For this album, Ingrid N, Skynbrögð and Scott Lawlor have come together to capture their vision of the magic of Iceland with fascinating stories of trolls, elves and the mysterious forces of nature.
Each song is a chapter in an epic fairy tale anthology series that brings to life the fascinating mythology of this island on the edge of the Arctic Circle, where ancient legends come to life and magical creatures walk between fire and ice.
There is a breathtakingly beautiful and wild nature whose sound shapes the music, which can lead you on a sonic journey filled with fantastical imagery.
Each of the 5 tracks are accompanied by a bonus story written by Skynbrögð. Hit more to expand this section to read them all.
A fantastic vision of Iceland has emerged from this international collaboration, but at the end of the journey it was just a magical dream.....or was it?
Episode I
Love, War & Trolls
In the rugged, volcanic landscapes of Iceland, a pair of trolls, Grimnir and his wife Yrsa, lived deep within the mountains. With skin as tough as stone and eyes that gleamed with an otherworldly light, they were formidable beings. Yet, despite their fearsome appearances, they lived a life of peace, mostly keeping to themselves and occasionally wandering to a nearby town. They could only travel during the night, because, as legend goes, a troll's body will turn to stone when exposed to sunlight.
Grimnir and Yrsa had a fondness for the treasures of humans. They would sneak into the town under the cover of darkness to collect shiny objects, food, and sometimes livestock, which they found fascinating. The townspeople had heard tales of the trolls and their nocturnal visits, but the creatures were so stealthy that they had never been caught in the act.
One cold, clear night, Grimnir and Yrsa descended from their mountain home to the town. As they prowled through the quiet streets, Yrsa's eye was caught by an ornate silver mirror displayed in a shop window. Entranced by its beauty, she reached out to take it, but in doing so, she stepped into a patch of moonlight, casting a large shadow that caught the attention of the town's watchman.
Startled awake, the watchman raised the alarm. The villagers quickly rallied, grabbing torches and weapons. Grimnir, realizing they had been spotted, urged Yrsa to retreat to the safety of the mountains. While Grimnir, swift and agile, managed to escape, Yrsa was not as lucky. The villagers, emboldened by their numbers and the rare opportunity to confront the legendary trolls, pursued her into the mountainous terrain.
Yrsa, hindered by the steep and rocky landscape, stumbled and fell near the base of a towering peak. The villagers surrounded her, using thick ropes and chains to bind her to the ground.
Grimnir, having safely reached the depths of the mountains, waited anxiously in the darkness. He could not risk exposing himself to the sunlight, but he felt a deep, growing dread as he sensed the unfolding events. With dawn breaking, a faint gleam of light through the rocks told him that the sun had risen. Grimnir knew what this meant for Yrsa, though he could not witness it himself. He felt the shift in the world as Yrsa, caught in the sun's rays, let out a mournful cry that echoed through the highlands. Her voice suddenly silenced, and he knew her fate.
Grimnir's heart shattered, consumed by an overwhelming grief and a fiery rage. As night fell once more, he emerged from the mountains, his mind set on revenge. Descending upon the villagers with a fury unmatched, he unleashed his wrath on the unsuspecting town. The villagers, caught off guard, were powerless against his might. In a devastating rampage, Grimnir destroyed everything in his path, leaving no one alive. The town was reduced to ruins, a grim testament to the tragic tale that had unfolded.
With his vengeance complete, Grimnir returned to the mountains, his rage dissipating into profound sorrow. He sought out the spot where Yrsa had been turned to stone. There, at the base of the mountain, stood the petrified form of his beloved, her expression frozen in a mix of fear and sadness. Grimnir approached her, his hand gently touching the cold stone that had once been warm and full of life.
As dawn began to break again, Grimnir knew his time was near. He sat beside Yrsa, looking out over the landscape one last time. The first rays of sunlight touched him, and he felt a strange peace settle over his heart. Slowly, he too began to turn to stone, his body becoming as still and cold as the mountain around him. Side by side, the two trolls stood, transformed into eternal stone figures, becoming one with the harsh and rugged landscape.
