"True believers..."

The dark figure stood cloaked in shadows, leaning against the archway in the alleyways of Ahket - Khemi. The moon shined on the port town, the one place in Stygia where foreigners could trade openly - if not carefully so as to not offend the priesthood. Set would have no mercy on those who would step the wrong way in a land not their own - in a land where depravity and decadence was a simple mask for a much more sinister way.

"...true believers know that it is not Set, nor Derketo, nor Derketa that rules their hearts. True power... that is what lurks in the hearts of men. That is what makes the barbarians of the north are so... unconquerable. No god rules their hearts, but their own inner strength. Their own battle lusts."

Those that listened, those two dozen men and women, watched with a silent awe. The voice of the man that spoke, it influenced their hearts beyond that of any normal mortal man. The promise of power... such a thing would affect any. Not all of the men and women were Stygian either. Only two - both women - of Stygian heritage stood in the alley. Both were prostitutes. Whores. Both had been lured by the promise of power. The other woman was a native from the Black Kingdoms, savage, feral, and dangerous. While both Stygian women wore jewelry, and their state of undress was based on rich silks and making their occupations known, the Darfari woman's choice of apparel was that of a true savage. Piercings across eyebrows, nose, lip, stomach, even on breasts. Scars adorned her and war paint was splashed on her arms, legs, and face.

The men were no different in many ways. Red Haired Vanir stood amongst the gathering as well as several disgruntled Aesir, the several Nordheimers in the crowd putting all grudges aside at the behest of the mysterious talker. Shemites, Zingarins, and one man from Khitai were lured to Ahket. Aquilonians and Nemedians rounded out the gathering, creating a diverse gathering, yet still - secretive nonetheless.

"If you are a true believer," the shadow figured man spoke, "Then you know what must be done."

One of the men, and Aquilonian who dressed in the garb of a noble, stepped forward and dropped to one knee.

"What is it we must do?" He asked.

The shadowy figure seemed to laugh, a deep yet almost wispy laugh, "My slave, Marcus... you take the initiative with great promise. What must be done is long... and tiring. Many will die, but the outcome will be that which is perfect. I have long since left my homeland. Long since decided to gather the cult. A clan of the north has something of mine. They call themselves the Elkhorn, and with the departure of several of their strongest members, they are weak. Their village sits on top of a tomb... a tomb which houses an ancestor of mine... an ancestor whose power could grant something not even I can bestow upon you."

The gathering all hushed at his words.

"Immortality. You will proceed, you will honor my commands. Go forth... bring me the heads of those who dwell in Adharca Cathair, and with the return of my ancestor, of Tholgrim the Blackheart..."

The man stepped out of the shadow, his gaunt dark features revealed. His nature apparant, one of the witchmen of Hyperborea.

"...I, Kogris the Wicked, will conquer the north."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

On that very day, that very night, Ahearn Chieftain stood before those within the clan, in Conarch Village. Not all were there, but those closest to the Chieftain, those who had not given up.

"The winter is long over. Our time is now."

The words he spoke had come from his heart, his mind racing as he spoke true, the Chieftain refusing to give up - even as those he trusted departed to make their own way - had to make his intentions clear.

"We may seem weak. We may seem vulnerable, but more then ever we must show strength! The Elkhorn Clan will not die, and we will live on! Let it be known... this is not our downfall."

So did Ahearn speak. This would not be the downfall. The storms gathered, yet he, nor his clan, would dare speak of the omen. The Elkhorn remained strong, even with its loss.

Strength was not an option. It was a must.