Arthur Pendragon, king o' the glorious green plains, never made it out of the rebelling capital before war was declared.
On the cusp of the border between the Northlands and Westlands, there lay a small pinewood village known as Land's End. This Westland settlement housed only a few dozen residents who lived simple, tribal lives in the north's eternal snow, where winter persisted year-round. It didn't have a single soldier or sorcerer within to protect it; only a few burly men and women to hunt snoedoe, and to fend off the rare dire wolf. This lack of military support wasn't because the Westlands didn't recognize the town as their own, but because they knew there was no gain in attacking or occupying it, as it was of negligible size and resources were always scarce.
This proved false when seventy-three Jotnar soldiers marched upon Land's End with axes and swords in hand.
The Jotnar, widely known by Westlanders as Northland giants, were human-derived beings who had grown massive to adapt to the harsh mountains of the north and possessed overwhelming strength, both in physical prowess and magical energy. Though they were far fewer in numbers compared to the prosperously populated west, a Northland giant, on average, was roughly three hundred times more potent than a trained Westland guardsman of Arthur's Guard. Only the most powerful outliers of the West could contend with their overwhelming might in a one-on-one fight. This warrior race was one of the North's greatest military assets and was fully subservient to the Nordic hero and king, Beowulf.
If it weren't for the top Westland guilds, several prominent figures, and a specific guardian protecting the borders, King Beowulf would have marched his armies into the West long before, seizing the lands from Arthur's noble hands.
But the assets of old King Arthur could not protect his kingdom forever, especially not in tumultuous times where chaos lurched forth from the shadows of old and threatened the very existence of the world.
With Arthur's kingdom torn by a civil war, the opportunity had finally arisen for the Northlands to declare war.
And so, they did.
…
It was dawn when the snowy rooftops of Land's End caught fire and began crumbling to emberish fragments of glowing red wood. Lit from precisely aimed projectiles of fire magic hot enough to set ice aflame, the village turned black in an instant. White ash blended into the snowfall whirling about, the cloud's frozen tears unrelenting. Stained by soot, the mesh of cold air had become suffocating– too thick to breathe. Too dense to see clearly.
The villagers rushed out of their homes into the thick smog of freezing heat and black snow. Coughing as their lungs agonized for air, their hearts fell when they caught sight of the giants dressed in beastly pelts marching atop the horizon's line. Armed with Nordic weaponry of enormous steel axes, bone spears, and chipped hunks they called swords, it was clear they weren't there for peace or just passing by. In the perpetual blizzard swirling all around, those hulking titans looked more like white demons than giants, and their gaze was as stern as a devil's.
Those Jotnar meticulously marched in several lines, clouded eyes forward, united with but a single intent: to declare war on the Westlands by taking the lives of Arthur's most innocent and unprotected subjects.
The people in that village were Westland in name, but resided so far from any city that they were entirely independent and lived each day far away from the effects of politics. Defeating them would hold no militaristic advantage and was too small to have bearing on any nation whatsoever. Even so, destroying them was not without purpose. It was an act of symbolism: one that would convey their terrifying resolve. It let the north's enemies know their willingness to tread upon innocence to achieve their goal. To commit atrocities, no matter how heavy the sins they bore, was simultaneously the most honorable and cowardly tactic a nation could conceive.
Thus, the villagers watched in despair, their deaths coming ever closer. No one was coming to protect them. There were a few other villages and towns a bit further inland, but they hadn't soldiers strong enough to stand up to the Jotnar. Zenith was the closest city, which lay many days away and was certainly unprepared for a surprise attack. Arthur was still in the capital. There were no guilds. No soldiers. No contingencies for a fight with giants. No chance other than to run.
Even that was futile, for the giants would quickly outpace them with their massive legs.
The year was 7354 after the new era, about a week following the death of the Southland god Sango, when the day of ruination had begun to befall them.
Scrambling, residents fled the smoldering buildings, trying to escape the giants that were soon to trample their homes.
They cared not for the meager belongings they had in their overwhelming terror: the only instinct that reverberated through their bodies was the shocking sensation to flee. Half-dressed and horribly unprepared for any situation that impeded their daily routine, they ran. They ran and stumbled through the snow, frantically trying to claw away from the looming behemoths just upon their heels.
It all happened so fast. The burning air. The smell of brimstone. The shouts and screams. The blizzard's howl. The clanking of metal marching behind.
And amidst the panic, a child fell, twisting her ankle. The little girl tried to get to her feet and limp away, but in the deep snow, she floundered and bowled to her stomach over and over again. She called out, but no one was there. Her kin was no longer in sight. Her shouts were diluted by the wind. No one even saw her trying to crawl through the knee-deep white death– the flurry of blinding powder hid her too well, and them from her.
In the end, she was left behind to face cold death in solitude.
The girl's cries grew weaker as she clutched a stuffed rabbit in her arms. The shadows of the Jotnar overarched her, just feet away. Her sniveling whimpers were erased by the piercing winds, her body hidden in nature's icy scape.
As enormous steps grew closer, the child closed her eyes and prayed. Prayed to be saved. Prayed that they would have mercy on a child. She prayed not just to gods and deities, but to anyone willing to listen. She prayed harder than ever before, yet she could still hear the crunching of their giant feet in the snow. Their endless march towards war was an endless one– a ruthless charge that would not end until Arthur lay headless. They would continue on regardless of how intensely she screamed or cried. It wasn't that the Jotnar soldiers couldn't hear her, but rather, it was their resolve to keep moving forward that gave them the ability to be so cruel.
In war, the ones who fought had to maintain the resolve to walk upon the bodies of friends, foes, and innocents alike, lest they wished to be the bodies being walked over. A single child could not make them waver. They would trample on her and continue forward with the strength of a hundred souls in each.
