Prelude:
Olaf
Season of the Colossus - 1303 AE
There was the sound of wings, the cold of death, and a terrible scream. He had flung himself from the warmth of the furs he shared with his mate. His head ached with the aftermath of the ale he had consumed that evening. He was as naked as his name day, having spent the evening with his mate after a long hunt. He made desperately for the greatsword he kept at the foot of their bed nest, hands touching nothing but an empty scabbard. His eyes flew desperately to that of his mate, Gylda. Her pale green orbs were wide and bright, already in her hands were her twin daggers, Splinter and Sliver. She had thrown on a long leather cloak to hide her nudity as she rushed to the curtain separating their sleeping area from the rest of the homestead.
"Aliana!" she called to their infant child, her voice hoarse with worry.
She flung the leather division aside and then stood horror struck in the doorway, all the while he fumbled to put on a pair of leathers. Her hand rested on the roughhewn wooden doorjamb, fingers clutching at its carved wooden surface. Her body was still as the sight of whatever was in the room beyond their sleeping area was too much to comprehend. His leathers in place, Olaf made towards his mate. He touched her shoulder before moving ahead of her into the darkness of the hearthstead. With a whispered word and a glide movement of her hand, Gylda reignited the flames in the huge fire pit at the center of the room. He was momentarily blinded by the light; it wasn't often that Gylda used her elementalist powers, believing that they gave her an unfair advantage.
A blood covered infant wondered the cavernous chamber with a dead owl clutched in its arms, its eyes glazed and seeing into a world beyond the one he saw. Its skin shone wanly in the light of the hearth, firelight blazed off of the deep teal of its hair as it walked slow stumbling steps about the room trailing bloodied footprints. It turned towards him. His heart stopped as Gylda let out a silent scream, hands clutching at her heart. He panicked. Thinking it was an apparition sent by Jormag he made for his greatsword leaning against the door to their room. It was only Gylda's love and fast reflexes that saved the thing.
He was wild, his bear burst from his skin as he attempted to destroy the glaze eyed thing that inhabited his firstborns body. For each swipe he made at it, Gylda counted with her own, two painted daggers clutched in her hands, dancing to intercept his massive claws. Always she kept her body between him and their child. Their child that stood motionless behind her, face bloodless and staring, the pale green of its eyes as empty as a doll. The more he looked at it, the madder he got. An endless litany played through his head.
"How dare he?! How dare he?! How dare he?! How dare he?! How dare he?! How dare he?! Howdare he toy with what is mine!"
Gylda became desperate as his roaring grew; her dancing fighting style became more direct. She no longer attempted to hold him at bay; instead she frantically fought to disable him.
His claws and fur grew slick with his blood and hers, he had cut her in a dozen places, but for every tear he made on her flesh, she made a dozen on his. Slowly, as they fought on, he grew weaker as his lifeblood bled out. Gylda was relentless. She said nothing, did nothing, except continuously put herself in the way of him and the demon child. His bear knew his mate, knew her scent, but in its frenzy flew continuously to destroy the threat to his hearth. She was bleeding heavily; his claws had torn her flesh, ripped through the leather robe she had on. Her pale green eyes were focused on him with terrible purpose; the fire red of her hair was slick with blood and sweat. The bloodied child was behind her, it had her mother's eyes, except where Gylda's held life and purpose hers were blank and lifeless. As they fought on he weakened. Gylda fought with precision and grace, continuously cutting, but not enough to cause serious harm. Her dancing daggers sliced and spun and sliced again, always going for weak points, points that would bleed. He lunged and fought and bled, but he could never get between her and the child. Soon the edges of the room grew dim; darkness grew at the edge of his vision as his anger began to fade. His mate glowed like a beacon in the darkening room, her hair like fire in the flickering light of the hearth, her skin, sun kissed and nut brown, glowing with life. Finally he could hold himself up no longer. He fell to his knees and then to the floor, his muzzle hitting the cold flagstones. He turned his bloodied maw to see his woman and what once was their child. The anger in him flowed out with his lifeblood; slowly bear's spirit began to melt off of him, allowing him to take his Norn form once more.
From his vantage point on the floor he saw Gylda drop her twin daggers and lift the thing wearing his child's flesh in her bloodied arms, dead owl and all. She then limped to the door that he had made for their day of promising, a Norn mating ritual, where they promised to forsake all others and join only with each other.
"Shhh," she whispered to the thing in her arms, though it made no sound.
"Shush my little one, mama is here now." She whispered in its ear, putting its head in the crook of her neck, gently running her hand through hair that once was the colour of fire, but now glinted deep teal like the frost of Jormag's cursed ice.
Olaf wanted to scream, wanted to throw himself at the creature and tear it limb from limb, and above all he wanted to protect his mate from the thing that inhabited his once smiling child, his young one who had hair the colour of fire and eyes of green forests. His child that had Gylda's face and his pointed ears, which had the promise of his height, but was more likely to inherit her mother's temperament.
He tried desperately to tell Gylda to leave the thing, to step away from it, to put it outside in the snow and let nature take its course. The only sound he could produce was a gurgle, as he choked on the blood filling his mouth.
Her hand touched the wooden handle, her fingers fitting easily in its machinations, with a heave she pulled it open one handed. From his vantage on the floor he could see the carvings of bear, leopard, raven, and wolf in the flickering light. They looked alive in the movement of light and shadow. He had carved them himself onto the wood of the door. He had made it as a promise to Gylda, a promise that he would keep the cold from their hearth, a promise that their house would forever be a haven for the spirits of the wild. Now she stood, her back to him, child firmly held in her arms, staring into the dark of night. Snow drifted silently about her feet as the light of the moon glinted off the red of her hair, turning its sweat and blood soaked mass into a living thing. She turned her face towards him, smiled, and then walked out into the darkness of the night, closing the door behind her. With the echo of its closing, the flames of the fire dimmed then slowly ebbed away, leaving him in darkness.