Niflheim is the name the northmen use for their icy land. To my foreign ear it sounds more like a man clearing his throat than a genuine word, but such is often the case when listening to their strange tongue.
The word translates roughly as ‘Dark Fog’, and is spoken in whispers among the tribes I have encountered. I do not understand why they fear uttering a simple word, but my questions on the subject were met with stony silence.
While I was not able to learn the origins or meaning of this mysterious word, I was able to uncover a great deal of fascinating information about what we southernors refer to as the frozen north.
The first thing to greet my arrival was the bitter northern wind. She followed me everywhere, tugging at my cloak and dumping mountains of snow atop our camp. Her kiss was sharp and bitter, and even beneath layers of furs I always felt her touch. Some nights I wondered if I would ever be warm again.
That was before we left the snow covered plains and began to ascend the jagged peaks. As we scaled those imposing giants the air grew thin and breathing became difficult. Each step we took was hard fought, and we nearly turned back more than once.
I thought I had been cold before. I was wrong. The wind sliced through our clothing with the deft hands of a long accomplished butcher. My fingers grew painfully stiff and my teeth chattered so violently that I could barely hear the howl of the wind that seemed determined to hurl us from the mountainside.
After several grueling days we began our descent to the snow covered forests that lay on the far side of the mountains. My party was met by the Nannuraluk tribe, a strange group of savages who rode massive bears with fur the color of snow. The smallest was twice the size of a wagon, and some were large enough to make that one appear a cub. These bears seemed docile, but each had claws that could maul a man with a single blow. I am reasonably certain my entire torso could have fit comfortably in one of their mouths. Not a pleasant thought, I assure you.
Fortunately the Nannuraluk were curious and approached us peacefully. Had they attacked I am positive we would have been quickly overwhelmed, despite the warmasters and battlemages accompanying me. I used my magic to converse in their tongue, and explained that we had come north as explorers in search of knowledge.
The Nannuraluk do not worship the Stewards, but they recognized my symbol of Celeste. They treated me respectfully, and the shaman explained that his people see me as a fellow holy man. It was surprising to witness the respect they held for what they perceive as a foreign deity.
We were brought to the barbarian’s camp, which consisted of small wooden structures with snow packed outside the walls as a sort of windbreak. They had no stables and instead allowed their mounts to roam freely about the camp. I cannot adequately express how terrifying this was. Having a beast that could kill you with a mistep lumber by turns your bowels to water.
Not a single member of the tribe could read, but every last man, woman and child had a passionate love of stories. They would gather around a bonfire in the center of the village each evening while the shaman performed elaborate dances accompanied by song.
These tales have no doubt changed dramatically from the mythology that birthed them, but the few I heard hinted at great events in the distant past. The shaman spoke of the Nannuraluk as the oathkeepers as if this were a holy designation.
Some ancient and nearly forgotten deity commanded them to wait in Niflheim until he returned to lead them to war. The shaman claimed that when his grandfather’s grandfather was a boy his tribe was older than the snow. They may have been there since the world’s birth for all I know.
If these myths are true then their god is a harsh one, who has imposed a grim fate on the northmen. The tribes battle for survival each day. They contend with the cold, other tribes, beastmen and the seemingly endless waves of undead that spill over from the northern Ashlands. It has made them a hard people adept at survival.
Yet despite the fragile state of their existence they are some of the most carefree spirits I have ever met. They accept the harshness of their environment with a stoic grace the most devout monk would envy. They live for simple things. Mead, meat and lovemaking. The northmen understand that any day could be their last, so they live each day as if it is.
It is difficult to reconcile that these simple people were able to repel the full might of the Hasran Imperium not just once but on three separate occasions. Their shamans possess the greater path of protection, which allowed them to resist our battlemages while their massive bear riders charged into our ranks.
Such magic suggests that these people must have access to both a spirit and an earth catalyst, but all of my searching has been in vain thus far. Each of the tribes we spoke to refused to give us any information about catalysts in their domain, saying only that if we were meant to find them we would.
I have also witnessed their shamans using binding, which suggests the presence of a water catalyst somewhere beyond the icy peaks. If true that would mean they have access to three as of yet undiscovered catalysts. Is it any wonder Hasra tried so vehemently to penetrate into their domain?
I dwelled among the northmen for a paltry handful of months, and I do not claim to be any sort of verifiable expert on their culture. I never met one of the vaunted beastmen tribes they spoke of, nor did I uncover the catalysts they undoubtedly draw their strength from.
Yet despite the inconclusive nature of my findings I hesitate to call them a waste. I understand the northmen now. Their way of like makes a certain sense, it’s simplicity is more tempting than I would ever have thought.
