CALIBRACIÓN DEL ANALIZADOR

The Plain of Fimbul is believed to be the coldest place on the face of the World, and anyone who travelled the reaches of this arctic ice desert will certainly agree on this.

Stretching hundreds of miles between the mountain ranges of Jotunheim, Ulfwerenar and the Naglfari, the Plain of Fimbul is an awesome reminder of the raw power of nature. The outer reaches of the plain is always a bit gusty due to chill winds blowing out from the cold heart of the icy wastes, but visibility is often good, allowing travellers to view tens of miles into the

freezing region. However, visibility can drop to nothing very fast, as heavy winds come and go on the plain itself – blowing loose snow around, obscuring tracks and making all the world seeming to be made of whirling white.

Much worse are the dreaded Ice Storms which turn the Plain of Fimbul into an icy hell; winds of an almost sonic velocities seems to blow from all directions, carrying with them blinding snow and sharp shards of ice torn lose from the landscape, and only the most experienced travellers have a chance of surviving if caught in the jaws of an ice storm. The landscape of the Plain of Fimbul is ever-changing due to the harsh weather, the heavy snowfall and the monstrous winds capable of changing the vista in a matter of hours. Mountains of pure ice, massive glaciers consisting of hundreds of thousands of tonnes of ice that sometimes flow like they have a mind, treacherous crevices that seem to have no bottom, frozen lakes miles across and vast reaches of featureless icy desert make up the face of the Plain of Fimbul. The only permanent feature of the Plain of Fimbul is a range of mountains called the Gates of the Gods which supposedly stands at the centre of the icy wastes; supposedly because they apparently disappear from time to time – Lost in the suffocating blanket of ice and snow that make up the base component of the plain. How that is possible when the mountain range is piercing the very skies is anybody‗s guess.

The Gates of the Gods is said to be a direct gateway Raenisheim, the home of the Gods, and only the mightiest of heroes and purest of heart can walk here – Terrible guardian creatures are said to keep a vigil over the mountains, ready to remove anyone found

unworthy.

However, generally speaking, any number of unknown creatures could be living deep within the Plain of Fimbul, as the constantly whirling snow masses and inaccessible regions of its inner lands are both vast and largely unexplored due to the harsh conditions of the environment.

Even amid the troll-haunted, Chaos-tainted wastes of Norsca, few creatures are as feared or hated as the Cursed Ettin. Renowned in dread Norscan sagas, the

twin-headed, hulking Ettins are terrors of the high moorlands and mountains of the Northlands. Hulking and twisted, these monstrosities are easily distinguished

from the lumbering giants of the Old World by their singular deformities and cruel intellect, although they

share both their size and great hunger for flesh. Believed to be a single clan, the Cursed Ettin shun even the company of their own, and - if the dark tales of the Chaos-worshipping tribes are to be believed - never die, save by great violence done to them. Although they

have clearly been touched by the mutating hand of Chaos, each Cursed Ettin share certain warped traits, carrying their stigma as a curse under whose torment they are bound to eternally suffer, and despise all that

walks and crawls in this world, but save their vilest enmity for the Chaos gods who made them. The Cursed Ettins' origin is lost in tides of blood and time, but many stories speak that they were once men, not giants, and theirs was a curse born of a foolish pride,

treachery and bargain with dark and fickle powers. The Cursed Ettins' bloodline was headed in those times by their warlord-king Jorundr who bargained with the Daemons of Chaos for mighty and power for him and his lot, and many were their victories bought in coin of blood and sacrifice. According to the sagas, as Jorundr's glory grew so did too his pride, until at last in hubris he refused to call a prophesied invasion of the Southlands, betraying his Daemonic lords to conquer the lands of those instead to those who had paid heed to their call of

war, treacherously ravaging the length and breadth of Norsca, ransacking Chaos altars and bringing back his prisoners as thralls. Thus were the Chaos gods angered and their cruelty was visited upon Jorundr and his kin a

hundredfold.

Jorundr and his descendants kept the might they so craved, but in horrific form, cursed now to be riven of

soul and twisted of body, fused kinsman to kinsman, greater and lesser in constant struggle for mastery, horrific to look upon and denied the blessed mindless oblivion of spawndom. Driven from Norsca's towns and

villages they learned to hate all that lived and their works, for their only served to remind them of what they had lost. Over time as they grew in hatred they grew to in size, and those that survived the terrors of those lands became a terrifying race of giants, bitterest of all the monsters under the shadow of the Dark Gods.

55

Yagamir Saga: