Territory

The territory of Zsiera takes up the vast majority of Jormunger, and a portion of Northern Mjoll. Her borders can be traced above the Mjoll settlements of Mordenholdt and Harrowgate, spreading across Jormunger from coast to coast. The northern coastline and Nevasca, however, are within the former territory of The Silver, and thus Zsiera is unable to enter it. This stretch of land runs along the northwest coast and above Mournfall and Nightfrost, ending before the northeasternmost coastline. Most of the northern islands fall within the territory of Daedalon, save for the eastern one, which is held by Zsiera.

Nightfrost is the primary residence of The White, and it is there she can usually be found resting or gorging herself upon the offerings of those who are still desperate enough to remain within the ruined city. The mortal occupants of the city are, for the most part, criminals or outcasts who seek shelter in a place where no one sane would dare to follow them. They eke out a harsh life, trading to get the supplies they need and raiding the surrounding areas for supplies and any they can kidnap to bring to Zsiera as an offering. Should the Firstborn ever slip into a rage while within Nightfrost’s walls, there is always a mad stampede to clear the area, with some of the more industrious bandit kings having dug out shelters for themselves under the city in case they are ever caught off guard.

The island off the Northeastern coast holds a special importance to Zsiera, and it is here one of the few intact and maintained temples from her former glory can be found, tended to by some of her oldest Draconians. These islands were where her and Daedalon would often meet, unable to enter each other’s territory but enjoying the isolation the islands provided so that they could meet in peace. It is rare for Zsiera to venture up that way anymore, but a few terrified witnesses have seen her collapse there after a fit of rage, her body having carried her through the tundra and the frigid waters on muscle memory alone.

Part of her territory overlaps the Plane of Water, but it is a far smaller portion than Ahriman possesses and she has not travelled there since the death of her lover.

Appearance

The Draconic form of Zsiera is not nearly as large as some of her Firstborn brethren. She stands a little over twelve meters high when on all fours, with a dense frame and broad limbs. Her maw narrows and ends in a slight hook, akin to that of a massive vulture. The shape of her mouth and the dagger-sized teeth contained within can rip into flesh at a truly fearsome speed, and few who have been on the receiving end of this have ever lived to tell the tale. Her scales are a gleaming white, and on bright days they shine like fresh fallen snow, though it is uncommon to see them without a layer of dried blood and viscera from whatever meal she last consumed. Her horns, which travel down her spine along her back and tail, are crystalline and razor sharp, also forming in clusters around her joints and the crown of her head. Her eyes, a piercing ice blue, glow dimly in the light and are the one thing that remains present whenever she takes her mortal form. She is shorter in length than many of her kin, only 20 meters from maw to tail, but what she lacks in height and lengths she makes up for in sheer bulk. She is a broad creature, with thick muscular limbs and wide frame that allow her great speed at the cost of dexterity.

Pierced into her flesh and scale are the bones of another long dead Firstborn, placed there by Zsiera herself. These bones act as a secondary weapon for the White, along with her own horns, and when worked into a rage she uses them to the full extent of her power, barreling into creatures and impaling any unfortunate to get in her way against them. Rib bones have been pierced into the blunt tip of her tail, and when she fights it is not uncommon to see any number of unfortunate victims impaled on them. When she is sedentary, however, they serve an alternative purpose. Some brave souls seeking to appease the dragon with a meal have been known to leave meat hanging from these bones for her to consume at her leisure, which has led to her occasionally using them as meat hooks as she wanders about her lair.

Her wings are large and barbed with wicked points, but they are no longer capable of flight. Centuries of disuse have left the muscles atrophied, but even if that was not the case, the membrane has become tattered and marred from years of scraping across the bones pierced in her hide. Her wings, on the rare times they are fully extended, measure roughly twenty five meters, though they are no longer exactly evenly sized after years of atrophy. While no longer capable of flight, Zsiera makes up for it with her powerful legs, which allow her to charge at speeds that one might not expect from a creature of her stature.While scholars argue she should be capable of repairing her wings given her power and the capability the Firstborn have to regenerate slowly over time, it is theorized that she simply does not care or cannot muster the conscious effort to do so.

The mortal form of Zsiera was first seen by a group of humans exiled from the Grey Elven city of Tse Maigrindof. Rather than join any of the factions that seemed to be forming amongst the other humans, they pushed north and into the mountains. As supplies dwindled and storms raged they fled to a cave, weakened and desperate for respite. The storm did not let off, however, and with no other option they began to discuss the option of consuming whoever was the first to succumb.

