Thunder rumbled over the horizon, overlooking the plains. The moot had come to a close. Where a group of Shaman once sat, were only runes, carved into the stone, surrounding a burnt out campfire. The heavy summer rain, mixed with snow, created an omen, as various animals scurried away. A foreboding air traveled far, perhaps an act of warning. And yet, as the mixed sleet fell, nothing happened. The nomadic Wolf Pict Tribe that would often attempt advances on travelers kept to their small camps. The bandits that roamed sat under their makeshift yurts. Brandoc Village was mostly quiet, and in the far northeast, many miles past the plains, in the mountains bordering both Asgard and Hyperborea - the village of Adharca Cathair sat, quietly surviving and weathering the storm.

Yet all the while, in the south east end of the plains, something stirred. Blue eyes stared out, as a helpless gurgle passed through swollen lips. The Aesir sat, chained to the rock, naked, bloody, beaten, and tortured. Two bloated pale skinned Ghurnaki Warriors stood over him, each wielding a spiked club. Each with a cold, emotionless menace in their eyes. The Aesir struggled, but there was little he could do. The pain was too much, far too overwhelming. He felt his blood leave his body... the wounds...

... yet he had been like this for hours. Why hadn't he died? Had they been so cruel as to keep him alive? A single form emerged from the suitably named "Frost Swamps." The form was not a distinct Hyperborean, but a dark skinned man. A Stygian. Yet despite the look of a Stygian youth, the man's eyes held no soul. They were white, yet not the sign of a blind man, but the sign of one who was dead. Cold. Emotionless. Dead. The Stygian turned his eyes to the Aesir, and nodded his head once. The Ghurnaki stepped back.

"So it begins," The Stygian said, in the tongue of Nordheim. "I apologize for the rough treatment, but my slaves... they are bloodthirsty."

"Ymir take you!" the Aesir growled out.

The Stygian smirked. "Ymir will do nothing to a child of Set. Yet Set's chosen I am not. Do you know who I am, man of Asgard?"

The Aesir's eyes lit up, balls of fury which welled up in anger. "Tholgrim."

"Tholgrim, that is right. This... vessel is a temporary thing. But know this, man of Asgard. Temporary is all I need. You must understand. There is a greater plan being served. A greater life. When I am successful, Adharca Cathair, the village of the Elkhorn Clan... it will be razed to the ground. Then, my followers can not only serve fire and steel to the rest of the eastern Cimmerian Clans, but to your brethren as well!"

The Aesir grunted. "Go to Hel."

"Hell..." Tholgrim snarled, "Is where I have been the past centuries. Locked in a tomb, my body rotting, while my soul lives on! I am as they say... a god king to my people! A minor one to some, but one nonetheless. I live. I breathe. I live eternal. And I will have my master plan that will bring glory to mine."

Tholgrim drew a dagger, and crouched before the Aesir. He watched the northerner carefully, yet without a semblance of emotion. The Aesir, though bloody, though beaten, remained stoic. The man of Nordheim would not cower. Not today. Not this day. Tholgrim reached his arm back... but he did not strike. He flinched, as he heard the sounds of fighting behind him. He saw the Aesir's eyes light up. Tholgrim rised, the tall black form of the Stygian Youth rising up and turning. His eyes, though dead, almost showed anger.

Cimmerians. A war band. They cut down the Ghurnaki, and as several more soldier slaves came forth, they too were cut down. Tholgrim's eyes darted to the barbarians' wear. Not the red tartans not of the Elkhorn. Something else... he noted the markings. A clan that was out of place. Hoath. The dead eyes widened as one of the Hoath-men turned to face him. A tubby looking man, with hair cut into a tonsure, wielding a large staff. The High Shaman, or Oracle, of the Hoath Clan. Tholgrim smiled grimly, and brought his dagger forward, yet the Shaman merely stood there, as a larger man stood in his way. The Chieftain... the High Hoath of the Clan. Tholgrim growled, and thrust his dagger forward.

The Cimmerian Chieftain grabbed the Stygian Youth's arm, snapping it like a twig, bone popping out of the skin, blood spraying. Yet Tholgrim felt no pain. The boy he controlled... did. Tholgrim again tried to fight. but the Cimmerian reached his hands around, and snapped the vessel's neck.

"Secure this camp. NOW!" The High Hoath ordered.

The Hoath-men glanced about, scouting the surrounding areas. The High Oracle, a man named Seoirse, knelt next to the Aesir, finally dead from the loss of blood. He muttered a small ritual.

"High Hoath... he's dead."

The High Hoath shook his grey mane sullenly, "We did what we set out to do. They crossed our territory, they paid the price, even if we had to pursue them. Is that not right... Finnegan?"

One of the warriors, also grey haired, turned to offer a nod. "... it is, High Hoath."

"I have not forgotten your son's betrayal of the Clan. Come closer."

Finnegan stepped towards his Chieftain and slammed his fist against his chest.

"Yes, High Hoath?" Finnegan asked.

The High Hoath's eyes scrutinized the older warrior. As if measuring him up... deciding on the older man's strength. Then, without a single warning, the High Hoath's blade plunged into the man's gut. Finnegan gasped, and glanced down at the blade that stuck from his chest. The High Hoath smiled cruelly, and turned to his shaman.

"Prepare to return to our territory. We slew our outsiders, and as promised, Finnegan paid the price for his son's actions."

The High Shaman nodded, and soon the Hoath Clan were moving. Yet the High Hoath lingered. He knelt before Finnegan's cold body and shook his head.

"You were loyal. And yet, I warned you that you would serve a gaesa for your son's treachery. Well, I tell you now... your punishment is death."

The High Hoath rose, and soon, he too left the site of the site of the violence.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

To the far east, past Zamora, and Vilayet Sea, across the Great Wall, the plains and rolling steppes, the great pagodas, and the invading Hyrkanians, something stirred. A young Khitan boy, now a man, dreamt. He dreamt of an evil visage, a tall, black skinned, gant figure, with eyes of dread. He tried to run from the visage, yet it surrounded him. He tried to draw a weapon to fight the visage off, yet his arms could not move. The Khitan was defenseless, and as the spirit of Tholgrim touched him, took over, he struggled. He cried out, cursing, screaming, crying....

... and then the Khitan woke up. Gone was the boy known as Kaisol, but neither was Tholgrim there too. The man that was just a boy several days prior, rose from his bed, and stared out across the rolling plains. He looked down at his hands, at the bamboo hut he slept in. He felt as if he were home. Yet he felt as if he were in an alien land.

He could not remember who he was. And deep inside the confines of the boy's soul, the Hyperborean struggled, fighting with the soul of the boy from Khitai.

Tholgrim, a god king of Hyperborea, was powerless.