💙09 - Minni Vakna [Runes of Wyrd - vol 3]🤍

Nordic ritual ambient; faint ice resonance, near-bare vocal space and sparse frozen-air tones; slow, free-time joik with gradually widening canon; low female lead in an elderly, powerful, weathered, cracked, raw, breathy timbre, joined by answering female voices and whispered layers, building to dissonant ritual choruses before dissolving into one breath

For almost a year, I’ve been writing Runes of Wyrd. Today, I’m proud to bring its universe to life in a new way.
Discover the game:
 
💙🤍 --->     https://runesofwyrd.com/    <--- 💙🤍

Album : https://suno.com/playlist/d3b85d17-41e5-4f6c-bfbc-4086191ed19e

💙🤍💙🤍💙

We were there.

My home.

Niflheim welcomed us as it welcomed all things, without warmth, without anger, and without the slightest curiosity. The cold did not descend upon us. It was already there, everywhere, settled for so long that it seemed to have preceded the stone, the mist, and perhaps even the gods. It entered my companions’ lungs with the delicacy of a blade and slipped beneath their clothes before they had time to understand that, in this realm, the body kept nothing that was not immediately contested.

Around us stretched a land with no true horizon. Plains of ice vanished beneath motionless banks of mist, crossed by the black silhouettes of dead trees that no longer carried even the memory of a leaf. The sky hung low, almost white in its greyness, and no light seemed to come from any particular place. Here, shadows existed without sunlight and whispers without mouths.

I had forgotten how reassuring this place could be.

Fear is not always bound to the unknown. Sometimes it is born from what we know too well, from what we have fled for so long that we eventually give it the shape of a home. Niflheim had been my prison, but it was a prison whose every silence I knew. I knew where the ice gave way, where the dead spoke in their sleep, and where the wind carried memories that did not belong to you. Above all, I knew that here, nothing pretended to be alive.

The humans travelling with me did not share that fondness.

I felt their eyes settle upon me as the passage closed behind us. They watched me as one watches an animal suddenly returned to its natural habitat, with that quiet fear of discovering that it had followed you this far merely out of politeness.

Torstein clutched his axe as though enough iron might convince the cold to keep its distance. Helena had moved closer to Bruno without even realising it, while the boy pretended not to notice, probably because he was sixteen and, for a young man of that age, freezing to death seemed less humiliating than admitting he needed his sister.

Skörta kept her face raised. Blíðki, nestled against her, had buried his muzzle beneath her arm with more wisdom than most rulers I had known. Mikal-Finnvard, meanwhile, was not looking at the landscape. He was watching us. Some men always seek to understand a room before deciding where to sit within it. The Jarl was already trying to understand the realm.

Min remained silent, but something had changed in the way she looked into the mist. Her red eye and her blue eye no longer seemed to be gazing upon quite the same world. Johannes, for his part, breathed slowly. The wolf within him knew the cold, but not this cold. It belonged neither to the forest nor to the hunt. It belonged to the things that even predators could not devour.

Then there was Mikki.

My descendant was smiling.

Not with Torstein’s thoughtlessness before a full tankard, nor with Mikell’s confidence whenever he knew something the others did not. Mikki smiled because he, too, could glimpse what was unfolding. The humans had crossed a boundary they should never have been able to reach, and not one of them was truly considering turning back.

That is the way of men. Give them a locked door and they will ask what lies behind it. Warn them that it protects the world from some ancient horror, and they will immediately search for the handle. Finally, explain that opening it will probably lead them to their doom, and they will call it courage.

Mikki turned his head slightly towards me.

His gaze asked whether I was thinking the same thing.

I answered with a smile.

It was strange to see my own blood in the wrinkles of a man who looked older than I did. Stranger still to recognise within him that lucidity I had once mistaken for a curse. He knew we might be advancing towards catastrophe. He also knew that no words could stop those who had begun to believe their destiny awaited them at the end of the road.

I knew that obsession.

Once, I had believed my art would save me. I played to give a voice to what Niflheim condemned to silence. Each note became a tiny spark of warmth, each melody a rebellion against stillness. But no one danced here. The dead did not applaud, and the mists had a deplorable sense of rhythm.

They had taken my music from me whenever it became too alive. They had broken my instruments, my fingers, and sometimes more, for gaolers often lack imagination when they wish to punish what they do not understand. Yet I had continued. When I could no longer play, I composed inside my mind. When the pain prevented even that, I listened to my heart beating and turned it into a measure.

That was what Niflheim had taught me: anything that survives long enough eventually becomes an art.

Now, I was no longer alone. I could sense my companions’ fear, their doubts, but also the secrets they carried within them like concealed blades. Some knew them. Others had forgotten them. Perhaps the most dangerous were those from which their own memories had chosen to protect them.

The Bridge of Memories was waiting for them.