When the sun rose higher in the sky, casting menacing shadows across the ground, a raven, black as midnight, flew down from the sky. It circled above the stone figures for a moment, as if inspecting this new addition to the mountain's scenery. With a gentle flutter, the raven landed on top of Grimnir's stony head. It remained perched there for a bit, a solitary sentinel, as if paying tribute to the trolls' final act of defiance and love.
Episode II
Sparkling Night
Somewhere in Iceland there was a small village, nestled between rugged hills and ancient forests. And in that small village there lived a small but curious boy named Oskar. He was known for sneaking out during the evening or at night, exploring the wilderness beyond the safety of his home. One day, as the late afternoon sun dipped low and shadows ran across the forest floor, Oskar followed the gentle sound of a nearby river stream. The water sparkled under the fading light as it wound through the trees, leading him to a secluded clearing. The air here felt different, lighter, almost humming with energy. He stood still, taking in the peaceful scene, but then suddenly... from the shadows of the surrounding trees, figures started to emerge: tall, graceful beings with pale skin and golden hair. Each one carried a silver plate filled with delicacies: cakes that glistened with sugar, berries that seemed to glow from within, and goblets filled with a shimmering, golden liquid.
Oskar hesitated, remembering the stories his elders had told him. He knew the dangers of accepting gifts from the Hidden People, he had heard all the tales of people who had been lured by them and were never heard from again. But the food smelled so sweet and their voices were so soothing. As they presented their offerings and assured him everything would be alright, he found himself unable to resist. Despite his better judgment, he reached out and took a piece of cake, biting into it. It was more delicious than anything he had ever tasted.
As soon as he swallowed, a deep, drowsy feeling came over him. The Hidden Peoples' laughter echoed around him and the forest seemed to spin and blur. They continued to offer him more, but with each bite, Oskar felt a part of himself slipping away. He started feeling like a passenger in his own body, idly watching as his hands moved against his will, filling his mouth with more and more food. The sweet taste turned bitter as an overpowering weariness settled over him, his vision blurred and slowly the world around him began to fade...
Hours later, or so it seemed, he awoke alone in the forest. The people had vanished and the clearing was empty, except for the remnants of the feast. Feeling strange and disoriented, Oskar hurried back to his village. But as he approached, nothing looked familiar. The houses looked uncanny, the paths were overgrown and even the trees were different, they seemed somehow... larger? Oskar, feeling increasingly disoriented, ran through the now-unfamiliar village. Panic gripped him as he approached what should have been his home. He burst through the door, calling for his mother and father, but the house was empty, cold, and silent. Confused and frightened, Oskar stumbled back outside, searching for any sign of his parents.
As he wandered into the garden, he stopped abruptly, his heart sinking. Before him stood three weathered tombstones. His breath caught in his throat as he read the inscription on the small one in the center:
"Oskar. Our beloved boy who never returned. May God rest your soul."
Episode III
Wild Water: Spirits of the Geyser
Beneath the moss-covered hills, in an unnamed valley, a hidden world churned with fire and water. Deep underground, veins of molten rock heated the earth, creating unseen rivers that flowed with scalding heat. It was a place where nature breathed, exhaling steam from the land in bursts of fury, it was where the geysers lived.
One such geyser, known as Eldstrokur, had a life of its own. For centuries, it had been a guardian of the land, although its eruptions were both feared and revered. Villagers spoke of it in hushed tone, telling tales of how the geyser's eruptions were not random but a form of comunication, sort of a message from the earth. According to legends of old, the geyser often whispered to those who passed by it, offering them advice and solace during difficult times, and people had begun to accept and respect its wisdom, as if it were something of an oracle, deeply connected to the land itself. It was evident that a profound intelligence was at work, albeit beyond human comprehension.
