The Fiddler's Daughter

The land of Nőmárn is one of the most beautiful in Midrâiun. The northern coast is made up of icy ocean, called the Yaila Metők, the Ice Ocean. Out to sea a few miles are the islands of Nethro-kuin, the set of islands where the Nőmárnin first set foot. There are still an ancient race of Nőmárnin there, called by the inlanders touthra-nőrm. The coastline is a stretch of pale beach, hard rock, and stretching green plains. Mist hangs over the ocean in the morning and at night, clinging to the rocks and the sand like seaweed to the rocks. It is said that waterfolk live in the Qielna Bay—the sweep of Nőmárnin coastline—but none can be sure. The bay sweeps along for around 150 miles before ending at the base of Carâdema, an almost empty land of ghost and phantom stories. On a clear day, when the mists have drifted away, standing on the cliffs, a person can see very far out, past the Nethro-kuin, to the open sea. Some have even claimed to see icebergs, moving their behemoth bulks up towards the ice caps on the top of the world.

Beyond, up past the cliffs of rock that shoot straight up for hundreds of feet, full of caves and tunnels, if you were to climb up at the northwestern end, you find yourself at the foot of mountains, tall and mysterious; the Mountains of Carâdeem. Those who venture up them rarely find their way down again. But if you turned your steps while you were halfway down the coast and climbed up one of the many paths in the cliffs, you would find yourself standing on a wide sweep of green plain that rolled on, flat, for hundreds of miles, storm clouds piling up against the Carâdeem Range. On the Dagran Plain, every movement for miles is clear; the dust from a horse’s hooves, the racing of two people. Sounds bound across the grass, traveling quickly, especially the boom of horns.

But if you had turned from your coastal path and had climbed up the rocks far east, you would find something completely different. A thick forest, deep and dark, with sunlight slanting through in the places. Every noise would be muffled, every path have a thousand options, nothing visible through the trees. This is the forest of whispers; the Chor’mâire, named in the ancient language. Some miles to the south, the forest cloaks the base of the Red Mountains , which glow red in the sunlight, and purple beneath the moon. Beneath those tree tops, or rather, in them, you would find the nhovatu, the tree homes of the forest Nőmárnin. They would watch you with curious eyes, wondering whether you would simply pass through or stay for a while. If they allowed you, you could climb up the platforms and then up more, until you were at the very tops of the trees. Then you could look out and gaze upon the forest, and upon the mountains and the plains in the far distance. You would be seeing Nőmárn as a butterfly, resting lightly upon the tree tops, watching the world beyond.

After you had left the forests, you would travel across the plain, watching in wonder as in some places the grass grew above your head and in others was short and easy to run through. Then you would run, as fast and as far as a horse, letting the wind play with your clothes and hair, feeling the heartbeat of the land through your shoes.

After some time, you would come upon Ile-Chonsőn, the capital of Nőmárn, and there you would rest, safe behind its walls of silver stone. The people would be friendly, but wary, and let you rest and tell you many stories in their musical language, and sing for you in the crilech form. And slowly, you would drift into sleep, letting the bright stars and moon in the sky above lull you to dreams. But at some point you would awaken, and go stand upon the plains in the moonlight, listening as the land sung to the sky, and the sky to the land, beautiful, sorrowful songs that make your heart ache, until at last the sun rises from the forest, setting it on fire, and making you gasp as the Red Mountains changed from purple to scarlet in the light.

This is the beauty of Nőmárn, a land protected by the ancient spirits that live in the sea and the rock, and the grass and the trees. There are other lands in Midrâiun that have the same beauty, and some may say beauty that surpasses it. Often travelers forget, and in forgetting, choose imitations of the real memory to compare. The Nőmárnin consider their land the most beautiful, and love it with a fierce pride, as do all. The Nőmárnin are the heart of the land; the land is the soul of the Nőmárnin.

Illima dő beirtâ.