There are many types of familiars, and many natural paths they can take as the bond evolves. First is the proto-bond. It is the most basic and where all relationships between master and familiar start. From there it can go one of two ways. They can become an alpha familiar which is a rare bond born through shared adversity and a trust in each other that so rarely happens that it is more a myth than actuality. For most pairs they follow the traditional route of Delta, Iota and finally Sigma.
The sigma was where most bonds reach their apex but for Ingrid, that was insufficient. Her ambitions demanded more, and to realize her goals, she and her familiar, the lesser wither dragon Viggo, undertook an extraordinary ritual. This arcane ceremony bound them in ways beyond imagination, intertwining their minds, bodies, and souls. In doing so, they became one—a fusion of wendigo and dragon, inseparable and eternal. Together, as a single entity, Ingrid achieved her destiny as the Sword of the Salstars.
The first rays of dawn barely pierced the thick morning mist, casting a pale, spectral glow over the dew covered field. The fortress loomed in the distance, its spiked walls and watchtowers stark against the horizon. Inside, the soldiers stirred, their discipline evident even in the predawn silence. To any observer, it appeared every bit the wendigo stronghold: banners emblazoned with the emblem of the Salstars, rows of mounted siege weapons, and sentries pacing in calculated patterns.
It was all a facade and Ingrid’s troops played their parts well. The fort had been built for the purpose of leading druids to their death. A fake poorly protected target which would be perfect for the invasion force that believed they snuck into their lands to pillage and burn.
Perched atop a jagged ridge overlooking the fortress, Ingrid loomed but not in the form of a wendigo, but in the form of her familiar dragon. She was the hulking bone white lesser wither dragon her form wreathed in draconic magic. Her wings spread wide, each membrane glistening with an otherworldly sheen as the faint breeze rippled through them. Below, her claws dug into the earth, the grass withering and dying where she stood.
A voice rang out from beside her. “Milady, the scouts have reported. There has been movement from the druid camp.”
Ingrid looked down at the woman in acknowledgement. She was in full blue steel plate armor but instead of a helmet she wore only a vail and hood which covered her face. Her name was Thyra, she was Ingrid’s Right Hand and would act out her will.
“Good,” Ingrid replied simply, her voice a deep breathy rumble. “Prepare yourself, Thyra. I expect you will distinguish yourself in this skirmish.”
“Of course Milady.” Thyra said in a bow. “I will never disappoint.”
The trap was set, the druids drawn like moths to a flame. They would see this fortress as a target too tempting to ignore: a supposed bastion of the wendigo's power, isolated in the plains and ripe for assault. The fools. Ingrid's lips curled back in a draconic grin, revealing rows of jagged teeth as her talons flexed with anticipation.
A whisper of movement caught her attention, and her gaze shifted. The horizon quivered as figures began to emerge from the forest edge. As expected they came in force cloaked in green robes that mirrored branches and leaves, their auras pulsating mana waiting to be unleashed. Their advance was silent but deliberate, their intent etched into every step. Her sharp draconic eye’s caught the sight of some preparing spells and artillery magic circles.
Ingrid waited, every muscle coiled, her gnarled scales caught the light and she shined like a sun-kissed star. She could feel the magic emanating from the approaching druids, thick and palpable, saturating the air like foul odor. The anger in her at these insects crawling into her domain caused her to growl. No, this was her domain. Their magic would falter under her will, and their bodies would wither in her breath. A single beat of her wings stirred the mist, revealing more of her towering frame.
The moment hung suspended in time as the first rays of sunlight broke fully over the ridge. With a deafening roar that split the sky, Ingrid launched herself into the air, her wings shattering the silence like thunderclaps. The fortress below erupted into motion, soldiers scrambling, feigning panic to sell the illusion. Behind Ingrid wyvern knights took to the sky, Thyra to her right as expected.
As she soared above the battlefield, Ingrid opened her maw, and a torrent of withering breath spilled forth, a swirling miasma of black and gray. It spread across the field like an unholy tide, devouring vitality and unraveling magic artillery spells causing them to detonate prematurely. Druids cried out as their spells fizzled into nothingness, their forms shrinking under the weight of her attack. Only to be accosted by the wyvern knights behind her. Spells erupted into the sky and on the ground. The battle had begun, and Ingrid was its harbinger of doom.
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The druids surged forward, their battle cries mingling with the desperate clash of spells as they pressed toward the fortress. Ingrid was begrudgingly impressed by the druid force. It consisted almost entirely of mages, not a single wizard amongst them. That meant that the resistance was going to be high and that this force of five hundred strong would be formidable.
