The air was never a subtle thing. Though invisible it made itself both seen and heard whenever it could.
Howling through the mountain passes. Bending the trees under its strength. Most noticeable of all were
the storms at sea, where thunder crashed and lightning fell to the dread of the mortals caught in its throes.
Such it has always been with Korgaan, and gods are not known for changing their ways.
The ancient deity had clawed his way back from the brink of obsolete extinction. He had found a new
field whereby to plant his seed and reap his harvest. The hearts of the northmen both hated and loved their
three-faced god and sought his pleasure through violent submission. But the wind god was still hungry,
always hungry. He longed for the days long since spent away in the fathomless depths of time so long ago
that no civilization has ever existed that could name the days for which he yearned.
The pitiful flames of those lives he claimed in the name of the Reaper, the Deceiver, the Warrior, these
were the cheap bread trenchers thrown to peasants after feast day was over. The Lord of the Skies longed
to enter the banquet itself and gorge upon the delicacies of life. The worship of some hardy northern clans was not enough for him. But his bitterness and the harsh edicts of his religion would not take root among
the softer races to the south.
And so he wallowed in his frozen wastes, picking at the morsels that were tossed to him as appeasing
rubbish gifts from his troubled followers. Like small children who give their parents worthless treasures
that have no value beyond the sentiment in the giving of the gift. It was not enough. Korgaan hungered for
more, but could not determine how he might sate his appetite. That was, until the day he found the iced
hourglass.
It had been a relic of the Wicked One known as Winter, and Korgaan was loathe to use something that
had been soiled with the touch of the Celestians, even if it was a lesser one. Still, as he toyed with the
frozen dust inside the hourglass he discovered that it allowed him to manipulate time. If he were to turn
the glass over, the day he had just finished would begin again. Not just another day would pass, but the
exact same sunrise that had graced the horizon that morning would rise once more and the day would
begin its march anew as if it had not already done so.
The few hours that the hourglass could cause to repeat were on such an infinitesimally small scale to one
such as Korgaan that he toyed with the idea of throwing it back into the frozen glaciers from which he had
taken it. But an idea gave him pause, and with wicked glee he spirited the hourglass deep into his frozen
realm and set about scouring his followers for appropriate champions.
The first was easy to find. A dark-hearted bastard who had built himself a mighty tribe from the blood of
those that opposed him. Strife followed in his wake and long had he consecrated his efforts in appeasing
Korgaan. His name was Fregmoln, and he was a towering beast of a man with black hair that spilled over
his shoulders and a feverish light that bled from his eyes. He was the head of a large tribe that lived
completely on the bounty of their raids. Thus, they were regularly involved in bloodshed just to survive,
and Fregmoln was the most bloodthirsty of them all. He had amassed a fortune slaughtering Basilean
garrisons and Abyssals alike, and had spilled their blood across the snow in testament to his devotion to
the Warrior aspect of Korgaan.
The air god wasted no time in reaching out to Fregmoln and summoning him and his tribe to his side in
the deep parts of the north, and the northman obeyed eagerly.
The second champion was more difficult to find, but eventually Korgaan discovered that one of his
followers had found refuge in the city of Chill and his daily devotions involved the slaying of the
Abyssals which regularly besieged the winter city. Throdjin was this man’s name, and he worshipped the
Deceiver. He lead the forces of the Northern Alliance into battle by day, and prayed for their destruction
by night in secret. In all things he shed the blood of his foes and gave praise to Korgaan.
He did not hesitate when his god called upon him and took up his soldiers to travel north into the wastes,
bringing with him allies and mercenaries to fight against Fregmoln, who he convinced was amassing a
mighty army to invade the southern kingdoms.

The movement of these two mortals attracted the gaze of many more than just their own warriors. Armies
from across the lands were drawn to Throdjin’s banner just because they knew that he was marching
against Fregmoln. On the contrary side of things the servants of the Abyss grudgingly prostrated
themselves before Fregmoln in order to forge an unholy alliance against their mutual foe of Throdjin.
Korgaan laughed with glee as he accepted them into his servant’s ranks and prepared for the coming
conflict.
The forces of Throdjin and Fregmoln met on the icy slopes of the mountain known of Frostbjior and the
titanic clash that followed lasted all through the day and into the night. Blood turned the mountain into
crimson and the sounds of battle echoed throughout the frozen peaks. By the end of the night, only the
two mighty commanders were left of their forces and they stood wearily swinging their weapons at one
another until wearily they both passed out in the snow, willing to let the elements claim their frozen
corpses alongside their soldiers.
Korgaan breathed in the heady scent of fear, of despondency, of anger and malice and ill desires. He
lapped up the strong emotions that saturated the field of battle much like the blood that had turned the
snow into a stinking mire of death. He allowed the power to course through his being. He devoured his fill
and then some from the dead and dying of the two armies.
Then, the greedy god of wind turned the frozen hourglass over.
Both Thordjin and Fregmoln awoke with a start in their respective tents, unsure of what had just
happened. They each felt the biting cold and could still smell the hot stench of their own blood as it wept
into the snow. They remembered closing their eyes and felt the darkness claim them. But they felt no pain
now. Their wounds did not mar their skin. Their weapons lay beside their cots and as they walked out of
their tents they saw that their soldiers were lined up and ready for battle.
The same birdsong echoed through the crisp morning air. The song of an ice wren as it flitted through the
air over the two great amassed forces. The two commanders would each think the same thought.
Was it all a dream?
Then the trumpets sounded and the thoughts were pushed from their minds. From far above Korgaan
watched and prepared himself for another feast as he watched the frozen crystals fall through the
hourglass he held in his hands.