Whom has heard of stories of the land o' forgotten ancestors? That real big one at the edge o' everything, so cold it became a great noth'n?

Ya'know that land that is the appex of man? Those who wandered to prove they were someth'n else from 'em old Elf-mer -but they did not just find that land, they birthed it from their purpose, and Shor gifted them her name: ATMORA, and it was freedom. It may not 'ave been pretty, and it may not 'ave been kind, but it was theirs, and they held it for a time.


So what 'ave you heard of Atmora? (think WWPD)

I once heard from my court-skalds (well traveled they be) that it's now sparkly-white, save for the lines drawn between the 'boomer kingdoms never-there, which are coloured a dead-kinda-black from the soot, made by daedron fires a long, long while ago (from fierce wars posed between them peoples, always fight'n for that was their way -padomaic battle-orgies engulf'n their worlds daily, changing the landscape to make to make their dreams real).

As a well-traveled lover of stories and songs myself, I can tell you that I’ve encountered too few tales of Old Atmora. Perhaps the bitter cold of that place left its mark on its memories, and so the mind is wont to freeze on recollection. Probably why I’ve found a jug of mead around a roaring fire is the best method for coaxing a story from the grey-down bards.

There’s one story I had the pleasure to listen to, once. It was a good thing, too, for once the wizened bard got warm enough to tell it, the tale itself seemed to bring heat and life to our bones, like it contained a fraction of the strength of man in adversity. But I’m no grey-down bard, nor have I enough mead to ward the frost from my thoughts, so I’ll have to summarize.

It’s said there are parts of Atmora riddled with caves. Their presence is due to no natural process, but the work of giants or gods or demons (or all three!) from long before the word ancient even begins to make sense. As the giants or gods or demons (or all three!) receded from the world a bit of their power was left behind in those caves, especially in the deepest crevices, which are shrouded in the deepest darkness and protected by the most bitter cold. The only way to get to those places is to climb the ice. For that you need gloves specially prepared from the skin of the frost-wornt to protect your hands from the burning cold of the ice, and ice picks made from bone or tusk to cut a hold into the ice. I need not tell you how dangerous an endeavor this is, but if you manage to brave the danger and find the deepest crevices and you shine a light (either through torch or spell) on the ice and frost, the whole cavern is filled with iridescent light of all hues. That light, which dances like fire, pantomimes events from both past and future, depicting great deeds of valor and recalling wars no one remembers, but which never really ended. And sometimes, when a very brave and blessed warrior or shaman dares the journey, they see themselves in a past or future age, and understand.

We know all this because someone always remains at the cavern entrance while the journey takes place. If the warrior or shaman survives they call out what they see, their voice echoing back to the entrance, where the assistant listens dutifully. Otherwise we would know none of this, for those who dare the journey almost never return. Yet they are not mourned, because not dead, only resting, and waiting.

Frost-winds blow in from the forgotten north,
Ready for battle, ready for war.
Old groans for wounds still wanting vengeance,
Through the ages, through the storms.
Carry ice like axes cutting bone and sinew,
On the last day, on the first night.

Wait. I'm recalling now, that was merely the background for the real story. Give me a few moments to get prepared...

There now. The hearth-fire is roaring and I have had my fill of mead. Now I will dare a tale, telling as much as I can until I must be silent to prevent my thoughts from freezing together. This story comes from Jkorl the Pivot-Driver, who earned that moniker from how drove a pack of hoar-wolves into the frigid sea, which was too cold for most any denizen of the earth except the frost-wornt. He recited it before the council fire, in the presence of the elders, the children, and all in between, telling what had commenced, and what he had heard, and what he had seen.

Like many such tales, this one has been preserved through countless retellings. The bard drinks plenty of mead, and maybe lights a pipe to help rile up the spirits. Then he is overtaken with the tale and the telling of the tale, becoming a conduit of Jkorl, who speaks into his soul. So Jkorl and the bard tell the tale together, and that is how it is remembered. That is, as well, how it has been preserved, and passed down to YmGormurnd, the one who recited it to me.

Alas, I am a bard of lesser caliber, and am not worthy to be compared with their kith. That is why I cannot summon unto myself the spirit of Jkorl and share the story truly. Yet even so, as I feel the warmth of the mead in my core, and see the fire crackling-laughing-dancing-singing, I can just see great beards hanging low, and pelts over brawny shoulders, women hushing anxious children, and a withered sage rattling his pendant of teeth and bones.