As they began to drift into unconsciousness a stranger entered from the storm, a bearded axe in one hand and the carcass of a caribou in the other. She towered over the humans, head and shoulders taller than the largest among them, and easily carried her trophy despite the weight of the creature. Though they did not have the words for it at the time, the woman appeared similar to an Einher, though she had no kilt. Her hair was stark white against dark skin, held in a massive braid that reached down her back. Her eyes, however, betrayed her nature as they still resembled the icy blue of the Firstborn in her natural state. One of the humans made the mistake of asking if she were an angel, and the swing of her axe split him like a felled tree. Despite the offense, she silently shared a meal with these terrified humans, her mannerisms unrefined and almost animalistic as she ate. Only when she had eaten her fill did she speak, declaring that the group would likely die, but that she could teach them what she knew of survival. Those who lived could go on to teach others, and those who died she had no use for.

The humans accepted, and those who stayed true to her teachings began to thrive despite the harshness of the north. She continued to visit them on occasion, sometimes taking them hunting with her, but even as the humans grew old she remained unchanged. As a sign of respect, some of these humans began to dress as she had, incorporating the braids she had worn into their own stylings.

Since the death of her lover Daedalon, Zsiera has not taken her mortal form. Her Draconians have implored her to on occasion, during her brief periods of lucidity, but the answer is always a firm no. She sees no rhyme or reason to alter herself to the benefit of the mortal races that abandoned her and Daedalon in their hour of need.

Passions

Zsiera’s hoard is littered with the bones of those she has consumed, and the carcacsses of those she has yet to feast on. Offerings are left to her by those in the immediate vicinity of her, and aspiring knights are expected to contribute as well.

While Zsiera looks positively upon acts of survival against insurmountable odds, gone are the days where she is solely the dragon of survival. The best way to earn the attention of Zsiera is to fight as she fights. Acts of violence are a guaranteed way, however, her aspiring knight is expected to leave at least one survivor to live on with the same survivor’s guilt that she lives with to this day. An offering must be taken from this survivor, usually in the form of a limb, and sacrificed on her altar for her to accept and consume at her leisure. Barring acts of violence, Zsiera is always accepting of meals. Living sacrifices, while not as well rewarded, can be given. It is said that Zsiera especially enjoys consuming the flesh of children, although she is also not known to be exceptionally picky. Some scholars theorize that it is because the loss of a child is the closest in weight to what she has felt, but there is no way to discern if this is the case.

That said, the violence that is carried out in her name should have a purpose. Zsiera enjoys the reverence and free meals that come from fear her reputation perpetuates. Demolishing a village accomplishes little save to satiate a hunger. Slaughtering a portion of its populace and decorating the battlements with whatever corpses have not been given in offering, however, ensures that few will challenge you. This need not take the form of mass slaughter, community can sometimes accomplish more than a massacre.

Temperament

Zsiera is a volatile creature, prone to fits of despair fueled rage that lapse into periods during which she gorges herself on whatever happens to be closest, be it meat left by her followers or any unlucky enough to be near her at the time. She is ferocious and brutal, believing that whatever cannot be eaten should serve you, and whatever cannot serve should be utterly destroyed. To say Zsiera is fearless would not be entirely accurate, as her behavior is far closer to recklessness. She has a complete disregard for her own well being, preferring to simply endure any attack than bother with any trifles such as avoiding the blow.

In a fight she is brutal, charging in with tooth and claw regardless of her own safety. Some speculate that after the death of the Silver she is no longer one to ever avoid a fight, and that this might be responsible for her tendency to rush headfirst into a fray rather than engage from afar. She has a habit of leaving a single survivor alive wherever she strikes, always on purpose and always looking them in the eye before she turns to leave. Sometimes these survivors dedicate their lives to her in thanks for being given their life, but others swear vengeance against her and her people. Should she meet them again on the field of battle, they will not get a second chance at mercy, and they are often the first to die.

Above all else, Zsiera is defined by the grief she felt when she lost Daedalon. It is the source of her rage, the cause of her endless consumption, and the reason that she and Pandora are constantly at war. She exists in a constant, drawn out cycle of violence and consumption to distract herself from his death, only stopping when she has tired herself out to the point of needing to rest. She can be relatively calm as she regains her strength and consumes the tributes brought before her. It is in these moments of calm that her Knights seek to approach her for guidance or counsel, but this is not without its risks. At any moment her thoughts may roam back to Pandora, or to her inability to enter the Silver’s territory to save him, and the berserking will begin anew.

