When the Naked Guard do arrive, Thurston is leading the pack front and centre, still laughing as he exchanges banter with Ratgur and some of the other longer-standing members. Many more follow after the charismatic Norscan, although his following does grow less confident towards the back. The rearmost ranks file in quietly, watching Aiden with nervous interest.

What were once the grounds of Sheercleft's temple to Moradin have changed significantly since the builders of Khaz a Grungron arrived to lend their labour and resources to the construction of what is to become the stronghold of the Acharnost. The northern wall has been opened up to connect the courtyard to the temple to Thor and the Aesir that has sprung up alongside that of the Morndinsamman. It's here that Thurston's men stand, expectantly looking up at the basin that Aiden has set in the middle of the large open area.

The raucous laughter and footfalls of the Naked Guard turn many eyes as they make their way through Sheercleft, and the band of stalwart men is more than enough to catch Vark’s attention as well. Spying Thurston at the lead, Vark flits to the front to catch up with his friend, eyes wide. “Uhm, Thurston... whats going on?”

“The blot, young Vark!” the paladin responds with gusto. “Come, if you wish. Partake in Thor’s feast!” One of the other men claps an encouraging hand on the sorcerer’s back as he is swept into the crowd. He’d heard Aiden and Thurston mention some ritual, but had no real idea what was in store. Though Vark has never truly prayed to any of the gods, he has seen Thor’s power channeled through his friends. It is a power that causes echoes of thunder to rumble in his own storm-touched soul.

That power echoes now as they arrive at the temple grounds, and Vark’s breath catches as he sees Aiden standing there with eyes that pierce through the clouds of charcoal. With a gulp Vark takes a place among the other participants and waits for the blot to begin.

In the evening, when everyone arrives, Aiden levers himself to his feet with the hammer. He watches Thurston approach with Rikkazarik, the Naked Guard, and to his surprise, Vark. He makes a decision, and leans his own hammer against the tree's rough bark. "Hello Vark. I'm glad you're joining us. Thurston, would you help me consecrate the ground?" 

With Thurston's assent, and under Aiden's instruction, the paladin raises Rikkazarik, the head of the hammer pointing to the north. He traces the sign of a hammer in the air. 

"Thunder in the north hallow and hold this holy stead," Aiden calls in the Breannian tongue. He had debated using Norscan, but had decided to speak the common language of Breanne, given the presence of the "Naked Guard."

Thurston turns to the south and once again, traces the hammer sign.

"Lightning in the south hallow and hold this holy stead," Aiden says.

The last time he had experienced a blot had been back on Eikthyrnir, just before his father's death.

Thurston traces toward the east, and Aiden calls, "Dark clouds in the east hallow and hold this holy stead." 

Except then, it had been his father who had conducted it. His last blot. 

The hammer in the west. "Rain in the west hallow and hold this holy stead."

"Rain in the west hallow and hold this holy stead," Olrik says, holding his hammer on high toward the west. The grizzled old warrior turns back to Aiden. His voice cuts through the rumbles of thunder, carried by the sea wind. "You know what comes next, son. Say it."

"Thor! Odinson! The Thunderer! May you bear witness to our actions this day. Come and join us in celebration of your honor!"

The wind picks up, blowing across the courtyard. The branches of the tree whip and crack against each other, sounding not unlike a ferocious battle raging above those gathered between the two temples. 

Olrik nods and turns toward the north. "Thor, I celebrate today because of the life you have given me. A proud warrior's life. I have struck fear. I have brought hope. I have borne your name with pride and honor. I thank you for my strength." Aiden watches the old warrior's arms shake, even as he proclaims a life of strength and vigor. "I thank you for the wife that found me. And though we could bear no children, I thank you for the son we found." Aiden's heart leaps into his throat. It was unlike his father to so openly proclaim his love like this.

"Thor, I celebrate today because you have brought us a mighty victory! With your wind in our hearts, and thunder in our fists, we have all but vanquished the Morrigan, and sent those diabolical sisters into Hel where they belong. We rode in on thunder and lightning. Six of us, against an army. And yet, we prevailed -- as those who call on the god of Thunder always do!" Aiden punctuates his tale by punching a fist into the air. Only after Thurston lets out a triumphant bellow do the Naked Guard join in with cheers of their own. Aiden smiles. "Yes, this is not a Breannian church service. You can cheer. You can shout. You can belch, for all I care." This is met with more cheers, and a few worthy belches. 

The cheering dies down some when Aiden pulls the goat toward the basin, wielding the long knife in his hand. He hoped none of them were squeamish. The goat bleats fearfully as thunder rolls in the distance. Aiden places his hand on the creature's head and looks up to the sky. "We give you this sacrifice, might Thor, along with the might of our deeds. Take well of our gift, but not as from a thrall, for we have no master. Take well of it, as we are free men as a sign of our kinship and fellowship. We ask you to imbue this sacrifice with your gifts and blessings." 

