UNder the Frozen Sun (Complete)

[Osku]

I've been at work on this for a long while. Fed up with doing short story after short story, I wanted to actually start on a continual chain of chapters and string them together in the hopes of making my first epic. I went through three separate drafts for the prologue, and after much revision, I've finally become happy with the final product.

 

At any rate, enjoy it. There will be more to come in the future. Don't forget to check my DA in my sig for new literature pieces, which I try to put up every week.

Under the Frozen Sun - Prologue

The summers may be long and prosperous in the South, and the many empires there may have armies and navies as vast as their own bloated economies, but when the winds blow, they blow to the North.

 

Past the jagged Sea of Hrolf, you will find the Lursh glaciers, as old and elder as they are solid and cold; they are the landmarks that lay before the island chains of Modsognir. A barren and inhospitable landscape filled with cliffs and steep hillsides; from there you can see the jutting peninsula that is Northfang, home to some of the most treacherous pirates this side of the world.

 

And should you manage to make it past the cutthroats and murderous thugs that inhabit that godsforsaken place; you will come face to face with the tallest mountain range in the known world, Ir's Maw. Past its menacing teeth, you will find the very roof of the known world.

 

The land of Irgaard.

 

 

Irgaard. A place of such hidden value and wonder so arcane, there is many a man (and woman) who seeks to conquer and plunder it. The sky above shimmers at nightfall with colors so astounding to the eye, even the most entranced of shamans cannot help but gaze in maddened wonder at them. Its very borders are protected by a wide and tall mountain chain. Within them, some of the world's last forgotten wonders. Much of Irgaard is blanketed in so much ice and snow that barely any vegetation flourishes or grows above ground. Whatever vegetation does grow is enchanted, left there by the legends and myths of time immemorial.

 

Times when Irgaard was instead known as Logthan, the earth giant.

The Tale of Logthan the making of the North

 

In the early days of existence, Logthan traversed the world as the ruler and master of land. This lay like scattered pieces of coins, dropped from the purse of life, upon the great and mighty sea.

 

One day, a Human known as Ir the Fabled, sailed forth from unknown origins to meet Logthan in a battle that was said to have shaped the entire world. The fight raged on for many moons, going on for countless months until finally! Ir was within Logthan's teeth, about to be eaten, but as his armor and weapons were broken off and embedded in the maw, Ir the Fabled, using all his might, broke the jaw of Logthan from within his own mouth and escaped. As Logthan lay moaning in pain, Ir rushed at him with his last weapon, the legendary axe, 'Gyldfling' and decapitated Logthan, killing the earth giant, and setting the earth free from his tyranny.

 

After Logthan's death, Ir forged the whole northern part of the world from his corpse. From his head he made the snowy land of Irgaard; with his legs, the Isle of Loki. With his blood, the sea of Hrolf, and then when that was made, he tossed his innards from his corpse and made the isles of Modsognir. (This translates to 'Giant's Gizzards' in our ancient tongue.) From Logthan's teeth, he made the Maw of Ir (or as we call it today, Ir's Maw) to guard Irgaard. And then from one of his legs, he made the peninsula of Northfang.

 

Ir then ripped Logthan's heart in two and called it the Lursh Glaciers, with his remaining leg and arms; he melded them together and created the island of Skothia.

 

Finally, Ir took both of Logthan's eyes and cast them up into the sky. One of them became the moon, showing people the way in the darkness. The other became the sun, illuminating the twilight of creation.

Ir and the Valka

 

Over the years, Ir accomplished many feats that earned him a name amongst the people of the earth. Who had emerged from their caves and burrows in the ground and developed skin, for they were previously rock golems living in the center of our world. But none could ever truly compare to when he achieved the love of a Valka, a separate race from the Humans, who ruled Skothia as queens and matriarchs.

 

Now, the Valka were a similar enough people to those who had risen from the earth. But there were many differences. Mainly that their hair was in fact, pitch black and their bodies tall and long. Their eyes were also different, for it is said that in them, one can see the universe as easily as looking at a picture or photograph.

 

Though the Skothians revered the Valka as Goddesses, Ir knew them for simply very powerful mortals. Yet one day, for reasons known to only Ir himself, he sailed to their island to seek a wife amongst them. The Valka, however, were foolishly vain and did not give respect to Ir, (though they knew of his deeds with Logthan and secretly envied his victory over a foe that they could not best) but it was then asked by Ir what he could do to earn their acknowledgment, and so they answered,

 

"Defeat us all in a battle at once, and you shall have our blessing." Ir agreed, and the battle began.

