Chapter Text
The Northern Territories were a cold desolate place, filled in equal measure with snow and ashes. The people weren’t much different.
In the olden days, the land was prosperous. It rested under the gaze of the Mothercrystal Drake’s Eye, lying at the center of a lake called the Frozen Tears. It drew aether from the land and gave menfolk the means of fighting back against the wild frontier of the north. Fafnir and their ilk (goblins and such) were a rampant lot that required intense vigilance to properly combat. And so the magicks stemming from the crystal were used to beat them into submission (as well as supporting the never-ending war between tribes).
Aether did more than abetting survival and warfare, it allowed for an actual life to be had in the north, comfort to be found in the frost. The Ice King of Old may have legendarily cursed their land to be this frozen heap, but as long as the mothercrystal reigned, and with the Eikon Shiva as its guardian, the North had a future…
It was sixty years back when the crystal fell. Some say the Eye receded, sunk down into the Tears like an actual tear. Some suggested it was subterfuge, machinations performed by tribes rivaling the current power structure or even their historic rivals to the south in the lands of light and fire. Whatever reasoning didn’t matter in the least after decades of decay. As the crystal faded, the land shook and darkened, discoloration spreading from that frozen lake to all across the north. It even ventured past the northern divide into Rosaria and Sanbreque’s territory.
It wasn’t simply that the land was drained of magic, but of life itself. Whatever crops could have survived up north was depleted in the blight, spoiled early. Root crops instead were choked with ash and soot. Lands where aether could be drawn grew rare and volatile. And so the only means of securing food in the north grew dire, as overhunting intensified… and monsters ventured further south to escape the blight and find adequate prey.
And much like the monsters invaded the south, so too did the Northmen. The legendary Fenrir tribe united the northern bannermen under Shiva’s dominant to battle the Burning Phoenix of Rosaria at their border, Phoenix Gate. But Shiva and all her frigid power wasn’t enough to take Drake’s Breath, in fact the Ironblood would take it instead and keep on possessing it. So Shiva and her forces were left to limp back home, and a frigid storm soon overtook the north, reaching out across the twins. The people of Valisthea grew ambivalent as the northerners were trapped in a frozen tomb to dwindle and rot.
The Death of Shiva’s dominant acted as the linchpin in reuniting the north by ending the Ever-Storm. The Fens of old were discarded and replaced by the burgeoning Clan Warrick, followers of Silvermane who engaged with the young Archduke Elwin’s bannermen. Those years made up a bloody conflict, earning the north back its savage reputation. Warrick weaponized the winter, utilizing crystals and bearers to freeze Rosaria’s burning fleet in place and cut through their defenses. But even without his father’s Eikon, Elwin Rosfield defeated the men of the north, though not without some modicum of change.
Rosaria finally opened her borders, more northmen than ever before were able to escape their tomb.
But many had to remain, most by obligation. Silvermane remained to ensure the north would never raise a hand to their neighbors. He gave away his daughter as a hostage to ensure that, for however long he lived to honor it. But most who stayed were the stubborn lots who refused to give up on the north, on their homeland. Perhaps it was because they comprised generations born after the collapse of their mothercrystal (so for them to imagine a better life seemed ludicrous). Or maybe there were simply some who found more freedom in a dying land than they ever could in the south. Many willingly bore that cursed freedom.
The Jaeger Clan was a storied amalgamation of groups, in olden days their progenitors hunted the Fafnir, which they used as their sigil. In fact they used several symbols of the creatures they hunted, adorning their meager cloaks with masks depicting many of the terrors one would find in the north. Thankfully they were made from pieces of flimsy wood and stone and furs. Though some outsiders feared that they were instead cannibals who wore their victims.
It was dreadful in the north, truth or lies, naught could beat the power of a story to combat boredom. And if there was anything the north still had, it was stories.
The Jaeger were a band of old shut ins who lacked the political acumen of the Fens and later Clan Warrick, but somehow they had survived when clans far greater than them had collapsed. They’d even taken in members of those groups, much like how they used every part of the Fafnir, they openly accepted anyone into their ranks. It wasn’t out of kindness, but of frugality, not wishing to waste what the other tribes left behind as refuse.
A spear was still a spear no matter who held the pole.