I could almost hear it in the distance, calling each of them by a name they no longer recognised.

At last, I turned towards the group.

“The Bridge of Memories. I know the way. Follow me, and let us not remain here.”

This time, no one joked. Even Torstein understood that Niflheim’s silence was not empty, but attentive.

We began to walk between the dead trees. The ice cracked beneath our feet with a sound that sometimes resembled a voice, and sometimes a bone. Helena quickly came alongside me, her hand close to her weapon and her gaze constantly returning to Bruno.

“Ash, what should we fear there?”

I stopped.

The answer probably deserved solemnity. I had already given them plenty of it, and humans endured terror more easily when allowed to believe it possessed some meaning. Yet when I saw their tense faces, I could not prevent a faint, almost friendly smile from forming upon my lips.

“Yourselves, my friends. You will have to face what you have forgotten.”

💙🤍💙🤍💙

Nú em ek komin heim.
Kalt er landit,
kyrr er þokan.
Frost bítr hold,
þǫgn man nafn mitt.
Skuggar án sólar,
hvísl án munna.
Hér váru bǫnd mín.
Hér var friðr minn.

Heimr... Bǫnd

Ek flýða þik
en gleymda þér aldri

Ek söng í myrkri
þá er engi hlýddi
Ek gaf þǫgninni rǫdd
ek gaf frosti anda
Þeir brutu hǫrpu mína
Þeir brutu fingr mína
En hjarta mitt sló
ok varð at söng

Hjarta slær
Hjarta syngr
Hjarta man

Þat er lengi lifir
verðr at kvæði.

Nú koma menn með mér,
með ótta í brjósti,
með leynd í hjarta,
með gleymd nǫfn í blóði.
Þeir sjá lokaðar dyrr
ok leita lykils.
Þeir heyra bana
ok kalla hann hugrekki.

Engi snýr aptr

Minnisbrú bíður yðr.
Hon kallar leyndum nǫfnum.
Fylgið mér.
Dveljum eigi hér.
Þér eruð
yðvarr eigin ótti.

Óttizk eigi ísinn,
óttizk eigi Hel.
Óttizk sjálf yðr,
þat er þér gleymðuð.
Minni vakna,
nǫfnin kalla.
Fylgið mér yfir Minnisbrú.
Engi flýr sjálfan sik.

Óttizk sjálf yðr...
Minni vakna...
Nǫfnin kalla...
Engi flýr sjálfan sik...

Óttizk eigi ísinn,
óttizk eigi Hel.
Óttizk sjálf yðr,
þat er þér gleymðuð.
Minni vakna,
nǫfnin kalla.
Fylgið mér yfir Minnisbrú.
Engi flýr sjálfan sik.

Þat er þér gleymðuð
Mœtið því
er þér gleymðuð.

