The Frostbane Clan’s story begins in the cold, wind-swept peaks of the Decayed Mountains, a place where life was once hard but still possible. These mountains were the ancestral homeland of the Frostbane people, who were forged by the biting winds and chilling winters that others could not withstand. They thrived where others faltered, developing techniques to farm what little could grow and hunt the beasts that roamed the snowy heights.
In the days of their ancestors, the mountains had been inhospitable to strangers but home to the Frostbane. Their bodies, hardened by generations of surviving in the freezing air, were built for endurance. They knew how to conserve heat, construct strong shelters, and trap what game could be found. Their warriors were revered for their toughness and skill in battle, as harsh living conditions bred even harsher men.
The air grew colder. It wasn’t just winter any longer—it was something more insidious. The elders of the clan sensed it first: an unnatural cold, a darkness creeping down from the highest peaks. The animals started dying off, crops withered, and soon the Frostbane found themselves trapped in an ever-worsening cycle of hunger and fear. Their beloved mountains were becoming a frozen tomb.
Whispers spread through the clan, stories of an ancient, malevolent force awakening in the mountains. The shaman at the time, an old and wise man, consulted the spirits and returned with dire news: a dark spirit had settled in the heart of the mountains, poisoning the land, the air, and the creatures that lived there. They called it "The Wing of Winter," a shadow that brought eternal frost in its wake. The mountains would no longer be a haven but a place of death.
Faced with this terrible revelation, the clan was given a choice:
Leave their ancestral home and venture into unknown lands, or stay and be consumed by the freezing grip of the dark spirit. It was a painful decision. Many believed leaving the Decayed Mountains would mean abandoning their heritage. Others understood that survival mattered more than pride. The clan gathered under the leadership of their chieftain at the time, and with heavy hearts, they made their choice.
They left.
The Frostbane clan packed what little they could carry and journeyed down the mountain, abandoning the only home they had ever known. The trek was brutal; many died along the way, unable to withstand the cold that continued to follow them, like a reminder of what they had fled. But they kept moving, seeking a new land where they could rebuild their lives.
Their arrival at the Misty Plains was not the end of their trials but a new beginning. The plains were vast, dotted with hundreds of other clans, all fighting for survival, land, and resources. The Frostbane clan, weakened from their long journey, had to carve out a place among these warring tribes. Their skills honed in the mountains gave them a fearsome reputation, but survival in the Misty Plains would not come easily.
Over time, they built their new home. But the memory of the Decayed Mountains haunted them. The Frostbane knew they had fled a great evil, but the cost of survival weighed heavily on their hearts. Some still longed for the mountains, despite knowing they could never return.
The legacy of their mountainous origins still runs deep in the Frostbane clan. They are a people hardened by frost and forged by adversity, and though they no longer live among the peaks, they carry the cold of their homeland in their hearts.
Beowulf, the current chieftain, was a child when his people made that fateful journey from the Decayed Mountains. He had grown up hearing stories of the dark spirit and the cold that chased them from their home. The memory of that flight is part of why he now seeks a more stable way of life for his clan—a way to avoid the endless cycle of violence and survival that defines the Misty Plains.
Beowulf sat next to Thorwald, his heart heavy with the weight of the grief that enveloped the gathering. The aftermath of the raid hung like a thick fog over the clan, and the air was thick with unspoken sorrow. Thorwald’s eldest son, a promising warrior with a bright future ahead, had perished in the attack, and the pain etched on his face was a stark reminder of the cost of their way of life.
As Beowulf glanced at the grieving father, he felt a familiar ache in his chest. “How long is this senseless war going to happen?” he thought to himself more than to anyone else. “I have fought my entire life for meager provisions or to protect what we have built so far. Just like my father did before me and his father before him.” The cycle of violence felt relentless, a curse that haunted their clan for generations.
He pondered the legacy of his family, and the burden of leadership that awaited his son, Eadwulf. “What kind of future awaits him?” Beowulf feared for his son, whose martial skills were lacking compared to the warriors around him. Eadwulf was intelligent and sharp-minded, but in a world that revered strength, he felt like a fragile reed in a storm. How could he lead the Frostbane clan against their enemies if he could not stand shoulder to shoulder with the strongest warriors?
As he sat in silence, Thorwald’s voice broke through his reverie. “It should have been me,” the man lamented, tears brimming in his eyes. “I should have been the one to die in that raid, not my son. He had so much left to live for.” The raw grief in Thorwald’s voice echoed through the gathering, touching the hearts of those around him.
“You can’t blame yourself,” Beowulf said gently, placing a hand on Thorwald’s shoulder. “We all know the risks we take. This is the life we chose. But it should not be the end of our hope.”
Thorwald shook his head, unable to accept the comfort. “Hope? Hope does not bring back our dead. Hope does not mend broken families. This cycle of bloodshed— it will take our sons, our daughters, until we have nothing left to lose.”** His voice trembled with despair.
Beowulf’s heart ached for his friend. The pain of loss was a shared wound, a scar that ran deep in the hearts of the Frostbane clan. They were all warriors, accustomed to the harsh realities of their existence, yet each death weighed heavily, stacking upon the collective grief like stones in a sinking boat.
