A huddled mass shivered on the frozen bank downstream, covered by heavy white furs which had been scavenged from the corpse of a mercenary. Lyric Hydennhal drew the covers closer around her body. She had been sucked into the surging waters when the horrendous beast set its flame upon the ice and it was through sheer luck that she had managed to claw her way out of the icy slush before darkness consumed her. She would have long succumbed to hypothermia if she hadn't managed to strip off the soaked outer layer of her garments and cover herself with the cloak.
"@!#$..." She whispered through chattering teeth. Lyric stared at the longbow which lay in the snowy bank before her. It was weathered and was well used, but for its age, it was obviously well cared for. She had named that bow - Melocum - the old tongue for 'song'. With it, She had carved out no small amount of fame serving under the kings banner. Leader of the Ravenflight Clan, was she; tasked with directing her brother and sister archers in battle. Well, no more. Lyric doubted any of her clansmen had survived that calamity. She had personally ensured that they were in the middle of that forsaken icy river - poised to flank the Boubon horde. "@!#$." She repeated. Stronger this time.
The bow was her life. Nearly three decades dedicated to the weapon. An aim as sure as stone and hands as still as death. She took pride in her skill. Lyric looked down to her hands, and this time a small bout of quiet yet hysterical laughter preceded her expletive; "@!#$!"
The frozen river wasn't the only source of Lyric's agony - Fire before Ice. Snowshadow's breath of death had bathed her liberally before cracking the ice beneath her feet. Her hair was half singed away; a tangled, mottled mess. Her face bore blisters and sores which would likely leave her scarred beyond recognition. She cared not about this, though. No, there was worse; her left arm was twisted and curled beyond recognition. Blackened skin and flesh hung loosely and no less than two fingers were completely gone. The held the crippled arm against her body - this was beyond healing.
Finally, the woman stood. Enough strength had returned to her now. She eyed the bow on the ground longingly for a second before she turned and stumbled upstream, leaving the weapon to be claimed by the snow.
Lyric had died in that battle. It is best that she be forgotten.
How long she walked, the woman didn't know. Eventually the corpses along the shore told her that she was at the scene of the battle. She had appropriated a mace of cold iron from the clasped fingers of a frozen corpse - the fingers actually shattered free with the weapon as the tugged it away.
Finally, the sound of voices led her to a trio of men in various states of misery. From what she could hear as she approached, the men were planning to make way to one of the camps further back. As good a plan as any - they were probably all going to die out here anyway. Two Boubons and a Kingsman, by the looks. She did not think she recognised the kingsman.
She tugged the white furs closer to herself with her emaciated hand and spoke with a creaking voice once she drew near, "I... Let me come with you!" That came out more pleading than she meant. She spoke again, "That is, uh, there is safety in numbers. We can help each other." She eyed the Boubon folk warily, her good hand clenching tightly on the shaft of the mace - These were not her friends, but under the circumstances...
"My name is," She paused, "Erravin. I am... was, Kingsman." Erravin - Lost; Gone astray in the old language.
Erravin stood firmly, doing her best to stifle the shivers brought on by the harsh climate.