Vesturfjord
Vesterfjord is a small village built upon the crux of a long straight along the north western shores of the Eretejva Tundra. It is a relatively isolated village due to the long winters and even longer days covered in twilight.
The people of Vesterfjord are seafarers who were thought to be either castaway on the shores of Eretejva after a series of raids or perhaps were the product of refugees from the wars that decimated the Blightlands.
They retain advance sailing and navigational skills from their ancestors, but upon recent generations, have lost the bulk of their former seafaring skills due to a series of events that led to the binding magical contract with the Landvættir, or the Land Wights. More specifically, with the Land Wight of the East, the Dragons of Drakiall.
History
Background
Eretejva is perhaps one of the most hostile regions of Epressa, a feat not easily achieved in the company of the Blightlands or Ixchel wilds. Much of this is due to the arctic temperatures that reign over the large island all year long. Even the hottest summers are barely enough to thaw the surface frost, and winters best not be mentioned at all.
It is one of the most isolated regions of Arethil, but in ages past, either due to the wrath of storms or the providence of the Gods, the icy, black sands of the western shores of Eretejva sank under the presence of the First Men.
Here they found themselves lost, with precious little resources and the bite of winter that would sink its teeth like ice daggers through heavy fur coats. They'd come as outcasts. As refugees. As men seeking to claim a portion of land that they could call their own, unknowing that it already belonged to ancient creatures a millennia ago.
Vesterfjord is said to lay at the crux of the Vesterålen, or the Western Strait. There it meets the ocean off towards the open sea.[1]
Lore
Before, there was no time, no earth, no dust, nothing. All was forgotten.
And what was falsity became a verity...[2]
A long time ago, in the ages of Monsters and men, our lands were set upon a curse. People knew no happiness. They had tears where their eyes should have been. They had fear where their hearts should have been. They had death where the sky should have been -- and they gave to the sky what was most precious to them.
Ten years. The ritual took form every ten years. When the nights were the longest and twilight painted the sky. It was a ritual that had been passed down the generations, the truth of its origin lost. Some say the Land Wights that claimed this land were at the root of the cause. Others claim a darker source, the fault of a King who sold his soul for prosperity and wealth at the price of innocent blood.
[3]There are many stories, each holding a fragment of truth. Of a ritual. Of a sacrifice. Of betrayal.
When the First Men came to Eretejva, they brought with them their gods and their understanding of the world. As such, when they chanced upon the ancient creatures, they gave them a name they knew. The old ones call them the Landvættir, the Land Wights of Eretejva, the Spirits of the land.
It is said that the weal of the land and those who dwell within it depends on the might and the happiness of the land-wights; if they are frightened or angered, the land will not thrive and the humans who live upon it will fare ill in all things. They control the safety and fertility of Eretejva, offering blessings of prosperity. Blessings, that could very well become a curse.
Thus the friendship of a landwight is a useful thing to have; it brought prosperity and luck, even those which would seem to fall outside of these wight's normal realms of nature and fruitfulness of the earth. It is said that they could even whisper murmurs of what is to come and the best time to take action.
For Eretejva, the Landvættir are the Mountain Giant of the North, the Griffen of the East, the Bear of the South, and the Dragon of the West.
It is said that to meet with the Landvættir, that one must find a boulder or go to a waterfall or the peak of a hill. There they must take some food and drink; hallow it to them, partaking in the meal and leaving some; then tell the Landvættir who you are and what you want.
Extreme caution is advised, remember that politeness is the most important thing in dealing with such wights; they are not like the demons of ceremonial magic and ritual, who can (and must!) be dominated and harshly commanded in specific detail, but rather the Landvættir are free beings who have no reason to wish you ill – or even to deny their help to you – unless you manage to personally offend them…
As the Lord of the First Men at the village of Vesturfjord did.
The First Men of Vesturfjord descended from the shipfaring lands of the west. They were a seafaring people, set to find lands to claim for their own. Some say it was due to a desire to leave behind a desolate place, perhaps the Blighted Lands and Sea. What destruction war and battle wrought left the land a wasteland.
Others claim a far different purpose to their voyage, claiming that a raiding ship had castaway on the Eastern shores of the Eretejva Tundra. Their ships laden with the bounty of captured slaves - women, men and children. All from different lands and cultures, now bound and isolated in the frigid, almost inhospitable black sand shores.
Whatever it may be, from these First Men came the construction of Vesterfjord, set between the crux of a large strait. How could they survive in such a place? With little resources and with the icy bite of winter upon them, from where could they draw a semblance of hope?
As they cast eyes to the sky and offered tribute of food to the Spirits and Gods of their homeland, a dark shadow would bring an answer… with a terrible price.
They say that Aron Jokullson was a tall and proud man. While he was not a man full of fortune, he was one of ambition and means. What manner brought him the title of the Lord of Vesturfjord is lost through the ages, but they say it was through his intervention that allowed the men and womenfolk of the settlement to survive.