 

Though the Valka were mighty warriors in their own regard and had descended upon Ir in legions, the battle only lasted a few days, for Ir had grown great since the defeat of Logthan, and had already slain many of the great beasts that had so defied his rule in Irgaard and the northern world. Many of these monsters are myths and legends today, existing only in nightmares and words that drift over campfires and in mead halls. Yet Ir had defeated them all, just as he would the Valka.

 

The Valka grudgingly acknowledged that Ir was the better warrior, and also saw that Ir was strong in his heart, and father-worthy. Talking amongst themselves, they all decided to lay with Ir, and they all conceived children. Taking responsibility as the father (or later, as we would call him, the (All-Father), Ir decided that these children would accompany him back to the lands of Irgaard. For though the southern lands of the earth were already populated; Irgaard was still a barren and empty land, devoid of any Human life. And so, over the years, these children became the first Irgaardians. They learned to fish in rivers that were ice cold all year long, hunt in forests as vast as they were brutal (and few in number!), and they learned to fight and live in lands that were untamed and wild.

 

 

 

As the children grew up to become fine warriors and hunters, the Valka saw it fit to leave Irgaard for Skothia once more, satisfied that their children were ready to take on the challenges of life in the Great North.

 

All but one Valka left. And she was most in love with Ir. Her name was Grosnyir, and Ir loved her as well. Their love was only deepening when the rest of the Valka left. After a time they decided to marry and be wed.

 

Both the lands of Skothia and Irgaard rejoiced, and for a time, the Northern world was at peace. With the population in Irgaard growing and Skothia becoming more advanced, mankind continued to grow in the North. Growing such to the point where some even migrated south, to the Modsognir Isles and Lursh Glaciers, inhabiting those last reaches of the North.

 

But then a great prophecy was foretold unto Ir from an elder of a village in the far northeast of Irgaard. There were strange practices afoot by the townspeople there. They chanted in the language of Logthan, the deceased Earth Giant, they praised his name, even carved idols in his own visage. But worse still, there were increased sightings of malformed, giant, iron-skinned figures with tusks and claws that ate and tore skin. The elder claimed that the village, as well as all of Irgaard, was doomed in the face of this evil, unless something was done immediately. But Ir had grown arrogant and fat off of

all of the glories of his successes, as well as off of the luxuries of his status as a god. He dismissed the elder back to his village with a clear mind, such was his ignorance. But this

assuredness soon changed, for he heard news of villages in the northeast of Irgaard being burned to the ground.

 

Ir then knew of the foolishness of his ways. The time of the Troll had come.

 

The Troll Years

 

Although Ir and his armies were powerful, the Trolls had numbers greatly superior to him, and were fierce in their own way, for they could survive days without food, eating nothing but their own limbs, which regenerated the very next day. They also never seemed to sleep, but at the same time, they marched slowly, weighed down by their muscles and bulk.

 

It was said that they were made of fire and iron, instead of mud and earth, like Man and most things on earth were. They also bred like rabbits, and so, with every Troll army that Ir quenched, another was soon on the move. For many a year this war raged in a continuous stalemate, Troll armies doing battle with that of Ir and his sons and daughters,

but it was soon apparent that unless something was done, then the Trolls would soon burn down the very hall that Ir lived in (Norskheim), for though the Trolls bred like rabbits, the Humans did not, and so while the Troll population always seemed to be staying the same, the Humans were on the decline. But there was nothing that seemed to be able to stop the Trolls. Until one day, a mountain, known to many as Ingarvöden, spoke to Ir and offered to help in ridding Irgaard of the Trolls. But there was a painful price to pay, for the one thing that the mountain asked in return for the safety of Ir's people, was, ironically, his life.

 

Ir, in his doomed wisdom, knew there was no other way.

 

And so it went that Ir murdered himself atop the highest mountain in all of Irgaard, and it was said that Ir's scarlet blood ran down this mountain, and flowed so strongly throughout the land that all knew of Ir's passing and wept. Ir's wife, Grosnyir, was no exception. She wept for twenty days without ceasing, but despite Irgaard's mourning,

Ingarvöden fulfilled its promise. Come nightfall of the fifth day of the mourning, the Troll armies were immediately swallowed into the earth, eaten by large tears in the ground; never to be seen again.