Affinities

Zsiera was once solely focused on survival, and was even willing to teach those mortals desperate enough to turn to her for aid. Proud, unyielding, and with an powerful mastery of elemental ice, she was a terror to behold both on and off the battlefield.

While some of that remains true to this day, time and grief have warped Zsiera into a far more fearsome creature. She is more akin to a force of nature, forgoing her magic in favour of sheer physical strength and the blizzards brought forth by her breath. She has grown vicious over the centuries, quick to anger and never one to shy from a fight. When in battle there is no retreat, but there is no pride or glory in her actions. Like a cornered animal, she fights each fight as if it is life or death, never toying with her prey when there is an easy chance to crush it utterly and consume what remains when the dust settles.

Despite her delicate mental state, she still innately has access to a vast reservoir of elemental ice and water magic. Whereas before Zsiera would make use of rituals and battle magic to aid her in her hunts, now her use of magic is far more based on instinct. One can easily tell if the White has been fighting in a region, both from the gouges left in the land from her claws and horns and from the massive ice spikes and shards littering the tundra.

Zsiera’s aura of fear is not terribly large, but it is far more intense than that of most of her kin. Any who should manage to approach within 100 meters of Zsiera are overcome with a sudden icy dread which renders them at least temporarily unable to move. While some brave souls have been able to push past this, even those who regain their senses enough to flee or venture closer are overcome with a gnawing hunger in the pit of their stomach.

Breath Weapon

Few have seen Zsiera’s breath weapon and lived to tell the tale. Some simply try to define it as a blizzard, but that is only a small facet of her power. When Zsiera unleashes her most powerful weapon it is not a torrent of fire from her gullet or a spray of acid from maw. Zsiera’s scream instead thins the veil between the mortal plane and the plane of ice. This widow’s wail, heard even at great distances, unnerves all who bear witness and chills them to the bone. Shortly after, storm clouds gather overhead and a winter tempest manifests in a radius of over a kilometer from her center. Those caught inside this blizzard find themselves not just assaulted by flying debris and ice but also begin slowly freezing to death from the increasing cold. Worse still, those unfortunately spirits that succumb to this cold find their corpses welcoming hosts to Elementals of Ice, which explode from their frozen bodies. This arctic tempest lasts as long as The Desolate continues her scream, although it prohibits her from speaking or casting magic. It slowly dissipates minutes after she ceases her cry, leaving behind Ice Elementals now trapped in the mortal plane, and shattered frozen pieces of the corpses inside. 

The most detailed recount comes from Finnick of Gotland, the sole survivor of Zsiera’s massacre of his raiding party shortly after the fall of Nightfrost:

When we got word that something had happened to Nightfrost, our first thought was that it was those damn Ice Elves again. A pack of them had been seen in the area a few times, roaming closer towards the city than usual, so we set out with the Jarl and some of our best fighters to go cull the numbers a bit.

We followed the usual trail, and knew something was wrong when we saw the birds in the sky. Vultures, we figured. And dozens of them. We pressed on until the stench of blood and rot began to fill the air, then stopped to decide if we were going to turn back to get the others or press forward. Ice Elves couldn’t have done this, which meant something worse might have.

Maybe if we had turned back then, things would have been different. Maybe some of us would have made it. But we stayed and argued like fools while the Jarl spoke to one of the scouts about running ahead. That kid never stood a chance. Barely got a few paces before we heard it. It was the roar of some kind of beast, but the force of it shook snow from the trees and sent tremors through the ground. Sounded like something in pain, or maybe we would have just run. Instead the Jarl ordered us to form up.

Our line was strong, we had enough shields and bows that we probably could have given the Sylth’Algor a run for their money. The mages got their protections given out and then readied for whatever was about to come. The whole time, the roaring never stopped. If anything, it got louder, the wind picking up and sending snow and ice into our faces. Within a minute we couldn’t see a damn thing. The scout had vanished up ahead, completely encased in the storm. The winds started buffeting the shields, knocking them off balance as the targes caught the brunt of it. Shards of ice the size of our forearms began to form from the snow, hitting with enough force that it started knocking off protections. The Elementalists seemed real skittish, said something about the veil between here and another plane feeling thin. Whatever that meant.