[4]
The elders say it was he who first met those who inhabit the isle of Drakiall. An expedition searching for resources is said to have brought him past the strait and out near the open sea. Along a series of dangerous cliffs and distant islets, dark moving shadows flew throughout the rolling clouds of a distant storm. Majestic creatures, with wings so wide it could span the length of a ship. There they flew over the ocean and across the cliffs, terrifying as they would fill the First Men with awe; Dragons.
For sure these were the protective spirits of these lands, one would cry. We must pay tribute and ask for their mercy and blessings, surely another claimed. These were a people who grew up on the stories of the Landvættir in their homelands. Surely these were the same?
Falling upon his knees, Aron Jokuillson took from his pouch what he could offer of the meager jerky he had left. There, upon a boulder, in sight of the terrifying sight of what creatures flew overhead, Aron gave the food as a tribute.
Some say, perhaps, this was but the first of many decisions the prosperity of the village of Vesturfjord as well as its curse.
They say that Aron Jokullson's offering brought forth the clap of thunderous wings and the darkening of the sky. The rays of the sun could not be seen and from the depths of that toothy maw came the rumbling inquiry of the Landvættir of the East.
"What is it that you seek, Aron Jokullson?"
Of course, the creature would know the Lord's name. What else to expect from a creature created from a primal source of magic. Surely this Dragon had the ability to glean this much from Aron Jokullson?
Head bowed, Aron Jokullson made his plea.
"We humbly ask for your blessing, Landvættir, so that my people may survive the winter and prosper in your lands."
It was a humble plea, requesting what any fine leader would ask for their people. For their survival. Prostrated at the Dragon's clawed feet, Aron Jokullson awaited a reply, feeling his heart thunder in his chest and hammer in his ears.
"You may have your blessings." came the rumbling the reply. Aron Jokullson felt his head fall forward in gratitude, but it was far too soon for him to be so thankful at his good fortune.
"You will find sustenance, prosperity, and influence for your people." the Dragon continued, and Aron Jokullson felt the tiny hairs at the nape of his neck rise.
"In turn, you must provide me a bride. Bring me your daughter in ten years time."
Now Aron Jokullson had no daughter, much less a wife. In his mind, it was an easy agreement to adhere to. It was perhaps, foolishness to believe that ten years of prosperity was well worth worrying later about how to provide a bride to the Landvættir. So Aron Jokullson agreed to this contract, swearing a binding vow to the Dragon in turn.
The Dragon then commanded Jokullson to extend his hand. Palm extended, a single claw raked across the Lord of the First Men's flesh, drawing forth a crimson line of blood. There the beads fell to the obsidian sand below, where they were soon joined by the blood of the Dragon as well. He had also used his claw to slash a small wound against the tip of his wing, where the dark oozing blood came dribbling down to hiss at it hit the floor.
They say that Landvættir extended that wing for Jokullson to clasp within his own, a powerful current of energy seemed to spread from the creature to Aron himself and the very ground he stood. For with the prosperity, he would gain, so would he be touched by the magic of the Dragon itself.
The Landvættir had given Aron Jokullson the gift of magic, birthing within him the ability to take action of his own volition and use it to bring prosperity to the people of Vesterfjord.
And what was falsity became a verity...[2]
A long time ago, in the ages of Monsters and men, our lands were set upon a curse. People knew no happiness. They had tears where their eyes should have been. They had fear where their hearts should have been. They had death where the sky should have been -- and they gave to the sky what was most precious to them.
Ten years. The ritual took form every ten years. When the nights were the longest and twilight painted the sky. It was a ritual that had been passed down the generations, the truth of its origin lost. Some say the Land Wights that claimed this land were at the root of the cause. Others claim a darker source, the fault of a King who sold his soul for prosperity and wealth at the price of innocent blood.
[3]There are many stories, each holding a fragment of truth. Of a ritual. Of a sacrifice. Of betrayal.When the First Men came to Eretejva, they brought with them their gods and their understanding of the world. As such, when they chanced upon the ancient creatures, they gave them a name they knew. The old ones call them the Landvættir, the Land Wights of Eretejva, the Spirits of the land.
It is said that the weal of the land and those who dwell within it depends on the might and the happiness of the land-wights; if they are frightened or angered, the land will not thrive and the humans who live upon it will fare ill in all things. They control the safety and fertility of Eretejva, offering blessings of prosperity. Blessings, that could very well become a curse.
Thus the friendship of a landwight is a useful thing to have; it brought prosperity and luck, even those which would seem to fall outside of these wight's normal realms of nature and fruitfulness of the earth. It is said that they could even whisper murmurs of what is to come and the best time to take action.
For Eretejva, the Landvættir are the Mountain Giant of the North, the Griffen of the East, the Bear of the South, and the Dragon of the West.
