The First Tribe
Ymirson's Arrival on Svartalfheim
This story has been handed down from generation to generation, as the legend of those who first set foot upon Svartalfheim from Midgard. The Ymirson Tribe still exists, and he who leads it now leads the Human and Jotunborn back to Midgard
This is the story...
Ymirsson came from Midgard. it wasn't his real name, but due to his Jotunborn Trollan blood, the human clan who raised him, gave him the name in reflection of the ancient dead Jotun who Odin slew to create the world of Midgard.
Ymirsonn was old when Ragnarok came, and a legendary warrior. The story was that many lives past in his ancestry one of his line had been a huge human warrior who had been intimate with a frost Jotun, and produced a child - just as all Jotunborn were made. The unusual part of this story was that his father survived, and raised the child instead of his Jotun mother. Usually, this was unheard of for 1st generation Jotunborn.
In his youth, Ymirrson had been a warrior, just like all those before him, but after one battle he had been captured by an enemy clan and beaten mostly to death, his ribs broken, and his chest cavity caved in. Against all odds, the stubborn Jotunborn survived. When the reinforcements reached the site of the battle, and they began to prepare the dead, Ymirson's family took hold of his hand in grief, and instead found him breathing.
Never to be a warrior again, the injuries so severe that he had little ability in war as a fighter anymore, he instead turned his focus to giving praise to the Gods. The others of his kind however, those immortal Jotunborn born of the Gods instead of mortals; the likes of Fenrir and Garm, he despised. During his delirium injured, and his insides in pooled in front of him out of his chest, he had seen them, and they had laughed and mocked him. He feared them both, so like him, but so much more powerful due to their immortal blood. Nobody believed him when he said they were that; that they were just hallucinations, but it mattered not to Ymirson, and his resolve was fuelled by his hatred.
Then Ragnarok came.
Three long-ships set out from his town, in a desperate plan to escape the fighting of those who were dead, or immortal. They had heard tales of an island, with a hollow mountain many leagues away; a legend in fact, and on three ships were gathered any who would leave. They set sail, many of the older warriors taking up their arms and armour though barely able to wield them, on one last quest that would take them up against a great journey into the unknown, and as they sailed, Ragnarok erupted around them.
For days they had sailed, and approached the cold seas of the far north where the ice itself floated like islands. It was then that they were knocked off course. The ships had been hugging the coast until they had to venture across to the fabled island, where apparent salvation lay. The time to strike out was nearing, but they never got the chance. Out of the waves came a coil of Jormangandr, spasming and crashing through the water, and two of the ships were lost.
The remaining ship was driven into the coast, and the survivors, Ymirson amongst them, were forced to flee away from the coast, for the flailing coil of Jormangandr still weaved and crashed. Desolate, the small band wandered for hours, as they listened to the cries and screams of battle not far away; the final battle they had hoped to avoid. Ymirson was taller than his people, even in his advancing years, and his children were large and strong as well. From his vantage point, he could see a gleaming black horse, with more legs than should be possible, galloping with a glorious women upon its back. Ymirson called out, and she turned her head.
Riding towards them, the horse pulled up short with 8 legs pawing the ground. The woman took a glance across the ragtag, soaked band that stood behind Ymison and his children, and called in a clear booming voice that they were abandoning Midgard, and to make for the Bifrost. The woman pointed with her sword to the East, where Ymirson could see the gleaming entrance to the rainbow bridge, the Bifrost.
They were saved.
The other side of the Bifrost was glorious, and chaotic. The hall the band stood in as they emerged was beyond all previous comprehension of the the word 'glorious.' Immediately they were all bundled into a caravan, and for the next day they were jostled across a beautiful rich land, onto a boat across a short stretch off sea, and across more land until a city that eclipsed there new standard for glorious. The caravan pulled up in front of a hall, and they were all ushered inside. More words took on new meaning, and this time the word 'massive' took on new form as 8 portals like that of the Bifost were situated comfortably within this one building. Only three of them were active.
A gruff, obviously stressed man, or perhaps God, it was hard to tell, came up to them, and taking one look at Ymirrson and his children, sneered and pointed to the left hand side of the hall. 'You can't stay here Jotun, pick another world,' he declared and strode away as he called for armed guards to make sure they went. Ymirson and his children were manhandled towards one of the portals, and his clan's people went with them, trying in vain to stop them, none of them understanding what was going on.
Unceremoniously, they were tossed through the portal, and on the other side, beings they knew from legend as Svartalfar looked upon them with cautious eyes. Looking at the barren land around them, Ymirson suspected they were on Svartalfheim.
With tentative steps he approached the gathered welcome party, though they did not look welcoming. The exact words of that exchange have long been forgotten, but the words that Ymirson said to this people when he returned to them with smiling faces has survived in legend.
'They will let us live here, though not amongst them. We can utilise the land and can prove our skill by surviving, for they will only have the most skilled of us.'