With that, he draws the knife across the goat's neck. It bleats, scrambling to free itself from Aiden's clutches. Its life blood flows freely, pouring into the basin. The bleating is no more. Even the wind dies down to stop the blood from splattering across the courtyard. Aiden holds the dead goat until the blood stops flowing, leaving the basin three-quarters full of dark red. After it has given itself fully to Thor, Aiden picks up the goat respectfully and places it next to the tree, where it had been grazing earlier. He returns to the basin with the drinking horn of mead and dips a finger into the basin and, drawing it out, dips it into the horn and stirs it. Once the blood is mixed in, he makes the sign of the hammer above the horn, raises it above his head, and shouts, "Hail!"

He lowers the mead, and takes a sip of it before passing it to Thurston and indicates for him to drink, and then pass it on as well. The mead was sweet, with a hint of the coppery taste from the goat. Aiden returns to the tree and picks up the sprig. With the spring, he makes the sign of the hammer above the basin, and then dips the branches in, withdrawing it only once every branch shines wetly in the light from the torches and the moon, and the leaves are filled with red. He murmurs to himself softly. "The blessings of Thor be upon myself. Hail." He then flicks the branch, splattering himself with spots of red that begin to run down his face and chest. 

Then, he turns the sprig on those assembled. "The blessings of Thor be upon you! Hail!" he shouts, garnering the cheers of Thurston and the Naked Guard as he flicks the blood over them. A few, unused to this kind of ceremony, look on with wide eyes as the still-warm blood of the goat showers them in red.

He dips the sprig again and hands it to Thurston. "Make sure I did not miss anybody in the back. And then you're welcome to start the fire and cook the goat. I'm sure you have mead to distribute while you wait." Without another word, he turns to the basin. He picks it up and carries it to the north side of the courtyard. Facing the north, he softly prays. "The work is once again wrought, and gifts have been given. May it strengthen us to trust in the might of the Aesir. May Thor's might and hammer protect me, as I protect others." Slowly at first, he pours the basin out on the earth, giving it back to the world as quickly as he had taken it. 

Olrik pours out the pig's blood onto the ground, and turns back to Aiden. "It is done," the old warrior says. "Now pick up your sword." Aiden's heart truly leaps into his throat this time, at once sure he knew where this was going and also wanting it to go no further. 

"I will not do this, father," he says. "I'm so close. I need a few more weeks. I'm learning fast. I'll be able to fix you. To cure it...the canker."

The old warrior stands in front of Aiden, his hammer and shield held in his once-hard arms. Now, they shook with the effort of keeping his weapons aloft. "In a few weeks, I'll be dead. Or unable to hold my weapons. It's...it's too late. I cannot...I will not die in that bed. Now pick. Up. Your sword."

Aiden obliges, hefting his sword and shield. This man had taught him to fight. Had raised him, and taught him the ways of the Norscans. Taught him what it meant to be a man. Introduced him to Thor's power. Under normal circumstances, he stood no chance against a warrior of Olrik's strength. But these were not normal circumstances, and Olrik had no more strength to give. Even still, Aiden shook his head. "I can save you, father!"

"Yes, my son," Olrik says, his breathing heavy as he shifts his weight to the balls of his feet in preparation to charge. "You can. Now FIGHT!"

The battle was as ferocious as it was swift. Aiden met his father's hammer with sword and shield. The old vikingr was fighting for his dying breath, holding nothing back, forcing Aiden to do what he must. He blocked, spun, and lashed out with blade, only to be met by the hard steel-bound wood of Olrik's shield. Aiden barely countered the flailing hammer-stroke that Olrik threw his way, shoving the man's weapon aside, and with a last desperate effort, plunges his sword through his father's ribs.

Olrik grunts, a gasp of air leaving his lungs. His eyes turn toward Aiden in the dark, already beginning to look glassy. Breathily, he says, "Thank you...my son." Aiden pulls his sword free and bears Olrik to the ground. All the while, the old warrior's grip tightens on his hammer and shield. 

"Father...I..." Aiden says.

"You have...done what's right...son," Olrik says, his eyes still locked on Aiden's. "Do not mourn for me." A smile touches his lips. "I will join Thor in the feasting halls." Olrik's eyes turn toward the dark sky and seem to fixate on something there. "The Valkyries...to Valhalla." The light fades from his eyes, and a final breath leaves his lungs.

A scream, a wail, a battle cry -- all three erupt from Aiden's lungs. It doesn't end until he feels his mother pull him from his father's side.

