The bestiary
Wardens and monsters, beasts of the wood and the frozen north, and the mounts that will carry you between them. Some already walk the realms; the rest are on their way.
Coming to the realms
Seen at the edge of the light
Something winged in white rags, crowned with a ring of light. Those who have seen it cannot agree on what it is, only that it was walking toward them.
In the realms now
Keeper of the west gate
Bound in a blindfold, with a lantern caged in his ribs. He stands as still as a statue while his blade circles him, and he has never needed eyes to know who is passing.
The gates of Kaupholt
In the realms now
The wood that wakes
Antlers of living branch and a heart of black stone behind a cage of roots. It sleeps among the giant trunks and wakes when the axes come too close.
The old wood
Coming to the realms
A crown of ice, a body of wind
What is left of a jarl who froze on the wrong side of a gate. Chains of stone still hang from its wrists, and the cold arrives a moment before it does.
The frozen realms
Coming to the realms
The mound-dweller
Sewn together from what the barrows gave up, and fed on whatever the barrows still hold. It carries a club of stone and iron and does not know how to stop swinging it.
The barrows beyond the heath
Coming to the realms
The dead who kept their mail
Warriors who would not stay in their mounds. The iron has rusted and the red scarf has faded, but the sword arm remembers every lesson it was taught.
The barrows beyond the heath
Coming to the realms
Forged in Nidavellir
The dwarves built it of gold to settle a wager, gave it two blades and a stranger’s hat, and never managed to switch it off. It still challenges anyone who meets its eye.
The halls under the mountain
Coming to the realms
Frost in its coat
Shaggy giants of the frozen north, with ice caught in their hair and tusks long enough to lift a cart. Their hides are worth a fortune, if you live to carry one home.
The frozen realms
Coming to the realms
A tail like a banked fire
Quick, sly and always watching the hunter rather than the hunt. A fox pelt is a small fortune at market, and the Emberfox knows it.
The edges of the old wood
Coming to the realms
It cries stones
A toad of the drowned fen with river-stones grown into its back. The blue it weeps hardens in the reeds, and the alchemists of Kaupholt pay well for every drop.
Mistmire
Coming to the realms
Small, slow, and very old
A hedgehog of the old wood, grown over with moss and a crown of toadstools. It has watched the forest longer than the town has stood, and it does not like to be stepped on.
Under the giants of the old wood
Coming to the realms
Kin of the thunderer’s goats
Saddled and stubborn, and sure-footed where a horse would fall. It will carry you and your haul over any ridge, provided it agrees with where you are going.
A mount, still to come
More are carved every week. Watch them arrive, or sign up to meet them in the beta.