Cimmeria.

Land of Darkness and Night.

The village skald paused from his walk to the great hall, from the trade house, as the crunching sound of snow ceased. He glanced about, casting a wary look behind him and to his sides, as he shivered ever so slightly. The man was Cimmerian, as was the standard of the Elkhorn. While one man of Vanaheim, and several northern hearted southerners took residence in the village of Adharca Cathair, it was a Cimmerian through and through. No matter how fortified the village would get, the hearthfires would forever burn true. Yet for some reason, the skald - Ailfrid - felt unease, as if someone was watching him. The dark blackness of night had already set in. Most villagers were in their hovels, sleeping. Several dozen warriors made their patrols, keeping watch over the territory as the majority slept.

Ailfrid was not sleeping this night. A moot was coming, and that meant the coming of a great counsel between the Chieftain, the Elders, and the rest of the Clan. No doubt many would undergo their Rite of Passage, as others would possibly be deemed worthy of being Chosen. As the village skald, it was Ailfrid whose duties entailed speaking with various villagers. He was a warrior as any others, with a tall and lithe frame, though his hair was not the customary black, but almost blonde. It was quite well known that the skald's mother was an Aesir, one that had been kidnapped and ransomed by an Elkhorn warrior during a raid north many years ago - before the fall.

Apparently, she had decided to stay with the Elkhorn, and when the fall came, she aided in the quick resistance, before escaping, pregnant, and with the loss of her mate. And so Ailfrid was born. Half Cimmerian. Half Aesir. When the Elkhorn had been re-founded, Ailfrid was discovered by the Chieftain in Conarch Village - the hub of most Cimmerian trading ever since Conan the Cimmerian became King of Aquilonia. Ahearn had directed Ailfrid to the rebuilt Adharca Cathair, and he quickly impressed the Chieftain as a stalwart warrior, becoming the Skald of the Clan.

And so, on this night, several nights before the great moot, Ailfrid was preparing. He was arranging a feast for the Elders, preparing supplies for a raid, and readying several tales to be told, songs to be sung. Yet on this night, he felt a strong feeling of unease. Someone was watching, that much was certain, but he could not tell who. It wasn't the feeling of a friend or even a parent watching, but a strange set of eyes that were out of place. He ran a hand through his blonde hair, as his dark Cimmerian eyes scanned about the village. The trade house was silent, the hall of war quiet save for the sounds of passed out warriors. The barracks too had their share of warriors' snores. The tavern, Elders' Hall, Weaponsmith, Armorsmith, and the Fortification Den were all dead in the night. The tower of sages as always had light flickering at the top, with always one shaman at the very least remaining awake at night.

The various hovels, thatched huts, and small cabins were quiet as well. While the occasional cry of a babe, pleasured sounds from mating couples, or discussions amongst kin were heard from the various homes about the territory, and while the occasional group of warriors would walk across the grounds to patrol, there was no obvious sign of trouble. Ailfrid often wondered if perhaps he was nervous, or even simply tired. Perhaps it was an issue for a shaman to learn of.

A shaman... perfect.

Ailfrid turned from his direction towards the great hall, and made his way down the path and through the various huts, hovels, and cabins, until he reached the sages tower. An odd place it was - though Adharca was not a conventional Cimmerian Village, with far more fortified and solid, even permament structures. He entered from the base of the tower as anyone would, and quietly climbed the long steps up. The skald glanced at the sleeping forms in each room - each level of the tower representing a different form of shaman. Hearth Shamans slept at the base of the tower, while those that connected with the totem of a specific animal slept on the second level. Spirit Hunters slept on the third, and Gravesingers on the fifth. It was the sixth floor - the top floor, where the Seer of the Clan resided.

The Seer of the Elkhorn was an old woman, a shaman that had lived past her prime - past the prime of any Cimmerian. With over ninety winters behind her, she had seen so very much, done so very much, and was well respected within the clan's confines. Comyna was her name, and she was said to be a good omen for the clan - if one could live as long as her, then perhaps others would see such.

Ailfrid made his way to the sixth level of the tower, where the candlelight burned. Yet there were no scents of candles or herbs or any such things as was customary in Adharca. A chill ran up the skald's spine as he reached the top of the tower... and he froze in place, mouth agape in horror. The Seer, Comyna was sprawled on the floor, stripped down, dead. Her throat was slashed, we were her wrists and ankles. A rune was carved into her chest, and many small runes decorated her arms and legs. Hyperborean runes.

