Golden Frostbound Oath
Stats
Lv.
90/90
Base ATK 542
CRIT DMG 88.2%
Weapon Effect
Dawn's Salutation Returned
Dawn's Salutation Returned
Increase DEF by 16%. When the equipping character's Elemental Skill or Lunar-Crystallize attacks hit opponents, gain the Frost Fae's Favor effect for 6s: Geo DMG inflicted by the equipping character increases by 40%, Lunar-Crystallize Reaction DMG increases by 40%. While this effect is active, if there are Moondrifts near the equipping character, all other nearby party members will gain the Frost Fae's Mischief effect: Geo DMG dealt increases by 20% and Lunar-Crystallize Reaction DMG increases by 20%. This effect can be triggered even when the equipping character is off-field.
Total Materials
Description
A longbow carved from ancient whitewood, once, in ages past, wielded by the Jack Frost King of the northern lands. In an age long forgotten, idyll and blossom ruled a land without sorrow.
Even the fiercest winds and snows would falter before the towering oakwoods.
Hunger was unknown there, and barrenness unheard of — only a paradise whose people sang in the light of the heavens' favor.
Thus did the Arcadians, exalted by the thousand winds, believe their holy city's glory would endure for all time, untouched by the world beyond.
Yet even such a place could not escape calamity's grasp. Life ebbed away, warmth gave way to stillness, and the ancient nation's spring was laid to rest in a deathly chill that would not stir.
With Arcadia now lost, with but the forlorn hope of its salvation to carry, the Knight of the Golden Bough turned from what remained and stepped alone into the endless frost and shadow.
"O Gunnhildr, hero named in prophecy, scion of the hallowed line, last light of our people..."
"Only when the Golden Bough, pure and untainted, is severed shall the withered wood be stirred to life again..."
"Only when the Golden Bough, pure and untainted, is severed shall our sealed paradise endure through all the years yet to come..."
At the end of a long and bitter wandering, the knight who trod the frozen wastes came at last upon another sacred grove spared from ruin.
No priests, however, remained to tend the white tree. In their place, something else had taken root — something that named itself king, and watched from the high boughs left behind by a vanished envoy.
It was no rightful lord, but a warden bound to an old and fading command, a Jack Frost that delighted in riddles, in mockery, in leading the lost astray.
The knight pleaded, enduring its capricious trials, each more impossible than the last.
Yet the fae king, towering as a mountain, gave answers that were not answers, barring the knight from the grove's heart.
And so, for the Golden Bough that might defy calamity, for the fallen capital sealed within its deathbound tomb,
A duel bereft of words unfolded across the frost-bound wastes. Steel met frost, and their clash stirred a bitter wind through the desolation,
Until the knight's blade rose in a final arc and struck the crown from the fae king's brow. Once more, the champion asked to be bestowed the Golden Bough, for the sake of a homeland already lost.
But when the storm fell still, and the drifting snow at last gave way to silence, the truth that stood revealed was colder than any winter.
The Golden Bough, once spoken of as imperishable, had been claimed by the frenzied aurora long before any could come to seek it.
And with each passing tide of the Light Realm, the last vestiges of mortal reason and the quiet breath of plant life were stripped away,
Until only a pallid and withered remnant remained, suspended upon the branch, too frail to bear the longing for paradise reborn.
The frostbound creature did not comprehend this loss, that the holy tree was no more, its blessings having departed just as its former lord's dream had ended.
And so it remained, oath-bound, guarding the grave it yet believed was hallowed ground.
Beneath the withered holy tree was the knight's longsword hurled down, as a soundless laugh came to the hero's lips.
A paradise sealed against all change could never endure without end, just as even the gods could find no refuge from their unmaking.
With that, any resolve to restore what was lost loosened its hold, and the knight turned toward the storm-swept south, setting out upon a homeward road unknown.