Aiden stands, facing the north, the basin in his hands, fixated on his father's memory. He could hear carousing behind him, and was no longer sure how long it had been since the blot ended.  

While the Naked Guard were roasting the goat and sharing mead with Vark, hearing the tale of their final battle against the Morrigan and the horror that came out the portal to Hel, Thurston spies Aiden away from the celebration. Some dwarves had joined the feast, now that the religious part were finished, they heard the call of laughter, mead and roasted meat and decided to join it. Still, the man responsible for it stood aside, holding to the basin. 

Thurston, after drinking another horn thanks to another toast, walked towards his friend. His energy sifted, calming down and trying to accomodate to Aiden's mood. 

He says softly in Norscan.

"The blot was perfect. The feast is a success. I can feel Thor and the einherjar feasting with us. I believe that, after today, Thor's temple wouldn't be empty, even if we are away trying to emulate him. So, tell me my friend. Why are you here alone and not sharing the joy? "

Aiden inhales deeply, smelling the mountain air and the cooking meat and the mead. "I'm just...remembering. My father, Olrik. The last blot I did...it was his last night."

Thurston silently passes Aiden a horn full of mead. 

"He had a good life... and had a warrior's dead... I remember Olrik. A strong warrior. He saved my father's life fighting against some troll. With deep knowledge of the Aesir. He had the habit of being right. And he was blessed by Ullr! I still remember his aim throwing some of us stones for trying to break into the Temple! " he laughs softly and unconsciously touches a little scar on the back of his head, were the stone of the old warrior got him. Thurston looked at Aiden and put a hand on his shoulder. 

"But most of all I remember how proud of you he was. He used to speak endlessly about his son and how it would make all of us proud one day.  In that, my friend, he was right too. " 

He looks into Aiden's eyes for a moment and pressed his shoulder a little bit with his fingers to emphasizes his words. 

"Come on... let's drink in his honor... let's feast so hard that we could swank about it when we join him in Valhalla!" He raises his horn "For Olrik!" 

Aiden raises an imaginary horn, his own having been used for the blood mead. "For Olrik," he says, his lips turning up in a small smile. He pats Thurston on the arm, then nods toward the south, and the two warriors make their way back to the courtyard. Finding his horn, he fills it with mead and raises it. "To Thor!" he calls out for the Naked Guard. Then he adds, "To Sheercleft! May our enemies be broken on the rocks!"

As the blot begins, Vark’s attention is kept rapt but he is hesitant to fully give in to the fervor. It’s not that he is squeamish; he doesn’t flinch at the sacrifice and he readily drinks the bloody mead. He’d witnessed many similar rituals put on by his own tribe back home, but back then he was always watching from the outskirts. To be invited in and embraced like this almost feels uncomfortable at first. But the still-warm blood trickles down his face, the mead begins to do its work and even the wind’s soothing caress helps the young man to relax. As the ritual turns to the feast Vark is right there amongst the others telling tales of subterranean monsters, goblin armies and reclusive giants.

By the time most of the attending crowd arrived, Bründir was sauntering up the last stretch with those curious observers in the rear. Many had recognized him by his distinct armour, but he insisted on sitting near the fringes so as not to detract from the honored conductors of the ceremony. In a fortunate twist, his positioning was greatly beneficial as the ritual began.

As Aiden spoke toward the cardinal directions, an odd parallel struck him. In his fevered dream after losing his eye, he recalled skies darkened by encroaching, rumbling clouds. With each petition to the sky and horizon, Bründir felt as though he stood once more in the dream, watching the clouds roll in and tint to different colors. With each thunderous roll, however, he felt himself quake and falter.

Bründir stood staring, deaf and dumb, at the proceedings until the goat was finally bled. Maybe it was the sudden blood flow, maybe it was the cries it made at first, but Bründir was suddenly shaken from his revere by an extreme revulsion. He spun around and strode away while trying not to make a scene. As he walked, he became aware of his fist clenched tight to Dumdrengi's grip. After circling wide around the temple, he stepped inside for a bit of quiet solitude. His head was still a bit foggy from earlier, but this sensation was different. The dwarf found a bench near the altar to Moradin, and sat for a several minutes to ease himself. The temple had never held any special connection other than being a principle center of devotion, but now he found a greater peace in the stone halls.

Once his nerves had settled, he gave a long, thankful prayer to the altar, dropped a few coins in a nearby dish, and left to rejoin the feast to follow the blot.

