I am ironsworn... Chapter 0.

My Ironlands

Snow. Stone. Wind. Wood. Black iron.

(Map by Angel Perez (McSekce)).

The Ironlands are as ruthless as a wolf mother with cubs. Were it not for The Taint and no one would dare live here.

The Taint came from nowhere. It starts with a red stain on one’s skin. Anyone. Man, woman or child. And in a matter of days, the whole family would be bedridden, coughing blood and fading away. The Elders said that it was not punishment. They said that it was a disease, that it could not be helped. They screamed it at the top of their lungs as our ancestors cut everyone that had a red mark down before boarding the ships that would carry us to the Ironlands.

Only the clean could cross. Only the immune. Little did they know that the Taint sneaked in with them, into those long sailing coffins.

The journey was hard. Hundreds of boats left our homeland. Mere dozens arrived.

This was more than two hundred years ago. Our people, the ones that arrived, crashed in these black, hard, cold shores. They found iron in the ground; they found little food and no welcome. Savage beasts took the feeble. The frost took some more. It was through sheer will that they survived. An Iron will.

The ground had to be worked. The hard soil had to be planted. Trees had to fall. And Tools were essential for this. The few first Blacksmiths understood their worth. They knew that without them there would be no life. They began teaching the ways of The Smithing to a selected few, in secret. They grew in influence and power, wielding their knowledge as they wielded their hammers: hard and without mercy. Whoever tried to learn the ways of The Smithing without permission or supervision would be deemed a heretic. We swore by our Iron. And Craft became Religion.

Each Weld where us, Ironlanders live, has its own form of government. Some are ruled by their Smith-Priest. Others are not so lucky. Smith-Priests came in all forms, and some were weak and malleable like iron on bright red heat. Throughout the years, warlords took hold of these and wielded them as the tools they made. Thus, some Welds grew to great size, holding hundreds of people and thrived (as much as one can thrive in these lands). Smaller, weaker Welds, have their survival tested and measured, hardening their inhabitants even more, making them bitter and wary. Even of the Links.

The Links roam the land, following some strange calling to go from Weld to Weld, doing what must be done. From cutting wood for an old woman to banding with a group of villagers to go kill a pack of wolves that has been terrorizing them, they do anything that will get them paid, leaving shortly after, with no goodbyes. However, some Links turned to a darker path and seem to prefer to take what they want. Some resort to stealing, others to murder. Some overstay their welcome, harassing small Welds, making the inhabitants do their bidding, by force. Mostly in the lands of the Deep Wilds and the Ragged Coast, to the west and southwest.

The rest of the Ironlands (mainly the Havens and Hinterlands, to the east and southeast) are where most of the bigger Welds lie and the weather is more clement. That is to say… where the snow and the blizzards are a bit less cold. Those leaders tend to have Chains of Men at their service, some bigger, some smaller. Though not professional soldiers, nor part of a standing army (for all hands are needed to survive), these Chains of Men make short work of rogue Links and their abuse.

North of the Hinterlands is where the Ironlands test the mettle of our people. That is where glowing eyes in black shadows watch us, hungrily. That is where fire is a cloak, and its light is salvation. North is where myths become reality, where things happen that make you doubt your eyes and ears. Where I once saw a little girl lift an anvil above her head. Where people are born with white hair and old souls. North is where your piss freezes before it hits the ground.

And that is where I, Sigurd, am going.