“I wish to see a day when our children don’t have to live this way,” Beowulf murmured, glancing at Eadwulf, who sat nearby, listening quietly to the elder men’s conversation. “I want them to know laughter instead of fear, to know love instead of loss.”
“And how do we do that?” Thorwald asked, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. “By laying down our swords? By turning our backs on our ancestors?”
Beowulf clenched his fists, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. “I don’t have the answers, but I cannot accept that this is the only way. There has to be another path, one that leads to a future worth fighting for—a future where our children can grow up without the specter of war looming over them.”
Thorwald’s gaze hardened, and he looked away, staring into the distance where the sun was beginning to set, casting long shadows over the camp. “And if that future requires us to be weak? If it means abandoning our clans?”
Beowulf knew the weight of his friend’s words. In their world, weakness was synonymous with death. But he believed that true strength lay in the ability to forge a different path, even if it meant standing against the traditions that had bound them for so long.
“We must change the narrative,” he said finally. “We can’t be prisoners of our history. If we continue this path of violence, we will only sow seeds of hatred that will sprout into more bloodshed. I want Eadwulf to inherit something more than a legacy of war. I want him to lead a people who are united, not divided by blood and grief.”
For a moment, silence enveloped them. Beowulf could see the turmoil swirling within Thorwald’s heart. The man’s pain was palpable, but beneath that pain lay a flicker of hope, a yearning for something better for his clan, too.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
“Perhaps you are right,” Thorwald conceded softly, his voice filled with uncertainty. “But how do we convince others to follow this path? They are all too set in their ways.”
“One step at a time,” Beowulf replied, determination growing within him. “We start by leading by example. If we can show them that unity brings strength, that peace is stronger than war, maybe—just maybe—we can change their hearts.”
Eadwulf, who had been silently listening to the exchange, felt a spark of inspiration ignite within him. The weight of his father’s words resonated deeply, awakening a desire to help forge a new path for the Frostbane clan—one that didn’t involve bloodshed and loss.
Beowulf had been restless ever since the raid. The images of the fallen haunted his dreams, and the weight of grief and despair settled heavily on his shoulders. The incessant cycle of violence left him feeling hollow, and he knew he needed guidance, something to lift the darkness that had begun to creep into his heart.
Determined to seek answers, he decided to visit the shaman who lived in a secluded hut near the Frostmore clan’s territory. This shaman was known for his wisdom and connection to the spiritual realm, often providing insight into the mysteries of life and the world beyond. Beowulf hoped that the shaman could help him find a way to end the senseless war that had plagued their clans for far too long.
The journey to the shaman's dwelling was fraught with tension, but as he traversed the familiar terrain of Misty Plains, Beowulf felt a flicker of hope igniting within him. When he arrived, he found the shaman sitting cross-legged outside his hut, surrounded by an array of herbs and stones. The man’s long, grey beard flowed like wisps of smoke, and his eyes held the depth of ages past.
“Beowulf, chief of the Frostbane clan,” the shaman greeted him with a knowing smile. “You seek answers. Speak your heart.”
Beowulf sat down on the ground before the shaman, the weight of his thoughts spilling forth. “The raid has left us broken, and I am haunted by the lives lost. How long must we endure this endless cycle of war? I want to protect my clan, but I fear for our future.”
The shaman nodded slowly, his gaze piercing through the veil of Beowulf’s despair. “To escape the senseless fighting, you must think beyond mere survival. You need to build a kingdom, a place where your people can thrive without fear of constant conflict.”
“A kingdom?” Beowulf echoed, surprised by the shaman’s response. “But where would we find such a place? All the land is claimed by the clans.”
The shaman gestured towards the east, his finger tracing an invisible line across the landscape. “Beyond the Snake River and west of the Cursed Forest lies a vast expanse of fertile land. It is said to be cursed, shunned by many. But it is also believed that the river goddess protects it, warding off evil spirits from the Cursed Forest.”
Beowulf listened intently, intrigued by the prospect of such a land. “If it is cursed, why would anyone want to settle there? We would be inviting disaster upon ourselves.”
“Fear often keeps people from their destinies,” the shaman replied, his voice calm and steady. “But those who dare to embrace the unknown may find the greatest rewards. The land you seek is rich and untamed, waiting for a brave leader to claim it. It may be the key to ending the cycle of bloodshed that has defined your existence.”
Beowulf felt a spark of hope ignite within him. “But how do I convince my clan to follow me into the unknown? They will not easily abandon the life they know, even for a chance at peace.”
The shaman smiled knowingly, his eyes twinkling with wisdom. “You must show them the vision of a new future. Gather your warriors, speak of the possibilities that lie ahead. It will take courage to face the unknown, but the promise of a new beginning can inspire even the most hardened hearts.”
Determined to act, Beowulf stood up, his resolve hardening. “I will do this. For my clan, for Eadwulf, and for the future I wish to build. If we are to change our fate, I must lead them toward the light.”
“Remember, Beowulf,” the shaman warned, his voice low and serious. “The path ahead will not be easy. There are forces that will seek to thwart your plans, and your resolve will be tested. But trust in yourself and your people. If your hearts are united, no curse can hold you back.”
