Alvilde, Last of the Wolves

In many ways I have been blessed by The Beastlord.

My first blessing, I cannot remember. I was an orphan, left in the wake of a mighty raid upon the Elf Lands. My birth parents were felled when they were tested against the might of the Valar and were found wanting. By all rights, I should have been left in the cold to die alongside them. But my father says that he saw a lone cub in the snow, “one with iron in her grip and fire in her eyes.” He took me in as his own and raised me as his daughter. As he was the tribe’s shaman, no one dared object.

My second blessing is that of the Valar. We are… we were the mightiest of the plains. We ran alongside wolves and took what we wanted from any that were too weak to stand their ground. We hunted as one, our weapons praising the Beastlord as we struck down those who would oppose him. Become the hunter or become the prey. I was taught to fight, to hunt, to thrive in the harshest places of the world. As my father often said, “for the Beastlord, the greatest act of worship is to survive.” I learned our ways, our tongue, our stories, our magics… I was Valar as much as any born within the tribe.

And my final blessing was that of my family. I took on a gentle, strong man as my mate and we proclaimed ourselves one. Vidar was younger than I, but broad like an ox. He was quiet amongst the others, never saying two words when one would do. But when we were alone, it was as if a river overflowed. We would talk for hours, about the wonders we saw on the hunt, about the shapes we saw in the stars, about the truths in our hearts. Where he was sturdy and strong, I was quick and adaptable. He was quiet and thoughtful, I was fiery and rambunctious. We were halves of the same blade, made perfect by the jewel set in our handle: Revna.

My little Revna. She had her mother’s temper and her father’s kindness. Her thick green hair was never without twigs and leaves, as she was prone to clamber in trees or in the undergrowth looking for secrets. She would boss around her little friends as if she was already chieftain, they all knew that obedience usually meant adventure and plunder in the form of treats pilfered from the adults. Many of the Elders would talk amongst themselves about how she would be a fierce warrior one day. Revna was our pride. Our joy. Our future.

Of course, the Beastlord is only generous to those that are worthy. The Long Winter came and we raided as we usually did, taking from the weak to feed our strong. Only, each time we came back with less and less. The cold became deeper and soon our prey had nothing worth taking. We wandered further and further, finding ourselves trapped and unable to leave to greener plains. We had no stores, no shelter, no walls to hide behind. Become the hunter or become the prey, was the Beastlord’s way. And it was clear that without a Hunt, the winter would take us. Many were lost to the weather and hunger. Others to battle, as we found our strength waning in the wake of the famine. 

The worst was the madness. Some wandered off into the dark, weeping about the Frostmaiden, never to be seen again. Our warriors would lose themselves to the Wolf, returning from hunts bathed in blood with meat from beasts they refused to name. No longer did we sing in the moonlight, tell tales by the fire and feast together. Each yurt became its own kingdom, to be guarded jealously from our very neighbors.

It all fell apart as my father died. He was already old and frail, but I think seeing our tribe fall so low is what finally killed him. Without his guiding hand, the Valar lost their spiritual leadership. They started listening to the ravings of that Mad Dog Kronenstrom. About a new way of life in the snow. Started turning from the Beastlord, looking to gain the favour of Saukuruk. The one they called the Frostmaiden.

Auril. I spit on her name.

Kronenstrom knew that I would not stand for his blasphemy. Knew that I was taught the Old Ways by my father, that I could turn the Valar back to the Master of the Hunt. So he struck first. My father’s funeral pyre was barely cooled before the first attack on the faithful arrived. We fought with blade, tooth and claw. Very few died before the cowards retreated, but the message was clear. We left at dusk. About twenty of us kept the faith, refusing to bow to the whining of a mongrel who licked the feet of the very scourge that ravaged our way of life.

We planned to head east, away from the Ten Towns, maybe there we could escape the worst of the winter if we moved away from where civilization was. If we went back to our roots, survived on the land rather than on the weak people therein, the Beastlord would favour us again. The winds soon became too harsh to travel any further. We took shelter in the shadow of a great mountain, to nurse our wounded and to rest before making another big push into the dark. Vidar had not said anything in three days. He worked tirelessly to make sure that our people’s shelters were sturdy and that all had their share of our meagre rations. Revna was tucked in a yurt with the other children, telling them stories about great hunts and trying to keep their spirits up.

I went out into the dark. I couldn’t tell if it was night or day, the endless winter blotted out the sun and made time meaningless. We needed food. We needed hope. If I could just take down a deer, or even a moose, we would have strength for another few weeks. I stalked out in the dark for what felt like hours, finding nothing. I chanted to the Beastlord under my breath, spoke his words and pleaded for a sign.

And then, I saw it. A mighty direwolf, carrying a stag in its jaws. It must have just made the kill, the lifeblood was still seeping from the deer’s mouth into the snow. I knew that this was the Beastlord’s blessing. All I needed to do was to pass His test: kill the wolf. Become the hunter or become the prey.

The walk back to camp should have been difficult. Not only did I have the weight of the stag on my shoulders, I also wore the bloodied skin of a direwolf on my back. My heart sang as I basked in the pleasure of the hunt. I knew the Beastlord was with me. I walked with the strength of conviction and faith that made my trek feel effortless.

Until I heard the rumble. The ground shook. My heart sank.

By the time I made it back, there was nothing left. The avalanche had spilled snow as tall as a man across the foot of the mountain, bringing with it boulders and ice and death. I don’t remember much. I remember that my throat burned from screaming I could not hear. I remember digging and digging and pleading to anyone that would hear to please answer, to please call out, please be alive. I remember finding corpse after corpse, their bodies frozen and their limbs in unnatural angles. I remember my eyes freezing shut as the tears turned to ice, my fingers bleeding as I clawed at the snow, my lungs threatening to leave my chest as they exploded with effort.

I found Vidar holding our daughter in his arms. They were frozen together. I could not pry them loose from the mess of what used to be a yurt. She was clutching the doll I had made her as a baby, my unskilled stitches forming a dull smile on its face. A mess of skin in the rough shape of a person. I screamed in the night and clawed at my face. I should have been there. I should have died with them. In many ways, I did. My skin lost its vibrant ochre hue and became as pale as the snow I collapsed in. I looked at my bloodied hands and found claws such as a beast would have. I felt fangs in my mouth as I spat bile on the ground. I felt a howl in my soul that I released into the dark, part anguish, part oath.

Become the hunter or become the prey.

I am going to hunt down the one that took everything from me.

I will thaw the ice on this land with the blood of the Frostmaiden’s herd.

I will rip out the throat of Auril herself.

I am the Beastlord’s mighty jaws.

I am the Last True Valar.

And I am so very, very angry.