One autumn morning, as the cold winds began to whisper over the plains, something strange occurred. Eldstrokur, normally predictable in its violent release of steam and water, had grown silent. The usual rumble beneath the surface was absent, replaced by an eerie stillness.
A young woman named Runa, who had grown up hearing the legends, felt a pull to visit the geyser. Ever since it grew silent, she had felt a deep and hollow emptiness within her. She trekked across the rocky terrain, her breath visible in the crisp, cool air, and approached the ancient site. As she stood before the silent crater, a deep, resonant hum began to rise from the earth. She could almost make out voices emerging from the depths below, deep, calm and majestic. It sounded like chanting or singing, almost like a religious hymn or a psalm.
Suddenly, the ground shook. Eldstrokur erupted with more force than ever before, sending a plume of water and steam high into the sky. But instead of receding back into silence, the geyser spoke through its roar. Runa watched, transfixed, as the mist formed shapes—figures that danced and swirled in the air. They were ancient spirits, guardians of the land, who had been dormant for centuries.
But the figures weren't wild or menacing. As they danced in the mist, their shapes grew clearer, becoming almost human. They moved with a graceful, fluid energy, beckoning to Runa with outstretched hands. There was no fear in her heart, only a strange sense of longing, belonging and kinship: as if these ancient beings were calling her to something she had always known but had forgotten. She felt something awaken inside her, something that had always been there, yet had never found its way into her consciousness.
The geyser's roar became a melody, a deep, resonant hum that filled the air, and in it, Runa heard voices—not harsh or commanding, but soft, almost inviting. The figures called her name, their eyes shining with a light that seemed to pierce through time.
"Join us," they whispered, their voices carried on the steam and wind. "You belong with us, Runa. The earth, the fire, the water—they are part of you, as you are part of them." Although she didn't understand, she knew that what they were saying was true, in a way she had always known.
Without hesitation, Runa stepped closer to the edge of Eldstrokur. The heat from the geyser was intense, but it no longer burned. Instead, it felt welcoming, like a warm embrace. The figures continued to call, their voices growing louder, and in that moment, Runa understood that this was where she was meant to be.
She took one final step and leaped into the heart of the geyser.
The steam enveloped her, and for a brief moment, there was only silence. But Runa felt no fear and no pain, only a profound sense of belonging. She became part of the mist, the water, the ancient power that surged beneath the earth. The figures surrounded her, their forms dissolving into light, and together, they vanished into the gloomy depths below...
Eldstrokur erupted once more, higher and stronger than ever before, as if welcoming its newest guardian. The land was quiet again, but those who passed by in the years to come would tell stories of the woman who had been called by the geyser - who had become one with the earth itself.
Episode IV
Fire Heart
Beneath one of Iceland's most active volcanoes, a small village had thrived for generations, nestled close to the steaming vents and the ever shifting ground. Here, the people had learned to live with the land's volatility, adapting to its steady tremors and occasional eruptions. Their saying, passed down from one generation to the next, was simple but fitting: The land gives what it will and claims what it will.
Arnar, a geologist born in the village, had always been captivated by the secrets locked beneath the earth's surface. Raised on legends of Iceland's fiery heart, he became consumed with an insatiable need to understand the mountain's secrets. The volcano drew him in, its unpredictable fury a puzzle he was determined to unravel, even if it meant standing at the edge of death itself.
But the mountain was not all that had captivated his heart and soul. Arnar had also fallen in love with Freyja, a farmer with deep ties to the land. She was grounded, practical, and resilient - the perfect counterbalance to his restless curiosity. They married and built a modest home on the village's edge, dreaming of a future where they might raise a family, undisturbed by the mountain's looming presence.
One summer, the volcano began to stir ominously. Arnar watched in horror as the seismic readings confirmed his worst fears: the earth was preparing for a major eruption, one that would devastate everything in its path. Racing back to the village, he gathered the people and urged them to leave, but many were reluctant. Generations had lived and died on this land, and abandoning it felt like abandoning a part of themselves.