The one who led from the front, the commanding Jotnar, tilted his head upward as his giant foot rose over the girl. The first burden, the first casualty of the war they were declaring, would be his, for he was the strongest among his battalion– both in body and in resolve.
"I'm sorry," he murmured faintly.
Of course, not even the strongest resolve could march through a blizzard that beckons death.
Before the Jotunn man's foot fell to crush the girl, a single crackling boom echoed through the muffled wintry scape. Like the crack of a whip in a cave, it rang. And then, a fountain of scarlet rain spewed from the giant commander's head as blood gushed from between his eyes. He fell backward, painting the flakes of snow as he fell with a dance of rose petals fluttering in the mountain gales. The finale saw his corpse indent the icy earth, making him one with it once more. His determined eyes went tame, his skin transparent, and his temperature cold.
In that instant, the battalion's formation broke, and the other soldiers frantically glanced around, trying to find the source.
Before they could reorganize or act, two more shots echoed. With them, two more giants on each of the child's sides fell, wallowing in the lonely crunch of snow. Their eyes went colorless and their cheeks pale before they could acknowledge the sound, or process that their stories had come to a close.
"Halt the advance!" a female soldier boomed as she drew her enormous battle axe from her back. "Quick! Check the commander."
One of the men rushed up to their leader, who lay motionless just a head away from the child.
"This was supposed to be a dry mission– one without any resistance," he said, checking for a pulse that no longer beat. When he looked closer, he noticed the neat hole between the gruff man's eyes where blood was draining from his skull. "It's as if he was shot with a bow, but I don't see an arrow. Some sort of projectile magic… did they learn of our advance?"
"Even if they did, they wouldn't have wasted resources protecting this petty town. If anything, they would have evacuated-" another giant man started, but then began to back away. He looked at the child who had stopped crying completely. "W-what the hell!? The little girl's smiling!"
The small Westland daughter, whose ankle had been twisted and whose cheeks were pink from frozen tears, let a relieved smirk curve her cheeks as she stared up at the beings that were about to crush her only moments before.
"What's… with that expression?" the giant asked, pointing a sword in her direction.
"You have angered our village's guardian, Tapio, and are going to be punished," the girl muttered through a weak throat. "Run away if you want, but you won't be forgiven now…"
"Quickly, take her out!" the female Jotnunn screamed, raising her axe and sprinting towards the child. The giant woman hadn't taken more than two steps forward before she also collapsed in the snow, surrounded by a budding garden of scarlet snow. This time, the splash of blood and crack didn't come from the front, but behind them. Then another Jotnar fell to a shot that seemed to echo right, then another from the left.
The firing of projectiles became a rapid, rhythmic cadence, like the aggressive beats of a drum pounded over and over again seemingly omnidirectionally. Drifting phonk bound to the sound of hearts beating fast, the warrior giants all fell to the low wind's howl.
"What in Helheim is going on here?" a frantic soldier asked. "W-we're surrounded!"
One by one, the Jotnar battalion dropped dead throughout the burning village, hit by invisible projectiles in all directions. The remaining forces attempted to flee, but they didn't get far before they collapsed into lumps of coldening flesh. It wasn't that the giant race was weak; it's just the creature they'd stumbled upon was something that should never have been awakened.
Hearing the familiar shots, the villagers slowly returned and began to sing runic chants about their spirit guardian, Tapio.
They hummed. They chanted. They sang. Their voices were coarse and chopped from running, but the chorus that came from their united voices surpassed even the mountain's bassy wails.
"Tapio? T-this village has a deity's protection?" the last living Jotnar asked as she fell to her hands and knees in despair. "Please… no more… I surrender."
It was then that the creature and so-called "deity" who had taken 72 of that Jotunn's comrades with the sound of 72 precise shots appeared right before her.
The blizzard unveiled itself like curtains, opening a path for the reaper in white to finally show. Its body was blurry at first in the heavy snow, but became clearer the closer they came, their crunchy steps slow and cautious.
What that final giant saw on her hands and kness was not a god. It was not a spirit or the mythical deity known as Tapio. It wasn't an army of Westland soldiers, nor was it even anyone with a particularly overbearing presence. In fact, the lone warrior who stood there was quite small– not just compared to a giant's body, but short by Westland height standards as well.
Dressed in all white, the individual removed their hood and mask, revealing the face of an estranged woman, no younger than twenty, but no older than forty. Her hair was short and dyed white to blend in with the environment, while her frame was no taller than a fishing rod. Her eyes were indifferent, listless even, with bags beneath, and her pale beauty was considerable, but nothing particularly special.
This unassuming woman was none other than Princess Sako, the sole daughter of Arthur Pendragon. Though many nicknames and aliases hovered in her wake, the kingdom's upper command and military widely regarded her as the Sniper Princess.
Sako held a blasé expression as her unfeeling eyes scanned the area to ensure none of the other bodies still drew breath, even if only faintly. She looked for the little clouds escaping their lips or nostrils, but saw none other than the young girl's, her own, and the remaining enemy soldier. Then, without a word, Sako raised her long stick, a device as tall as her, and shot the final Jotnar in the head with a sound that echoed through the mountainous backdrop. The body fell forward, unaware that it had even been slain, joining her comrades in the icy graveyard of the newly dead.
Sako turned around in the powdered land wet in sanguine stains and rigid flesh, gazing past the burning village of humming townsfolk. Her eyes, as frozen as the world around her, fixated like a statue moving even less than the carcasses she'd just amassed. Then, her arm rose from her hip to her head as she saluted the Westlands, her homeland.
There was none more loyal to her country than Arthur's own daughter, and none more determined to keep it safe than Sako Pendragon.