Rork

“Did ye see his bloody skin?! It’s blue!” -Tog, tribesman Drifting like shadows against icy winds, the nomadic tribes that roam the bone-white expanses of Tya’s hyperborean territories have an ancient saying for those who wish to venture even further North: “Belrak vat brunta mit kana glorst,” which, of course, translates to, “Don’t.” The phrase, in all its eloquence, serves as sage advice, but if such cautions were always heeded, the legend of Rork, the Frostbitten Thane, might never have come to pass. Within Rork’s tribe, the authority of Frostchief Sigurd was absolute, akin to the unyielding grip of winter itself. Defiance was met with a most honored fate sealed by the snarling hounds that filled Sigurd’s hall, their hunger for living meat leaving no room for dissent. While the tribe was hardy, none dared to face the tyrannical chieftain in single combat to assume leadership, as tradition dictated. None, that is, except Rork. Wearied by Sigurd’s gluttonous excesses and volatile temperament, Rork boldly entered the mead hall one evening to issue a challenge that shattered the air like cracking ice. The room held its breath as Sigurd, observing the young warrior he’d watched mature with fearful admiration, considered the gauntlet thrown before him. It was precisely this fear that led Sigurd to propose a seemingly impossible challenge to Rork before their impending clash. For single combat to commence, Rork had to journey north near Tya’s very edge to Chillbone Lake and retrieve the mythical axe, “Winter’s Edge,” rumored to have sunk with a drunken ice giant after it fell in its own fishing hole. Rork’s acceptance of the challenge was so swift that it stole the smirk from Sigurd’s face in an instant. Guided by the stars, Rork ventured northward through conditions no mortal should endure until he stood frozen in his tracks. This would have been the disappointing end of his story had not an ice elemental intervened, amused by his resolve. Rapidly circling around him, it cast a spell that wrenched the frozen warrior from his frozen fate and made the tundra wind feel like a summer breeze. The enchantment did, however, leave his skin a sort of "glacial blue." Reaching the fabled lake on Tya’s edge, the now blue-skinned tribesman discerned a faint glow beneath the surface. Crashing through the ice, he swam to the bottom, through the dead giant's ribcage, and emerged with Winter’s Edge firmly in his grasp. At first glance, Rork’s fellow tribesman could not recognize him upon his return, but when he wordlessly buried Winter’s Edge into Sigurd’s great chest, all took to their knees to hail the Frostbitten Thane.