Aljeir: AL-'YEE-IR
Amir: A-MEER
Blütgon: BLOOT-GON
Brangsloþ: BRANG-SLOTH
Emalla: EHM-'AWLLAW
Fârgir: FAWR-'GEER
Felðnar: FELTH-,NAR
fûrið: FOOR-EETH
Güldmir: GOOLD-MEER
Gülni: GOOLNIH
Hûmikuld: HYOOM-'IHKULT
Hjadisvin: HYAHT-ISS-'VEEN
Ilga: EELGAH
Illa: EELLAW
Jurlkir: YOORL-KEER
Kalmyna: KAL-'MEENA
Kjolþa: KYOL-'THA
Kläskir: KLAY-SKEER
Krïsmeð: KRAISS-MEHTH
Larsrün: LAHRSS-ROON
Longgribor: LONG-'GREE-BOAR
Mansir: MAN-SEER
Mjom: MYOM
Moldoþ: MOL-'DOTH
Mrarsvi: MRAWR-SVIH
Myar: MEE-'ARE
Nglárm: ING-'GLARM
Nrimvæ: NRIM-'VEA
Ongjallir: ON-'GYALLEER
Ordi: OR-DIH
Rânsvin: RAWN-'SVEEN
Sdrídüri: S-DRIHT-'OORIH
Skuldìrmin: SKULL-,DER-'MEEN
Snáv: SNAWV
Tlangrimi: TLAHN-'GREEMIH
tungri: TUN-'GRIH
Unglasoð: UN-'GLASS-AWTH
Vangræ: VAN-'GREE
Ysgall: EESS-'GAHLL
Yvásmitr: EEVAWSS-'MEETER

First Blood

The skies over Hûmikuld overlapped the barren lands below with deep maroon and black clouds. The maroon seamed to grow more intense towards the stronghold of Moldoþ, the home of the bloodthirsty tyrant, Nglárm. The land around them was stomped flat by fell hoards of ogres and trolls. The land was stripped bare of its greenery, leaving only the bones of those of countless bodies of all species and classes. A few tree stumps remained, but they had been hacked by goblins and the likes. The great country of Hûmikuld was once said to be a great forest of firs and flowers, containing fertile land for the growth of its trees. But no more. Now, it was a bloody war zone.

The army of King Aljeir marched across the foreboding plains that only vultures dared fly over. Nglárm had caused Aljeir, his village, and many more, much sorrow and loss. A vampire, he was, with the psychotic notion of world domination. No less was expected of his kind, who wanted absolute power. It was clear that the enraged monster did not stop at bargaining. It made King Aljeir, and many more monarchies ashamed and humiliated that they had bartered their best in trade with him, and were given nothing but more battles and bloodshed. Now, they would take the battle to him.

An moderate army marched across the barrens of Hûmikald. The front lines consisted mainly of a handful of brave, hardy gnomes, lead by their generals, Gülni, and Fârgir. A score of foot soldiers marched not so far behind, they consisted of both forest elves and humans. They had among them many weapons made by the greatest, and least, of smiths, all blessed by priests, and empowered by wizards and white witches. Several priests were at hand for any devilry that the armies of Nglárm could throw at them. All fighters wore white and gold mail, studded with precious stones that ensured the Jurlkir (YOORL-KEER) would protect them. The priests wore white and black robes, each one held the charm of Crêd and another chosen Jurlkir. As for the mages, they wore white and blue, each one held a staff, or wore a medallion.

A flag was standing, bearing the insignia of the Rânsvin. Blue, with a golden sun, covered by a white gryffon. They also amassed huge catapults, and battering rams to aid them, as well as a few surprises for the enemy.

In front of the blackened gates of Moldoþ, Nglárm's own army waited, while he sat on his throne of bone and jewels. The vampire was no fool. All the time he had been double crossing other countries, and spreading pestilence, he had been expanding his own army, knowing well that he would have to challange at least one of the other 'clean' kingdoms on his own domain. What nuisance they all were, if only they would surrender, then he wouldn't have to deal with their whining, just get the power. At least, he would have fun trying. His Five Captains would finish the job for him.

