Once, long ago, in the sunrise of our world, when the land was ever in spring and had not yet tasted the bitterness of winter; when the earth was as youthful as it was beautiful, and the taint of modern man had not yet spread, people were different. Men were stronger, and taller, and honor and nobility ran deep through their blood. Fierce were these men, terrible and beautiful in their own wild and rugged way. They were warlike and quick to defend, but also shrewd and also quick to laugh. The foremost of these in strength of body, mind and spirit were the men of the North. It was said that they took root in harsh weather like the evergreens they loved so dearly, or gleaned strength from their brothers, the wolves and the ravens; but it was not so. The chill of the northern air kept them sharp and alive: the blue of their eyes never dulled and the ashen blond of their hair was aflame with the lifeblood of times old even in those elder days. Led by their druids, and above them their Chieftain, the Men of the North reveled in their prosperity. They were wealthy with gold and jewels awakened from places far deep beneath mountains, and clad themselves in lush furs, so dark against the snow of their skin. The light of their fires was never extinguished, their mead-halls were full of rich foods and ales. Their longhouses were sturdy and carved with many a myth and tale of good fortune. A smile adorned nearly every cold face. No other clan could match them in war or in fame, and they were haughty and proud in their chilly Northern ways. Their gods were as fearless and full of good fortune as they were, and many a carved idol stood guard in the forests and mountains and frozen heath-land they called home. However, no good can last forever, and these proud sentinels at the top of the world delved far too greedily in their mountain mines; felled far too many trees in their forests. Their gods were forgotten, and angered. The winds grew colder and the water grew bitter. The fires burned dimmer, and the temperature dropped so low that hands turned black and eyes were frosted with the glimmer of winter's savage ice-born defense. Still, they delved unheeded.  The mines were carved deeper, rock and soil gave way to the bones of the earth. Their hunger was ravenous, and no longer were they noble children of nature, no longer were they brothers of raven, wolf, and stars. Their druids faded away to solitude or else to exile where their sacred lores and medicine rotted away, enveloped by the mold of time. Their faces were drawn and they turned gray and hollow with greed and hunger. They were more wealthy than ever before, but the homeland that they were attached to had been fed to the fires of industry and selfishness. Eventually, when they reached the very heart of the middle-world, where air stank of sulfur and was hot and still; where the only sound was their laboured breathing and frantic prospecting, they awakened something far older and more powerful than any creature known. A terrible and bloodcurdling miasma rose from their mineshafts and delvings to eat away at their lifesblood. It was slow, but certain. The Men of the North were fading surely to ruin. Soon, there would be naught left but ash, as gray and as shimmering as their hair.