The Roof of the World and Its Icy Maw

Nordheim is not merely a place—it is a proving ground carved from wind, bone, and ancient ice. A land older than maps, crueler than empires, and deeper than any grave. Nordheim remembers what the rest of the world forgets. It is cold, endless, alive in its silence—and filled with deathless danger. If you value warmth, reason, or life… turn back now. If not—read on.

THE ELVES OF THE PALE RUINS
No songs remain of their kin. Only pale watchers—Whyte Spectres—tall as men, hollow-eyed, and bone-thin—still guard their ghost cities. The elves of Nordheim were never kind. And what remains of them… is worse. Spectres roam the snows under moonlight, mimicking lost voices, leading wanderers into crevices and cold graves. They do not sleep. They remember.

THE HYPERBOREAN REAVERS
They once had libraries. Cities of stone and star-mirrored halls. Now? They wear bone and blood and believe their strength is proof of truth. Warbands of these fallen men stalk the outer marches, adorned in rune-brands, crowned with the skulls of their prey. They eat what they kill. Man. Beast. Or worse.

THE DEEP WYRMS
Here be dragons. Below the permafrost, in forgotten volcanic veins and long-dead elfholds, dwell the ancient serpents. Their hoards glimmer in silence—stolen gold of elven kings, mithril helms and magic rings, unspent coins of Cimmerian raiders, broken weapons once blessed by the stars. Most dragons sleep. A few do not. If you see their eyes… it’s already too late.

BEASTS AND CURSES
Werewolves run with frostbitten packs—not men who become wolves, but wolves who remember men—mockingly. Saber-tooth cats prowl the southern slopes, jaws like twin cleavers. Cavebears, great as siege engines, can turn wagons to splinters. Witches and warlocks trade warmth for power. Some eat snow-spirits to live forever. Draugur of the Undying Thule—fleshless kings with eyes like northern stars—whisper in dead languages, curse entire valleys, and rise at the sound of bells.

THE PRIMAL GEATMENT
Always more of them. No one knows how many remain, or what calls them. They are not trolls. Not ogres. They are something older—giants from before time—with shaggy hides and strange voices. They watch the sky. They stack bones. And they are growing in number. They do not build. They gather.

THE LAND ITSELF WILL KILL YOU
Roads freeze solid, then vanish under snow. Mountain passes crumble into sheer ravines. False snowbanks hide dead falls. Avalanches strike without sound. Frost kills in minutes. And the Winds of Eternal Winter—they do not just freeze. They steal warmth. They steal sound. They steal thought.

BUT THEN… THE RICHES
And here’s the cruel truth: it is all worth it.

THE STRONGHOLDS OF THULE
Vaults sealed with sorcery. Gemstones like frozen suns. Relics of the sky-wars before mankind’s age.

THE VANIR REMNANT FORESTS
Still untouched by axe, they hold beasts unknown and glades where time twists, thick with sorcerous bloom and mystery.

GRAVES OF THE AESIR
Beneath barrow and hill lie the star-forged arms and godly treasure—untouched since Ragnarok’s first whisper.

CIMMERIAN CAVERNS
Home to exiles, their stashes overflow with war-booty and cursed heirlooms.

DWARVEN STRONGHOLDS OF LEGEND AND MYTH
If the runes open—you may walk under the mountains where bronze rivers flow and clockwork beasts guard cities of ore, memory, and craft.

So go, if you must. Let the winds take your name. Let the frost test your blood. Let the old gods mark your soul. And if you return—do not come empty-handed.