Of the First Meeting of Master and Tongue Jurgen the Calm, and the Storm-Wyrm of the Mon-Ah-Ven

Of the Seventeen Disciples who traveled to the summit of the Mon-Ah-Ven with Our Master, Nine yet remain: Ysmieil Stormbreath, last-tongued scion of Bromjunaar; Kjor son of Kjeld, Thu’um-Skald who sang our defeat from the Peak of Aanthur; Brokk Bromsumah, whose grandsire’s grandsire’s wine-mutterings brought the snows of Altmora to Wind-Helm; Gjelding the Lesser, so named at birth with little consideration for the growth of his twelfth winter; Thulfus the Embittered, whose allegiance was won in the Siege of Bleak Falls; Svaknir, who once gripped a Frost-Elf by his shoulders and poured his Voice down his Throat until he burst; and the Three Who Renounced Their Names to the Way, whose commitment to Our Master I will respect by not recording them here.

Our first foray onto the Peak of the Mon-Ah-Ven was met with vicious resistance; most of us, snow-blind and wearied from the climb, did not see our assailant through the biting winds that swirl around the Summit. Six of our Number were hurled from the Peak by the initial challenge- the Disputant being a great Storm-Wyrm who had hidden himself upon the crest. The rest of us, as new-born as we were to the Way, readied to make Response to his claim of Royalty Over the Mon-Ah-Ven. But Our Master stopped us, Speaking as he did in times of chaos to Clear the Skies:

>LOK VAH KOOR, NID LINGRAHIIK WAHL MU NEL VUN.

And we fell silent and bowed before him, and retreated from the Summit to await his command. We heard great Thundering from the mountaintop, and Proclamations of Fire and Frost and Force such as never we had witnessed, for Wyrms of truly fearsome Thu’um and Su’um had been conquered or made scarce with the coming of Man’s Voice. Truly, we feared for Our Master, for though each of us in his turn had had his Voice Swallowed by The Calm, we could not conceive that even a Dov-Ah could submit to the Way we had so newly come to walk.

And when we had torn our hair and wept tears that turned to glittering ice in our beards, all of us beheld Jurgen the Calm, returned to us from the Peak of the Mon-Ah-Ven, though his face was blanched like a Bed-Wife’s throat. He said to those of us who remained and came forward to brace his shoulders,

>“Let us retreat to the foot of the Mon-Ah-Ven, for my Throat is seared by the Swallowing of his Thu’um, and my eyes grow heavy from the climb.”

And so we lifted him up onto the shoulders of our Number Now Eleven, and Swept all up on the Whirlwind to bring him thus to the House of Ivharr the Fisher-King, who provided us with sweet water and honey-spirits and raw fish spread with wasabi, and under whose hospitality Our Master recovered. And in truth we thought to live out our lives at the foot of the Mountain as Ivharr did, and secretly we rejoiced, for the Peak was high, and our Voices trembled at the thought of the great Storm-Wyrm. Yet on the Third Day after we descended from the Mon-Ah-Ven, our Master said unto us:

>“The care of Ivharr the Fisher-King has restored my strength, and Kyne’s Breath singing down the Slopes of the Mon-Ah-Ven has restored my faith. We must ascend once more.”

And so we did, bile-apprehension silencing the unease of our Voices.