As dawn approached, Freyja found him, her face etched with worry. "I believe you, Arnar," she said softly, "but my family can't imagine abandoning the land. They don't believe it's as dangerous as you say, and they won't leave—even if I try to convince them."
Arnar's heart twisted. He knew he could never force Freyja or her family to abandon their home, but he couldn't bear the thought of losing them.
Desperate, he devised a final, daring plan. He knew of a fault line on the volcano's slope where a controlled explosion might divert the lava flow away from the village, channeling it safely into an empty valley. It was risky - an almost impossible task - but it was the only way to protect his people and the woman he loved.
With only hours left, Arnar and a few brave villagers climbed the mountain, carrying the explosives he had prepared. Ash rained down as they approached the fault line, the ground trembling beneath their feet. Arnar worked quickly, setting the charges with precision. He told the others to run, but as the mountain rumbled, he realized the ground was shifting faster than he'd calculated. The explosion would need to be triggered manually to divert the flow in time.
Knowing what this meant, Arnar lit the fuse and braced himself, watching as the others retreated down the slope. The explosives detonated with a deafening roar, and the ground beneath him trembled violently. The lava began to flow, diverted just as he'd planned, away from the village and into the valley.
As the molten river surged past, Arnar felt a rush of heat engulf him. He stayed rooted to the spot, watching the redirected lava with a mix of relief and acceptance. In his final moments, he thought of Freyja, imagining her safe in the village below. And then, the fire took him, consuming him in an instant.
Episode V
Just a Dream
The city was perfect, almost impossibly so. Elva wandered through its pristine streets while her footsteps echoed against the polished stone. The air was quite heavy, faintly scented with rain and pinewood, though no clouds were visible in the pale and gray skies above, and not a single tree was in sight. Every surface here was gleaming, as if freshly washed, but there was no sound, no wind, and no sign of life.
She took a turn onto a narrow street. The houses along the street were smooth and windowless. The air was silent and her footsteps were the only sound she could hear. The road curved and twisted until it opened onto a wide but empty plaza with concentric stone benches circling a single structure: a tall clock tower. The face of the tower was blank and its hands were slowly moving, ticking away slowly. Something about it tugged at her, a feeling she couldn't quite shake.
Despite this, Elva didn't linger. She walked down another street. This one sloped downwards and lead into a tunnel carved through a solid wall. The air grew damp down there, and her breathing was getting louder against the tunnel's silence. She quickened her pace until she saw light ahead and walked back into the open air, relieved, as a faint gust of wind gently ran across her face.
The clock tower loomed before her once again, impossibly tall and menacing. She noticed that the hands on the clock had stopped moving and the clock was stuck at 12 o'clock.
Her pulse quickened as she stared up at the tower. How did she end up here again? It seemed impossible. She turned abruptly, choosing another street without hesitation. This street went in a straight line, leading away from the plaza. It felt endless, the buildings growing taller, the air stifling, and she could feel the wind change. She walked faster and faster, glancing back once more to see only darkness swallowing the way she had come, as if she had come from nowhere at all.
The street suddenly twisted sharply at a ninety-degree angle, and she stepped into the same plaza she had just left moments before.
Elva's breath hitched as she began to turn in circles, scanning the streets leading out of the square, certain she had walked far enough to be somewhere else. Her chest tightened as fear crept in, it was as though an invisible weight pressed down on her chest with every breath she took.
— Panic.
The clock tower loomed above her and its shadow stretched like a blade across the plaza. She noticed that at its base, faint words were etched into the stone: "Why did you forget?" Her stomach twisted and she backed away, her mind racing, until her eyes caught something new: a small, plain red door at the base of the clock tower. She could have sworn that it hadn't been there before, yet there it was.
Elva hesitated and her hands began to tremble. The door felt eerie, heavy with an unseen weight, but it called to her somehow, and it had a strange hint of familiarity to it. Slowly, she stepped towards it, her feet dragging as if the air resisted her.