Down below, set up at the first line, was his first Captain, Longgribor the Short. The stumpy ogre was just over six feet, which was small for his kind. A horrible mutation of an ogre, he was as well. Green and slimy like a salt worm, and scaly like one, too. His ears were long, like a hare's, but were chewed, and the right ear was pierced with five gold earrings, one for each king he had killed. The ogre wore a filthy brown leather poncho over a wolf skin tunic, which was covered with black mail and held together with a snake skin belt. Upon his head, he wore a blackened and polished helmet. Small, silver spikes protruded from the top of its crown, and the visor around his face was none other then the old skull of a wyvern. In his hands, he held a mighty black mace. Worn and rusted, it had seen more battles then Longgribor himself.

His men were mainly made up of trolls, ogres, and hardy goblins, all clad in the same black mail. All of them, having a mace, an axe, a flail, and some even had hammers. They numbered only a handful.

The second Captain, Felðnar the Sadist, headed the cavalry that stood nearest to the main gate. Many didn't know it, but Felðnar was human, although, a twisted one. He wore a fierce suite of red mail and black leather, and was mounted upon a tungri, its slender horns painted red, reaching up to the face of its rider. The helmet of Felðnar was decked with the red horns of serpents and gargoyles, with a trail of violet pook hair based at the top of the crown. His black visor hid his face. Only his eyes of sea green could be seen. The cape he wore about his shoulders was maroon, and worn at the edges, but still bore the symbol of Nglárm: a black, bat-winged snake with four tongues, each one representing the four heads of Glarm. His weapon was a huge, two bladed battle-axe. With the aid of worm poison that flowed in his veins, he could wield the fierce weapon with only one of his hands.

The cavalry consisted of a coulple of goblins, and even some humans, on the backs of tungris, with all the horns painted red. All the ranks in the cavalry wore either red mail, or black leather. They weilded swords, axes, spears, and daggers for real close combat. The sheilds they all held were flat, black, and round, with silver studs around the edges. They numbered a bit over a dozen.

Third of the Captains that were stationed by the front gate was Mansir. He held the archers, slingers, long-range spearmen, and mages in his ranks. Although, they were not positioned in front of the gate, but more accurately, atop. Many of his ranks were ice elves, magic wielding humans and vampires, several rogues of various species, and the black goblins of the east, who specialized in long range combat. The speciality of these goblins was, of coarse, the throwing spears and barbed arrows.

Mansir himself, was an ice elf. His white hair was held back in a careless ponytail, tied together with the leather hyde of a snake. He did not wear any fancy armour, but a simple brown tunic, as was what most of his men wore. It had been decided that the whole rank should look alike, as it would be the least likely to single out the leader in combat. They were also guarding the rest of the stronghold walls. As a result, Mansir's full strength was stretched thinly. Not only were they commanded to back up the ogre infantry and the cavalry, but also, they had to get all four sides of the building. Fortunatly, it was a tactic that Mansir had dealt with before, and was of no more concern. Most of the archers and mages were positioned towards the advancing army, and the front gate. The next bunch was positioned on the sides to the right and left. The least numbered bunch was positioned at the back. It wasn't a problem that the archers weren't guarding the back so heavily. The last two Captains were guarding the back.

Fourth among the five, was Unglasoð the Deathless. A skeleton, it was, given re-animation by Nglárm himself. The garments of such a creature were old, tattered, and moldy. The sword it used was rusted and scratched. But, where the weapons of its army faltered, they made up for in great numbers.

Unglasoð's troops were of the undead. All of which, were granted re-animation, but were brainless to say the least. Only Unglasoð had any kind of intelligence. Nglárm had made sure it wasn't smarter then himself. All in all, the troops of the undead were his most loyal line of defence. Never asked questions, never disobayed, and there was no reason they should, none of them had the brains to do so.

The huge numbers of skeletons and zombies stationed themselves in the dank reek by the dried up creek that ran by, the only other entrance to the fortress, unless the walls were scaled.

Fifth of the line, also being Nglárm's most prized Captain, was a dark angel, a succubus to be exact. Like the rest of her Yndrasvin ilk, she had the body of a woman, slender and slight, but any human simularities ended there. Covering her body was a thick coat of black fur. So dark, was it, that light did not penetrate its surface. The only place where the fur dared change colour was on her sinuous, irredecent, dragon wings, that changed colour from maroon in the sun, to purple in the moonlight, back to black in total darkness. Her hands only had three fingers on them, each, but they all held golden claws that looked like combat stakes, sharp and sturdy. Three tails, she had, long and thin, each with a spaded end, sharpened to a deadly point that could pierce any form of leather armour. Her head was that of a wildcat, equipped with dagger long fangs that jutted down past her lower lip. On her forehead was a mark. A mark of a fluorescent violet triangle that pointed downward. In the middle of this mark, was a third eye. When open, it allowed the succubus to see everything that was hidden from her. Any thoughts, objects, or feeling, were made known.