Val was highly intrigued by this... blot as they called it. She watches and engages whenever possible, but is confused by the sacrifice and it's purpose in the greater sense of the community. Was the feast necessary? Could the goat have done more for them alive than dead? Why would this Thor have any need of such waste? Questions for a later time, for now, she drank of the offered drink. A little bit of blood in the mead was of no concern to her; her own magical chalice required her to consume entire goblets of blood to empower her for battle. And those who flinched at a little animal blood? What would they do when it came to battle and their blades struck true and they are coated in the essence of their enemies? Would they flinch then and empty their stomachs like children? 

Some hours later, the blot's participants find their way to their beds for the night.

For some, the comfort of their own home. For others, the nearest corner or bundle of straw.

The ale and mead in the revellers' bellies make for restless sleep, filled with vivid dreams.

For some more vivid than for others.

Aiden's own hard-earned tolerance for such celebrations leaves him with a peaceful mind and a clear conscience when oblivion takes him upon his head hitting his pillow. However, he is woken in the small hours of the morning by the same haunting aria that he heard in the moonlight at Morloth.

Meanwhile, Bründir once more dreams of pitch black clouds brewing on the western horizon, enveloping the land as they billow out towards him. Sheet lightning crackles overhead, but silhouettes of the dwarf's stormborn companions rise to shield him from harm. Suddenly, his enchanted eye's gaze is drawn far from Sheercleft. Bründir's senses expand and he finds himself flying rapidly over mountains until he sees a desert oasis untouched by the growing darkness.

When sleep finally takes Vark after he has stumbled into bed, the sorcerer once more finds himself standing amidst snow-covered fields. The grey-haired king dressed in red robes awaits the half-orc in his dreams.

"Good evening, Vark," Matthew greets his warlock with a smile. "Or is it good morning? You seem to be enjoying yourself."

“Oh, h-h-hi Matthew. Yes I’m.. I’m enjoying myself. It’s nice to be back in Sheercleft, for a moment at least. Uhm….” The dreaming warlock stalls. It feels like it has been a while since he’s spoken to his infernal patron, and in light of his shifting opinion of the ancient figure there is a tension that was not quite present before. “How are you?” 

"Burdened with glorious purpose," Matthew remarks with a dry laugh, leaning forwards on his staff. The runed ruby at its top glistens and shimmers. "I have a new task for you, Vark. Tell me, what do you know of Longwang?"

“Oh, uhm, they’re a dragon right? I think I remember Aury mentioning them once… why?” Vark’s head tilts to one side in his classic expression of curiosity.

"Precisely. He has something that I need... the sigil of fire."

Matthew holds out a hand and the image of a five-pointed star appears above his palm, slowly spinning in place. The sigil appears to be made of some kind of semi-translucent stone with lava-like material glowing and flowing inside of it.

"You are to fetch it for me."

“Oh, wow,” Vark says, stepping closer to the illusory image to inspect it. “What does it do? Or, rather… why do you need it?”

"It is the key to my brother's prison," Matthew explains, closing his hand once Vark has inspected the illusion. "Longwang's lair lies in the Jötnar wastes. Seek the sigil out by whatever means you deem necessary, but I suspect that you will have to steal it from him."

Matthew gives Vark a penetrating look as he weighs his warlock up.

"You have done well so far, Vark, and my gratitude to you runs deep, as shown by the gifts that I have bestowed upon you. Still, I am not blind to the seeds of doubt that your friends sow in your heart. Do not allow them to undermine your resolve. I am not your enemy."

Vark is unable to hold Matthew’s intense gaze and his eyes drop to the blank white snow at his feet. “It’s not just my friends, Matthew. It’s… it’s history, the whole world, everything I’m learning… it’s all telling me not to trust you. I’m just trying to sort it all out…” He looks back up at the wizened king. “I want to… to trust you, that is. But even if you haven’t told me any lies, you definitely haven’t given me the whole story either.” He wraps his cloak tighter around himself and casts a distant gaze towards the mountain tops. “I… I don’t know… even if I say yes, my friends aren’t gonna help me steal a powerful artifact from an ancient dragon for you. Honestly they’d probably do whatever it took to stop me…” The grim notion brings a furrow to Vark’s brow. 

Matthew sighs and rolls his eyes, raising his fingers to his temples.

"Vark, how can you know a history that the world has forgotten? Why do you rely on scraps gleaned from old books over my own actions? You are more than capable of framing this task appropriately for your companions, if you would simply trust in your own conviction. If you have questions, then ask them."

“Well,” Vark starts off, ‘conviction’ rising into his voice along with volume. “The scraps in old books and the visions the codex has shown me are all I have to go off. I haven’t actually seen any of your actions. What is your plan after you free the others from their prisons? To restart the Shadow War? That’s why they were put there in the first place, right? Because they were waging war and spreading chaos right? Is that what you want? Or were those scraps wrong?”