Lord Jarl Camon the third of northbridge was cursing.

He could not work with his circumstances. The Marga Empire of the southlands had fallen into the City States of the east, using it as a distraction to move their legion across the sea and avoiding most raiders and the pass of sorrow which ensured safe travels to Weistrana, which was normally considered one of the safest places in the world, the southern border guarded by Furchenstein, which guarded Weistrana from the undead and chimera infested dreadrock mountains, where the Academy of alternative lifeforms and the Necrotorum resided, inventing ever new monstrosities to send upon eachother and down the elderwyrm caverns beneath.

With Weistrata focussing on the Blessed Kingdom of Haiman, they were not ready when the Empire fell into their East flank, razing whole Cities and building up their camps.

And all of that while he had become the Champion of Firona, goddess of permafrost.

While many would enjoy such an honour, there were always those who knew what the war of champions meant, and among them, many were determined to kill whomever became a champion.

The War of Champions was something that occurred at the start of every millennium, and few were aware that anyone born in the first year of a millenium might become a champion.

Those who were aware were often part of nobility, and it was known that only a single champion would remain.

Some champion wars had sped up research, and others, like the last, spread enough destruction that the contents were moved and the Empire fell.

And as much as the different countries hated each other, preventing the draw out of a champion war was their sworn common goal.

To attack now implied that the Empire had a champion they wanted to raise above the others, and trusted to lead them to glory, even as the first month of the trials had not even fully passed.

His cursing stopped when a knock came from outside his door. He took a swig of mead to calm down and put on his trained false smile.

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His people hated lies more than anything else, but even they knew that a false smile could save lifes, especially when motivating people to march to their deaths, like he was forced to do.

The king ordered support, and as the northern border was the only one unassailed ever since the old Empire exterminated the Njord, the chance for his warriors to Prove themselves was possibly the only one he would get.

Different from the beasts of the northern wilds, the Marga Empires troop's where inherently magical, the mixture of scorpion and snake the proudest work that the Academy of Alternate lifeforms ever produced, leading in magic even as the Necrotorums Mummy lords resided right next to them, their eternal fight stopping both of the groups from expanding endlessly.

As he stood up and opened the old pine door, he smiled at the sight of his dedicated warriors.

"Born of the Frost, descendants of Winter. I greet you today as the eastern jarls are begging for our support. Northbridge has been held for three millenia by our ancestors, and today we will venture towards the shores we had to abandon so long ago. Take your Fogs with you, for the journey will be long, and we shall not leave our most trusted companions behind. Four days of full sprint will be required of us, but the deed will ensure us more honour than fighting the occasional Bol. Our skins are like the ice when we start, let us be painted in the blood of our enemies, as their twisted statures will not suffice to scare even the smallest of us. We shall make sure that none remain, as the goddess of eternal frost is with us. Hear me, warriors, I have been chosen as the Champion of Permafrost, and where I step the ground shall become ours. This is the best time to expand our influence southward and cleanse the dreadrock mountains of Furchenstein, so that the dead shal rest forever!"

That announcement was more importent than any of his previous ones, and as his warriors gathered in war kries and mounted the gigantic frost blue canines they grew up with, he knew that they where ready for war. His smile turned genuine at the Idea, with his people behind him and his massive use for Weistrana, he might actually be left alive long enough to be the first among champions. The Frostborn definitely needed another age where the goddess of permafrost ruled. The last ice age had been an era before, and the current golden age allowed the western kingdoms and eastern city states to prosper far more than they should.

He would even welcome an age of fire more than the spread of greed and lies that the golden lord thrived on.

No, the next age would be one of permafrost, and maybe he could gather some champions in his retinue, after all, the champion of fluff and the champion of war had always been close allies to the champion of Permafrost, though he was sure the primary focus would be to kill the gods of emotions. It was well known what dangers they presented once they grew to a certain power, the last age of love had forced the world population to its very limit and resulted in an immediate execution of that gods champion for the next three millenia.

As he and his warriors gathered their weapons, they began to head westward. Leaving northbridge almost undefended.