits:
Deft Dodger
Desperate Focus
Hedge Magician

Feats:
Human – Fey Foundling
1st – Spell Focus Conjuration
Extra – Scribe Scroll

Skills:
Handle Animal +6, Heal +7, Kn. Nature +7, Perception +7, Profession Cook +7, Ride +5, Survival +9

For as long as Kari can remember, she has always been able to see them. the little folk, hovering behind her companions, flying, dancing or teasing her by mouthing words that would never be understood. In her sleep, as though lying just inside her eyelids, Kari sees impossible patterns and colors, some occasionally coalescing into patterns of animals, or knots. She tried to copy them in the flour on the great tables in the kitchens of Darkwine's hall as a child between rounds of kneading dough and chopping vegetables, tasks fit for what everyone considered to be a simple child. Kari rarely spoke, muttering words she supposed were agreement and inclining her head as she watched others do after her task was demonstrated.

Childhood in the kitchens could not be considered a hardship. Even in the harshest winters, cooks never wanted for heat in their rounds, and while Darkwine was not renown for his hospitality, his soldiers ate well. Kari's formal training began there, at first kneading dough and chopping vegetables, but as she developed a finer appreciation for the songs the women sang, and comfort with a language she had not been born to, she learned to distinguish roots and herbs, and when she had sufficient strength, to slaughter the animals the trappers brought to the castle. As she grew, puzzling the patterns in her head into shapes lent itself to a sort of talent for organization that was noticed by her superiors. In the spring of her fourteenth year Kari was tasked with assisting the castle's gardener to oversee planting and harvesting the herbs and vegetables the kitchen required.

For those few hours a day she spent among the damp earth, the roots and the sprouts, Kari was at peace. Now and then, she saw the little folk darting about the rows.

Kari could count on one fist the amount of times she, or any of the kitchen staff had been called to Darkwine's dining hall. Kari looked about at the women that had raised her and saw what the thanes had seen when they arrived and requested her presence, that they were far from young, and while plump had pleasant manners, the beauty associated with youth had long since passed each of them by. A gentle tug at her simple braid convinced Kari to pull hers down to better entertain the warriors gathered in the hall. More than a few gave the impression of being smitten, but even after several rounds of mead, only one could fit in her narrow bunk.

It was not a romance, even in the heat of summer when thoughts of winter next were furthest from the mind, the harsh reality of laboring to survive rather banished most expectations of intimacy. It was a surprise to Kari that the warrior returned a few days later, not because he enjoyed her company, but because he met her in the store room, and again on the walk to the gardens, and final there upon his horse. When Kari's can ran out of water, he filled it with a gesture and a few words in a tongue she did not understand, and when she raised the alarm that he was a witch from Irrisen a few more caused a number of weeds at her feet to grow and held her in place.

”These things and more you can also learn,” he said. ”The mark on your back, Yggdrasil, you were not meant for this life.”

Fear had more than a little influence on Kari's acceptance of the horse lord's proposition, fear and a keen desire to be free. Though the kitchens were warm in the winter, and the gardens were not walled, there was always a reminder that her life meant considerably less than even the simplest warrior, whose kit commanded greater coin than she was ever afforded.

And Kari soon learned the price of her comfort until then when the horse lord's band drove straight to her very first glimpse of combat. The horse lord's magics were instrumental in routing his foes, but Kari could not call it a victory. Armed only with a spear, fighting beside an elder warrior, Kari accomplished nothing in comparison, though she had taken her share of damage when she left her flank open and the veteran beat her down. In the fever that followed the horse lord spoke to her in his strange language, and as before with the patterns behind her eyes, Kari gradually came to understand. He was lecturing her on the nature of the magics within him, the seed within her, and how among mortals they were almost as gods.

”Embrace it,” he said with a smile when he recognized her rage. ”Embrace it and cool yourself. Speak the words, make the signs,” he soothed and helped her through the process of creating water.

Kari's progress was slow, not for her lack of aptitude, but for the master's lack of availability to teach. In the spring and summers Kari followed the band as a cook and a healer and studied her master from a distance as he and his struggled against the tide of monsters roving from the east. In the winters, when they held in villages, they met with greater frequency, but obligations to their hosts oft interrupted.

