Chaunthra - The Frostmother

Chaunthra (pronounced: /ˈtʃɔːnθrə/ CHAWN-thruh) is the goddess of endurance, the last harvest, and the careful preservation of life in an unyielding world. Once a deity of abundance and growth, she now watches over hardened soil and withered fields, ensuring that what little remains is not wasted. The Frostmother is a somber figure, neither cruel nor merciful, but ever-present in the quiet rituals of farmers, hunters, and ration-masters who seek her blessing. Though the world has long forgotten the warmth of spring, Chaunthra remembers—and in the silence of the frozen fields, she grieves.

"The Frostmother does not promise abundance, nor does she shelter the weak. She teaches patience, demands resilience, and grants only what is needed. She is not cruel, nor is she kind—she simply is, as winter is."

— Creed of the Church of Chaunthra

Worshipers

Chaunthra is seen as the quiet guardian of survival, ensuring that even in the endless winter, the fields yield enough to sustain life. Farmers, hunters, and ration-keepers seek the wisdom of her clergy, not for abundance, but for guidance on preserving their stores and enduring the lean years. When blight strikes or harvests fail, prayers are offered not in expectation of salvation, but in hope that she will steady their hands and strengthen their resolve. Though her worship is widespread, she is most fervently revered by those who till the frozen soil, ration the stores, and ensure that no life is wasted. Her clergy are deeply embedded in rural communities, working alongside farmers to till the hardened earth, tend to struggling crops, and teach the careful stewardship of the land. They do not promise prosperity, but through their toil and teachings, they ensure that none go without.

Description

Chaunthra appears as a towering, awe-striking woman. Her pale, frost-grey skin is rough like cracked, frozen earth, and her long silver-white hair is braided and wound around her head like a crown, sparkling with frost. Her eyes, deep and sharp, gleam with the pale blue of frozen rivers, cold but filled with a terrible patience. Her body is lean and corded with muscle — the frame of one shaped by toil rather than wealth — and she carries herself with the slow inevitability of glaciers. Her voice is a low, resonant rumble, like the groaning of ice shifting over stone. To stand before her is to feel the weight of history, and to understand that survival is a sacred act.