Striga loosened her hood, taking in the warm light of Alfhiem. It had been a long trek through the snow drenched mountains. Days of white as far as the eye could see with cold so oppressive, a layer of ice shook off her with every step only to form anew by the next.

But Hel be praised, she was finally in Alfhiem with maybe a day or two left before reaching South Bastian.

“The air here smells better,” Striga said. “Less like, filthy human.”

"So, more like a filthy dog," Sven chuckled, his head jetting from the rocky ground like a sapling.

The lucky bastard didn't even wear a coat having spent most of the journey far below the cold and snow in the boils of the mountains. Striga might have her houndish white fur and beast kin constitution, but cold was cold, whether born for it or not. Still, this frozen waste was better than the human city she'd been in until now. Their dulled senses gave room for things worse than death.

At least she had it better than Dags. The fey hardly said a word while bundled under layers that ought to have weighed more than him. And fey, they didn't have a place in Midgard, no matter where they went.

Striga pouted, but her waging tale betrayed her amusement. "Well, filthy dog smells far better than filthy humans."

"And everything smells better than the dead," Dags said.

Striga palmed the rune of death hung around her neck. "My death knights do not smell. As the-"

"Greatest necromancer striker," both Sven and Dags said as if it wasn't true.

"Well, as long as you know."

Dags peeked his head out of his bundle of furs brushing his bushel of green hair. "How far back are those Hel cured things, because I'm not waiting for you here."

Striga didn't need to look to know her undead lay just behind but she turned just to see the majesty of 100 death knights marching.

Each held the Eldredge green firelight of a draugr in their eyes. Their black plated armor had gone white after being caked with layer upon layer of ice, but they matched unhindered with swords, axes, and each heaving supplies.

"You and Sven can wait at the foot of the mountain," Striga said. "I'll make a few into whites with a ritual before leaving the cold entirely." She stepped over Sven's protruding head and stared daggers at the Dags. "And my death knights will be all the more Hel blessed for it!"

"Fine," Dags said, throwing his hands up in consternation but the gesture lost its meaning as his hands were still wrapped with the rest of him. "Have your alone time with your goddess."

The fey floated down the mountain, but Sven didn't join him, only borrowing out of the ground like a man from water.

"Whites would be Black Steel's weakness," he said dusting off his short blonde hair. “Them being freezing draugr and all.”

"No. He's Cull's mission."

"And ours?"

Striga shrugged. "Vellian is in another war. We simply make sure they win. Now hush, I need to pray."

She sat cross-legged holding her necklace and closed her eyes. There would still be a few minutes before the death knights were close enough to start the ritual, but no one needed a reason to commune with their god so she prayed only for the biting wind to vanish the moment she did.

Striga opened her eyes and fell over from what she saw. The mountains were gone along with the stretch of green leading into Alfhiem. Darkness and what felt like polished marble replaced the world.

Her eyes adjusted revealing flicking balls of green flame flying without brasure or torch about a room so massive it was like a hollowed out castle. But there were more lights hundred, no, thousands, each in pears and glinting off armor, no to of the same make.

"Hello," came a voice, one just behind Striga.

With a burst of magic, she flipped, a dagger in one hand and an orb of Eldredge flame in the other. Wherever she was, whatever was happening, she was a striker and wouldn’t go down easy, but who she stared down left her too puzzled to attack or retreat.

It was a man who matched her five and a half feet. But his face. It was childlike, not a drop of maturity there so more than likely he was a jötunn child. Bare chested, his skin was darker than any she’d ever seen save for Black Steel's, but the boy's shock of burning blue hair stole all attention.

"Colborn," said feminine voice from farther away, one laced with reproach and authority but so familiar Striga knew she'd heard it before. "Go to your room. This discussion is not for children."

"But Mama," the jötunn said, the childishness of his voice now clear to Striga. He must have not been more than five years old if Jötunn aged as such.

"But she's human!" the child complained, his curious smile turning to frown. "I've never met one."