On my life, there’s no glory in running, but the Jarl was a fool for thinking we could handle this. And he paid for it. We all did. As the cold began to worsen, people near the front stopped being able to move. As if their bodies themselves were freezing in place. The rumbling getting closer, like a massive beast charging. Because that’s exactly what it was. We heard the sound before we saw it, the crack and scream as the scout was suddenly thrown back against the shield wall. He had died instantly, his body crumpled and twisted up from the force of it. A healer tried to move to him but by this point the back line couldn’t even see the front. I was back there, ready to give out my magic as needed, but I never got the chance. All you could hear were screams and that accursed roaring. I fell back. I take no pleasure in admitting that, but the sound… it was indescribable. Flesh tearing, bones snapping, the blizzard stained red as bloodsoaked snow was whipped up into the wind. I could see flashes of the creature, claws grasping at the other mages, a horn snapping a tree in half like tinder… the Jarl’s body hanging limp from the spike of a massive tail. It took less than a minute.

What’s worst is the ones that stopped moving. I don’t know what happened, one moment they were as still as if a Psionicist had got them, the next moment they were exploding into chunks of frozen blood and flesh. Where my kin once stood were Ice Elementals, some of them turning to tear into whatever was closest to them in a frenzy, while others grouped and piled together to form larger ones.

The screaming stopped, and with it the blizzard began to ebb. Only the bloodstains and the remaining Elementals marked what had happened here. That, and the beast herself, lingering in the remains of her storm.

I cowered and ran, but got only a few steps before my heart nearly stopped and sent me straight to whatever corner of Niflheim the beast crawled out of. I had never been one for dragons, but I knew the one to the North was the White. I just never thought I’d see her in person. She stared at me through the snow, the still steaming blood of my kin coating her scales as she took a momentary reprieve. She just stared. I don’t understand why, even to this day. But she wanted me to live, I think. I don’t know how I knew, but I swear it on my colours. She wanted me to live, and to feel some shred of the pain she seemed to be in. To warn others never to stand in her way.

So I ran. I ran and I never looked back.

Style of Governance

Zsiera does not govern through any intentional behavior, but the terror she inspires within her land and the desperate attempts to keep her sated keep her and her followers within a position of begrudging respect and infamy.

Zsiera’s temples have little hierarchy, though a semblance is present. Her temple structure is more of a loose and shifting chain of apex and lesser predators. Fear, strength, and survival drive those who revere the White to act together, or separately, and individual power causes such structures to vary from long standing feared leaders to daily tested and redefined pecking orders.

Her Draconians are the only creatures that Zsiera will not outright consume should her mood be foul, though that does not make them exempt from her fury should they anger her. Her Dragon Knights have a similar layer of safety, though most understand their patron enough to know that it is safest to give her a wide berth, and that isolation is preferable to clustering together. Among her Draconians, the oldest and most feared are those who tend to her original temple, and those that roam the tundra in search of Ice Elves and other servants of Pandora to bring to their lady. These Draconians, known as Zsiera’s Maw, are brutal and efficient, never staying in one place for long and preferring to keep away from other sentient races, even while not on the hunt. They do not lead her followers or those who live within Nightfrost, ignoring any reverence bestowed upon them and occasionally hunting the citizens when they grow hungry.

Her Dragon Knights are scattered, sometimes travelling to Jormunger as a form of pilgrimage but rarely seeking each other out unless there is a sizable force of Pandora worshippers that need to be culled from an area. The very few who have met Zsiera in person rarely speak of the event. The exception to this is The Butcher, the first Knight to be recognized by Zsiera after her spirit broke. He is a silent Gargoyle with a massive cleaver who moves through Nightfrost and the surrounding area, gathering tributes for Zsiera and killing any who get in the way, or even stand too close to the cullings.

Historical Highlights

While much of Zsiera’s history has been lost to time, recent research published by Chronologer Garrius Sumendar sheds light on events previously only told through legend and secondhand accounts. The following are excerpts from his works.

I do not bother to write on the origins of the Firstborn and how they came to be on Arthos. Many scholars have devoted their lives to it, but I prefer history to conjecture. Learning about Zsiera, the White, has been a more arduous task than I initially intended. The Crissen’Thalan of the North are a biased party, and the Draconians who serve her personally are more likely to try and drag you off to feed you to their progenitor than they are to answer your questions. A surprising boon of knowledge has come from the Einher who, while splintered, seem to agree on numerous aspects of her history, passed down from when they first arrived in the North.