The handle felt cold against her fingers and when she pulled, the door wouldn't move at all. She noticed that beside the door was a small bucket of paint and a brush. The paint bucket read "Paint it black". She immediately opened the bucket and painted the door black with broad and coarse strokes of the old, weathered brush.
She then attempted to open the door once more. This time, the door opened to darkness.
— She stepped through.
The air grew heavy and the ground shifted beneath her. The city had vanished, replaced by a room that felt both foreign and familiar at the same time. Its walls were lined with photographs, hundreds and hundreds of them scattered all over the walls in chaotic ensemble. Each frame held a frozen moment from her own life — her childhood home, her parents' smiles, the last argument she'd had with someone she used to love.., there were way too many to count, and she began to feel overwhelmed.
The images were vivid, yet somehow they seemed warped — the smiles on people's faces were stretched too wide, their eyes too sharp, their features too exaggerated somehow. Although all of these memories were undoubtedly her own, they felt uncanny, as if they belonged to someone else. As if someone else had lived them. As she took in the scenes from each frame, forgotten memories, buried feelings, and long-lost thoughts surged back into her consciousness, immersing her completely, as though she were living them all over again.
She turned her face away from the photographs and looked around. At the center of the room there stood a mirror, its surface shimmering like water. Elva stepped closer, her reflection staring back at her with an intensity that made her pause in her tracks. "What is this place?" she whispered. Her reflection smiled and locked eyes with her sharply, she could feel them pierce her mind — then a cold, hollow grin, and her reflection looked away for a brief moment. "You know," it said. Its voice echoed her own but it was deeper and heavier.
Memories surged through her mind: a fight, a terrible decision, a car crash. She saw herself walking away, leaving someone behind, carrying the weight of guilt she had tried so hard to forget. The mirror darkened, and her reflection's eyes burned like fiery embers. "You built this city to hide from yourself," said the reflection. "But you can't stay here forever, you know."
She looked back at the photographs on the walls, only this time they felt closer, more real, more her own, not uncanny but familiar and present. Among the photographs, she saw faces she recognized: Grimnir, her childhood friend, his face twisted in pain as she ran away during a fight that had left him bruised and bleeding; Yrsa, the neighbor she had refused to help during a harsh winter, her warm smile replaced with tears in the memory; Oskar, her mischievous cousin, whom she had blamed for her own mistake, watching as he took the punishment without complaint; Runa, her wise teacher, whom she had abandoned in her final moments of need, ignoring the older woman's cries for help in a storm; and Arnar, the boy who had once asked for her forgiveness, his outstretched hand left hanging as she walked away. Each memory came rushing back, their voices filled with pain, their eyes pleading with her. They weren't just pictures now but fragments of her guilt, pieces of herself she had tried to bury, and the weight of it all threatened to crush her .Tears streamed down her face as the room began to crumble. The photographs burned, the mirror cracked, and the darkness closed in. Elva screamed, reaching out, but there was nothing to hold onto. "Now you know", she heard the voice whisper once more.
She woke abruptly, gasping for air. Her room was dimly lit and the hum of the real world slowly began to return to her ears. But as she sat up, she felt a strange weight pulling her down, as if she was carrying something heavy. The clock in her room ticked softly, she lay back down and listened to it for a few minutes and then heard it stop abruptly. Looking up she saw that the clock read exactly 12 hours. As the clock stopped, she felt no more guilt, no more remorse or regret, as if a heavy weight had been lifted off her. She sat back up again. Across the room, her reflection in the mirror stared back, its lips moving silently. Elva didn't need to hear the words. She already knew:
"It was just a dream."
Find more of Ingrid N's music at:
ingridnmbius.bandcamp.com
Find more of Skynbrögð's music at:
skynbrogd.bandcamp.com
Find more of Scott Lawlor's music at;
scottlawlor.bandcamp.com
Mixing and mastering:
Scott Lawlor: Albuquerque, New Mexico USA
Artwork:
Photo by Sorasak, retouched & reworked in PhotoShop by JTS.
Recorded between August 6, and November 19/ 2024
