The bows of our great ships cut through the mist like swords through the soft flesh of lesser men. After many days of sailing, fleeing from Father Frost and the frigid grip that he has sent to slowly claim our once habitable lands, we at last found shore. Not many of us were left; as our homeland has grown colder the crops died, cattle died, kindred died. Their blue, hoarfrost-coated bodies now rest beneath a grave of snow, the blizzards having claimed every last rock and tree of our island.

Fortunately, many had been wise enough to sense the winds of change. Acting preemptively, they ceased participation in the endless wars and feuds of our belligerent tribes, and devoted every moment of their waking moments to finding a way to escape our lands before the ever colder winters killed us all. Some prayed to Father Frost for mercy, some to the Fire Giants of legend for their return, and others took the matter upon themselves and built great boats that could sail for days. 

Those that prayed froze like everyone else. The boatbuilders also died. They were the wisest of us, yet they were weak and unworthy. We, the Ards, the last tribe alive, grew stronger from the frigid winds and ceaseless snow. When the great ships had at last been built from the last trees of our island and filled to the brim with the last supplies that our kind had to offer, our mighty warriors made their move. The boatbuilders' blood stained the snows as we fell upon them, leaving their cold bodies behind as we stole their ships, for the endless winter has made us strong; our hearts are cold and some say that ice flows through our veins. Led by Danr, our great Chieftain, we sailed south for many days in search of warmer lands.

We heard land before we saw it; the sound of mighty waves crashing upon the fjords boomed like thunder. Many of our ships were caught in the currents and pushed into the rocky cliffs, broken and toppled, those families aboard condemned to watery graves as the rest of us were helpless to do anything yet steer away from them, lest our ships wreck as well. As we sailed around that bleak island and saw nothing but cold and wet stone and sheer cliff faces, we deemed life upon that wretched rock impossible and sailed on further south.

Now, we have at last spotted another land, and this one is much larger and lively than any we have seen before. There are great forests of pine where our fatherland had naught but the occasional, lonely tree poking out from the thin and rocky soil. The snows still fall, but we are Father Winter's chosen people. If the cold takes chase, we will move further south, but until then, this land is comfortable. The cold winds that would freeze lesser men fall upon our bare chests and feel warm in contrast to the bitter cold that even the youngest of us remember. This will be our new homeland. Upon beaching our ships upon the shores of this new land, our Jarl Danr made of them a sacrifice to the gods and put them to the torch. With our great ships now reduced to ashes on the beach, and the knowledge of their construction known only by the dead boatbuilders, there is no turning back for us.

Our fatherland once had tens of thousands of people, but then the cold winds swept away the lesser tribes. We, the Ards, once had many more people as well, but our long and harsh journey has culled the weak. Now, the remaining 250 of us are strong. We will build a new home and become a great tribe once more.