She wore no clothes, except for a pair of orange bangles, as well as a pair of matching anklets. She was known by many names, she knew herself as Kjolþa, history would call her Kjolþa the Sea Storm, the Triplets would come to call her Lady Kjolþa.

Nglárm had bargained much to get her services. He had prayed to every Hãrocald he co-sided with to get any Yndrasvin to his aid. Ongjallir, Goddess of the Wild Storm, finally answered his dark prayers. As a result, her angel was not detered in flight unless she allowed herself to be. No gust, no matter how strong, or cold of rain, snow, or night, not even the slinging arrows and rocks of a foe could rock her flight path.

As the sky was her domain, the army under her command took to the skies as well. The ranks were made up of wild gargoyles, dragons, wyverns, their riders, fûrið, and imps. She had tamed them and taught them all, but her favorite was always the imps.

Small, as they were, the imps made up for their lack of size with their abnormal intelligence, and their faerie wisdom. Elusive and illusive, they all shared a humour that Kjolþa found quite entertaining. Once, there was a time when that humour was offensive, but, over time, she began to understand it, and play along with their little pranks. In a way, the imps became as an antidpresant drug, the one thing that would calm her raging soul.

Roosting on the top of the vampire's hall, Kjolþa sat. A wave of dark-skinned gargoyles sat as turrets on the corners of the stronghold. Each one made sure to keep theirs eyes alert, guarding each corner of the stronghold. The third eye of the succubus opened, scanning the present around her.

With nothing to their backs, Kjolþa turned her eye towards the army of king Aljeir. Their secrets became exposed. She could see catapults that would render the front lines helpless, the battering rams that were carried in the back that could take, at least, one good hit at the stone wall for each one, and there were over five of them. Most of the priests carried purifying scrolls that would do away with many of their vampire soldiers, and all of them had artifacts to protect them from black magic. Their enemy had indeed come armed to the teeth.

But there was something in the back, something that Kjolþa knew she could see, but couldn't. She used her primer eyes, but their vision was also being clouded.

Had Nglárm overestimated his chances for the last time? The king had obviously read the vampire with the ease of an old bard. The strategic position of Nglárm's army was the same as it had always been. What Kjolþa was asking herself was: is it too late to change the setup?

Stepping off her perch, and through a small hold in the ceiling, the dark angel sauntered into the rafters of the hall. Inside on the wooden beams, was a plague of imps. Most of them were talking quietly in groups while others were sleeping. A couple fluttered from one rafter to another.

Kjolþa hissed sternly. The imps all stopped what they were doing, scrambled about only for a second before they all roosted neatly on the rafters, standing up straight with their wings folded behind them like the good little faeries they were 'supposed' to be.

Like their brownie cousins, imps were small creatures. Only reaching a hieght average of two feet. They had pointed ears and long, thin tails just like a brownie, but unlike the brownies, imp men, or blitzers, grew a pair of horns, and both genders had wings from birth, and their eyes were black and beady.

"I need someone to deliver a message." Kjolþa began, looking among the imp line with a stern gaze. "Any volunteers?"

A few seconds of hesitant coughs and mumbles echoed from the tiny faeries, until they shoved someone from the back, out front.

The reluctant imp stumbled from being pushed, nearly falling off the wooden beam, but grabbed hold of the rafter his Captain was perched on. It was a middle-aged blitzer, a mountian blighter, to be more specific. Pale in colour: both body, hair, and wings. With a solid stripe of brown running from under the base of his hair, to the tip of his tail, with thinner, radiating stripes at his sides.

The imp looked up at Kjolþa, giving her a weak smile. She repaid that smile with a victicious smirk that said, "yes you are, and there's no way your getting out of it." Kjolþa knew this imp. His name was Ordi, and, sadly, was always the one to be forced into volenteering.

She picked the imp up with both hands, holding the creature face-to-face. Whispering in his bat-like ear all that she had seen, and planned, Kjolþa let Ordi go, telling him to take the message to Longgribor and Felðnar.

Ordi took off from the roof, flying through the open door, and towards the army awaiting at the gate.

He flew in close to the human, Felðnar. Hovering just behind him.

Felðnar turned his head as he heard the flapping leather of the imp's wings. He looked up to see the scrawny, striped creature, its huge, beady eyes pressing down on him. He hated those little creatures. So carefree and mischievous they were, he wondered how Kjolþa got along with them.