I am Jkorl, son of Jkanl, named Pivot-Driver for how I drowned the hungry hoar-wolves. I will tell you what I heard, and I will tell you what I saw. I will tell so all may know. Yet make no mistake - I am not the hero of this story. It is scarcely mine at all, for I did little more than hear and see. The story I tell is the story of another.

Her name was Kirstbelle the Red, for her hair was that color. We were tightly bound with cords of friendship, for her heart said to her soul that women were more lovely than men, and to her more worthy of it. As she swore to have no children the men let her accompany them on their journeys. Where they were stronger, she was quicker; where they the more courageous, she the more crafty. That is how she earned their respect, and was named Kirstbelle the Red, for the blood of her enemies.

I was glad to call her friend, and we shared much mead, and pipes when we needed to rouse the spirits. Then one day, a day I will never forget though my bones become dust, she said to me:

“Jkorl the Pivot-Driver, whom happily I call friend, listen to what I tell you, for I have long pondered and long reflected, and think now there is something I must do. I will go buy some gloves made from the skin of the frost-wornt, and some ice picks made from bone or tusk, and with my torch I will climb down to the deepest, darkest, coldest part of the ice cave, and see what there is to see.”

This is how I answered:

“Kirstebelle the Red, whom happily I call friend, listen to what I tell you, for I speak as one who cares, and wishes only good fortune upon you. Before your mind becomes as hard to change as breaking through the ice over Lake Karmald, heed my words. Know that many brave warriors and shaman have ventured into the depths of the ice caves, only to perish from the many dangers long before reaching the deepest, darkest, coldest caverns where the visions sleep. Though I doubt not your courage, I fear for your safety. Know also that of those who triumph, and see for themselves what visions sleep in the deepest, darkest, coldest caverns, most still do not return to the surface. I doubt not your courage. It is mine that falters: I fear that whether through death or sacred-wisdom, I may lose you. That is why I must beg you do not go.”

She nodded and smiled, and said to me:

“Good friend, now I know that I must go, for your spirit will keep me safe. Be at ease, and know that though my body and my strength may remain in the deepest, darkest, coldest caverns of the ice cave, because you keep me safe a parcel of myself will never leave you, though your bones become dust.”

So I went to the ice cave with Kirstebelle the Red. As we braved the entrance a frost-wornt appeared, snarling, stomping, and brandishing its tusks. It charged Kirstebelle, who turned aside at the last moment - she is almost as good as I am, and that is how I earned my name - and drove her ice pick into its neck, leaving a trail of blood to mark where it wobbled to before succumbing to death: earning her title once again.

She said to me:

“Jkorl the Pivot Driver, whom happily I call friend, you can go no further. I ask, whatever dangers may visit you, remain here at the entrance to the ice cave. Whenever at last I complete my journey to the deepest, darkest, coldest caverns and light my torch, I will tell what I see, and the echoes will carry what I say to you, who must remember it all, letting not a single word be left to freeze.”

I said I would do this, and watched her go. I listened as her footsteps grew further and further away; I saw as her shape was engulfed by darkness. I heard the sounds of a pick cutting holds into ice, and I heard the sounds of great portions of those frozen walls breaking off, and shattering on the floor below. Yet not once did I hear the sound which I most feared, of a body collapsing upon frost-covered stone.

I waited there at the entrance through the night, neither eating nor sleeping. It was late the next day when I heard her voice, carried by echoes from the deepest, darkest, coldest cavern of the ice cave. I heard her voice, and true to my duty, I allowed not a single word to freeze, but kept each one warm in my heart and in my memory.

Great warriors are southwards rowing across the ghostly waters.
Invaders from the north are coming to free their unborn children.
Savage masters are raising Towers with the sweat of our descendants.
Cowardly mer are retreating from the blood-stained axes of our ancestors.
Peering forth, I see across the countless ages my own eyes gleaming.
Banners waving, war-cries thunder-rumbling, I fight and fall forever.

Not truly about Atmora, but it may serve. Doesn't involve any animal screwing, either - I'll try and work that into the next one.

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When I was real little my father (who, mind you, has as much Nedish blood in him as Nordish) told me this story of the Fatherland. Don't know how right it is, he's never been the trustworthy sort.

In a little village off the coast lived a Man and a Giant, and they were the best of buddies. The man was big and broad shouldered and white all over like his homeland. The giant was even bigger and even more broad shouldered, but just as white as the man and his homeland. Both the man and the giant were quite tired of being white, so they decided to paint themselves pretty.