All parties, however, can agree on one thing. The first clash of Zsiera and Pandora was to set the stage for a future of near constant conflict.

There were originally two documented Firstborn in Jormunger. Zsiera had the larger of the two territories by far, while her neighbour held most of the northern coast. His name was Daedalon, The Silver, Firstborn of Building and of Civilization. While the Ice Elven fortress of Nevasca fell within the territory of The Silver, Pandora was bound by none of the laws of the Prism Discordia. It was just into the border of the White’s own territory that Zsiera first encountered Pandora, moving through the tundra with a small band of Ice Elves. No words were spoken when the two met eyes, for none needed to be said. Both were wise enough to know danger when it stared them in the face.

Zsiera, quick to shed her mortal form, had a single moment of hesitation before entering the fray. While the Ice Elves claim it to have been fear, those of the White insist that it was the Firstborn weighing her chances of survival, and finding them to be acceptable. Nevertheless, in this brief moment Pandora surged forward, drawing first blood with a wicked curved dagger that pulsed with divine magic. Zsiera’s roar echoed throughout the land, earning the attention of Daedalon, who moved closer to cautiously investigate. He was met with the sight of an all out struggle just outside the limits of his territory, with the Winter Queen and Zsiera locked in a bloody scuffle that tore apart the tundra as both parties willed the ice and snow to answer their call. Both the Firstborn and the Goddess sustained heavy injuries, but Zsiera was not a creature to be taken lightly.

With a mighty slam from her tail, Zsiera managed to knock Pandora off of her, sending the goddess sailing backwards into the domain of the Silver. The two Firstborn met gazes in that moment, with Daedalon quickly establishing a Mind Meld to ascertain the situation almost immediately. As the Ice Elves rushed to their lady a wall erupted from the snow, encasing the group as an impossibly intricate dome of stone and metal formed around the goddess and her retainers. When the wall came back down, the group was gone, having used the Orb of Power Blite to depart. 

Before we delve too deep into the events that were to follow this first battle, a note on the nature of Zsiera and Daedalon’s relationship.

When two Firstborn share neighbouring territories, there is bound to be some degree of interaction, even if neither can ever the land of one another. Daedalon was, at his heart, an architect. Zsiera, meanwhile, was one for action. While this led to a few disagreements at the beginnings of their interactions, this changed when mortals began to enter the tundra. Suddenly, both Firstborn had people to teach, and in turn the mortals began to build temples to them and follow their guidance. As time passed Daedalon and Zsiera grew closer, often meeting at the boundary of their respective territories on the northern islands to talk of things that they wanted no others to hear. Eventually they grew so close that it was not uncommon to see a small shrine to one Firstborn within the Temple of another, even if their followers did not always agree. Such was their bond that Daedalon, as a gift to show the sincerity of what he felt towards Zsiera, performed a powerful Psionic ritual so that their minds could be connected even across great distances.

The peace was not to last, however, as the humans who had fled the destruction of the Grey Elven city soon began to split. Rifts formed, arguments over faith and following driving communities apart until four kingdoms were formed. Daedalon and Zsiera watched, disappointed but not entirely surprised by their actions. Cities formed, and with them came factions and armies to oppose one another. Four main kingdoms rose, and the two Firstborn decided after much debate to let the mortals do as they please without greater interference. Wars became commonplace, and after each battle Daedalon’s followers were left to rebuild what was lost and Zsiera’s revelled in having survived another day.

It was during one of these battles that Pandora moved to retaliate.

In the lands near Nightfrost Hold, where the White’s territory met the Silver’s, lay the city of Galaheim’Vox that Daedalon had poured his heart and spirit into. He had endeavoured to put it near the border so that Zsiera could watch from afar and see what he and his followers had built. It was his crowning achievement, and the place he often worked while Zsiera wandered the tundra.

It is here Pandora sought him out, waiting until Zsiera had gone hunting before she entered the walls of his great city. She entered the city alone save for Blite, and while most of Daedalon’s followers paid her no mind, the Firstborn himself was quick to realize who she was. He mustered his voice, crying out to his followers to seek aid from the kingdoms he had helped teach. They set to work as the Silver engaged Pandora.

To say the fight was one sided would be inaccurate. Daedalon could not lay a scratch upon the goddess, but Pandora similarly found it near impossible to breach the defensive walls and barriers the dragon would erect around himself to stall her attacks. It is there he held her for days, attempting to buy time for the mortal kingdoms to rally to his aid.

