Let us tell you a tale.
≈ VII ≈
i. The Saga of Frostwood
In the vast northern reaches of Jotunheim lie countless acres of deep, frozen forests. The trees in these forests never die, nor do they ever truly live and grow. They sprang from the frigid ground in the early days of the realm’s creation formed as they are still, giants hardened by the elements.
But amongst the tall spruce, and farther north, Ironwood, even giants disappear. In these lands real giants do indeed roam, rare and terrible in the mountain mists, when they were seen at all.
Ages had passed since the eyes of the outside world had seen giants or those forests of Ironwood, petrified by the deep frosts at the edge of the world.
Now the mountainous border between the giant lands of Jotunheim and the dwarven lands of Nidavellir was held fast by a raging blizzard of wind and snow and ice that was said to cut like blades and rip to pieces any who dared to enter its maelstrom.
But this day, one who ventured alone stood alone on the south ridge of the mountain range, wind grabbing at his cloak and pulling tendrils of silver hair from beneath his hood. Before him was naught but white in the raging storm.
Ice blue eyes on the storm before him, lungs burning in the cold, thin air, Mithrilon ran his fingers over the smooth silver stone set into his belt. It sparkled like moonlight on snow and then he heard nothing, but was instead cocooned inside a shell of still air.
He stepped forward onto the snow before him without sinking down into the soft fall beneath a brittle iced shell, and continued down the mountain toward the wall of forest to the north.