The war against the Northern Kingdom has not gone well. Now the remnants of the Southern army ready themselves behind the walls of their final castle, hoping for a miracle to break the siege. -- Deathshead419
They had fallen for one of the classic blunders - never get involved in a land war in the Northlands. Their worst and cruellest general was the very winter itself. Freezing boiling soup before it reached the bowl. Freezing men in their tents. Freezing breath so that their very words snowed upon the ground. And worse were the beasts that the mad Northmen had in their employ.
Dogs the size of bears. Gobelliin bred to withstand the cold with thick fur pelts. So very many things gone Dire, including the Northmen themselves.
Some of them went into battle wearing little else but a loincloth and body paint. They were clearly madmen and definitely devastating. They were also absolutely terrifying because, if they ran out of their enemies to attack, they would start laying in to their allies.
Those specimens wore collars so that other allies could literally pull them off.
What was even more terrifying was that they hounded the retreating forces beyond the former borders. Winter, wolves, and warriors were at their heels, destroying everything in their path. Though they attempted to defend the retreat, castle after castle fell under the reign of the savage.
Sacking and looting and gore galore. The common citizens did their best to flee for better lands, but many simply did not make it. Until all that was left of them was one castle fortification under siege. They had food, for now. They had their own supply of water. And they had no way out.
So they did what any desperate soul would do. They called on their gods. They called on any gods that would listen. Old ones, new ones, known ones, and forgotten ones. They called for a miracle.
When that many voices cry out in desperation... something answers. A burning mote from the hells burst up and incinerated the Northman barbarians - or most of them - and made a core of heat and warmth that meant that winter would never touch those lands again. Those made for winter could never set foot inside their walls. With the heat, and occasional rains of ash, the land was prosperous and well fed.
Of course there was a price. Tormented in the very heart of that mote, no longer permitted to die, was the very general who called for the war in the first place. Alone, unloved, and forgotten by those who celebrate the miracle.
The miracle that named the city-state Font o' Spring. Or, as it is known now, Fontspring.
[Photo by Ella Ch on Unsplash]
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