But that didn’t mean the Jaeger had a friendly relationship with whatever else remained in the north. There was a mistrust present within the tribe that permeated the greater territory the same way it mistrusted those to the south. The hospitality of the olden days was nonexistent, and vies for unblighted territory remained a constant, as was the conflict over foreign crystal shards to use in those territories. The Jaegers in particular had an ever-going conflict with a vicious band of raiders who called themselves the “Northern Frontier.” How they had survived as long as they had was anyone’s guess, especially given their proclivity for deadlands and Fallen Architecture.
But despite that primal mistrust of the other, there was a warmness between members of the clan, even with the newer arrivals. A familiarity pierced through that coldness, creating tight bonds of kinship, at least for those wishing to have such bonds.
It was rather late in the day, and so beside the frozen lake they had taken to use for water, one could see a collection of thin fires with smoke rising out into the darkening cloud-filled sky, bathing their freezing tents in a warm glow. This subsect of Jaeger was a meager group, numbering under twenty, with some young children who had taken to play with their parents masks as there was no need to wear them in the company of friends. Despite the snow coming down, it was a particularly jovial evening, some of their hunters had returned. Though not everyone was as ecstatic, including their resident healer.
Fenna of the Jaegar Clan wore her hood in the presence of all. She was something of a shaman, using her dwindling knowledge (and dwindling supply of crystals) to heal the hurts of her people and tell their young stories about the older days. Stories she had read in books she now had the responsibility of remembering. She was even asked to preside over bonding rituals, births, matrimonies and the like. It was quite unique how much the tribe seemed to like her despite her intentions to be an outcast. It became a tall tale among the children that the hood must have meant their spiritual leader was hiding herself, and they wouldn’t be wrong.
They surmised she was turning monstrous like the Fafnir they hunted (who in legends were said to have been men cursed by their avarice). Fenna must have hoarded her knowledge and stories, as there was many tales she never told them, particularly anything referring to the ever-storm from decades ago. In fact she refused to tell stories about the wolf-obsessed Fen Tribe of old (where they surmised that a middle-aged woman with such a name could come from).
And when it came to others of the tribe, they knew not to press Fenna for such irrelevant information. As far as the rest were concerned, the past they knew so little about rarely brought about anything conductive to their business as a people. It couldn’t help them hunt Fafnir anymore than it could help them combat the Frontier.
As far as anyone was concerned (especially Fenna) her past was a useless nuisance that was for her to do with as she wished, and so she did naught with it, as was her right.
The children snickered as Fenna oscillated magic from a crystal into the wounded arm of a hunter, their leader’s brother, Darun.
“You need to be more careful.” She reprimanded her supposed friend, Fenna’s voice was like a sly glacier wedging into him.
“And for that, you have my thanks, Fen.”
“I’d rather have you pay attention for once. These gems don’t apparate from a formless bloody void.” That was unlike her arrival to the tribe years ago, Darun recalled how Fenna had just appeared on their tribe’s doorstep out of thin air, it was back when his father ruled them.
The man sighed as Fenna’s magic finished mending his wound. The flesh was closed, now he’d need to visit with a tailor to patch the hole in his trousers. His snow filled mustached face glanced at her sky blue crystal with some curiosity.
“The color’s different from your usual one… did it drain?” Admittedly he had been gone for a while, running with their scouts up north. She opted not to mock his curiosity for that (but he knew she usually would have).
“It doesn’t work anymore, none of the red ones do.” What was once vibrant was now just a dull red color. She had decided to let the children play with them as toys, all the good they did now.
It sounded much like the stories from when Drake’s Eye fell, those crystals no longer worked either. It wasn’t unusual for the crystal to fade, but for all of them to no longer function?
Something must have happened.
So Fenna instead took to using shards pilfered from some rather ambitious imperials attacking their tribe. Though it was with a degree of worry, knowing that how the deadlands depleted their soil, that the crystals would eventually become useless regardless of origin.
And yet despite that uselessness, Fenna would never admit the warmth she felt watching the children playing with her old worthless crystals. Some girls wore the gems in their hair now, and boys took to rolling the red stones for a game. It became toys and jewelry, yet somehow the shaman felt more value in witnessing that uselessness then the crystal ever provided her in building fires or closing wounds (atleast in closing Darun’s wounds). There was a beauty in that uselessness, to simply let a pretty thing be pretty and nothing else.
