But first, a couple of lines about the chronicler, and about the tragedy that started me on my travels. Like I said, my name is Torgrim Eiriksson, and I was raised in a village called Graafjord on the south coast of Niflheim. Like all human settlements on that ice-shackled continent, Graafjord was a fragile island of life, clinging to the narrow strip of land that separates the sea from the glaciers of the inland. Despite the conditions, we thrived on a combination of fishing, sealing, whale hunting, and the odd southbound raiding expedition.

Some six years ago, however, our good fortune ran out. Arriving from god knows where, Illgarm the Ice Demon came to the heartlands of Niflheim. He immediately decreed that an ice citadel be built, and while its spires were still rising, he began creating an army out of the monster tribes that roam the Niflheim inland. Those who would not join, he slaughtered with great efficiency, feeding their remains to his growing army.

Since the sun set on the Ice Anvil kingdom, the northmen of Niflheim have lived in small, independent-minded jarldoms that were ill-suited to the task of halting Illgarm's rise. Eventually, many communities chose to join with the demon, their ships and soldiers swelling his ranks, while others who resisted were swept into the Isgard Sea.

I will not dwell on the last days of Graafjord, but my home village is no more, and I was among the scattered refugees who made our way to safe harbours on the mainland. When better times come (as I believe they inevitably do), I would like to make one final journey - to Niflheim, and the ruins of a village that once sparkled above its ice-bound shore.

But enough of that. And those are definitely not tear stains on the page you're reading, they're tiny drops of spilled sunwine. My familiar wanted a piece of the action on this chicken leg I'm gnawing on, you see. Torgrim Eiriksson is as hard as they come, and don't you forget it.