The Legend of Thorgir
Written by Achilles

(This story is a product of the author’s fiction. Its content is not necessarily reflected on the already established lore of the world of Tyria)

The Ice Dragon had taken away all of those that he loved. His parents, his brother, his wife and now even his own children. Only a few close friends were left, and they had abandoned him out of misery. There was no one in the world for him now.

Thorgir Ingvarson, a Norn smith, stood by the fire forging what was supposed to turn into a sword. He grew up by the fire, he had spent so many moments of his life close to it. Enough to know that ice had no chance next to its presence. The time had come.


It had been a couple of days of march already since Thorgir’s party decided to leave Hoelbrak. Along the road they crossed paths with some roaming icebrood that fell easily under their weapons. They knew that the presence of the corrupted was a sign that they were getting closer to their actual target.

Only a cluster of trees was left to traverse now in order to reach the other side of the snowy forest. The naked trunks were acting as if they were curtains for the sunlight that bathed the fringes. They stood there blinded, till their eyes could adapt to what wasn’t the gloom of the woodlands anymore.

Their vision was clear now. They could witness right in front of them the purpose of their entire journey, roosting down in the valley. He was the size of a fortress; a crystal fortress made out of icy scales. His eyelids had come down to form two of the finest of diamonds at the place where his eyes were supposed to be. Could they be so lucky? Perhaps he got tired from hunting all day long, they thought. This might have been their chance to strike.

Quietly, one by one they sneaked behind the Dragon. Thorgir was standing next to the beast’s rear legs when full of anger and hatred he raised his sword and sank it deep into Jormag’s flesh. A sudden roar was heard when the massive silhouette woke up trying to stand on its feet. He spread His wings and flew up in the sky performing a difficult maneuver above of their heads. The Dragon did not intend to flee. He quickly changed direction in the air and started descending towards Thorgir and his companions.

It was Jormag’s chilly breath the last thing that Thorgir felt on that day.


The old smith woke up. He was sitting by the fireplace in his hut just outside of Hoelbrak. He grew up by the fire. Just a little bit further away, on the table, lied the sword he was working on in the previous day. A masterpiece he dared to believe, one of the finest blades ever forged, a Dragon killer. He lost all of his relatives to Jormag in the past and now he has decided to use his craftsmanship against him.

Some loud footsteps coming from the outside suddenly stopped his train of thoughts. Thorgir stood up from his chair and made his way to the front door, as if the whole process was part of a well-established habit. Another day has gone by, another herald has come by to spread the news and another bunch of foolish drunk Norn have gone missing attempting to mess up with the Dragon. This time though something felt different. Today, no posters of those missing were pinned at their usual place. Instead, laid an icy mirror.