But was there also a guilt in that? Perhaps, Fenna surmised. But she knew that the crystals were dead. There was no point in wondering what could have been if they remained functional.
The past was the past, you could live in it, or you could move on. That was quite ironic of a belief system to have in the north, she’d admit. There was no future to be had in the north, so all you really could do was live in the past.
“You 'ought speak with your brother. We’ll need to leave soon,” Her associate listened more intently. “We’re running out of living soil. I’ve seen the edges of the lake beginning to blacken.”
Darun could see the water from where he sat, very troubling.
“Game is getting sparse too.” Her colleague admitted casually.
Perhaps there was something further north that could sate them, but they were running the gamut this far south… and unlike the prey they hunted, none of them were willing to leave their borders. Fenna made peace with that a long time ago, there was no life to be had. There was no point in abandoning this cold rock knowing what was down there.
Sadly, Fafnir weren’t so proud. The beasts held no borders, beyond the borders of their hunger.
They’ve long began eating more than just wolves to sustain themselves.
“All things come and go.” Fenna suggested, irritating Darun. He turned more intently.
“Mateo actually sent us up north to look around for game or whatever… we got split up from the rest of the scouts in a blizzard.” He grew pensive.
“I heard that… a blizzard, this early?”
“I know, wind blew hard, rough getting those ashes out of your maw.” Especially because he loved talking.
“After days of looking for the rest, we were opting to come back when we stumbled upon some Sanbrequois, lost in the storm just like us.” That was actually the reasoning for his wound, Fenna realized. “Vicious bastards, especially when they can’t cast shite. Not like the frontier, but-”
“Everyone’s a vicious bastard this far north, doesn’t matter what your origin is.” Fenna remarked, her associate smirked just a bit. She glanced at the children playing, a larger child pretending to act like a Fafnir rampaging over his siblings in the snow, they were pretending to use her crystals to cast magic on him. Their giggles were intoxicating. “Specially the children.”
“Well the one we caught would proly agree with you, no one chooses to come this close to the eye without reason. These imps were looking for something.”
Now that interested Fenna.
“What?”
“Garl didn’t give the intruder the chance to say much more on account of the way he put his spear through the boy’s throat.” Fenna glanced from her hood to the central fire, seeing that proud look on Garl’s face, the others were celebrating him with many pats on the back and clasping arms in friendship. Mateo included.
“He said something about searching for the eye of the storm…”
“That makes sense, the eye of the storm is its most calm place.” Fenna offered, but Darun wasn’t convinced.
“I realize that, but the way he said it, sounded almost like code talk. Like they were actually looking for something in particular.”
There was a way to how her colleague spoke of this, Fenna couldn’t help but feel weary from the idea. The term “Eye of the Storm” had differing connotations in the north, with a variety of meaning. And one of those connotations that she paid the most attention to was presently impossible.
Sanbrequois only came north when it came to target practice or the recovery of imperial goods. Perhaps it was some bearers escaping north? It wouldn’t be the first time their tribe came upon and took in imperial property. It was an especially dubious proposition given how poorly equipped they were in rations.
What could they be looking for?
“Reminds me of the tales of the Ice King, looking for his daughter… so he summoned an Ever-storm and stood at its center.” Her associate rolled his eyes at that old tall-tale. He recalled listening to Fenna tell it to children, and how she sometimes changed the ending if she was bored, much to the children’s chagrin. “How many were in his party?”
“We saw maybe three-four heads, but they got right separated in the storm. We actually tried to give them the slip when Garl got spotted by the one we caught.”
“Did he say where they were going?”
“Had his group not got separated? Iskald looked to be our best guess. It was actually-“ He went on to describe how his scouts were originally set to trudge through that area before their separation but Fenna stopped intently listening at the mention of that place.
Iskald was the old capital… or more specifically, the new old capital under Silvermane. Clan Warrick’s old stomping grounds before the second collapse. It was situated at the center of a vicious mountain range called the Glaives.
Fenna scoffed at the memory of Iskald. Geir Warrick was so proud, situating his revolution in that old heap the Fens abandoned long ago, taking over that castle and building onto it. The blight spread there surprisingly quick if it hadn’t already been spreading under that debris and Fallen ruins
It was meant to be impossible to invade, yet Fenna felt more security beside this fire with these people than she ever did in that place.