 

Ir's death was mourned by most of the Great North, even after the many months exceeding his death. Indeed, the Valkas of Skothia dressed in black for months to mourn Ir's passing, and his own wife disappeared, perhaps to exact revenge on the Trolls, or perhaps to commit suicide and join her husband in oblivion? None can say what happened for sure, save for that Ir's death was marked in passing by a more fresh tragedy.

 

The Black Age

During the early days of the Black Age, life was in chaos in Irgaard. The sacrifice of Ir was devastating to the social order, and so, a great civil war raged throughout the land, with countless factions fighting for control of Irgaard.

 

Among these men, three warlords emerged that were the most prominent. In the eastern regions of Irgaard, there was Flokdir the Agile. To the south, there was Mürth Gundersson, who had conquered the Modsognir Isles as well as the Lursh Glaciers, though he failed to lay claim to Northfang and their native clans. And finally, from the lands that Flokdir and Mürth had not claimed, there was the dominion of Sylg. Sylg was, perhaps, the most successful of all these warlords, and yet a vast insanity; a bane wrought of years of paranoia and being in absolute control, lurked in his mind and soul.

A long and bloody conflict ensued between the three, but soon enough; a truce was reached between Sylg and Flokdir. They would fight together to kill Mürth and take his territory, but when the final battle between the two factions came to be, Sylg betrayed Flokdir and killed him in secret. Then, in the confusion of the battle, he slew Mürth as well in plain view. The remnants of the armies of Flokdir and Mürth both had a new leader to kneel to, and when the dust cleared, they did so. The insane reign of Sylg had begun.

 

After his victory, he had a grand hall built of wood and stone to commemorate his victory. In secret, he had the bodies of Flokdir and Mürth carried to the hall, mutilated beyond all recognition, and nailed to his two entrance doors. Their faces were so beaten in and scarred that Mürth's, nor Flokdir's followers (who had both assimilated into Sylg's subjects) could not recognize the corpses of their wronged leaders, believing that they had both perished in the battle between Mürth, Flokdir, and Sylg. Sylg would later say that the corpses were lost, due to the snowstorm that had occurred after that battle. The two bodies, Sylg explained, were, in fact, not that of Mürth and Flokdir, but rather, 'disloyal subjects'. He stated that anyone who betrayed him would find a similar fate, beaten until death and after, and then nailed to his door at Sylgrad; the hall from which he would rule.

 

Such were the words of Irgaard's insane king.

 

But that debacle was only the very beginning. For after a few years into his rule, King Sylg demanded that all gold tributes from the outlying villages be delivered directly to him, instead of to his trusted treasurers. Yet, when the gold-carriers would come to King Sylg's hall, King Sylg would have his oathmen kill the carriers. The gold would be tossed into the sea on the word of the king as well, who claimed that it was all cursed by Troll magic. The people, after a time, realized what was happening and tried to resist in reaction to these crimes, but Sylg was too strong and his men were too loyal, enthralled with the glory of the new Irgaard that they were building, and so, the would-be rebels were crushed and knocked down again and again in violent oppression. Such was the bloodshed at the beginning of the Black Age.

 

Days and years progressed, and the children of Sylg's line would continue to plague Irgaard and its folk. The mad tyrant's line would never be dethroned, and, to this day, they still rule over us, thinking that they deserve to. But take heart, for there is still hope, as was demonstrated many years ago in the hopes and dreams of a rebellion that nearly succeeded in liberating us from this horrid perversion of law and justice.

 

 

During the later days of the Black Age, there was, around the lake of Flokdir (named after the ancient hero himself), a small community of fishermen. These fishermen, who mostly hunted around the lake and fished in it, sometimes strayed into other nearby lands. One day; a fisherman from this area had decided to go fishing in one of the king's many rivers that he had claimed for himself. The man was caught by one of the king's rangers, and was executed before the king on the grounds of trespassing. Angered upon hearing this, the small fishing community took their hooks and fishing spears, and, in revenge, lynched and hung one of the king's rangers. King Wroth, fifth of Sylg's line, heard of this and sent his warriors to burn down the fishing community in retaliation.

 

The villagers fought a bitter fight, but it was also futile. By night's end, the entire town had been burned to the ground. The people's will of freedom, once a bright and raging flame, was now nothing more then gray ash dancing in the currents of the wind of the Great North.