"What is it?!" He growled at the faerie.

"Word from Kjolþa." Ordi squeeked. With that, the imp began to tell Felðnar what the dark angel told him.

"She also says that you should change positions." Ordi finished.

"I have complete faith in Nglárm." Replied Felðnar. The human also had complete faith in Kjolþa, but who was he going to trust? The hand that fed him? Or the hand that could rip through a dragon in three seconds flat?

Felðnar continued, not looking directly at Ordi. "Besides, his tactics have never failed us."

Ordi, who also knew of Nglárm's repetitive nature, started to protest. "But that's the problem. He..."

Before the imp could finish, Felðnar batted him with his axe.

Well, you could have just said 'go'! Ordi thought with a pane of spite.

Flying off towards the front of the army, Ordi came to Longgribor. The ogre took notice, but instantly began to flail his heavy mace at the fluttering imp. Ordi tried to get a word in, but Longgribor, as the rock head he was, kept waving his mace at him. Giving up, the imp flew off, but not before he dive-bombed the ogre right in the back of his head, did he leave.

Over the enclosed plane, he flew, back up to the hall where his superior resided. Kjolþa, still roosted on the rafters, her clawed hands digging into the wood. Like on all imps faces, the look of his emotions was straightforward: there was no success.

"What happened over there?" She asked anyway when the imp came to a landing in front of her, roosting on the wood.

"It didn't take." Sighed Ordi. "Felðnar wouldn't listen to reason, and Longgribor...what can I say? When does an ogre really listen to an imp?"

"After all I've done for them," Kjolþa began in a murmur, but filed into a yell, "they don't even talk to my imps!"

A young woman, or flanker, named Illa spoke from a near rafter. "It's a crying shame. I know."

"If only there was some way..."

"Uh, Lady Kjolþa," started a middle aged flanker, "it's too late for that."

Flying up to the sky, the angel saw that it was indeed too late to do anything else. Their army had clashed with the enemy's, and the skirmish was now breaking out.

From his point, Mansir had his ranks fire upon the enemy, but true to what had been discovered, only the arrows got through. No magic projectiles, nor the icy magic on the tips of the arrows entered past the barrier of magic that had been set up. The priests cheered as they saw how their spell worked. Being as smart as he was, Mansir ordered a halt on any and all magical attacks, and ordered his mages to support the front lines.

It was a good thing he gave the order, for the front lines did receive a good deal of punishment. Half the lines had been taken down on the first blow. The gnome group had seeped in, and were making a rather hard target for the cavalry.

One such fighter of Aljeir, with mail of iron, and a horse of the fairest white, emerged from the ranks, held between a couple of wizards and white witches. It was obvious that this fighter was a forest elf. Making his way past bodies, mainly composed of goblins, ogres, and trolls. The elf raised his gleaming sword as the slimy form of Longgribor approached him, the wyvern skull looking at the elf menicingly.

The horse neighed and reared as the foul smelling beast came forward. quickly subduing his stead, the elf gained control and swung his first blow.

Longgribor blocked the blow with his mace, nimbly thrusting the sword hilt aside. With lightning reflexes, the ogre, too, sent a crushing blow to the horse's shoulder. The hit flew true, breaking the horse's bone, and its fighting spirit. The elf was thrown from his seat, onto the dusty ground of Hûmikuld. The elf narrowly escaped another death dealing blow by rolling out of the mace's fast-paced path. Longgribor snarled in annoyance when the elf got up. The grimy teal eyes of the ogre looked into the sparkling blues of the Éuwild.

As the group of white witches and wizards broke. The two began a melée. With the elf wavering his blue stone sword, Longgribor fought back, not with just his mace, but his claws and horns. Without a shield for adequate protection, the ogre had to resort to using his mace for much of the combat.

Whilst the two fought, the catapults continued their shower of rocks, magically steered towards set targets: the foot soldiers. As the elf hero continued to duel with his enemy, one of the rocks flew a coarse towards Longgribor, breaking his back, and, ultimately, killing the ogre. And so, the Five Captains were reduced to four.

Those left of Nglárm's infantry who saw the slaughter ran, leaving the cavalry to take on the offensive.

Now the battering rams came.

Kjolþa, exasperated, turned away from the carnage, flying off towards the mountains.

"Where are you going?" One of the imps asked, flying after her.

"To put a stop to this nonsense." Kjolþa flatly remarked, not turning around. "Are you coming with me?"