The giant gathered up berries and ground up rocks and coughed up magic colors previously unseen by both their eyes. He plucked out a hair and painted the man with swirls and zigzags and animal patters. He sung to the paint and made it warm the man, so he could display it proudly even in the coldest of months. The man looked at himself in the ice and liked what he saw.

The giant sat down and the man got a stool and began to paint. Now the man was not quite as handy as the giant, his hair did not make a very good brush, and the paint got all mixed up in the process. The man did try his best though, but when he was done he sneezed and the giant became covered in a motley of baby poop green and barbie pink and irish sunrise. He tried to erase it all, but as everyone knows giant snot paint is pretty damn permanent. So the man declared his work done, and the giant looked at the ugly colors the man had painted him, and they weren't the best of buddies anymore.

And thats why the men and the giants are still at war, and can only be warded off by painting things. The giants never did get over that.

This came to mind:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RfiQYRn7fBg&NR=1

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The Mad-ferryman is Sheogorath, and this nord guy's war-wyrd for his woman, Atmora, who he's looking for again. In Skyrim, Sheogorath is a smiling ferryman, often taking people to Atmora by boat, which is impossible. He's also a cupid. The one thing that drives men more insane than war/conflict is woman.

When I think of Atmora, I think of this quote:
And I hear, through your voice, the invisible reasons which make cities live, through which perhaps, once dead, they will come to life again. - Invisible Cities

So it's like an ecstatic feeling you want to return to, but you can't, because the thought itsn't good enough, or the feeling is cheapened. You can only experience it again if time broke down. Yes.

Undeniable, we can never return til Aka' swallows us whole and we are remade by our choices again.



serves us well n' the fight against boredom (truly greatest of Man's enemies -Atmora herself was but a child of this battle n' respects), but enlighten this ole' coot of your vision O'le Atmora (animal screw'n inclusive).



Many a wonderous story begins with a jug, a flagon or barrel o' the good stuff, till silly with merriment, lead'n to undesirable blurtation of one's secrets (n'advisable at large parties, I'll tell you a yarn of this one day).

Susan Bear-Catcher, whom we all know for stopping Big-Bear from eating the Ships Away, was on the glacial wastes hunting for Saal (a relative of the Horker) when she met a man, pale, naked and speckled from head to toe in frost-bite as if he had Mer-Pox. At first, Susan Bear-Catcher thought that this man was dead, for certainly no man could survive that much frost-bite. Yet when Susan Bear-Catcher examined him, she found that he was actually alive. She asked about him and he weakly replied "I'm so cold. Please build me a fire." Seeing that this man was on the verge of death, Susan Bear-Catcher prepared a fire right there so as to give him some last comfort before he met Shor for the last time. When Susan Bear-Catcher had built her fire, she brought the man close to it and did her best to keep him warm. But all he could say was "I'm so cold. Please build the fire stronger." So Susan Bear-Catcher went out to fetch Saal blubber, which she would burn to strengthen her fire. She found some and brought it to him to feed into the fire. But the man just shook with the cold and he cried out "I'm so cold. Please, just lend me some blankets." The fire seemed to do some good, because the man seemed to have found some color in his skin again, so Susan Bear-Catcher put some blankets on him and wrapped him tight in the skins of her kills. But still the man cried out "I'm so cold. Please lie next to me. Lend me your warmth. Just for a while." And so she did. Susan Bear-Catcher spent the night feeding her fire to try to keep the man warm. Marvelously enough, the man's frost-bite began fade and he began to shiver less. But still, the man pleaded "I'm so cold. Please make me warm." So Susan Bear-Catcher went out and killed more Saal and burned their blubber for this man. Saal after Saal fell to Susan Bear-Catcher's mighty spear. When at last, she could not find anymore Saal and still the man pleaded for warmth, Susan Bear-Catcher used her own heat and lay with the man and kept him warm while he slowly warmed. For seven nights she lay like that and when the man stopped shivering, he looked into Susan Bear-Catcher's eyes for the first time and said "Susan Bear-Catcher, you have doomed yourself for a man who could not keep himself alive. You hunted and killed many Saal, yet you did not touch their meat except to burn. Why?" Susan Bear-Catcher's stomach rumbled in response and she wept in despair, for she had been so caught up in this man's plight that she had forgotten herself in it. She was now too weak to move and beginning to feel the cold herself. She looked at the man in response and told him "Because I was so cold."

Hmmm, the ending could use some tweaking. I didn't intend it to caution women about unthinkingly plunging into a relationship.