 

Yet not all was lost. A few men had managed to escape from the destruction, and they fled to the Lursh Glaciers, a place where a small group of people lived on the very rare and strange vegetation, beasts, and fish that made their home around or on the Lursh Glaciers.

 

Over the next few years, the small band of exiles on the Lursh Glaciers had grown to a small army. Their influence, spreading as far to the Modsognir Isles by the second year of their docile existence, had attracted exile, outlaw, and renegade soldier alike to their cause. And as King Wroth sat on his throne, oblivious to the growing insurgency underneath his very feet, more and more mainlanders began to flock to the support of the rebels. Eventually, half of Irgaard had changed from the king's rule to this group, which had even dared to send a 'declaration of independence' to King Wroth.

 

When Wroth first caught word of the rebellion, he, like Ir with the Trolls, had dismissed it as a problem that was not worth his attention. And even though the two leaders were as different as could be, they had one thing in common.

 

The arrogance of Men.

 

But soon, there was a declaration of independence in front of him that he seethed over, as well as more and more reports coming in of people seceding to this place they called 'Norther, the Free Kingdom'. Faced with these two omens and symbols of defiance to his absolute authority, Wroth had no choice but to act.

 

Soon, Irgaard and the Free Kingdom of Norther were at war.

 

This war between the free and the oppressed would be long and brutal, with most of it happening within the length of five long, freezing, years. There would be many push backs and many assaults, as well as many defenses and many sieges by both sides, but in the end, the armies of Norther stood in victory outside the walls of Sylgrad, the hall that wore the crucified skin of the defiant subjects of King Wroth's rule like a cloak of majesty.

 

Unwilling to surrender, King Wroth came out and spoke to Norther's champion. Skog of Flokshire, a giant of a man with a forked beard and an accented tongue, a veteran of the war that had started since his village near Lake Flokdir had been burned down at the command of the very man that he now stared at with unending hatred.

 

Talks between the two leaders were long and arduous, as well as heated. They took place in front of the assembled army of Norther, its soldiers looking on in hatred and loathing at their former dictator. But Skog knew that Wroth had still more men en route from the northern provinces. Wroth's soldiers, though commanded by a madman, were loyal, and believed that their king was helping them to build a mighty Irgaard. Even if Wroth was slain here, his remaining soldiers would also fight to a bitter end. That meant more loss, more pain, and more death. Something that Skog, in his adoration of life, despised the most. No. It was better to chance for peace, even if it was with a tyrant.

 

But Wroth knew of Skog's weakness, and he played off of it. Skog's adoration of life would later turn to be ignorance of Wroth's insanity, and so, an ill-fated agreement was reached between the two. Wroth and Skog would duel to the death. Whoever won was declared victor of the war, and by token, King of both Irgaard and Norther. However, he had to spare the rest of the other side's remaining armies, unless they came and attacked.

 

Wroth and Skog fought, but Skog was fated to lose. For in Wroth's possession was the blade Ratatoskr. Ratatoskr had been passed down from Sylg's line since the family's beginning when the Irgaardians were born of the Valka, many, many, years ago. It was a Valka weapon, carved with runes of arcane power, which had been a key factor for Sylg in defeating both Mürth and Flokdir in battle.

 

After Skog's death, the Norther army looked on in shame. Trying their best to hold back their emotions and tears, for to lose control would be to shame the principle of justice and equality that their leader so desperately fought a war for. And so, in shame, the Northers returned back to their home. Waiting for whatever storm would follow, but somehow believing that the apocalypse would not come.

 

Wroth, ever Sylg's bastard descendant, would later hunt down and destroy many former Norther villages in both southern Irgaard and the Lursh and Modsognir regions, innocent and guilty were killed alike in the most brutal of fashions. Entire villages were soon burned to the ground and transformed into villages of graves. Forests of wood were chopped down to make way for forests of severed heads, and fields of golden grain, though few in number, were salted and torched to make way for fields of scarlet blood.

 

Age or gender made no difference in the eyes of the aggressors, for in the eyes of Wroth and his slaves, they were all 'disloyal subjects', and they all deserved to burn in righteous fire. In beginning, the flag of freedom flew high with hope and joy, but in the end, it would wind up stretched out over all of Sylgrad. The skin of the betrayers would adorn the wooden structure for years to come.

