Welcome to Slidr River Valley, home to the strong, the brave, and the resilient. Challenging the odds surmounting against them, the Houses of equine fight in a power struggle for ultimate control over the Valley. With the Bloodless fading away after the First Great Winter of Three, Fimbulvetr, the Slidr River Valley is in a state of discord as the Houses throw themselves into an arms race for power. From predators to the gods themselves every day ushers in a new obstacle to overcome. Fimbulvetr is a literate intermediate-advanced fantasy horse role-play with a survivalist concept. The environment is designed to work against your characters as they move forward in their journey through the arcana riddled realm of Slidr River Valley. With an immense history and lore, we encourage our members to create locals and "outsiders" alike.

▶︎ 07.02.18 Mod auditions, SWP updates, and OTM announcements, oh my! (Read more!)

06.25.18 OTM nominations are open for July! (Read more!)

06.10.18 A much needed (brief) update has been posted. (Read more!)

03.27.18 Several OOC actions can now be redeemed for crystals! (Read more!)

03.21.18 The Slidr River Valley now has a (wip) map! (Find it here!)

03.12.18 Fim has some new staff! Congratulate Briallu and Randalin next time you seen them! (Read more!)

03.05.18 Moderator auditions are upon us! Think you can benefit Fim as a staff member? (Read more!)

02.28.18 Clarifications have been made to the "How To Join" section of the guide book, and OTMs have been announced! (Read More!)

02.25.18 OTM voting has opened! Select your winners today! (Read more!)

02.21.18 OTM nominations are open! (Read more!)

02.14.18 Happy Valentine's Day everyone! Fim is announcing Auditions for the Ambrosius Sovereign and a new Spiritborne! (Read more!)

02.13.18 "Kcsssh, Houston, we're ready for landing..." You heard it! The new Fim is open! (Read more!)

Summer Year One | The sun is high and it is long, and with it as are the days. Summer has claimed the entirety of the Slidr River Valley and in doing so has cast higher, comportable temperatures throughout the Southern and Central territories. The Western still boasts snow capped mountains, but mud slides are frequent and they are heavy. The North remains green, just warm enough to cultivate and brood the new life there, but the further you tred the lower the temperatures fall, their mountains still ice cladden and snow tipped. The East, the poor souls, is sweltering. At night the temperatures drop to the Valley's daily warmth. Little can be done to add comfort, and each day the Oasis becomes drier and drier...

▶︎ 06.14.18 SWP alert! The gory remains of killings litter the Red Wood's Last Stand. What could this mean for the Valley? Read more!

05.15.18 Vromme's throne has been claimed! All hail Geminus!

04.28.18 Vromme's throne is empty and needs a new Sovereign! (Read more!)

04.07.18 Strange forces awaken in the territories! What ever could have caused them? Ambrosius, Vromme, Tryggr, and Exiles. And Andante takes the Tryggr throne!

03.13.18 An Ambrosius Sovereign rises; long live Caelian!

02.15.18 An aurora borealis is shining at Smár Lake! Check it out!

Character of the Month


Thread of the Month

Blood Moon Rising!
Ad & Aff Plotting Updates FAQ Arcana History Graphics Discord

[ SWP ] Blood Moon Falling


Immortal Spring ✿
played by NPC
920 crystals
69 posts
the following plot is rated mature for blood, gore, and macabre.

be swift!

A pang ripped through the empty stomach of the creature; starvation evident through both the sound of its stomach and its appearance. What would normally be a thick, lustrous grey and white coat has become scraggly, thin, and dull. Yellow eyes normally bright and calculating are cloudy with hunger while dried gums have receded a bit; without nourishment he will die within days, water alone cannot keep a wolf alive. The desert is no place for a dire wolf but something keeps urging the beast further into the sandy depths instead of back toward its mountain home. Starvation induced confusion creates a fog in his brain but not even that can be blamed for the way his steps follow an invisible trail; a puppet on a string.

Tawny dirt streaks his sides as they heave under labored breaths, his body wanting to shut down as it slowly consumes itself. His large frame becomes thinner and thinner each passing day as muscle and fat dwindle; the tiny lizards among the dirt not enough to fill the stomach of a creature the size of an equine. Nose pointed to the ground, he follows the silent command to press on…his instinctual desires suppressed under the weight of an unseen hand.

The unmistakable scent of greenery and fresh water pierces the fog behind yellow eyes and ash hued ears prick forward in expectation. Green equals life and that in turn extends to a chance to satiate the gnawing hunger in his abdomen. The great beast shifts into a predatory stance as it pads on soft feet toward the Oasis; saliva already pooling in his waiting mouth. He is cautious in his approach, unwilling to lose the chance of much needed food—but a shift in the wind brings a surprise.

”You are mine.” A disembodied voice murmurs on a harsh breeze and he is transformed as the unseen hand tugs on his brain.

