Legends of Runeterra

Sigvar Half-Quiver fell to one knee, bowing his head. The wind on the other side of the gate howled like an ice ghost from legend.

He is the Mountain Cutter, he is the Blood Sword of Winterthorn. He once took the head of Helmgar Stoneheart, the war chief of the Chosen Ones, and he once defended the Ridge Valley alone, and held out against the Crow Crows until reinforcements from the main keep arrived.

Most importantly, Sigvar is Iceborn.

However - even though he had won great achievements and honors under the favor of the Eye of Lissandra - when he knelt in front of the open door of the main keep of Frostguard Fortress, listening to the cold wind whipping around him with the sorrow of the banshees in the Howling Abyss, he still felt a little anxious about the next task.

He did not wear the heavy black armor, because the weight of the armor would be useless in the upcoming mission, but the shield on his back and the sword at his waist made him feel at ease. He was filled with expectations. He prayed that he would not disappoint.

"You will now journey deeper into the darkness below, brothers and sisters of the Lodge," said Loraka Split-Tongue, the Frostfather of the Guardian. "But you will not do it alone. We, the Shadowborn, never do it alone. Whether in the darkest winter tundra or in the deepest hidden chasms, the Eye of Lissandra watches us, and never forsakes us."

“From ice we are born, to ice we return,” Sigvar chanted, and the two other lodge members kneeling beside him chanted the same prayer in unison.

To his left was Olar Stonefist, a legendary figure among the Frostguard who had fought in the ranks for half his life, long before Sigvar was born. He was wolf-like, with a graying beard and steely eyes, and his skin was like hardened leather, cracked and furred. His shoulders were draped in the fur of an ice bear, but his arms were covered only by faded war tattoos and dozens of iron rings, each earned in ritual combat. His massive warhammer, Thunderson, slung across his back. The weapon’s head was encased in True Ice, and its story was as rich as Olar’s.

Kneeling to Sigvar’s right was Halla Icy-Spirit. If Sigvar worshipped Olar, he was in awe of Halla. She was utterly fearless, her faith unbreakable, and she was as harsh and deadly as winter. Her two-axe Bloodfang and Bloodclaw hung at her waist, though she looked strange without her black mail and horned helmet. Like Sigvar and Olar, she had shunned armor for this journey. The sides of her hair were shaved, and the rest of her white hair was braided into an elaborate braid in the middle of her head, like an ornate crown. Her left eye was a cloudy white, and the attack that blinded it left three feral scars on her face.

He had heard Olar tell the story of those scars, the badges Halla had received from hunting bear-men. He had killed three of them and then frightened the others into fleeing, and though it was only an account, Sigvar believed it. Had the Frostguard not welcomed her into the tribe as a child, Halla would no doubt have become a powerful Warmother, leading a tribe beyond the borders of the Keep.

The frost priest took a few steps closer, standing first before Olar. "My one eye watches you," he prayed.

Sigvar barely heard Olar growl in response, his heart pounding. Then the frost priest stepped in front of him, and his chest tightened. This felt like his first battle.

“Look up, Frostguard,” the priest said quietly, and Sigvar obeyed, lifting his chin to look into the old man’s face. It was a gaunt, skinny face, hollow cheeks and deep-set eyes. There was no kindness there, and Sigvar expected no kindness. Their faith was harsh and cold. A block of holy black ice hung around Loraka Forked-Tongue’s neck, and the tip of his staff was also pointed at a block of black ice. Silver of the Holy One, used for healing and worship. The frost priest reached out a finger and dipped it into a shallow basin of sea monster ink, black and smelly, and then drew a single eye on Sigvar’s forehead.

"The One Eye is watching you," he said.

“Never blink,” Sigvar intoned in response, and bowed his head again. His forehead burned with a burning pain from the ink, but he bore it with the indifference of the Iceborn. Pain was a blessing.

The priest walked over to Halla and completed the ritual, and the three chosen Iceborn stood up.

Olar was the tallest of the three, with muscular body that looked like iron chains, while Sigvar was the heaviest. Halla was half a head shorter than Sigvar, but the power and dominance she exuded made her look taller.

The three Frostguard warriors stood up and took their respective packs, ice axes, and ropes, which they slung over their shoulders and hung on their belts.

Sigvar looked back at the ranks of Frostguard behind him, standing silently to see them off. Loraka Split-Tongue turned away, his part in the expedition complete. Another group of Frost Priests followed him, like crows following war. The shadow of the keep soon engulfed them.

“It’s time to go,” Halla Hanbingsoul said. “The darkness is calling.”

Sigvar nodded and joined Halla and Olar, turning away from the Frostguard and walking through the main keep gates to the stone bridge that spanned the Howling Abyss.

The faint wailing on the wind became stronger, and shards of ice hit them, but none of the three of them wavered. They were happy with it. Ice was their ally. Ice was their truth.

Behind the three Frostguard warriors, the main gate of the castle closed, and the roaring sound quickly disappeared in the cold wind.

Sigvar took a deep breath.

Now they were going into the abyss.

Such an expedition takes place once a year, on the day of the spring equinox, when the day and night are equal. Three people are chosen from the Frost Guard. They are all from the Guardian Assembly, the core members of the believers who guard the Deep Path.

It was an honor to be chosen for this most sacred of duties, and when the Deephorn sounded and Sigvar's name was called, his heart was filled with pride. This was his nineteenth winter, so he was the youngest to be chosen. He had gazed countless times at the long list of names inscribed on the walls of the meetinghouse. His first memory of arriving at the keep was of looking at those names with reverence, dreaming of the great deeds behind them. More than half of them had a simple rune added to the end, the rune of death, meaning that they had died while carrying out this sacred duty. Going too deep was dangerous, even for an Iceborn.

Sigvar knelt before the black ice statues of the sisters Avarosa, Serylda, and Lissandra. He had long pleaded with them to recognize his worth, to one day add his name to the ranks of the others. Now it seemed his prayers had been answered. He had spent his entire life preparing for this honor. He would be the pride of the Gatewatch.