Rimehex
In the depths of winter’s grasp, there is a frost that does not melt, a cold that lingers long after its victim has turned to ice. This is the work of the Rimehex, an artifact steeped in the sorcery of a Bheur Hag whose malice outlived even her cursed form.
Legends tell of a coven of frost-witches who sought dominion over the seasons. When the eldest, known as the Crone of Black Rime, was betrayed and slain by her own kin, she did not fade into death. Instead, she poured her essence into these relics—shards of glacial magic that carry her will. Any who wield them are haunted by whispers of ice-crusted vengeance, their breath turning to mist even in the height of summer.
The dice contain slivers of her frozen remains, each roll stirring the dormant spirit within. Should one roll in her favor, the frost merely nips at the edges of their soul. But should fortune turn against them, the Crone’s wrath will seep into their bones, creeping like hoarfrost across the skin. Those who dare claim Rimehex must ask themselves: Is their fate already frozen?
In the depths of winter’s grasp, there is a frost that does not melt, a cold that lingers long after its victim has turned to ice. This is the work of the Rimehex, an artifact steeped in the sorcery of a Bheur Hag whose malice outlived even her cursed form.
Legends tell of a coven of frost-witches who sought dominion over the seasons. When the eldest, known as the Crone of Black Rime, was betrayed and slain by her own kin, she did not fade into death. Instead, she poured her essence into these relics—shards of glacial magic that carry her will. Any who wield them are haunted by whispers of ice-crusted vengeance, their breath turning to mist even in the height of summer.
The dice contain slivers of her frozen remains, each roll stirring the dormant spirit within. Should one roll in her favor, the frost merely nips at the edges of their soul. But should fortune turn against them, the Crone’s wrath will seep into their bones, creeping like hoarfrost across the skin. Those who dare claim Rimehex must ask themselves: Is their fate already frozen?
In the depths of winter’s grasp, there is a frost that does not melt, a cold that lingers long after its victim has turned to ice. This is the work of the Rimehex, an artifact steeped in the sorcery of a Bheur Hag whose malice outlived even her cursed form.
Legends tell of a coven of frost-witches who sought dominion over the seasons. When the eldest, known as the Crone of Black Rime, was betrayed and slain by her own kin, she did not fade into death. Instead, she poured her essence into these relics—shards of glacial magic that carry her will. Any who wield them are haunted by whispers of ice-crusted vengeance, their breath turning to mist even in the height of summer.
The dice contain slivers of her frozen remains, each roll stirring the dormant spirit within. Should one roll in her favor, the frost merely nips at the edges of their soul. But should fortune turn against them, the Crone’s wrath will seep into their bones, creeping like hoarfrost across the skin. Those who dare claim Rimehex must ask themselves: Is their fate already frozen?