In the years that followed, this hero would gather those Arcadian remnants willing to leave their ruined capitol behind,
Leading them onward to the high tower where once the wicked dragon had been cast down, to stand before its lord and seek shelter.
The chortling Jack Frost King knew naught of this, naturally. It received its defeat unperturbed,
And placed the Golden Bough, now emptied of its former divine grace, into the traveler's hands. It gave the frail, fleeting mortal's desire to seek a new dawn its blessing,
And held to the hope that the one who had set the Jack Frost here might also, one day, find a path that leads home...
Even the fiercest winds and snows would falter before the towering oakwoods.
Hunger was unknown there, and barrenness unheard of — only a paradise whose people sang in the light of the heavens' favor.
Thus did the Arcadians, exalted by the thousand winds, believe their holy city's glory would endure for all time, untouched by the world beyond.
Yet even such a place could not escape calamity's grasp. Life ebbed away, warmth gave way to stillness, and the ancient nation's spring was laid to rest in a deathly chill that would not stir.
With Arcadia now lost, with but the forlorn hope of its salvation to carry, the Knight of the Golden Bough turned from what remained and stepped alone into the endless frost and shadow.
"O Gunnhildr, hero named in prophecy, scion of the hallowed line, last light of our people..."
"Only when the Golden Bough, pure and untainted, is severed shall the withered wood be stirred to life again..."
"Only when the Golden Bough, pure and untainted, is severed shall our sealed paradise endure through all the years yet to come..."
At the end of a long and bitter wandering, the knight who trod the frozen wastes came at last upon another sacred grove spared from ruin.
No priests, however, remained to tend the white tree. In their place, something else had taken root — something that named itself king, and watched from the high boughs left behind by a vanished envoy.
It was no rightful lord, but a warden bound to an old and fading command, a Jack Frost that delighted in riddles, in mockery, in leading the lost astray.
The knight pleaded, enduring its capricious trials, each more impossible than the last.
Yet the fae king, towering as a mountain, gave answers that were not answers, barring the knight from the grove's heart.
And so, for the Golden Bough that might defy calamity, for the fallen capital sealed within its deathbound tomb,
A duel bereft of words unfolded across the frost-bound wastes. Steel met frost, and their clash stirred a bitter wind through the desolation,
Until the knight's blade rose in a final arc and struck the crown from the fae king's brow. Once more, the champion asked to be bestowed the Golden Bough, for the sake of a homeland already lost.
But when the storm fell still, and the drifting snow at last gave way to silence, the truth that stood revealed was colder than any winter.
The Golden Bough, once spoken of as imperishable, had been claimed by the frenzied aurora long before any could come to seek it.
And with each passing tide of the Light Realm, the last vestiges of mortal reason and the quiet breath of plant life were stripped away,
Until only a pallid and withered remnant remained, suspended upon the branch, too frail to bear the longing for paradise reborn.
The frostbound creature did not comprehend this loss, that the holy tree was no more, its blessings having departed just as its former lord's dream had ended.
And so it remained, oath-bound, guarding the grave it yet believed was hallowed ground.
Beneath the withered holy tree was the knight's longsword hurled down, as a soundless laugh came to the hero's lips.
A paradise sealed against all change could never endure without end, just as even the gods could find no refuge from their unmaking.
With that, any resolve to restore what was lost loosened its hold, and the knight turned toward the storm-swept south, setting out upon a homeward road unknown.
In the years that followed, this hero would gather those Arcadian remnants willing to leave their ruined capitol behind,
Leading them onward to the high tower where once the wicked dragon had been cast down, to stand before its lord and seek shelter.
The chortling Jack Frost King knew naught of this, naturally. It received its defeat unperturbed,
And placed the Golden Bough, now emptied of its former divine grace, into the traveler's hands. It gave the frail, fleeting mortal's desire to seek a new dawn its blessing,
And held to the hope that the one who had set the Jack Frost here might also, one day, find a path that leads home...