In late autumn, while Kari was assisting the matrons of their host's hall to prepare dinner for the group of warriors, the horse lord commanded her presence. Without, their host and his men were boasting about their quarry, a large bear that had terrified a trapper several days passed. At the end of a chain with a sizable lead they kept its screaming cub.

Kari recognized the meaning of the test. She strode up to the terrified creature and with a number of gestures and a few soft words in her master's tongue, she calmed the cub.

”Release her,” Kari ordered the hunter holding the cub's lead. He gave her master a glance, but he simply nodded and it was done. Kari gazed sadly at the carcass of its mother, and shook her head mournfully.

In hindsight, Kari should have been preparing herself for the eventuality that her master would not return from a patrol. She viewed the corpse of the man who had instructed her on how to channel the power of creation and shared her bed for years with a sense of detachment, then washed his body and prepared him for cremation. There was little time to mourn his passing, as the call to meet the enemy in the field was strong, and the band had lost their spell caster.

STATISTICS
Str 18, Dex 18, Con 14, Int 10, Wis 10, Cha 8

HP 13 = 8 + 2 Con + 3 Toughness

Initiative +6
Speed 30'

DEFENSE
AC 16, Touch 14, Flat 12 (10 +2 armor, +4 Dex)
CMD 18 (10 +0 BAB +4 Str +4 Dex)

Fort +2
Refx +6
Will +2

+1 vs Cold
+4 vs Cold Effects

OFFENSE
BAB +0 ; CMD +4

Dagger +2 (1d4+4/19-20/x2) and
Dagger +2 (1d4+2/19-20/x2)

Longspear +4 (1d8+6/20/x3)

Unarmed Strike +4 (1d3+4/20/x2)

SPECIAL ABILITIES
Sneak Attack +1d8/+1d4
Hidden Blade

FEATS
Iron Will, Toughness, Two-weapon Fighting

TRAITS
Reactionary: +2 initiative
Frost-born: +1 vs. Cold Save and +4 on saves to resist cold effects
Poverty-Stricken: +1 Survival & it's a class skill

SKILLS (ACP 0)
+8* Acrobatics (1)
+3 Bluff (1)
+8* Climb (1)
+8 Disable Device (1)
+4 Perception (1)
+4 Sense Motive (1)
+8 Sleight of Hand (1)
+8* Stealth (1)
+5 Survival (1)
+8* Swim (1)

(10 total)

GEAR

(2) Curved Daggers
Longspear
Leather Armor
Adventurer's Sash
Thieves' tools

PROGRESSION
1 Toughness, Iron Will, Combat Reflexes
2 Combat Trick: Precise Strike
3 ?

Despite her desire to save her children, Sigurd's body wasn't up to the task. She died in the deep snow, orphaning the boys. Bran and Braegan struggled on and survived despite their horrible wounds which, in the fullness of time, became heavy scars. They journeyed slowly through the mountains fighting waist-high drifts of snow. They did whatever it took to survive - becoming almost feral. Weeks later, they found their way down into the high valleys of the Linnorm Kings. Traumatized by their experiences, distrustful of anyone but their small family 'pack', they began their lives as scarred scavengers on the fringes of society.

Years passed and slowly the brothers learned to interact with other people as something other than predator or prey. Still, the trauma of their youth marked the men with oddness. Rarely, they share the story behind their scars. When they do, their stunned questioners suggest that perhaps their attackers were Dire Wolves, or starving Bears, or Winter Wolves, or possibly some sort of Lycanthropes. To all these suggestions, the brothers can only shrug. Their memories are hazy and distorted through the lens of having been so very young when the attacks happened. They remember very little of that night, or even their lives before it. They don't even recall their father's name - denying them a surname.

They've had a nomadic life, knowing people in a lot of towns, but not really having a 'home' - other than wherever they decide to lay low for a while. They follow the herd (metaphorically), taking whatever job comes their way or strikes their fancy. This means they have spent a lot of time in many of the towns along the eastern border, but in Trollheim specifically.