"You've met plenty," the woman said, sounding all the more like the boy's mother.

Striga almost let her Eldredge flame fly when the boy stomped spreading cracks in the ground like a hammer. "But I've never met one that's alive."

That sent shivers down the striker’s spine. She backed away, expanding her perception as she did. None of the draugr moved closer but there were thousands. They wouldn't need to blind side her with such numbers.

"What did I say about arguing?" the woman said and answered before her son could. "I don't."

"I don't want to go to my-"

His words were cut off as one of the orbs of green light above dropped consuming him. There was no scream or heat. The boy was just gone and the orb raised again.

Striga abandoned her flames and brought her knife down. That power was more than she could handle, not without her death knights, but when she turned to the boy's mother, she dropped to her knees and only kept herself from bowing to gaze at who she now saw was her goddess.

"Lady Hel! Goddess!" Striga exclaimed and sputtered.

Deathly pale with eyes dark like a moonless sky, and ten ebony horns jutting from his head. It was her. It had to be. Who else commanded thousands of draugr. And Striga had been praying and by Hel mercy she had answered from onto a throne of bleached bone.

Striga slammed her head onto the ground, shattering it just to force her mouth shut. She'd been sputtering, making a fool of herself and Hel laughed at the display with the same voice Striga heard in her dreams after being blessed and sometimes rarely when she prayed.

"Cut that out," the goddess said through a bemused smile.

"Yes goddess!" Striga said too loud, springing forth another chuckle from the goddess.

"Well, aren't you eager."

Striga shook her head so fast a headache hit her a moment later. "Yes! Anything!"

"Good," Hel said, standing from her throne and walking forward.

Striga's mouth gaped. The goddess must have rose thirty feet into the air. Each step had her black dress, a large silken cloth really, swaying. But her stride also grew smaller and before the striker, the goddess shrank, standing no taller than she was by the time she was within arm’s reach.

Hel reached her hand into a small orb of green flame pulling free a crystal ball with moving images playing along its surface.

Striga recognized it immediately and felt a fresh wave of pain as the oath slammed into her like a hammer. She couldn't even react as Black Steel plunged an ax into Vara’s gut and the goddess of flame roared.

"I need you to find this man," Hel continued but stopped, eyeing Striga with narrow eyes. The striker’s face had become a mass of suffering as she fought against the oath, but it would win in the end, it always did.

"Oh, psychomancy," Hel said with a raised eyebrow. "Would you happen to be something called a striker?"

Striga wanted to answer, but the only thing she could do was lie. Hel nodded her head, seeming to understand.

The goddess raised a finger with purple runes spinning in tight circles. Then, she tapped Striga’s forehead and the pain was gone. A weight she hadn't known was there lifted or one she’d grown used had vanished. The oath was gone. From the bottom of her heart Striga just knew, the oath had been destroyed with the ease of snuffing out a candle.

“So,” Hel said, palming Striga’s cheek to face her. “How do you feel?”

“I’m a striker.” Striga squeaked out expecting pain. “I’m a striker!” she screamed tears welling up in her eyes. “How?”

“I’m a goddess of magic to a people you've never heard of. They’ve studied psychomancy for years but mostly in how to protect against it.” She handed the crystal ball over. “Now, I need to find this man.”

“Black Steel,” Striga said. “Or, Brand actually.”

“So you know him.”

“He’s a striker.”

Hel’s eyes widened with her smile. “Really.”

Striga returned to the snowy mountain with Sven shaking her while Dags floated back and forth as if pacing. She’d gone limp as her soul ventured to Helheim, leaving her team confused and desperate.

A staff appeared in Striga’s hand, helping her to her feet as if the divine weapon were a walking stick. It was a scythe, sun bleached bone with a dark blade smoking with death magic and runes etched over every surface.

“What the hells is that?” Sven asked.

Striga smiled. “A new blessing.”

“And a new mission,” She left unsaid.