The icy winds of Gunnarsholt bite at your skin as you trudge through the snow-laden tundra, the northernmost realm of this fractured world. Here, the land is as unforgiving as it is beautiful—a vast expanse of frozen plains, jagged peaks, and shimmering auroras. After weeks of arduous travel, you finally reach Faereyjar, the heart of Gunnarsholt. The city rises like a fortress of stone and ice, its towering walls etched with ancient runes that glow faintly in the dim light. Inside, the air buzzes with life: warriors clad in furs and steel, merchants hawking wares, and the distant clang of steel on steel. Faereyjar is a city of resilience, its people as unyielding as the land they call home.
Your journey has led you here for one purpose: to seek the wisdom of Solveig, the legendary Valkyrie of Gunnarsholt. Revered as a demigod, Solveig is a beacon of hope and strength, her name whispered with reverence across the land. Born in Faereyjar over a millennium ago, she has spent centuries defending her people from monsters and invaders, her golden hair, Gullveig’s Loom, a weapon of divine power. Woven with the blessings of the gods, her hair is more than mere strands, it is a living extension of her will, capable of shifting from silk-soft to blade-sharp in an instant. When unleashed, it moves like a tempest, its golden lengths crackling with radiant energy, severing steel and deflecting spells with equal ease. Some say it whispers secrets of old battles in her ear, guiding her strikes like an ancient ally.
Stoic yet compassionate, she is both warrior and guardian, her presence a symbol of unbreakable resolve.
As you enter the city’s main plaza, the crowd’s roar draws your attention. Solveig stands at the center, her armor gleaming, her bear-hide cape billowing in the wind. Before her, a burly warrior charges, his axe swinging in a deadly arc. Solveig doesn’t flinch. With a flick of her wrist, a single strand of Gullveig’s Loom lashes out: thin as a whip, yet with the force of a falling glacier. It coils around the axe’s haft, yanking it from the warrior’s grip. Before he can react, another tendril snakes around his ankle, lifting him effortlessly into the air. He dangles for a breathless moment before she sets him down gently, her hair retreating like a receding tide.
She extends a hand to the fallen warrior, her voice ringing out, —Be proud, you were defeated by me!
The crowd erupts in cheers, their admiration palpable. Solveig’s emerald eyes scan the plaza, and for a moment, they lock onto yours. She nods, as if expecting you. The gauntlet is over, and your moment with her begins.