Zsiera
The White, The Desolate, The devourer, Frost Heart
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Deep within the frozen wastes of Jormunger, an aching hunger cries out to be sated. She is The Devourer, and The Desolate. Mortals know her as the Firstborn Zsiera, and the North is hers to consume.
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Everything that is known about the Firstborn Zsiera has come from the accounts of those rare few who have witnessed her power and survived to tell the tale. She does not speak or share wisdom with the mortals who pledge themselves to her, nor does she seek to have temples raised in her glory or bards singing of her exploits. Instead, what she desires is an ample supply of food, an isolated
place to rest, and for mortals to understand that they are allowed to exist near her solely in case she starts to feel peckish later.
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The White has not always lived this way, however. While the ageless and immortal experience emotion in ways that mere mortals can never even begin to understand, grief can warp even the strongest of wills. Where once Zsiera roamed her territory, delighting in the company of her neighbouring Firstborn and accepting the reverence of the lucky few mortals who witnessed her might, all that changed when Daedalon, The Silver, was slain by Pandora. The death of the Firstborn she loved has eaten at her like a ceaseless ache for centuries, driving her into fits of rage that devastate the area around her and leave trails of corpses in her wake.
Tales Told by the Campfire
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The Widow's Wail
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Before she spoke, you could hear cheers and laughter from far and near. Dwarves of Humblebrag brought drink a plenty and wares to trade and stories to share. Coin was traded as locals bet and bought. Duels were set up for all to see fighter after fighter fought. And some cheered as they filled their coin pouch from the winnings they got.
Within the trove the scaled members gathered, settling in for a side of steak and rest from the festivity when they witnessed an eerie sight. The forest had fallen still, and the sky did glow orange.
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Without warning, the wind picked up and began to howl. Cracking, creaking, and crashing could be heard as the forest around them whipped back and forth. Trees the size of a dragon's leg exploded from twisting and turning. Dirt flew. Wind billowed. Trees fell. And the towns folk ran. Seeking safety from the storm, they ran to a clearing only to see lightning hit the ground and fires ablaze.
It had passed just as quickly as it had come, and silence fell across the land once again.
The little town, now covered in rubble, took stock of all this trouble. Time seemed to have slowed when she let out her wail. Devastation miles around could be found. The ice elves of the lands, beaten back, seem to have had some cover from this attack. Their forts and towns now encased in ice. Seems the mistress of pain wouldn't let them suffer this night.
Within the scaled trove not a single tree had been touched. The Widow's Wail had ripped through. But there, among the trees, stood her effigy radiating with a chill as if protecting those who would follow the firstborn.
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