The charred brands, torn from Torvak’s own rooted form, pulsed with a malevolent, internal fire. Thorns scraped the flagstones as the first thug lunged, a guttural growl rising from his bark-mottled mouth. The air shimmered, the unnatural heat from his weapon melting the thin film of rime that coated Varnok’s heavy parka. The burning wood seemed an extension of the forest’s vengeful spirit, seeking to root him in place. Varnok stood his ground. He let the attack come, pivoting on the balls of his feet, his ice-axe, ‘Shard-Cleaver’, a blur of sharpened steel. The thug’s lunge carried him past, and with a grunt, Varnok buried the pick-end of his axe deep into the man’s shoulder, twisting. A wet crack echoed through the manor as bone snapped, not wood. The thug staggered, howling, his smoldering bough clattering to the floor, its eerie glow dimming as his grip failed. “Fool,” Varnok grunted, yanking Shard-Cleaver free. Blood, dark and thick, streamed from the wound, but the man didn’t fall. His eyes, now entirely feral, focused on Varnok with raw, animal hatred. His remaining hand scrabbled for the bough, but Varnok was already moving. The air in the manor was still, suffocating, the only movement the slow drift of green smoke from Torvak’s monumental firebox. He needed air. He needed *cold*. The manor’s vast, unglazed windows, usually kept shuttered against the Taiga’s relentless bite, were his target. With a shout that tasted of ice, Varnok charged the nearest window, Shard-Cleaver held like a battering ram. The glass, thick and ancient, spiderwebbed on impact, then exploded inward with a deafening crash, shards glittering like captured stars as they scattered across the floor. A blast of raw, glacial wind tore into the manor, whipping the green smoke into dizzying spirals. The temperature plummeted instantly, a visible phenomenon as rime crystallized on every exposed surface. The wooden weapons, still held by the other three thugs, hissed, their melting glow struggling against the sudden, savage chill. Their bark-skin tightened, small cracks forming as the cold bit deep. The second thug, a hulking man with a beard of coarse, grey bark, roared his defiance and swung his glowing club in a wide, desperate arc. Varnok ducked under it, the searing heat washing over his scalp. He felt the gale on his back and grinned, a wolf’s baring of teeth. The thug’s movement was already slowing, his limbs stiffening as the raw cold began its work. Varnok drove the flat of his axe into the man’s knee. The impact was less about force, more about leverage. The already brittle bone and wood gave way with a groaning snap, and the thug crumpled, his club's fire sputtering. The wind howled through the shattered window, a banshee’s cry. More windows gave way under the relentless pressure, the grand hall rapidly transforming into an ice-scoured wind tunnel. The air, once thick with sickening smoke, now sang with the clean, brutal scent of snow and ice. Varnok moved with practiced ease through the maelstrom, his breath barely misting. The remaining two thugs, their skins crusting over with rime, moved with the jerky, hesitant motions of puppets whose strings were fraying. Their brands, once fiery beacons, now merely smoldered, their heat swallowed by the invading air. One of them, a gaunt man with a face resembling dried root, tried to raise his weapon, but his arm locked mid-air. A faint *crack* echoed as the joints seized. Varnok didn’t hesitate. He swung his heavier axe, ‘Stone-Hewer’, in a brutal, sweeping arc. The impact against the thug’s chest was like hitting an ice-bound tree. The man broke in two, fragments of hardened bark and bone scattering across the floor like grotesque kindling. The last thug, eyes rolling with frantic terror, stood paralyzed, his skin hardening beneath the encroaching rime. His burning club slipped from his grasp, the embers within it dying to a dull, charcoal grey. His jaw worked, a soundless grimace taking shape as the frost locked his throat. Varnok approached, Stone-Hewer heavy in his hands. He didn’t strike. He simply watched as the thug’s eyes glazed over, his flesh turning to a dull, grey wood, every sinew and muscle freezing into an unyielding stillness. Then, with a soft *tink*, the man’s ear snapped off, falling to the floor like a shard of brittle ice. Varnok turned, leaving the frozen husks behind. The colossal firepit, still fed by Torvak’s writhing form, roared at the far end of the hall. But even its infernal glow was dimming, struggling against the onslaught of the storm. Torvak’s groans, once a constant thrum beneath the floorboards, were now ragged gasps, choked by the freezing air. The monstrous timber-man was rooted deep into the manor’s foundations, its main trunk a gnarled, thick pillar of living wood that pulsed with sickly green light where it met the stone. Varnok gripped Stone-Hewer with steady hands. This was not a delicate cut. This was an execution. He stepped closer, feeling the residual, sickening heat from the hearth. Torvak’s uppermost limbs, thick as a man’s torso, writhed in the flames, producing the cursed smoke that Varnok had come to snuff out. The primary root system, a tangle of heavy, contorted wood, snaked down into the earth, anchoring the baron to his torment. He chose his spot, a gaping fissure where the main trunk met the sub-floor, a knot of particularly thick, gnarled roots. With a harsh yell, Varnok brought Stone-Hewer down, strike after strike, with the full force of his shoulders. *CRACK!* The sound was sickening, like a giant’s femur snapping. *GRIND!* Wood screamed, a sound that was both a rasping groan and a muffled shriek. Sap, thick and dark, burst from the wound, steaming in the cold air, but Varnok didn’t stop. He hacked and cleaved, ignoring the burning heat from the hearth, ignoring the tremors that ran through the stone floor as Torvak’s heavy frame spasmed. Finally, with a gut-wrenching *THWACK*, the main root gave way. Torvak’s colossal form shuddered, a raw, piercing shriek tearing through the manor, a sound of unimaginable suffering and release. The entire hearth trembled, flames licking higher in a final, furious outburst. But the central anchor was severed. Varnok dropped Stone-Hewer, grabbing the newly severed root with both gloved hands. It was thick, rough, hot with the curse, but it was *loose*. He pulled. With every ounce of his ice-cutter strength, Varnok hauled the screaming tree-man, still trailing smaller, secondary roots that snapped with wet rips from the floorboards, away from the hearth. Torvak’s screams intensified, a horrifying cacophony of agony and desperate, primal fear, as he was dragged from the only source of warmth he had known. The blizzard, now a full-blown gale, tore into the manor, finding purchase on the baron’s vast, burning form. Snow, driven by the furious wind, slammed into Torvak’s burning branches, hissing and steaming. The sickly green flames sputtered, struggled, and then died, one by agonizing one. The heat evaporated, replaced by the crushing, absolute cold of the Osk-Vallen Taiga. Torvak’s desperate shrieks choked, his spasms slowed, his timbered frame turning brittle and stiff. The last sound was not a scream, but a long, drawn-out *hiss* as the last of his internal fires extinguished. His core heat vanished, and the ragged yells finally transformed into a silent gasp, a final shudder that shook the floorboards before settling into stillness. Varnok stood over the timbered husk, Shard-Cleaver raised, its blade glinting in the pale, snow-filtered light. The blizzard howled, tearing through the manor, swirling around them both, a brutal, purifying force. The silence that followed Torvak’s last gasp was absolute, broken only by the wind. But the snow-covered body was still intact. And Varnok knew the children were not safe until the cursed wood was smashed to gravel.

Splinter and Bone