With the coming of the cold they swept down from the north.
Warriors, invaders, clad in fur and steel and frost. Through the mountains, they came, a roaring, grinding tide, advancing ever south, conquering as they went. None could stand against them for long, for they were no mere army. Led by a beautiful woman with hair of silvery gold, eyes of blue fire, and a blade of hoarfrost they rode, as Veele and Sirene surged through the air above, their beauty seizing the eyes of their opposers even as their flames and magick burnt them to dust.
Sorcery was merely another aspect of their assault, great spells rending the air, shattering the earth, staggering the men, breaking the line before even the first of their troops came into the blade's reach of the enemy.
And she led the line, every time. Known merely as The Warlady, her name became a portent of doom in the places down south, even as fools scoffed at her ability as a lady.
Yet all who had fought them knew of the terror she wrought, young though she may be, the swathes her great hoarfrost blade cut in the defenders ranks as she led her conquerors to ever increasing victory.
Yet, even she met her match. It was not at the hands of some glorious general, or some renowned warrior.
No, it was met in the form of a young man, a man with eyes of emerald fire and hair as black as a raven’s down, in the fields before a tiny town.
He stood before her, before her armies, fearless and unconcerned. His eyes sparked with conviction, and his grin spoke of madness, yet oozed determination.
This charismatic young man, backed by all who would lay their lot with him, faced the Warlady.
She advanced, frozen blade ready, wings bursting from her back as her silvery gold hair flowed like liquid metal to meet his gleaming blade as they clashed beneath the moon.
The unstoppable cold met the raging wyldfyre.
And the world was never the same.