Regarding the Blackravens

Given their background, the brothers suspect their horrible, nightmarish memories are the product of the Witch Queen's servants. As such, they've always been sympathetic to the Blackravens, and while they aren't officially associated with them, they would probably have supported them in the past in campaigns as suppliers, scouts, etc. Hunting, scouting, and ranging is their gig.

Bran uses a set of curved daggers in tandem - an homage to the creatures that destroyed and, in some ways, created his life. It is also his 'calling card' when killing people becomes necessary. He sometimes claims (a lie) they are made from the fangs of the creatures that attacked their village and scarred them.

STATISTICS
Str 18, Dex 18, Con 14, Int 10, Wis 10, Cha 8

HP 13 = 8 + 2 Con + 3 Toughness

Initiative +6
Speed 30'

DEFENSE
AC 16, Touch 14, Flat 12 (10 +2 armor, +4 Dex)
CMD 18 (10 +0 BAB +4 Str +4 Dex)

Fort +2
Refx +6
Will +2

+1 vs Cold
+4 vs Cold Effects

OFFENSE
BAB +0 ; CMB +4

Greatsword +4 (2d6 + 6; 19/x2)
.
Longspear +4 (1d8+6/20/x3)
.
Unarmed Strike +4 (1d3+4/20/x2)

SPECIAL ABILITIES
Sneak Attack +1d6
Martial Training: Greatsword proficiency

FEATS
Iron Will, Toughness, Combat Reflexes

TRAITS
Reactionary: +2 initiative
Frost-born: +1 vs. Cold Save and +4 on saves to resist cold effects
Poverty-Stricken: +1 Survival & it's a class skill

SKILLS (ACP 0)
+8* Acrobatics (1)
+3 Bluff (1)
+8* Climb (1)
+4 Knowledge: Local (1)
+4 Perception (1)
+4 Sense Motive (1)
+8 Sleight of Hand (1)
+8* Stealth (1)
+5 Survival (1)
+8* Swim (1)

(10 total)

GEAR
Greatsword
Curved Dagger
Longspear
Leather Armor
Adventurer's Sash

PROGRESSION
1 Toughness, Iron Will, Combat Reflexes
2 Combat Trick: Precise Strike
3 Power Attack

His weapon of choice is a more iconic Ulfen Greatsword. He likes to point out how small his brother's blades-of-choice are. :)

Feats: Power Attack, Furious Focus, Toughness

Traits: Outcast, Tusked, Killer

Skills: Intimidate, Climb, Swim, Survival, Perception

Deformities: Oversized Limb, Obese

For some, the scars draw breath and walk under the light of day. Svadilfari is one of those scars.

The raid itself was not extraordinary. Indeed, Freya would have missed the whole thing, and returned to a village mourning a few deaths and celebrating a new victory, but for her own extraordinarily bad luck. While alone in the woods, a foolish thing to do when the witch's wind blows, she was found by a troll. What followed is a story not for the faint of heart and known only by Freya.

As she stumbled back to the village, maimed by claw and fire, all rejoiced, for they had assumed the foolish girl has gotten herself eaten. Yet here she was, alive and with monster's tooth to prove her victory. And so the village returned to normal.

Yet Freya did not. She would not speak of what occurred in the wood, but her countenance changed, and as the weeks past she seemed to grow fey, given to sudden rages and cravings for raw meat. It was then that the wise-woman noticed her belly. It swelled with child, though she was not known to favor any man. A few gossiped.

In time, a child was born, and the gossips grew louder. It was heard the birth was difficult and baby misshapen and unsightly. The child quickly proved to be strong and hearty, but rumors only grew. Why did no one come forward to claim Freya and the child? Why would she not speak on the subject? What of the child's size and appearance?

As Svadilfari grew, he came to understand the sidelong glances and perpetual lack of room. There was no place for someone like him, whose own mother would not tell him of his sire. Then, one day another youth when too far, breaking the taboo that his origins not be discussed. "Troll's get! That's right! Your mother was @#%* by a troll!"

Some people said it was an accident, but that wasn't true. Svadilfari knew exactly what he was doing. Here was a slight he could answer. No one could dispute defending his mother's honor, so he tore the fool's throat out. He loved it.