 

Though the Black Age was mostly stained with the blood of the reign of Sylg and his kin, there was another great monstrosity that blackened the Black Age even further.

 

Skothia's Doom

 

Skothia, had, for the most part, been peaceful despite its sister country's civil strife and recent conflicts. Yet by the time that the tenth king of Irgaard had taken his throne in Sylgrad, Skothia was in a danger so big, it has never been matched by any event in the world since its conception in the Twilight of Creation.

 

Skothia was an island nation, and a large one at that. As such, its people were traders and sailors who traveled to the many different corners of the world, and anywhere in between.

 

And so it was inevitable that Skothia's unquenchable lust for exploration would one day bring about the end of Skothia herself.

 

It is unknowable, at this time, who exactly brought the ancient artifact into Skothia, or if he or she was even a Skothian, or even Human. But, what is known is that an ancient artifact not native to this earth, was one day obtained by someone, and brought into Skothia's borders. By a doomed fate or blackest chance, a Valka obtained it from that person, and this Valka, called Ingrid, had such an obsession with the strange artifact that it drove her to insanity. Eventually, she became so paranoid that she locked herself in her own hall and slowly began killing off all her servants. It was said that she tortured them for information before she killed them by bleeding them to death.

 

Others heard of this and it frightened them. Indeed, Valka were some of the world's most perfect of creatures. And Skothia was the Jewel of the Great North. Surely one such as them could not be driven insane by something as menial and laughable as an obscure piece from a forgotten age?

 

Panic soon spread. And with panic's arrival came paranoia. And paranoia bred insanity. Soon there were reports of more and more Valka going insane, killing them and their servants. The insanity spread to the arbiters, to the butchers, to the street-cleaners, and eventually, to the sailors, who became so possessed by this growing madness that they blockaded their own island for no apparent reason, destroying anything that dared come close to the wall of wooden ships. Skothia's trade soon stopped, and as a result, Skothia's economy suffered, whole regions in Skothia were starved of food and supplies, spreading the madness. The last vestiges of law and order in Skothia were violently tossed to the ground and violated by the thrashing orgy of chaos and discord that now owned the island and the waters around it.

 

Within a decade, Skothia had shifted from the Jewel of the Great North into a black stain upon our world. And there it remains. For the nations that had traded with it were unable to break it's blockade, no matter how hard they tried, whenever they approached, they were met with an odd storm, which would continually get worse as they approached the island. Eventually, the world was content to leave Skothia behind and forget the North, moving on with their own matters and issues, ignorant to the roof of the world's problems.

 

Epilogue

 

With Irgaard still in the grip of despotism, Skothia's destruction and other troubles here in the Great North, life is as black as ever, and with rumors of Trolls being spotted in the northeastern provinces once more, and King Thirsk twice as insane as the last twenty despots in his diseased line, we seem to be nearing the end of days. Will the darkness swallow Irgaard and cast it into the bowels of memory, like Skothia so abruptly was? Will it lose all reminder of its former glory and secede to the wills of immortal forces? Or will it remember what transpired to make this nation, and, in that remembrance, march onward to a new glorious age?

 

The Black Age has passed, and a new age has begun. But whether this one is filled with sorrow or joy or failure or glory remains to be seen by those of us who watch...

 

Under the Frozen Sun.

[Amidala Skywalker]

I finally got to reading this, and I must say I'm very impressed! I find myself drawn into the story, and I'm intruiged to see what will happen to this world.

 

I like the style you wrote this in. It's definately like I'm sitting around a fire with an old man storyteller weaving the tall tales and history of our land.

 

Grammar-wise, you have a lot of run-on sentences and awkward sentences. If you want, I can point some out to you.

 

One thing I noticed...when you were telling the story of how Ir created the world with the pieces of Logthan, you said he used Logthan's legs to create the Isle of Loki, then later said that he used Logthan's legs to create the island of Skothia and the penninsula of Northfang. Maybe it's just because there was not description of Logthan besides "earth giant", but I didn't picture him having lots of legs.

 

I think more description would help. You did a good job in the prologue with your poetic description. I know that oral traditions don't always preserve physical descriptions and such, but I think things like Logthan having more than two legs and such is needed.

 

Overall, very intruiging. I'd really like a map of this world so that I could better see where all of this is happening. But I'm a very visual person.

 

Good stuff. My only remaining comment is that if you continue this, post less next time, because it took me a long time to read all of that.