It has long been known on Jotunheim that magecraft is a gift of the Ancestors blood, a strengthening of spirit, and a gift that, like anything received from one's ancestors, must be repaid in kind. The mages of Jotunheim were some of the strongest and most brightly burning in the Nine Realms, and for that reason, it was believed that the cost of that fire, their bright burning, was to keep a part of them forever entwined in the spirit world. Warriors flexed their bulk, their height and strength, their horns. Mages sharpened their wits, honed their spirits to heights of power which dwarfed the natural ice-affinities that all were born with, spoke to the unknowable and Ancestors alike and if they were well-treated, shared their speakings with others so that all might learn. Mages knew better than to feel shame at their small stature. The light shone, rippling through the ice with the heartbeat of their people. The balance was kept.

Naturally, few souls had the courage to enter into life, the world, with such a physical disadvantage. Jotunheim had never been a realm overrun by those with magic sparking in their veins, not like those of Alfheim, who all carried some measure of magics. Nor even like those of Vanaheim, where at least half the population had some drop of the gift. The Jotnar believed that being born to magecraft was a choice, made in the spirit world before birth, a choice given to all and accepted by only a handful each generation. Thus mages were sacred to the Jotnar, tied to the rhythm of the odd seasons and the demands of the Ancestors. Chained to the deep woven rules of their world, their influence matched only by the will of the one who sat the throne and wielded the Casket of Ancient Winters. The Casket itself was yet another physical manifestation of spiritual meddling; Ymir's frozen soul commanding his people down the ages through forcing their reliance on him to continue shaping their world. Thin as the gap that separated Jotunheim from the blaze of Muspelheim and the eldritch darkness of Niflheim in the vastness of space, the Jotnar too lived day to day on the knifes edge between the physical and the metaphysical.

Trade and commerce boomed, Jotunheim at the height of her glory, renowned throughout the realms for their artistry and skill at storytelling, for their supplies of hardwood and softest, deep furs. So too, for their reserve when trading, for their quick jibes and the richness of their songs, rituals and drums. Marriage between the realms was not uncommon, and all prospered well.

When the child slipped from Laufey's flesh on a wave of heat and pain, Laufey felt pride. The child was small, eyes gleaming red as Aesir blood, even then with merriment. He lit a dangerous warmth in Laufey's breast and so Laufey named him Loptr. Farbauti bared white teeth at his sentiment and doted on the babe. It seemed to Laufey that an even brighter age was about to begin.

When Jotunheim's need for fertile croplands and Laufey's incursion into Midgard stewed troubles which turned to war with his cousin, Laufey's heart hardened into hatred. Odin, called All-Father, Borrson, Borr-killer, called Kin-Slayer, called Oath-breaker; Odin who was but a lusty breath in Bestla's perfect blue ear in better times; Odin who was but a bit of filth from Borr's thighs in a time when not-yet-king Laufey was called Nál and had marveled at the beauty of the third age, and who had taken all that was glorious in Jotunheim's people and culture and stolen away to bastardize it into what he now called Asgard. This man Odin followed Laufey's defeat to Jotunheim to cement his victory in arrogance and the mockeries of his brand of mercy.

Farbauti, who was of the strongest of warriors, Laufey had always delighted in watching battle. Farbauti, Laufey lost sight of in the melee, found after, wreathed in blood and snow.

Loptr was hidden away in the holiest of holies, close to the breath, the word and will of Ymir himself.

Both were taken.

Only one was presumed treasure worth the keeping by enemy forces. With the proof of so many others young and new, laid unmoving as the pitiless ice reclaimed their bones, so did Loptr, last spark of the age of Jotunheim's greatness, die to the people.

Mages too, died in droves from the shock of feeling the ancestors muzzled.

One eye was a poor trophy to keep, but it served to remind Laufey of the lie that was pride and the illusion that was peace.

Now Laufey and all of Jotunheim fell into the Great Mourning, a winter not of flesh but of the spirit, while their world died around them and the splendor that was could not be rebuilt. Parties of young foolish noblemen from Asgard came to terrorize and hunt Jotnar like animals, to mock and spit on them. To break their bones and take what was not promised. To leave a trail of half-blood children and shame in their wake. Odin allowed the desecration, the abuse to continue.

Jotunheim, like Laufey's heart, grew hard with hatred. The Ancestors howled with the winds from endless Ginnungagap. Slowly, Jotunheim became a wasteland of death, and the Aesir taught their children that it had always been so.

The light died.