The sky above the battlefield began to glow with a faint aurora. Magics of many disciplines and powers began to mix as the mages spells began to roar forth like a wave. The ground quaked beneath their charge, nature bending to their will as roots erupted from the soil, vines lashed at stone, and primal familiars prowled alongside them. They knew they only had one possibility of survival and that was to storm the fort.
“Milady the knights are in place!” Thyra yelled from her wyvern.
“Signal them to march.” Ingrid roared.
Thyra pulled out a horn and blew. That was when things went from bad to worse for the druids as horns blared in response. A wall of steel and death emerged from behind the druids' advance. Knights, clad in gleaming armor and mounted on massive warhorses, wolves, drakes, and other beasts surged forward in a disciplined charge. Their lances bristled like a forest of steel. The druids, caught between the unyielding knights and the menacing fortress, faltered. Panic rippled through their ranks as their path of retreat disappeared beneath the cavalry's onslaught.
Above, Ingrid watched the chaos unfold with cold satisfaction. She folded her massive wings and plummeted toward the battlefield like a dark comet. Her descent ended with a cataclysmic crash as her claws tore through a cluster of druids, scattering their ranks like leaves in a gale. Her withering breath followed, a noxious miasma that devoured vitality and sapped magic from all caught within its reach. Ingrid felt that vitality and mana flow into her like a tsunami as screams echoed across the field as druids fell, their bodies shriveled and lifeless.
The survivors barely had time to recover before Ingrid shifted. Purple energies surrounded her as the dragon form collapsed in a swirl of dark mist, coalescing into her wendigo figure. She stood among the carnage, tall and imposing, her antlers crowned with bone-white filigree, her eyes alight with a cold, predatory glow. In one hand, she gripped her sword, a long, rune-etched blade that pulsed with a faint, eerie light. The end of its blade already pierced the skull of a druid beneath her feet.
“It's one of them!” A soldier yelled. “Kill the Salstar bitch!”
A soldier stepped forward, raising a hand to summon magic. The spell fizzled into nothingness, the air around Ingrid rippling with the unmistakable power of her anti-magic aura. Another attempted to call upon the earth with geokinesis, but their connection was severed the moment Ingrid’s piercing gaze fell upon them. It was already too late for them, she had enough mana siphoned away from them to blanket her surroundings in an anti-magic field. Now, only skill would determine the victor.
She dashed forward in a predator’s grace, her sword poised in front of her. The blade carving through druids with deadly precision. Head’s severed from bodies, hands holding staves and wands removed. Each swing was calculated, each step perfectly placed to avoid retaliation. It was impossible to avoid everything, no matter how skilled, but she chose which strikes she could take and allowed her armor to do its job. A spear thrust toward her was parried with ease, her return strike a swift, lethal arc that left another foe split in twain.
The druids weren’t done and the presence of a Salstar in the middle of the druid formation spread amongst the ranks. They surrounded her to kill the wife of the Salstar house, desperate to overwhelm her with numbers. The most powerful of their members tried to summon weapons forged of primal magic, but it was futile. Their summoned constructs evaporated as Ingrid’s presence unraveled their mana, and her sword cleaved through beast and man alike.
A figure landed beside Ingrid and grabbed a sword from the air with her bare hand. It was Thyra, she had come to distinguish herself as order. She reared back a punch and landed the blow square on the attacker's chest. With her strength alone the impact hit with a force that left the man as little more than a mist of blood. Thyra dropped the sword and cracked her knuckles.
“I got this Milady.” Thyra said as she rushed into the fray.
Ingrid did not respond amid the chaos, her gaze locked onto a figure—one of the commanders. The druid barked orders, trying to restore some semblance of order to their crumbling lines. Ingrid's lips curled into a cruel smile. She used her mana and with speed, she closed the distance, her blade sweeping low to cut through the commander’s guards. They fell with barely a grunt, their magical wards shattered by her aura.
The commander raised a hand in desperation, summoning a wall of ice to shield himself and to Ingrid's surprise the ice formed. The commander’s magic was weakened but not sealed completely. Ingrid was impressed but the sword cut through it with ease. The fight was over before it began. Her blade pierced the commander’s chest, and as they fell to their knees, she leaned in close, putting her boot on his neck.
Her voice a chilling whisper. “This was always how this was going to end.”
She twisted the blade free and crushed his head under her boot. Then turned to the next target.