Frode's Journal - Guild Wars 2 Wiki (GW2W) (2024)

Ragna teases me whenever we drink. "You do it so carefully, Wurmsbearer." She'd down a keg just to make a point, if she weren't carrying. A daughter, she thinks. Eir sent a number of herbal mixtures that aided her ahead of young Braham's birth, but Na misses ale.

Sejm and I are getting ready to travel far north to Saldistead once spring arrives; the storm is too brutal to cross now (and more importantly, I'd rather not encounter those beasts with cold feet). They've grown apart from us, our people. Knut is worried what they'll do in isolation.

For now, we fortify. Come winter, we'll have one more belly to keep full. A smaller one, but game is less bountiful on this side of the Shiverpeaks nonetheless. We all miss Hoelbrak.

On the third resting day of winter, our daughter has been born: Arina, Ragna immediately named her. Arina Copperwolf–just like her mother. I'd rather she listen to Wolf instead of Wurm, anyway. My teachings are harsher and angrier. I'd like to protect Arina from that, if I can.

Na is weak and likely bound to bed and blanket until she heals. The elders are watching her and Arina while we repair the outer walls of the settlement. Although winter is fresh, it knocks our door with a sturdy fist.

Knut writes with dire news of the north, and our latest arrivals only spell misery for what may be afoot at Saldistead. Fear lingers in their eyes, but none wish to speak of what's happened. They barely speak at all. Children without parents. Wolves scared and shaking. Ragna is too burdened with a great, unknowable sadness to rise and speak with them, and I fear that as a former priestess[sic] of Wolf she's the only one capable. For now, they linger at our fires and eat our food. Knut will send rations when he's able, but we're all uncomfortable. My wife is miserable.

Sejm tells me that Wurm calls us north; I have not heard this call. I haven't heard Wurm since the snow was deep enough to cover my boots. As soon as the refugees have settled, I expect we'll be traveling before spring after all. I fear what we may find.

Sejm and I left a week ago. The warmth of our homestead is starting to fade from memory. The landscape is cold and harsh. Howls from beasts I've never heard before echo through the trees. This is a very different winter.

We've stayed out of sight, following the path that the refugees took southward. Bodies line the road. Bloody remnants are just about everywhere—beast and norn alike. I don't know how many lost on their way, but that number is likely significant.

We've a few weeks until we arrive at Saldistead. One of the survivors said that someone must've stayed behind. We may be greeted by many or none, but this entire ordeal paints a very grim image. I worry that we're too late. I worry that I may never see Arina or Na again.

I got one final look at them before leaving. Na tucked under a pile of blankets and fur: a queen hidden beneath a pile of snow. Arina was propped up on top, playing with a handwoven doll from Gaerta Whitebear. Both of them lit only by the fire of our stove. I wish I could paint them like that.

Half of the page is stained with blood, but you parse what you can of it.

I haven't spoken a word out of loud in fifteen days. The warmth of our heart is a week out of reach, if that. Home … soon.

Sejm. My Friend.

When we arrived at Saldistead, no one was left. No one was there at all. Empty … nothingness. Echoes and dust. We'd traveled weeks at that point with no signs of life. Our own rations dwindling. Sejm suggested we hunt, so we traveled eastward to the lake in search of anything.

Miasma clung to the … too thick to breathe. No sign of life. Nothing to eat. Before we turned back, Sejm heard something. He said it was Wurm, calling us toward the … Sejm ran faster than … I tried to follow.

Frozen in place … He started to transform. Shredded, blood … The screaming … He begged Wurm, but I dont think that was … The transformation paused, leaving him half … limbs, breaking off. Not from the cold. I stumbled toward the shore when the ice … It cracked wide open. Maybe he was spared by the frozen waters … The bubbles stopped.

I'm most of the way home now. I don't know how to feel. I feel everything, but I wish to feel none of it.

It's been five years, and the icy sting of that lake never left my cheeks. I haven't written. I've barely spoken.

Arina is training with the elders. I avoid her otherwise; she reminds me of Ragna, and I don't want her to think her father as a hollow replacement. She's young; she'll find others to look to. Others with stronger minds.

I think I may leave this place. I think they'd understand, if they knew. I just hope Arina's young enough to forget. And it turns my gut to twisting knots and bile that I can't be the father she needs, but... All I see—whether my eyes are open or not—is his face. Sejm. My friend. His blood rolling across the ice.

Wurm abandoned us. I don't know if I belong here anymore.