It is said that to meet with the Landvættir, that one must find a boulder or go to a waterfall or the peak of a hill. There they must take some food and drink; hallow it to them, partaking in the meal and leaving some; then tell the Landvættir who you are and what you want.
Extreme caution is advised, remember that politeness is the most important thing in dealing with such wights; they are not like the demons of ceremonial magic and ritual, who can (and must!) be dominated and harshly commanded in specific detail, but rather the Landvættir are free beings who have no reason to wish you ill – or even to deny their help to you – unless you manage to personally offend them…
As the Lord of the First Men at the village of Vesturfjord did.
The First Men of Vesturfjord descended from the shipfaring lands of the west. They were a seafaring people, set to find lands to claim for their own. Some say it was due to a desire to leave behind a desolate place, perhaps the Blighted Lands and Sea. What destruction war and battle wrought left the land a wasteland.
Others claim a far different purpose to their voyage, claiming that a raiding ship had castaway on the Eastern shores of the Eretejva Tundra. Their ships laden with the bounty of captured slaves - women, men and children. All from different lands and cultures, now bound and isolated in the frigid, almost inhospitable black sand shores.
Whatever it may be, from these First Men came the construction of Vesterfjord, set between the crux of a large strait. How could they survive in such a place? With little resources and with the icy bite of winter upon them, from where could they draw a semblance of hope?
As they cast eyes to the sky and offered tribute of food to the Spirits and Gods of their homeland, a dark shadow would bring an answer… with a terrible price.
They say that Aron Jokullson was a tall and proud man. While he was not a man full of fortune, he was one of ambition and means. What manner brought him the title of the Lord of Vesturfjord is lost through the ages, but they say it was through his intervention that allowed the men and womenfolk of the settlement to survive.
[4]The elders say it was he who first met those who inhabit the isle of Drakiall. An expedition searching for resources is said to have brought him past the strait and out near the open sea. Along a series of dangerous cliffs and distant islets, dark moving shadows flew throughout the rolling clouds of a distant storm. Majestic creatures, with wings so wide it could span the length of a ship. There they flew over the ocean and across the cliffs, terrifying as they would fill the First Men with awe; Dragons.
For sure these were the protective spirits of these lands, one would cry. We must pay tribute and ask for their mercy and blessings, surely another claimed. These were a people who grew up on the stories of the Landvættir in their homelands. Surely these were the same?
Falling upon his knees, Aron Jokuillson took from his pouch what he could offer of the meager jerky he had left. There, upon a boulder, in sight of the terrifying sight of what creatures flew overhead, Aron gave the food as a tribute.
Some say, perhaps, this was but the first of many decisions the prosperity of the village of Vesturfjord as well as its curse.
They say that Aron Jokullson's offering brought forth the clap of thunderous wings and the darkening of the sky. The rays of the sun could not be seen and from the depths of that toothy maw came the rumbling inquiry of the Landvættir of the East.
"What is it that you seek, Aron Jokullson?"
Of course, the creature would know the Lord's name. What else to expect from a creature created from a primal source of magic. Surely this Dragon had the ability to glean this much from Aron Jokullson?
Head bowed, Aron Jokullson made his plea.
"We humbly ask for your blessing, Landvættir, so that my people may survive the winter and prosper in your lands."
It was a humble plea, requesting what any fine leader would ask for their people. For their survival. Prostrated at the Dragon's clawed feet, Aron Jokullson awaited a reply, feeling his heart thunder in his chest and hammer in his ears.
"You may have your blessings." came the rumbling the reply. Aron Jokullson felt his head fall forward in gratitude, but it was far too soon for him to be so thankful at his good fortune.
"You will find sustenance, prosperity, and influence for your people." the Dragon continued, and Aron Jokullson felt the tiny hairs at the nape of his neck rise.
"In turn, you must provide me a bride. Bring me your daughter in ten years time."
Now Aron Jokullson had no daughter, much less a wife. In his mind, it was an easy agreement to adhere to. It was perhaps, foolishness to believe that ten years of prosperity was well worth worrying later about how to provide a bride to the Landvættir. So Aron Jokullson agreed to this contract, swearing a binding vow to the Dragon in turn.
The Dragon then commanded Jokullson to extend his hand. Palm extended, a single claw raked across the Lord of the First Men's flesh, drawing forth a crimson line of blood. There the beads fell to the obsidian sand below, where they were soon joined by the blood of the Dragon as well. He had also used his claw to slash a small wound against the tip of his wing, where the dark oozing blood came dribbling down to hiss at it hit the floor.
They say that Landvættir extended that wing for Jokullson to clasp within his own, a powerful current of energy seemed to spread from the creature to Aron himself and the very ground he stood. For with the prosperity, he would gain, so would he be touched by the magic of the Dragon itself.
The Landvættir had given Aron Jokullson the gift of magic, birthing within him the ability to take action of his own volition and use it to bring prosperity to the people of Vesterfjord.