“My brother is actually intending to send another party to Iskald, to search for the others.” Fenna glanced at the hunter, expecting a request. “We’re wondering if you’d like you to accompany them.” She looked back to the group at the fire, towards Mateo, their chief hunter (busy praising and chastising Garl). He and Fenna didn’t really talk much these days, somewhat like how his father barely acknowledged her.
The old chieftain didn’t trust “her kind.” Meanwhile Mateo was happy to let things function without any intervention. He counted on his brother to keep Fenna in the fold.
“I don’t take to the field these days.” Darun ignored her bitterness.
“He realizes that, but he also realizes you know Iskald well, better than any of us.” That also made things rather inconvenient for Fenna, given how she’d rather be a forgotten outcast. The Shaman stuff certainly complicated that, as did her knowledge of territories that others couldn’t replicate. “It’s your choice, but-“
“Then my choice has been made and he has my answer, Darun.”
Darun was respectful enough, thanking her for her time and help. As he returned to the central firepit, Fenna grew standoffish and introspective (which was quite usual).
There was a frigid tension within her, a habit that she refused to break. Why would she disrupt that with a visit to the latest in their people’s innovatively lost civilizations? Especially when it held so many poor memories for her? It was like asking a thrall of the Fen tribe to return to Frostburr, where Shiva’s dominant was murdered.
And worse yet, the place was bathed in blight. You’d have to spend hours dragging your patient off that land to find a place to give them relief.
She’d be a glorified tour guide.
So Fenna remained seated there, in the shadows of her tribe dancing around the fire. There was a vivaciousness to them that she struggled to replicate to the point that she stopped trying.
Instead she sat back, watching the snow come down in heaps, and she was surprised…
It did seem quite early for this weather to occur.
In her tent, Fenna struggled for the longest time to find sleep, but when it eventually came she entered a familiar dream.
She saw herself walking through a valley filled with ice, and strange figures made of stone. More snow came down, covering them, even to the point of burying some of them as if they were inside the ground. The people of the north burned bodies, as there was no point in burying anything given how the ground froze. And yet she imagined this valley, like a graveyard filled with frozen people, seemingly trapped in time.
In prior iterations of the dream, Fenna would sometimes touch a statue, only for it break apart into ashen mist, flowing out of the snow. Such a horrifying sight. So now she did nothing, and waited for the dream to end.
She knew all of their faces, but there was one she refused to look at.
“All things come and go.” She whispered to herself, a mantra taught by someone dear. It did little to bring her peace other then the embrace of the repetition, waiting for the dream to simply end and for to wake.
And yet the dream grew more dire, as snow filled the place, burying her like the statues. And even then Fenna refused to look upon its face.
She could taste it, the snow and ashes in her mouth, filling her up. It became hard to breathe, even then she refused to look upon it.
“All things come and go.” She repeated in vain. She began to wish that she’d simply die if she wasn’t going to wake, her terror overtaking every fiber of her being.
Until finally Fenna heard something, far off in the distance.
A howling, blending into he snowstorm. Fenna saw all those statues turn to ashen mist, flowing away, even the one she refused to look at. The snow covering her instead became a wicked storm of white flowing as the howling continued. The storm aligned with the wolf’s voice. It soon turned red, under the glow of a desolate star she didn't worship. That bleeding light enveloped all.
It was all so familiar, in ways she couldn’t begin to describe.
And then finally, like all things, the dream came and went, and she had only one image in her mind.
Not her... anyone but her.
The tribe woke to find their camp under an uncharacteristic heavy load of free flowing snow. Heavy wind buffeted the camp, whipping at them with snowflakes as sharp as swords (hyperbole, the children enjoyed it at least). The winds were particularly chaotic, meshing well with the clouds forcing the snow down upon them. It might have been early in the morning, but you couldn’t tell given how dreary the clouds were.
Fenna left her tent, finding the leather frozen, and a chill coming down her spine. Despite the layers upon layers she wore, it was so easy to get cold.
“It’s just like ma’s stories of the Ever-Storm.” A child surmise, before stopped their mouth realizing Fenna was looking down at them like a crone. She said little, catching snowflakes in her hand, watching them immediately drift from her grip and dance in the air.
What seemed so simple to children had a litany of connotations to their shaman. She seemed as if she were reading the symbols, but it was something much more simple than that. She could tell the direction the flakes were moving.
