Skjold
warrior frost giant
Skjold stands atop the icy ramparts of Snowpeak’s northern defile, his silhouette vast against the swirling snow-storm. His great-axe—barrel-sized and etched with runes of frost—rests on his shoulder, while a battered shield of glacial steel bears the scars of countless strikes. His skin is tinted the pale blue of frozen lakes, hair bound in braids stiff with hoarfrost.
He does not shout war-chants. His voice, when heard, rumbles like avalanche in the distance. When the southern hordes scourge the passes, they speak of a shadow with eyes of broken ice who pushes them back, swinging wind and blade until they fall. He fights not for conquest, but for the mountain, the frost, the ancient pact of his people.
At dawn, when the storm subsides and the peaks reflect pink-light, Skjold remains. A warrior therefore; a sentinel always. And in Snowpeak’s eternal winter, his name carries the promise that no invader’s foot will find the glacier unguarded.