7492/7500

For almost a year, I’ve been writing Runes of Wyrd. Today, I’m proud to bring its universe to life in a new way. Discover the game: 💙🤍 ---> https://runesofwyrd.com/ <--- 💙🤍 Album : https://suno.com/playlist/d3b85d17-41e5-4f6c-bfbc-4086191ed19e 💙🤍💙🤍💙 We were there. My home. Niflheim welcomed us as it welcomed all things, without warmth, without anger, and without the slightest curiosity. The cold did not descend upon us. It was already there, everywhere, settled for so long that it seemed to have preceded the stone, the mist, and perhaps even the gods. It entered my companions’ lungs with the delicacy of a blade and slipped beneath their clothes before they had time to understand that, in this realm, the body kept nothing that was not immediately contested. Around us stretched a land with no true horizon. Plains of ice vanished beneath motionless banks of mist, crossed by the black silhouettes of dead trees that no longer carried even the memory of a leaf. The sky hung low, almost white in its greyness, and no light seemed to come from any particular place. Here, shadows existed without sunlight and whispers without mouths. I had forgotten how reassuring this place could be. Fear is not always bound to the unknown. Sometimes it is born from what we know too well, from what we have fled for so long that we eventually give it the shape of a home. Niflheim had been my prison, but it was a prison whose every silence I knew. I knew where the ice gave way, where the dead spoke in their sleep, and where the wind carried memories that did not belong to you. Above all, I knew that here, nothing pretended to be alive. The humans travelling with me did not share that fondness. I felt their eyes settle upon me as the passage closed behind us. They watched me as one watches an animal suddenly returned to its natural habitat, with that quiet fear of discovering that it had followed you this far merely out of politeness. Torstein clutched his axe as though enough iron might convince the cold to keep its distance. Helena had moved closer to Bruno without even realising it, while the boy pretended not to notice, probably because he was sixteen and, for a young man of that age, freezing to death seemed less humiliating than admitting he needed his sister. Skörta kept her face raised. Blíðki, nestled against her, had buried his muzzle beneath her arm with more wisdom than most rulers I had known. Mikal-Finnvard, meanwhile, was not looking at the landscape. He was watching us. Some men always seek to understand a room before deciding where to sit within it. The Jarl was already trying to understand the realm. Min remained silent, but something had changed in the way she looked into the mist. Her red eye and her blue eye no longer seemed to be gazing upon quite the same world. Johannes, for his part, breathed slowly. The wolf within him knew the cold, but not this cold. It belonged neither to the forest nor to the hunt. It belonged to the things that even predators could not devour. Then there was Mikki. My descendant was smiling. Not with Torstein’s thoughtlessness before a full tankard, nor with Mikell’s confidence whenever he knew something the others did not. Mikki smiled because he, too, could glimpse what was unfolding. The humans had crossed a boundary they should never have been able to reach, and not one of them was truly considering turning back. That is the way of men. Give them a locked door and they will ask what lies behind it. Warn them that it protects the world from some ancient horror, and they will immediately search for the handle. Finally, explain that opening it will probably lead them to their doom, and they will call it courage. Mikki turned his head slightly towards me. His gaze asked whether I was thinking the same thing. I answered with a smile. It was strange to see my own blood in the wrinkles of a man who looked older than I did. Stranger still to recognise within him that lucidity I had once mistaken for a curse. He knew we might be advancing towards catastrophe. He also knew that no words could stop those who had begun to believe their destiny awaited them at the end of the road. I knew that obsession. Once, I had believed my art would save me. I played to give a voice to what Niflheim condemned to silence. Each note became a tiny spark of warmth, each melody a rebellion against stillness. But no one danced here. The dead did not applaud, and the mists had a deplorable sense of rhythm. They had taken my music from me whenever it became too alive. They had broken my instruments, my fingers, and sometimes more, for gaolers often lack imagination when they wish to punish what they do not understand. Yet I had continued. When I could no longer play, I composed inside my mind. When the pain prevented even that, I listened to my heart beating and turned it into a measure. That was what Niflheim had taught me: anything that survives long enough eventually becomes an art. Now, I was no longer alone. I could sense my companions’ fear, their doubts, but also the secrets they carried within them like concealed blades. Some knew them. Others had forgotten them. Perhaps the most dangerous were those from which their own memories had chosen to protect them. The Bridge of Memories was waiting for them. I could almost hear it in the distance, calling each of them by a name they no longer recognised. At last, I turned towards the group. “The Bridge of Memories. I know the way. Follow me, and let us not remain here.” This time, no one joked. Even Torstein understood that Niflheim’s silence was not empty, but attentive. We began to walk between the dead trees. The ice cracked beneath our feet with a sound that sometimes resembled a voice, and sometimes a bone. Helena quickly came alongside me, her hand close to her weapon and her gaze constantly returning to Bruno. “Ash, what should we fear there?” I stopped. The answer probably deserved solemnity. I had already given them plenty of it, and humans endured terror more easily when allowed to believe it possessed some meaning. Yet when I saw their tense faces, I could not prevent a faint, almost friendly smile from forming upon my lips. “Yourselves, my friends. You will have to face what you have forgotten.” 💙🤍💙🤍💙 Nú em ek komin heim. Kalt er landit, kyrr er þokan. Frost bítr hold, þǫgn man nafn mitt. Skuggar án sólar, hvísl án munna. Hér váru bǫnd mín. Hér var friðr minn. Heimr... Bǫnd Ek flýða þik en gleymda þér aldri Ek söng í myrkri þá er engi hlýddi Ek gaf þǫgninni rǫdd ek gaf frosti anda Þeir brutu hǫrpu mína Þeir brutu fingr mína En hjarta mitt sló ok varð at söng Hjarta slær Hjarta syngr Hjarta man Þat er lengi lifir verðr at kvæði. Nú koma menn með mér, með ótta í brjósti, með leynd í hjarta, með gleymd nǫfn í blóði. Þeir sjá lokaðar dyrr ok leita lykils. Þeir heyra bana ok kalla hann hugrekki. Engi snýr aptr Minnisbrú bíður yðr. Hon kallar leyndum nǫfnum. Fylgið mér. Dveljum eigi hér. Þér eruð yðvarr eigin ótti. Óttizk eigi ísinn, óttizk eigi Hel. Óttizk sjálf yðr, þat er þér gleymðuð. Minni vakna, nǫfnin kalla. Fylgið mér yfir Minnisbrú. Engi flýr sjálfan sik. Óttizk sjálf yðr... Minni vakna... Nǫfnin kalla... Engi flýr sjálfan sik... Óttizk eigi ísinn, óttizk eigi Hel. Óttizk sjálf yðr, þat er þér gleymðuð. Minni vakna, nǫfnin kalla. Fylgið mér yfir Minnisbrú. Engi flýr sjálfan sik. Þat er þér gleymðuð Mœtið því er þér gleymðuð.

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