With a newfound sense of purpose, Beowulf thanked the shaman and left his hut, the sun shining brightly overhead. He could already envision the possibilities of the land beyond the Snake River and the Cursed Forest—a kingdom that could rise from the ashes of their past, a sanctuary where they could flourish away from the constant threat of violence.
As he made his way back to the Frostbane clan, Beowulf felt a lightness in his heart for the first time in ages. He was ready to gather his people and share his vision, to inspire them to take a leap of faith into the unknown. The time had come to break free from the chains of their past and forge a new destiny together.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the Misty Plains, Beowulf’s mind buzzed with the shaman’s words. The prospect of building a kingdom was exhilarating, yet daunting. He knew that for the Frostbane clan to thrive, they would need the support of other clans. With the shaman’s warning echoing in his mind, he resolved to gather the chieftains of nearby clans to discuss the possibility of moving together from their violent past.
The next day, Beowulf set out to visit the clans that bordered their territory. He first rode to the Riverfall clan, known for their fierce warriors and excellent fishermen. Their chieftain, Alaric, was known for his wisdom and strength, and Beowulf hoped he would see the benefit of joining forces.
Upon arriving at Riverfall’s encampment, he was greeted with wary glances. Beowulf dismounted his horse, his presence commanding respect as he approached Alaric’s longhouse. He took a deep breath before entering, mentally preparing himself for what lay ahead.
Inside, Alaric sat among his advisors, their faces grave. Beowulf wasted no time in sharing his vision. “Alaric, I come to you with a proposition. The recent raid has shown us that our way of life is unsustainable. We must unite our clans to forge a new path away from this endless cycle of violence. Together, we can establish a kingdom beyond the Cursed Forest, a place where our people can thrive.”
Alaric listened intently, his brow furrowing. “You speak of a kingdom, but do you not fear the Cursed Forest? Many believe it is a dark place, cursed by the spirits of those who have died there. What makes you think we can build something enduring amidst such danger?”
Beowulf recalled the shaman’s warning. “The shaman has advised that we must never enter the Cursed Forest after dusk. As long as we respect the boundaries set by the spirits, we will be safe. We can cultivate the land to the east of the Snake River, where we can grow crops and raise livestock without the threat of constant warfare.”
Alaric exchanged glances with his advisors, their expressions thoughtful. “And what of the other clans? They will not easily abandon their homes. There will be resistance.”
Beowulf nodded, fully aware of the challenges that lay ahead. “That is why I propose we gather the chieftains of the surrounding clans. If we present a united front and emphasize the benefits of cooperation, we may sway them to our cause. It is time we set aside our differences for the greater good of our people.”
After a long pause, Alaric finally spoke. “Very well, Beowulf. I will support your call for a gathering of clans. But know this—there will be skeptics among us, and not all will be willing to listen to your vision. You must be prepared to face opposition.”
Encouraged by Alaric’s agreement, Beowulf spent the next several days traveling from clan to clan, sharing his vision and garnering support. He spoke with the Thunderclaw clan, led by the fiery chieftain Ragnor, who initially scoffed at the idea but ultimately saw the potential for a more prosperous future.
“You propose we leave everything behind?” Ragnor challenged, arms crossed defiantly. “Our hunting grounds, our homes?”
Beowulf stood firm, his determination unwavering. “If we continue down this path, we risk losing everything. But if we unite, we can create a new legacy for our clans—one built on cooperation rather than conflict.”
In the following days, Beowulf’s reputation as a leader grew, and slowly but surely, he gathered support. His final stop was the Ironfist clan, known for their formidable warriors and strategic minds. The chieftain, Hilda, was a woman of great strength and wisdom, and Beowulf respected her greatly.
“I’ve heard whispers of your plans, Beowulf,” Hilda stated, her voice steady. “What makes you think our clan would follow you?”
Beowulf met her gaze, his heart pounding in his chest. “Because I am not asking for blind loyalty. I am asking for collaboration. We can build a kingdom together, one that honors our ancestors and ensures our people’s survival.”
After much deliberation, Hilda finally nodded. “I will rally my clan to your cause. We will join you at the gathering.”
With the support of key chieftains secured, Beowulf called for a grand meeting in a central location on the Misty Plains, inviting representatives from every clan. He hoped that by uniting under one banner, they could forge a path toward a brighter future.
As the day of the gathering approached, anticipation buzzed through the air. Beowulf knew that this would be a pivotal moment, one that could alter the course of their history. Standing before a crowd of skeptical warriors and curious clan members, he prepared to deliver a speech that could determine the fate of their clans.
“Brothers and sisters of the clans,” he would say, his voice echoing across the plains. “Today, we stand at a crossroads. We can continue this cycle of violence, or we can choose to unite, to build a kingdom where our children can live without fear. The Cursed Forest may loom before us, but together, we can conquer our fears and create a legacy that will endure for generations.”
With the sun shining down upon him, Beowulf felt a sense of hope swelling within him. He was ready to fight for his vision—a kingdom where peace reigned, and his people could thrive, free from the shackles of war.