The Winter kingdom

Version 2.0

The White Walkers, their bodies, sinewy and gaunt, carry a grotesque visage, the taut pale skin stretched tightly across their bulky frames. Long, wispy white hair cascades around them like ethereal tendrils.

Moving with an uneasy grace, they emit an unnerving sound of the creaking of ice, each step resonating with the cold and ominous echoes of their presence. Their gait is both predatory and spectral as if they are gliding over frozen landscapes, leaving a chill in their wake.

As the pair begin to communicate, the sound of cracking of ice sounds out, sending shivers down everyone's spine. Their voices, if they can be called that, resonate as chilling fractures. The language they speak is a frigid, alien tongue, sending out icy vibrations that pierce the air.

As the White Walker weaves its way through the grove, a cascade of snow follows its every movement, swirling and dancing around its form like a waltz. In its blue frozen hand moves a weirwood branch, the essence of the ancient tree merging seamlessly with the creature's chilling touch. The snow, in a mesmerizing spectacle, follows suit, converging into a razor-edged spike that gleams with frost.

"Attack before it can finish!" Brandon's command pierces the frigid air. Charging forward, they meet the looming White Walker with weapons drawn.

However, the White Walker, swift and calculating, responds. Its weapon, still in the process of formation, becomes a secondary concern. The first unfortunate soul to reach the creature is met with a ruthless punch to the chest, sending them hurtling backward like a discarded puppet, the sounds of breaking chasing after him.

Undeterred, the group rallies, brandishing their weapons once more. The White Walkers, confront them in silence. The bronze blades clash against the creature's frosty exterior, each strike either sliding off or bouncing harmlessly away.

With an eerily precise reading of an impending strike, it manipulates its icy blade shattering the weapon of everyone around it. The clangourous sound of metal meeting ice reverberates through the grove, as the blades explode but it starts to gut and freeze every opponent it can reach.

The White Walker presses forward pushing the group back toward the village. It meets no resistance or challenge like a walk down an open street. The White Walker advances, its piercing blue eyes glow brighter and wilder as it mindlessly butchers and kills what is in its path.

In a swift and merciless motion, the White Walker lunges forward, its icy blade cleaving through the air. One of the villagers, not fast enough, is met with the chilling bite of the weapon. As the blade makes contact, the victim's entire form freezes instantly, encased in a solid block of ice. A brief moment to capture his frozen fear before he shatters and melts into the snow.

Amid the chaos, the one who had been punched earlier, now lying lifeless in the snow, transforms. The fallen man stirs, rising from the snowy ground with an unsettling movement before its eyes mirror the eerie blue glow of its master. The White Walkers, unaffected by the cries of anguish, continue their march.

The reanimated wight, devoid of its former humanity, joins the ranks of the White Walkers, marching alongside them with mechanical obedience.

"Interesting my White Walkers are they not." Aloe, riding atop his monstrous ice spider, emerging from the spectral wake of White Walkers.

"Why, Aloe? Why would you create something so monstrous?" Brandon asks.

"Because I wanted to, and I can do so," Aloe responds in monotone. "You have been useful for my observations, Brandon, so I will give you something to spark my interest. The Others are powerful beings; you will not win this war alone."

"The Others?" Jocelyn asks as she skilfully releases an arrow, lodging it into a Wight before it continues its relentless advance.

"Cynically beautiful beings, and the basis for these White Walkers. They truly are incredible," Aloe responds, as he shivers and smiles.

As the group is pushed into the village, people emerge from their homes, drawn to the sounds of battle. Some watch in awe, paralyzed by the surreal spectacle, while others rally to join the fight, armed with whatever makeshift weapons they can find.

Some villagers choose to abandon their homes, fleeing from the encroaching darkness, while others extend helping hands to those in need, aiding their neighbours in escaping the throes of the fighting. As the battle rages on, more villagers, drawn by a mix of curiosity and a desire to defend their homes, join the fray. The clash of weapons, cries of defiance, and the eerie silence of the White Walkers reverberate through the village.

However, the initial courage and determination of the newly joined fighters are met with a harsh reality. Despite their efforts, the relentless advance of the White Walkers and their Wights takes its toll. In the heat of the battle, some villagers fall, succumbing to the prowess of their adversaries.

A sudden sense of dread grips those still standing as fallen comrades, reanimate, and join the haunting procession. Panic sets into the living.

Amidst the chaos, desperate cries ring out, urging the remaining villagers to abandon the fight and retreat. The call to retreat echoes through the village, but with the numbers of the Wight-infested horde swelling, escape becomes an increasingly daunting challenge.

As the relentless march of the White Walkers and their ever-growing legion of Wights engulfs the village, the party finds themselves at the forefront of the encroaching horde.

Jocelyn, momentarily caught off guard, faces the cold intent of a White Walker's advance. Its ice-crafted weapon glints menacingly as it descends toward her. Just as the strike seems inevitable, Jon, yanks her back with a powerful pull, narrowly rescuing her.

Simultaneously, Brandon stands his ground against another White Walker, his bronze weapon clashing uselessly against the icy exterior of his adversary. Its chilling resonance of a weapon passing through the air sounds all around him. However, just as Brandon faces the brink of being overwhelmed, a sudden bellow disrupts the village.

"FOR HARLON" Hother shouts before he charges into the fray ploughing his way through the snow.

He momentarily scatters them as he hacks his way through the Wights sending body parts flying. Hother and Brandon fought side by side, their bronze weapons clashing against the icy onslaught. Hother wielded a massive two-handed bronze greatsword with both strength and precision, cleaving through the Wights with each powerful swing.

Amidst the chaos, the White Walker charged towards them. Hother unknowing of the strength of the White Walkers goes to strike them down, with ease it grabs his blade, easily snatching the massive greatsword from his grip. The White Walker, now with easy prey, prepared to strike at the formidable opponent who had dared to challenge its dominion.

Undeterred, Hother, rather than risking a confrontation, wisely chose to evade the imminent attack. He deftly dropped to the snow-covered ground, narrowly avoiding the razor-sharp edge of the White Walker as it arced through the air. The weapon thudded into the snow, the impact sending a spray of icy crystals in all directions.

Hother, unburdened by the massive weapon, agilely scrambled away from the immediate danger, leaving the White Walker.

"Got another weapon." Hother pants out.

"A dagger," Brandon offered, drawing forth the obsidian blade from his belt.

Hother's expression contorted in disdain. "Great, a fucking piss stick," he grumbled, the dagger looking comically small in his massive hands.

Undeterred, they pressed on together, their weapons dancing in harmony against the relentless onslaught of the White Walkers.

In the ensuing struggle, Hother with a half-hearted swipe nicks the white walker expecting nothing to happen like all the other times. The sound that followed shatters his through, as sharp, and crystalline shatter echoes through the battlefield like a rippling break of glass. The White Walker crumbled into a million glinting fragments, its once imposing figure reduced to nothingness.

The unexpected demise of the White Walker sent ripples through the ongoing skirmish, as some wight fall never to stand again, whilst others stumble like lost children. And on the front line stands Brandon and Hother as he gazes at the seemingly weak "piss stick".