Named after a mountain, fictive and grand, in a tongue few speak or understand. They sing of Norse gods, warriors, and flame, Roaring hard tunes that earned them their name.

I wear a grin not born of glee, my wisdom hidden in mockery. A fool by name, but not by mind. What role is mine, so misdefined?

Eating me is the symbol of roman laziness. Beating me is the start of roman debauchery. You dont need to go far to find me, but if you can't get me, you will say I am sour.

I’m measured not by size but sway, I steal the night, I end the day. Kings bow low when I appear, But I myself am never near.

I boasted great skill and dared a goddess to a weave. My skill shamed the gods, but my hubris brought blight. For now I’m condemned to spin, not cloth but thread, With many legs where once I tread, thus I weave my penance instead.