The mortals, however, never came.

It was Zsiera who returned first, catching scent of the goddess and charging to the edge of her domain to challenge her. Pandora paid her no mind, however, knowing full well that Zsiera could not reach her within the territory of another. Daedalon had begun to tire, and still no aid came from the warring kingdoms. They were too caught up were they in their own battles and strife to have time for the affairs of gods and Firstborn. Zsiera watched, helpless, as the Silver’s defenses began to crumble one by one. She called for her followers, for the kingdoms, for anybody who could cross into the Silver’s land, but those who could muster themselves were no match for the Winter Queen. 

Pandora began to gain traction, using the power of Blite to move herself and Daedalon around the city as she so chose to gain the upper hand. Eventually she managed to force him into the air, which proved to be a fatal error. The goddess gated after him, tearing into his wings with her magic and sending him plummeting back down onto the spire of the temple he had built within the city. Zsiera howled in anger, the blizzarding gale of her breath whipping around her into a storm the likes of which Jormunger would never see again, and yet she could not reach him. Realizing himself to have lost, Daedalon reached out with his mind to Zsiera. While he had only wished to use this power to say his goodbyes, there was no way in which he could filter out the pain he felt. Zsiera felt his agony as Pandora picked him apart, the goddess working without a hint of anger behind her actions. This was a lesson not for Daedalon, but for Zsiera. In her own twisted way Pandora was acknowledging Zsiera as a worthy rival, and offering her the greatest gift she could. Agony, the likes of which the White would never recover from.

Zsiera and Daedalon’s roars echoed across the tundra as their minds remained locked. Daedalon, half mad from the pain, rambled to Zsiera of all that he had not had the chance to tell her. He told her of his aspirations, of his hopes for some day convincing the humans to stop their bickering, of the love and admiration he had long ago began to feel but could not find the way to tell her. She returned in kind, agreeing with his words until the moment Daedalon asked her to forgive the mortals for having forsaken them. Zsiera refused. Daedalon tried to convince her that they were young, and still needed guidance, but was unable to finish his plea before a deafening silence filled Zsiera’s mind.

The scream of anguish that followed could be heard across Jormunger, and only then did the humans pause, for just a moment, to wonder what could have caused such a sound. By the time her vision returned to her, the only thing that could be made out through the blizzard was Pandora tearing into the mangled form of Daedalon to extract one of the protective ribs from directly over his heart. The failing organ beat once more, spraying blood across the Lady of Winter, and then fell still. She turned back to Zsiera, bowing once to the Firstborn, and then the power of Blite carried her back to Nevasca.

Realizing that the domain Pandora resided in was barred to her, and that there was no way for her to chase the goddess, Zsiera was overcome with a grief that knew no limit. Her claws carried her without intent or purpose towards the nearby Nightfrost Hold, the storm heralding her arrival though the mortals who lived there had no idea the reckoning it was to bring. The moment she laid eyes on the mortals, those who had been so very close to her when she needed them, something in her mind broke. Her grief was met in equal measure with a rage that would level the city, her roars of rage and pain carrying out over the snow for days on end. There is no exact record of how long this blind fury lasted, with some claiming it to be days while others argued weeks or even months. All that is known, however, is that at the end of it Zsiera lay down in the ruins of what was once a great city within her domain, and she went to sleep.

Within the shattered remains of this city sat a single Gargoyle. Nameless and masterless after Zsiera’s rampage, he became the sole survivor of the first massacre of Nightfrost. 

During Zsiera’s rampage, devouring all that she came across, this single creature was spared her wrath. The two locked gazes, the blood of Zsiera’s victims dripping from both of their faces, and then the Firstborn turned and moved on. Some question if it is because she didn’t think a person of stone to be appetizing, or perhaps she saw something within him that even the Gargoyle did not know. Too terrified to move, it was not until Zsiera had been asleep for hours that the Gargoyle finally strayed from his spot in the blood soaked street.

The Gargoyle, lost though he was, also knew he had been offered a second chance at life. With the death of his master, he had been given something of a morbid fresh start. Without knowing what else to do, he left the city to retrace the path she took.

