The Saga of Óðvaldr and Hrímvaldr

Tales have been told elsewhere of the war between KaragTar and Bane, and the breaking of Karagthal.

In Norðrlǫnd, a different war is remembered.

Here, the fate of creation was contested between the Valdrungar and the Frumjötnar, the First Giants.

Greatest among the Frumjötnar was Hrímvaldr, Lord of Frost and Stone. It was said that in those days he strode across the world as a man crosses a stream, and where his feet fell valleys formed. His breath was the winter gale, his voice the avalanche, and his blood the glaciers that crawled across the face of the earth.

Against him stood Óðvaldr, High Father of the Valdrungar, Lord of wisdom, sorcery, battle-fury and the runes. For an age beyond reckoning the two powers contended. Hrímvaldr sought to claim Tolrendor for the First Giants and shape it according to their whims, while Óðvaldr sought to drive them from the world and usher in an age of gods and mortals.

Many victories were won and lost. Mountains were shattered and raised anew. Seas froze and thawed. Forests were buried beneath leagues of ice only to rise again centuries later. The Northlands themselves were said to have been forged in those struggles, as glaciers advanced and retreated beneath the tread of giants and gods.

The Valdrungar marched beside mighty shieldmaidens and spear-bearers of the heavens, warrior spirits chosen by Óðvaldr and borne to battle upon winged steeds. Behind them came mortal armies drawn from every people of the world. Human kings and heroes swore mighty oaths and fought beneath the banners of the gods, and the greatest among those who fell were gathered to the High Father’s halls beyond the veil, there to feast and prepare for the final battle yet to come.

Beneath the mountains, the Dwarves (Dvergar) raised vast kingdoms of stone and iron. Their smiths forged weapons fit for gods and heroes alike, and their armies held the deep roads against the servants of the First Giants. The greatest of their kings fought beside the Valdrungar and won renown in battles now remembered only in fragments of song.

Nor were the Elves (Álfar) absent from these struggles. They fought alongside gods and mortals throughout the world, defending their forests, halls and hidden realms against the advancing hosts of the First Giants. Many heroes arose among them during this age, and many fell.

Yet as the war spread across the world, countless Dvergar, Álfar and Men alike were taken captive by the servants of the First Giants and carried south to Karagthal, the mighty fortress of KaragTar, Lord of Fire and Earth. There, within the fiery pits and lightless depths beneath the fortress, they endured trials, sorceries and cruelties beyond mortal reckoning. Few who entered those halls emerged unchanged. From those dark places came the forebears of the Myrkdvergar (Duergar), the Skuggaálfar (Drow) and many of the Trollkin, each bearing in blood or spirit the scars of the Age of Chaos. Their descendants endure to this day, and in their oldest songs and darkest memories can still be found echoes of Karagthal’s shadow.

Foldmóðir, the Earth Mother, looked upon the world and saw that neither side could truly prevail.

For every giant cast down, a mountain was broken.

For every god’s triumph, a river changed its course.

For every victory won, the world itself grew weaker.

Still the hosts of the Valdrungar pressed on. The First Giants had been driven back. Hrímvaldr himself had been wounded. At last, it seemed, the war might be won.

But Foldmóðir saw what Óðvaldr refused to see.

There would be no world left to inherit.

And so she called upon creation itself.

The earth groaned and split. Mountains cracked from peak to root. Great chasms opened where once there had been fertile plains. The sea rushed inland in towering walls of water. Valleys drowned. New coastlines were carved in a single terrible season.

Great kingdoms vanished beneath the sea. The greatest halls of the Dvergar were swallowed beneath the newly formed fjords, while the forest realms of the Álfar were torn apart and drowned beneath the rising waters.

Across the world the pathways between realms were torn apart and sealed. The roads by which gods and giants had walked freely into creation collapsed behind them.

The Sundering had begun.

The Valdrungar found themselves cast beyond the newly formed veil. The Frumjötnar were likewise banished, driven back into the outer realms from whence they had come.

Hrímvaldr himself vanished into the storm beyond the world, raging against the Earth Mother’s judgement.

The war was ended.

Not won.

Ended.

Yet not all who followed the First Giants escaped. Scattered across the broken lands were lesser giants, elemental servants, and the descendants of the Frumjötnar who had been too far from their masters when the Sundering came. Trapped within the world, cut off from the power of their forebears, they became the Jötnar known today.

Though mighty, they are but shadows of the First Giants.

Though ancient, they are but echoes of the powers that once shook the foundations of creation.

Thus did Foldmóðir save the world, and thus did many remember only what was lost.

To this day the skalds of Norðrlǫnd say that Óðvaldr has never forgiven Foldmóðir for denying him his victory.

For he knows that beyond the veil, Hrímvaldr still waits.

And that one day the Sundering will fail.

When that day comes, the old war will begin anew, and the world will discover whether Foldmóðir saved creation… or merely postponed its ending.