Ailfrid drew his sword, and turned, hoping to awaken the tower of sages, but as he turned, he came face to face with the perpetratior, a pale skinned gaunt man with black markings on his face and chest. Before the Cimmerian-Aesir skald could act, the Hyperborean flicked his wrist forward and across. Ailfrid gurgled in horror as he glanced at the dagger the Witchman held. He fell to his knees, eyes wide, before falling onto his back, the pain seering through his body as he felt his tunic stripped away. He felt the burning as runes were carved through his body, and soon, the skald felt nothing but death consume him. What he did not know, even in his dying moments, were that those shaman who bedded down that night, died, their throats cut, in silent screams. No one knew... no one would know.

Kogris the Wicked smiled wickedly as he finished the carving, and the Witchman was gone with the flash of an incantation.

This was Cimmeria.

Land of Darkness and Deep Night.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Days Later...

Power. I can feel it...

The first rune was carved. Kogris eyed both of his slaves - the Stygian whore he had charmed, the Aesir raider he had swayed - and smiled coldly, before rising and making his way across the next tower.

I have... been awaken.

The second rune, not unlike the first, carved deeply into the floor of the tower, with the blood of the Hyperborean Witchman activating its hidden sorcery. Another lock undone.

Soon... my children...

The third, the Hyperborean symbol of leadership, activated. Again Kogris smiled that cruel smile, as his eyes gazed upon the Barracks, noting the gathering of the Clan. The Elkhorn arose.

All will know pain... fear... suffering...

The fourth, approaching closer towards the gate, no doubt they had been spotted, for the sentiments of "By Crom" were echoed. Kogris only continued with his runes, the fourth lock undone.

The Elkhorn Clan... will fall.

The fifth, done carefully, deliberately, the blood spattering the floor even with the sounds of heavy Cimmerian footsteps running up the towers. Adharca's finest would soon face the Hyperborean.

I will rule their lands... and their souls....

The sixth... rushed. Kogris knew time was running out. With three locks left, there was little he could do but hurry. The Elkhorn were coming, and even then... arrows... bolts... they were trying to stop him.

...will belong to me.

The seventh... and yet... he failed. He looked upon his slaves as the woman - the Lawgiver approached him. Kogris measured her with hatred, a cold stare even as he sealed his wound with a simple incantation.

"Aesir... set our Stygian pet free," He spoke, with no sign of sympathy.

The Stygian who had served him, that lithe whore, lost her head, as the Aesir raised, and brought down the axe. Then she knelt, and cold, bitter cold, poured into the northern woman's veins, until she simple fell over, dead. Lifeless. Cold.

And Kogris jumped over the side, running to the second to last tower.

I am Tholgrim... the Black Heart.

And yet... before he could carve in another unlocked seal... he felt darkness overwhelm him... and the chill of the grave consumed him...

...and the Great Hall fell.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Bearach leaned flat against the wall, barely glancing over around the corner. The dank, barely lit hallway was empty. No sign of Kogris. Nor the cultists. No one. The old haggard barbarian moved swiftly, clinging to the shadows as a life line, with no weapons but the chains he broke free from. He reached the end, and turned right - the only direction. Still nothing. No one. Not a single soul lurked around... not a single Hyperborean or cultist.

Such would remain that way, until the end of the corridor. At the end, there was a long flight of stairs. Again he clung to the shadows - slowly and silently moving upwards... and his ears picked up nothing. No talk, no ranting, no orders, no spells. It was silent, as if a bitter cold had taken his captors away. The old Cimmerian Chief frowned in contemplation even as he reached the top of the steps, into the round Chamber that served as the council room for the cult that brought him here... the cult that he was sold into by Atzel's men.

He glanced around the chamber, looking for a better weapon, and found what he wanted - a Hyperborean War Sword would have to do, and he dropped the chains, now clinging to the large weapon as his single life line. Heavy from the years of no weapons, and no battle, Bearach struggled with the large weapon, yet he found it comforting. Too comforting. And as he exited the Chamber and stepped out into the odd atmosphere that was Hyperborea, he glanced around at the various buildings... and there was nothing. Silence.... deathly silence.

Until one of the Vanir that had been lured came into sight. But this Vanir... he did not look lured... or turned. But rather lost. Yet like most Nordheimer, he growled at the sight of the Cimmerian, and lunged. With a swift thrust, the War Sword impaled the red hair. Bearach snarled and drew the weapon back - the familiarity was soothing. War had not been lost on the lost Warchief. The Chieftain that never was.

Home... he needed to get home. To Adharca. Whispers had been going around for days... weeks... months. The Elkhorn yet lived, and they had not moved. The old Cimmerian had not... and would not give up.

Not yet. This reckoning... the White Hand would not soon forget.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Yet in Adharca Cathair... the Chieftain knelt at the ruins of the Great Hall, where few died... where the morale of the Clan had shattered at the hands of Kogris. Regret. Anger. Pain.

The Elkhorn Clan would have vengeance.