The dull yellow of his eyes flares bright for a moment before leeching away to a blood red. His fur, once grey and white, becomes the darkest shade of black there ever was; obsidian. Gleaming fangs appear as dark lips pull up into a snarl that travels across the Oasis but he does not fear startling his prey. No, his father commands his aid, and he will serve Fenrir well. The black beast is fearless in his approach, already scenting the mouth-watering smell of equine flesh ready to harvest. His confidence oozes through the easy sway of his gait and the way one side of his mouth almost curls into a smirk. The dire wolf settles in to wait, the wind working in his favor and time on his side as newfound strength courses through adrenaline filled veins.

Something is happening! The Exiles are not spared the blood lust of Fenrir! A dire wolf the size of most equines lies in wait for any who dare enter the Oasis. Are you brave enough to take on a beast fueled by a wrathful spirit?


The Warden
8 Summer ☀︎
played by Soupi
30 crystals
19 posts


There was something in the air.

An unseen tension cast a bit to the mouth of the winds and rode it mercilessly through the sands and with it brought a profound and daunting unease. Distrust had arrived early in the Oasis and it was no friend of the Warden. His sapphire eyes rose to the dry skies and squinted into the endless sunlight, casting his vision across the scorched sands. Nothing... yet.

As the pale skies aged into mulberry peach and the alpenglow of the Slidr River Valley faded into a hazy of obscurity along the horizon line, Evandr couldn't distract his hooves with enough strides to draw his attention away from the cold fingers of apprehension. He drew himself to a halt amidst the palm fronds and viridian ferns, the silent and gleaming oasis a wordless comrade beside him. Some hidden force, some strange omniscient presence, was pulling at the strings of fate. His very bones felt it. They quivered with inaction, dissatisfied they'd hammered away the inclement, yet still invisible, threat.

Obsidian banner lashing, the depth of the color sapped by the bleaching of the sun rays, Evandr's hooves pricked forward and trudged the massive brute through the sands. Weaving betwixt the vegetation of their only asylum, his flints searched til they struck terra cotta stone. Following the cliff face that hung over their recessed paradise, he followed the narrow and jagged slopes up the heights. It hardly compared to the summits that encased the Vetr Wasteland, but the advantage it offered with scouting was unparalleled. His strides were ungraceful, quick, almost jerky. Evandr knew whatever time he didn't spend examining the horizons from the perch were precious seconds lost. Something was going to happen. It was the Wastes.

Something always happened.

Though the sunlight was an enemy at all times. No matter the time spent beneath the warmth of it's bake it's gleam was unrelenting to the eyes. Beneath his furrowed brow the sharp blue of his eyes nearly disappeared. In them, mirages reflected the blur of sands. The mountains were sectioned with deep lacerations, revealing the sky beyond, and every slash trembled with unspoken pane. The citrine, sepia, and gold of the sands intermingled with one another with contrasting tears of cobalt from the shadows growing intensity. It was a mix of colors, undistinguishable and unfaithful. That is, to an untrained eye that is. Years spent in the ruthless expanse of a hell on earth like the Wastes and you'd learn to decipher the small discrepancies. Fortunate enough, and unlike the inexperienced castaways of the Houses, Evandr's gaze had bore into the eternal heat waves for years.

And in it was a blur, a speck, it danced along those intersecting lines of color, pulled thing and long, an ink blot run across dark parchment. Nape snaking so that his muzzle lowered to the burnt stone beneath his feathered hooves, his form loomed upon the cliff face like a vulture examining the slow process of death in carrion. Whatever that ichor was... it was vastly approaching. His nostrils flared and tested the air, but it proved a foe. Whatever approached was downwind. It could smell them with its own stench masked with the boil of the exiles' sweat. No matter. He'd investigate himself.

Skittering across the stones, Evandr descended the rock face, leaping from outcropping to outcropping, his knees groaning in protest with each sharp jolt to his extremities, reminding him that he'd not been bred for dexterity. Throwing himself into a gallop upon the appreciated surface of sand, the herculean stud raced through the glade. Every ounce of apprehension that had bubbled in his chest throughout the day now popped and boiled with the heat that beat upon his back. A sweat broke along his pits and flanks not from the exertion but the steadily rising adrenaline. Whatever approached was not an equine. He knew of all incoming exiles. It was the unspoken rule.

As the palms steadily thinned and the ferns perished, he saw it. A dire wolf. A thing of legend. Of course, a creature of Slidr Valley Legend. Evandr had always been under the false idea that those tales died at the borders. But here in the flesh an obsidian son of Fenrir crept through the ferns. It's fiendish crimson eyes scanned through the Frekr Oasis, easily aware that an equally starved buffet squandered in this shadows. "DIIIRE WOOOLF!" his voice ripped through the otherwise silent Elysium in the Wastes as a surge of energy drove him towards the creature. His battle cry would carry not just with the volume but the open realm, and it'd reverberate off of the scouting cliff face he'd utilized earlier. No exile could ignore it. They'd either follow the call to arms, or they'd help those who could not. The choice was theirs.

Just as Evandr made his choice. Closer and closer he came, until the behemoth of a stallion - sand and earth twitching at his hooves with each breach of contact as his arcanum flickered to life - intended to throw a thorny shoulder into the lupine's side to bring him down.

Evandr did not know flight or fight. Just fight.


powerplay excused
within reasonable limits!
always tag responses.

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