(Written on stitched wolf-hide, the ink faded in places, edges worn from years of handling.)
I have walked the length of the Bifröst, from the windswept stones of Midgard to the shaded groves of Alfheim, and down into the fire-lit halls of Nidavellir. I have seen the peoples of the Isles live and die, and I set these words to hide so that none may forget.
The Goliaths live by the mountain’s edge and the sea’s roar. Their lives are brief, but fierce. I have watched them raise longships at Skipheim, singing as they set each rib of wood into place. I have feasted with them in Midgard, where laughter and boasting ring louder than the storm outside. Many fall young — to battle, to sea, to beasts — but their names are shouted in Hjarnheim’s smokehouses and carved into Himinháll’s banners. They live not for age, but for story.
The Alfar of Alfheim walk slower lives, but no less full. Their groves stand quiet and green even when the snow presses deep. I have seen them weave the threads of their history into song, so that each sapling remembers the deeds of those who walked before. Their children play in the shadow of Yggdrasil, their elders chant beneath moonlight, and their warriors fight with bows that sing like wind through branches. Among them, time flows differently; where a Goliath’s lifetime is a shout, the Alfar’s is a song that never ends.
The Duergar of Nidavellir dwell deep, where light is rare and stone is eternal. They are quiet people, hard as the ore they mine, yet their craft speaks louder than any boast. I have seen their Valkyries leap across chasms in the dark, shields sparking with Odin’s lightning. I have stood in halls where the Stonevein carved walls high as mountains, and listened as the Moonglow sang laments that carried down endless tunnels. They war with kobolds and the shadows beneath, never ceasing, never yielding. And still, when trade brings them up into the markets of Midgard, they stand shoulder to shoulder with Goliath and Alfar, not as strangers, but as kin of the Isles.
So it is that three peoples share one chain of isles, bound together not by love, but by need — the need to endure. The Goliaths boast, the Alfar sing, and the Duergar endure in silence. Yet together they keep the Bifröst Isles alive, through storm, shadow, and snow.
— Kjorn Stonesong, Skald of the Wandering Fires