The wind howled through the fjord like a hungry wolf, tearing at the thatch of the longhouses and sending embers spiraling from Ragnarstead’s central fire. Kjartan stood at the cliff’s edge, his double-bladed staff-axe gripped tight, runes glowing faintly in the predawn chill. Below, the still waters mirrored the blood-red sky—a sign, the old ones would say. A sign of war. At twenty-six, he was no stranger to death. His ash-blonde hair, wild in the storm, framed a face carved by ice and battle. The trilobite brooch at his cloak caught the light—a relic from a time before kings, before steel. He had earned it not in glory, but in silence, watching, waiting. Now, the Hrafnar came. Their longships, black as ravens’ wings, sliced through the fog. Torches flared. Screams followed. The elders hesitated. The young men trembled. But Kjartan did not. He turned, eyes blazing, and raised his axe. “To the pass!” No grand speech. No boastful cry. Just resolve. And in that moment, the mountains seemed to lean in, listening.  For the first time, the wind carried not just frost—but fate. Later, they would call it the dawn of his rise. But Kjartan felt only the weight. And the visions—drowning men, whispering stones, a figure crowned in antlers—growing louder with every step. Leadership was not won with steel alone. It was paid for in blood, in dreams, in the silence between heartbeats. And his reckoning had only just begun.

Serophia is from a far away land light-years from earth. It is unknown where her home is and if you ask her, she will never let you know, no matter what! She arrived on earth about 300 years ago but is over 750 years old. luminous woman with royal blue eyes that shimmer like starlit pools. luminous, ethereal woman named Seraphia glides through a moonlit forest, her soft glow illuminating the night. Petite and radiant, she has royal blue eyes that shimmer like starlit pools, long silvery lashes, and flowing wavy blonde hair with violet undertones. She wears a graceful green-and-white gown, leaving a faint trail of vivid blue mist with each step—a silent guardian of the night. The atmosphere is dreamy, magical, otherworldly. Suddenly, the mist intensifies into a blinding blue veil, swallowing the moonlight. Wind surges, darkness consumes the sky. High above, a distant figure emerges—Seraphia transformed. Now a towering, monstrous entity with charcoal-black bark-like skin, fiery red eyes, and jet-black hair streaked with blood-orange. She descends swiftly, encircled by neon red mist, wearing a tattered black-and-crimson dress. Her face is grotesque—wide black void mouth, glowing eyes, long claws—exuding raw power and menace. A deafening scream rips through the air, visible shockwaves tearing the space. After her attack, the red mist fades. In moments, she reverts: back to her serene form, standing gently in the clearing, glowing once more. A soft royal blue mist floats around her, peaceful and divine.