All the imps whooped and cheered, flying off after their Captain.

Down below, the battering rams began their onslaught, Anyone who was stupid enough to stand against them were instantly crushed by the charging blow the rams presented. Felðnar ordered his remaining men to retreat, but gnomes and fighters had blocked their way.

The people fought bravely on both sides, and the army of Aljeir had counted their chances as good, until a thunderous roar came from behind Moldoþ. All the fighting stopped for a second.

From the silhouette of the hill fort, and mountains beyond flew the dreaded figure of Kjolþa, fallowed by a wave of wyverns, dragons, fûrið, gargoyles, and imps.

The army of Aljeir stood in terror before Kjolþa's recruits as the men and beasts of Nglárm let out an uproarious cheer. The numbers of Nglárm's had just grossly outnumbered them.

Kjolþa wasted no time in initiating her plan, The dragons, she sent after the rams. They went down instantly in a barrage of crushing tails, claws, and roaring flames.

Since many of witches were casting a petrifying spell on the vampires, the dark angel had the riderless fûrið take them out. The furry vulture-cats swooped down upon the number of clergy, their vibrant colours blinding the sensitive eyes of their enemies. With no wasted actions, the fûrið spat out current after current of lightning, frying every opponent they so much as looked at.

Being not as powerful, but much faster then the dragons, the wyverns took after the wizards. Their riders held their bows and spears up, skewering the weak bodied mages before they had a chance to cast their magic against them.

Some of the archers had managed to ground some of the gargoyles, But, it was unfortunate for them that gargoyles were as at home on the ground, as they were in the air. Since the blow to Aljeir's magic force had been near completely diminished, their barrier to the dark magic had been severely weakened. Now, Mansir's mages were able to take direct assaults to the enemy.

The imps, with their tiny and agile bodies, took to the fighting ranks af Aljeir's men. Like acid, they ripped through the magical armours of the fighters, flaying them to pieces.

Despite their comeback, Kjolþa was still worried. Her third eye was still clouded, so she had reason to suspect a surprise from the enemy.

And there was. For just as Aljeir's army saw that they were losing, a shout came over the crowd of men and elves, and overhead, came a wave of seven gryffons.

Responding to their attack, the fûrið were the first to strike. But the gryffons proved too powerful for them. Reacting to a hyde that protected them from lighting, the smaller fûrið were no match for them. The wyverns and flying gargoyles took after them, and, with the help of the archers, were able to take down three, but it was not enough.

Now, Kjolþa knew she had to intervene. Calling her imps to her, she ordered them to attack the gryffons. The plan worked, and the gryffons, nor their riders, could fend off the tiny imps. The small faeries executed their plan by tearing off the wings of the larger animals, grounding many in the process. Now that they couldn't fly, they were sitting targets for the wyverns and dragons.

Then, at the corner of her eye, Kjolþa saw something. A lone wizard, holding a shining bronze sceptre with a blue gem for its headpeice. As she flew closer, her third eye began to twitch uncontrollably.

That sceptre must be blocking my sight. She thought.

With an animal cry so hoarse, and so high, she charged at the wizard. Seeing the succubus coming at him, the wizard incited an incantation to ground her. But, she did not allow herself to be grounded, so the succubus kept on coming. The wizard screamed horribly as Kjolþa zoomed closer. The silence came only seconds later, when the dark angel tore off his head. The sceptre now, lay stretched over the ground, no longer being grasped by a firm hand. Before someone else could take the magical stick, Kjolþa swooped down and grabbed it. Upon her knee, she broke the bronze sceptre in two, tossing the halves aside.

That was too easy.

Her third eye, no longer blinded, could see what else the army of Aljeir had waiting. As the war continued to wage, Kjolþa continued to hover in the air, her black wings batted at the stale air of Hûmikuld as she gathered up a cyclone of wild winds to aid her own.

As true to what she could sense, a wave of sprites came to the aid of their allies. But, unknown to them, their cover was blown, and so were they. As the succubus collected enough wind to use as a powerful weapon, the sprites stood no chance against the feirce gale.

The men and elves began to wane in number very quickly. Soon, they were forced to retreat. The few surviving members of Nglárm's army were left on the barren feild, shouting in victory. All flying creatures began to circle around the high hall of Moldoþ in a show of pride, creating the image of a ghastly storm gathering as fûrið shot lighting, dragons breathed fire, and wyverns shot ice.

