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The Cursed Blue Rose
The frostkin stand a head and shoulders above any man, and are built to a width that makes the comparison seem beside the point. Shaggy white fur covers them. Their faces are fanged and worn in braids, and across both fur and skin run war-markings in a glowing blue that is not paint and does not wash off.
What they wear is rugged and made to last — dark leather and bone, set with plates of runed ice. What they carry is cut from ice-crystal and swung with both hands: hammers, axes and maces, weapons that would be siege equipment in anyone else's grip.
They are easy to mistake for beasts at a distance and by travellers who have not looked closely. This is a mistake with consequences. The markings are a language, the braiding is a record, and the weapons are made rather than found.
What organises frostkin life is not a king or a city but an attendance. They serve the Great Spirit of Ice, the elemental power of the frozen world, and they keep her Everfrost Sanctum — a sacred hall of ice deep in the northern country, which is a shrine and not a tomb, a distinction the frostkin will correct you on.
They bow to her. They kneel. They tend the Sanctum and they lay offerings before her, and among the offerings are weapons — which for a people who make their own arms by hand is not a small gift but the largest one available.
They share the north with the Glacial Dominion, the Polar Dwarves and the Frostforged Valkyries, and all four are ranged in the end against the same thing: what comes out of Azcaloth, and the fire that drives it. The frostkin do not send envoys and do not sit in anyone's council.
What they do is hold ground, and they are very good at it.