Oldborne

Echoes of Frost

The cold wind howled across the lonely plains, blowing up snow and obscuring the horizon. A lone figure stood at the edge of the globe, where winter strengthened its hold with each passing year. He was an Oldborne, his weathered face marked by the rough lines of a life lived in defiance of nature. He grabbed a worn hilt with a wolf's snarling head etched on the pommel. This was the Frostreaver, a legendary sword claimed to be capable of cleaving both flesh and frost.

Centuries ago, when the Oldborne Kinborne reigned supreme, Frostreaver was wielded by their greatest warrior, Bjorn Winterbane. With it, he shattered the invading Frost Giant army, driving them back to the frozen wastes from whence they came. But victory came at a cost. The magic that pulsed within Frostreaver, a desperate plea from a dying world, corrupted Bjorn. His heart turned to ice, mirroring the weapon he wielded. In his madness, he unleashed a never-ending winter upon the land, a chilling testament to the weapon's corrupting power.

The remaining Oldbornes, led by Bjorn's own brother, were forced to make a terrible choice. They struck down Bjorn, imprisoning his spirit within the Frostreaver and casting the weapon into the heart of a dormant volcano. The earth rumbled in protest, but the unnatural winter receded. The Oldbornes, weakened and ostracized for their kin's actions, retreated north, forever haunted by the legend of Frostreaver and the price of wielding its power.

Now, generations later, the Oldbornes were a fading memory. The harsh winters that once plagued the land were returning, creeping southward with a vengeance. The prophecy foretold of a great calamity, an eternal winter that would consume all. And whispers spoke of a weapon, a blade forged in the heart of a volcano, that could either bring salvation... or doom.

The Oldborne elder, his eyes reflecting the dying embers of his fire, raised Frostreaver high. The wind shrieked, carrying the echo of Bjorn's maniacal laughter across the frozen plains. A single tear, glistening like ice, traced a path down his cheek. The fate of Oldborne, and perhaps the world itself, hung in the balance. He slammed the weapon back into its scabbard, a steely resolve hardening his gaze. "Never again," he muttered, his voice swallowed by the howling wind. And then, with a heavy heart, he turned and vanished into the blizzard, carrying the weight of his ancestors' sins and the chilling burden of a world teetering on the brink.