Kjolþa slowly descended to the ground. The battle had been won, and she could not help but congratulate herself. Many of the imps fluttered down towards her, shouting in great triumph.

This siege will be a hard lesson for Aljeir. White magic is not for war.

Nglárm's hall was a large and vastly empty chamber. It was nearly round from the inside due to a very unique design, and as high as seven stories. Six pillars of worn granite, chipped at various edges, were positioned only a foot away from the walls, with each one having a lentil that seamed to connect them to the perimeter. Each of the six pillars held a torch, with each flame glowing a different colour: green, red, blue, purple, white, and orange. this was made possible only by magic. The imps had tried to convince the vampire to work on more efficient lighting and fire, but Nglárm would not allow them to use their vast knowledge. For he believed that the more freedom they had, the more likely they were to rebel.

The high seat of the vampire was placed adjacent from the huge, wooden double doors. The seat itself reached up for ten feet. Various bones decorated the armrests, and the ends were decorated with a single skull of a wildcat each. From the back stretched huge black bat wings, and one large dragon skull brandished the very top, its upper jaw opened, giving Nglárm a canopy. And the back was set with purple satin. Sitting on that throne, was the vampire himself.

A black throw rug of bear hyde led from the large door to the foot of the throne, and lining the rug on each side were the dark residents of Moldoþ.

The iron doors opened, and from them marched Kjolþa. As she approached Nglárm, she did not bow, as most were obliged to do, but stood in front with a solemn expression.

"Kjolþa!" Roared Nglárm. "What was the meaning for your actions this day?!"

"Your forces were being overrun." She started. "I was mearely backing them up."

"You were disobeying orders!What if someone else had another army waiting to invade through the back?!"

"If there was another army, I would have seen it." It was clear the vampire was very paranoid.

Nglárm stopped for a second. The chattering of the audiences hushed completely.

If you were smart, the angel thought, you would know that I have just insulted your intelligence.

"And I suppose you could have done better?" The vampire growled, barring his yellowing fangs.

"That's why I changed your orders."

All the crowed gasped in short at the sudden show of attitude. No one was allowed to get away with that kind of disobedience without some kind of punishment. It was apparent to Nglárm that she would later stake a rebellion against him. It was, in his best judgment, to get rid of her before that could happen. But how? He could not kill her. He could torture her, but not without risking the wrath of Ongjallir. The only reasonable thing for him to choose was exile.

"So be it Kjolþa!" He finally spoke after deliberating the matter. "Leave my fort now and never come back! If you are so confident you can make it on your own, feel free to do so!"

It had turned out, that her only reward for winning the Battle of the Fortess was exile. Kjolþa left that very day, but not alone. All of her imps did not want to be left behind, as no one else treated them fairly. Most of the imps left for the north, to return to Slivasonna, the Fortess of the Moon, but four remained with her. Ordi, whom the Triplets give credit for these first records, Illa, a young blitzer named Ysgall, and Kläskir the old flanker widow.

Also with her, was her favorite dragon. A silver dragon named Sdrídüri. Legend had it that he was one of the first dragons in existance. A golden dragon couple, Nrimvæ and his mate Güldmir, a young bronze dragon that had not yet been given a name, and his rider, an ice elf named Krïsmeð. An iron dragon named Brangsloþ and her rider, a human named Amir.

Several wyverns fallowed. A mother named Emalla, her three hatchlings, and her rider Tlangrimi the goblin. A prize black and white wyvern: Skuldìrmin, and another family, Hjadisvin, her brother Mjom, and her two children. Only a few fûrið came, as the rest flew off when Kjolþa left. The ones that did come were Larsrün, his brother Vangræ, and their mother Yvásmitr.

A gargoyle by the name of Flitfan went with the company. In his hands, he held an egg, the last that remained of his dead wife, who had perished in the last battle.

A family of goblins came as well. Rildisnay and his wife Blütgon, their two sons: Myar, and Snáv. As well as their three daughters: Kalmyna, Gilsma, and Nama. With them was the ogre Mrarsvi.

One lone mage came with them. A sear. Ilga, the blind vampire sorceress. When Kjolþa was exiled, she saw it as a bad omen for Nglárm, so she opted to come along and see where fate would lead her.

Note: Out of the five sources, only two mention this battle, and both accounts are sketchy about specific details. Both sources talk about Longgribor, and that he was killed, but neither make it clear just how. Though, the Triplets did suggest that it was bad luck that did him in, a perfect example of how the Triplets emphesized cruel fate over heroic confrontation.