A trail of blood and broken snow leads to a diminished king. His crown- tarnised, robes - torn, sword - dull, eyes - clouded, and his spirit - broken. He crawls through the ice and snow of Hoarfrost, searching for something to hold on, something to feel warmth from, something to build on to. Long was the day where man first settled in the valley. There, kingdoms would war tooth and nail for glory, honor, and bounty. This was the era of this kinds glory. Then these settlers discovered highland, above the valley. There they discoved creatures of mythical proportions. Though these best brought little resistance they granted unimaginable gold. The greatest of plunder was discovered when rifts opened to the netherworld. Kingdoms practically mined the land of the dead. All the while the age of the warrior began to fade. Those who were ledgons fell as the old ways were not working anymore. Then the discovery of Hoatfrost began new colonizations with unimaginable potential. This new land crippled the warriors of old. They simply could not keep in touch. Slowly the kingdoms crumbled and the once mighty clans of old toppled. Truth is said of this warrior. Blinded by anger, blood, harsh winter wind, and snow. This diminished king hands found somthing of warmth to grab. He rose to his feet using the object as support. Wiping the blood and rust from his eyes he look up to see this discovery. A tall tree. He steps back and takes notice of a set of eyes, a snow elf. Bow drawn back, the king in it's sights. A smerk makes it's way across the kings face for at least one last time he would enjoy the thrill of war.... ... .. . In a forgotten patch of Hoarfrost stands a single tree. As one wonders close, blood paints the snow as bodies litter the branches and gound in and around the tree. Leaning next to the tree sits a man. His body full of arrows, his robes drenched in frozen blood, his crown broken. The diminished king holds his sword as close and as tightly as if it was his lover. A smerk paints across his face as he takes his last breath of air. To Valhalla his soul shall roam.