This storm would last for days, if it’d even stop. And its eye was moving northward.
“Yes, it is.” She replied, leaving the freezing children to play in the snow.
Fenna walked across camp, making her way to that central fire. It was now meager and small, and the breakfast meat stew it was preparing seemed even smaller. She reached Mateo eating beside his brother, the man (wearing an owl mask) turned as she said his name.
“I will accompany your hunters to Iskald.” Fenna said simply, Mateo swallowed his breakfast, surprised.
“W-we thought you told Darun-“
“I changed my mind.” She grew abrupt in the shrewd storm.
“Can I ask why?” Mateo added, finally setting his food aside. Fenna grew pensive in how much to tell, there was an urgency that she couldn’t shake, a feeling at the pit of her stomach she couldn’t reject.
“The imperials your brother encountered… I can’t prove it, but I believe I know why they’ve ventured this far north.” A curiosity plagued Mateo’s gaze. “They’re searching for her, the Warden of Ice. They’re searching for the eye of the storm, her eye.” She couldn’t bring herself to utter that name, so she instead caught more snow in her hand, dancing around wildly.
“How can you be so certain its Shiva?” Mateo asked. “The last dominant died decades ago.”
Fenna was prepared for such a mention, she didn’t falter at its mention.
“I was there when she died, in Frostburr.” She looked away. “Your father hated me for coming from the Fenrir, because we as her thralls were powerless as Silvermane slew her.” She had rather ambivalent feelings about that… but now wasn’t the time to ruminate on it. “This is that same storm, the one she created years after the failure at Phoenix Gate.”
Mateo was frankly surprised she would even talk about this. But he nodded at the memory of his father, of his obstinance. Even if the Everstorm ending was a collectively good thing, to fail your sworn liege brought much dishonor in the Twins.
“And it’ll only get worse… the last dominant went mad and the north nearly succumbed to her madness.” She said that so matter-o-factly, with a certainty that nearly frightened Darun. “I believe this new dominant seeks to wallow in her forebearer’s tomb, so I intend that we send her back to her origin, before history repeats itself.”
Fenna couldn’t bear to witness that repetition, especially now that there was no hope to find in that outcome. And the Jaeger would not survive such a brutal ever-long winter should this state continue.
It seemed fate had decided for her to return to Iskald. The same way fate had decided for another to return there.
There was a tenseness as Fenna looked upon Mateo, the man taking in her words with a measured look. He didn’t seem convinced, understanding the conviction in her words, but not yet the true purpose of it all.
“Very well, Garl get the chocobos ready.” The hunter nearly protested, but seeing that grim determination in Fenna’s gaze was enough to lull him away with his tail between his legs. “I’m still not convinced,” Mateo intuited, looking upon his shaman.
“In my conviction?”
“No that I can see, that’s the problem. In the years since we’ve taken you in, you’ve never been so determined before.” Despite that freezing storm and her hood, Mateo could see into her. Perhaps Darun shared too much information about their friendship. “This is personal for you, isn’t it?”
Fenna’s harsh gaze lessened, she dropped eye contact, granting Mateo his confirmation.
“Most aren't simply born into the Fen tribe like I was. We served and contained Shiva's last dominant, but I wasn’t just her thrall.” In that snow, Fenna struggled to hold back the words. "We were kin." her look hardened. "She was my mother." It was the hardest thing to admit that, like it had sunk so deep within her, she wondered if she could have simply forgot that truth like she had forgot before as a child. Could she have forgotten about the Fens and her family and the men who took them away?
But she could never forget, and despite the pain it brought her, this wasn't worth ignoring any longer.
The hunters grew silent looking upon Fenna’s admission, the pain she spoke with. Mateo looked down, feeling that guilt in his father’s rejection of her. He should have done more.
But there was no point in living in the past.
With respect, he offered his hand to Fenna in the way he always did with his hunters. She tentatively took it, clasping her hand around his forearm as he did for her. He nodded intently, feeding off her determination. Darun looked proud watching that, and of her for opening up.
“We’ll help you do your duty, Shaman.” The chief said. “We owe you that much.”
And as he said that, Fenna saw the other hunters looking to her, eyes were upon her with upmost belief in her.
It was good that she failed to be the outcast she had intended to be.
Because now she refused to fail this family, not like she failed her mother or Eisa.