Ysgramor and the Snow-Sorceress: A New-Life Tale

During my travels to the College of Winterhold, I was able to record this folktale from one of our Nordic caravan guards, who remembered it from the New Life Celebrations of his childhood. I have attempted to retain his style, but as my breakfast did not consist primarily of mead, something may have been lost in the transcription. -Caoran Fiascian, U. Gwilim

Alright, alright, skinny Breton, you want to hear the story so bad, I'll tell it; what's the difference between a horse and a group of high elves? A horse only has o- Just tell him the bloody story, Heord. Yeah, yeah, whatever. Alright, so, my da used to tell us this one every New Life, after we'd gone and done all the Wut Sulle Yol stuff, the bonfire, all that. He'd toss the embers from the big bonfire into our own hearth, and make this big show of tucking us into bed, like we were just going to sleep like any other day. He'd draw it out, right, then turn over and pretend he was snoring, let out these big silly fake things. One of us'd call out, "Da!", and he'd turn back over and see us all huddled by the hearth wrapped up in our blankets, begging him to tell us the story. Went like this,

A long, long time ago, no, longer than that, back when the forests where young and the mountains had a bit of shine still on them, the people were worried. It kept getting colder and colder, and the days kept getting darker and darker, and snowstorms kept coming fiercer and harsher than the last. Now, a little cold is nothing to a Nord, even though this was so long ago we didn't even know we were called Nords and had only just come back from icy Atmor, but there's such a thing as too much, and to top it all off the fire kept getting stolen from everyone's hearth.

One morning old king Ysgramor, mightest of the mighty, harbinger of us all woke up in a mood so foul it'ud tarnish bronze. He hadn't seen more'n two straight hours of sunlight in a week, and he'd had it up to his bloody loincloth with waking up to frozen nostrils. He strapped on his mighty shield, strung up Long Launcher with its' string of Giant-cries, and shouldered his axe, great and terrible Wuuthrad. He pushed passed all the worried hall-folk, and went to set things right.

It wasn't long he was out walking before he heard the singing; fell and terrible it echoed through the mountains. Tone-deaf too. He looked up to the peak of the Snow Throat, and there, spitting right in the face of Mother Kyne, was a Falmer Sorceress, beating a drum and singing a terrible spell to freeze the land and drive the people out. Ysgramor was having none of that, and started to sing himself, shouting back the foul witch's magic. She saw him though, and knew she couldn't let him get up the mountain.

She sent out her ice-wraiths and called down a snow-storm to blind Ysgramor. Now, an ice-wraith might be a danger to you or me, and three in a storm can kill a man, but to mighty old Ysgramor it was like a pack of fleas biting at him. Still, it slowed him down, and he couldn't be having that, so he unhooked the mighty Elf-Crusher, and blind though he was, took three great swings. One carved out the river Yorgrim, one carved out the White River, and the last sent a crack right up to the base of old Snow Throat, forming the river Darkwater, and that was that for the ice-wraiths.

Enraged, the Snow-Sorceress sent out her eight sons, carrying thier cold-lanterns. They swirled and twisted around Ysgramor, biting and clawing at him, but too cowardly to face him head-on, and were causing him no end of rage. They moved too fast for him to hit with Wuuthrad, and it seemed like they might slow his advance, until he got so angry he let loose his mighty battlecry, and it was all the fool-elfs could do not to trip over each other fleeing. Most got away, but one he caught, and threw so high and so far the ground got driven up around where he landed, and became the great hillock rangers call Bonestrewn Crest. This is why you only see seven of the Ice-Fools during Wut Sulle Yol.

Ysgramor kept up his march, singing and shouting his warm-weather spell so loud they could hear it in Atmor, and bloody livid was he. The snow-sorceress beat her drum as hard as she could and sent the fiercest blizzards she could muster at him, but he kept on climbing, and when he got to the top, he shouted the fell-witch right off the bloody mountain. The skies cleared, and he picked up the drum, claiming Snow-Throat for his people and shouting the sun back into the world. There in her cave he found the fire that had been stolen from all the people's hearths, and treasures the more besides, great silver armrings, rare fruit, and casks of fine mead. He scooped it all up and brought it back home, tossing it to the houses as he passed.

Now, Da would say, enven though mighty old Ysgramor won the day, that wicked old witch got away with her sons, and when the days grow cold and dark, she's out there, singing her foul spell to drive the people off. But when you hear the winds howling through the trees, it's Ysgramor himself leading his best to fight her off, with all their hounds and huskarls and shield-maidens. You best stay nice and warm beneath your thatch, 'cause the sight of something like that'd be enough to turn a man's beard white as the snow drifts. Now, if you've been good children, on his march back, old Ysgramor might drop some of his treasures for you as he passes. But if you've been bad, you might just get the snow-witch, and all she and her sons will leave you is a pile of cold hearth ashes.