When the Gargoyle found the corpse of Daedalon, still speared onto the spire of his own temple, he decided how he would repay Zsiera for his life. Zsiera’s storm still raged on, but the Gargoyle began the slow process of dismantling what bones he could from Daedalon’s broken form and carrying them back across the border to lay before Zsiera. Even after the storm finally dispersed, and the massacre of Nightfrost faded into memory, the solitary Gargoyle carried out his task. Eventually bandits and brigands began to use the ruined city as a base of operations, but they quickly learned that the silent Gargoyle was not somebody to be taken lightly. Any who interrupted were met with him turning the cleaver that he used to hack through Daedalon’s hide and bones against them, and those who got in his way were added with the Silver’s bones to the growing pile of tribute around Zsiera’s sleeping form.

This carried on until Zsiera next awoke. Be it through fate or sheer good luck, the Gargoyle was out of town when the White awoke, surrounded by the bones of her fallen lover and a small mountain of corpses. The ensuing rampage that followed became known as the second massacre of Nightfrost. When the Gargoyle returned her found Zsiera pushing the bones of the Silver into herself, the corpses that he had left long since having been eaten. It was in this moment of lucidity that Zsiera created the first of her new Dragon Knights, who most of the mortals who eventually resettled Nightfrost called The Butcher. His service to her had been twofold: Not only had he finally allowed the two Firstborn to be together within the same land, but he had denied Pandora the opportunity to desecrate his corpse further. The Butcher was both Knight and Herald for the White, carrying out her will and channeling her voice whenever Zsiera herself was too furious to use it. This is a task he carries out to this very day.

The better part of a century passed before Pandora and Zsiera next crossed paths, and when they did, it was near the place where their rivalry first began. 

In the lands southwest of Nevasca, now known as the Valley of Shattered Scales, the two happened upon each other by some cruel twist of fate. Zsiera, in a rage, had travelled far further west than she often roamed, tearing a bloody swath through the nomadic Ice Elves of the tundra. Such was her carnage that Pandora herself came to investigate the cause.

The moment the two met each other’s gaze the battle began. While her fight with Daedalon had been marked by the fact that for most of it neither could harm the other, first blood was claimed by Zsiera that day. While Pandora was no stranger to pain, the storm that Zsiera called forth coupled with the injuries sustained early in the fight proved to be more than the Lady of Winter was prepared for. Where once Pandora was able to handle the White using her body to bludgeon, now Zsiera had pierced herself with the bones of another dragon. A particularly devastating blow from Zsiera’s tail nearly tore the arm from Pandora’s shoulder, and it was then the goddess revealed her spear; Secondborn.

Passed down accounts from the rare few Ice Elves who claimed to have seen their fight state that in this moment, it was as if Arthos itself held its breath. The tundra was silent, Pandora leveling the spear towards Zsiera to show her what had become of her lover. And in that briefest of moments, Zsiera hesitated.

This moment nearly became her downfall.

Pandora surged forth with renewed vigor, her gambit having more than paid off. For what better weapon to harm a Firstborn, than one forged of their own kin? And how better to twist the knife in an open wound, than with a reminder of all that was lost? The scales rent from Zsiera’s body scattered across the snow, and the spires of ice that their respective magics called forth remain unthawing to this day.

Despite the careful planning of the Winter Queen, however, there was one thing even she had not foreseen. She had expected Zsiera to back down. To turn tail and run to fight her another day. She had not anticipated that the White would deliver each blow as if it were her last, tearing at the goddess with a ferocity that was equal parts hatred and self destruction. 

It was Pandora, in the end, who chose to retreat. Wounded and making no progress, she realized she had gained what she could from this particular battle. While this would not be the last time the two clashed, the scars left upon the landscape ensure it remains the most well known of them.

In recent times, Nightfrost has become a lawless town of bandit lords and smugglers who sought refuge in a place no sane man would seek to find them. They strive to keep Zsiera well fed, having learned from the work of The Butcher, and any who stray too close to the city risk being hunted to serve as an offering.

As for the legacy of Daedalon, all that remains is a small order of those few of his Draconians that remain, and the few former Knights of his that remain loyal to their cause. They are known as The Architects, and for the most part remain within the northern isle of Daedalon’s territory. Zsiera’s own Knights and Draconians are entrusted, at times, with ensuring their protection and survival at any costs. Outsiders are not tolerated, and it is rare to ever see them stray from the walls of their temples. In her lucid days they sometimes walk with Zsiera, rarely speaking and daring not to ever bring up their former patron to her. Their company, however, seems to soothe the desolate Firstborn, and should her rage ever take hold within their presence she has yet to ever take one of their lives.