This is the first of the many chapters I updated today. If you have read yesterdays "A Changed World" already, then carry on. If not, you should start with that.


Chapter 9

Valhalas


X Underdog X

Once, Freydis had told him that the vrykul were not always so in their regard to combat. Certainly, it was a place of pride, of honor and respect, but it had been different, once. Defeat in combat had not been regarded with such disdain. In fact, it was a measure of greatness to fall upon the blades of a powerful enemy after years of success in combat. It was said one would carry the glory of their life into the afterlife, and so they were burned on the funeral pyres with the skulls and trophies of their enemies, and their slaves would be thrown into the flames to continue their service beyond, and often, the wives would walk in on their own volition, if their husband was so great.

Gardjon had been given such a burial. Freydis seemed happy as she explained that without the Death God to urge them to "Ascension," the vrykul were slowly beginning to shift back to their own ways.

The Valhalas battle pit was also a place of much history to the vrykul. Over the years, its purpose had shifted to suit their needs, but the fact always remained constant: it was the highest honor in vrykul society to prove yourself worthy of battle there, and to do so delivered you into the ranks of the Ymirjar. The Ymirjar: the clan of Champions, composed of members from all clans. They had no leader, no structure of government, but should King of the Vrykul blow the horn atop Balargarde Fortress, they would rally to his cry.

The Lich King had easily taken advantage of this culture. After establishing himself as a god to the vrykul, he made it clear that only those worthy of combat in Valhalas had the honor of serving within his elite force. The current Ymirjar had been slain and raised as death knights in the take over. Geirrvif and Gjonner, whom had overseen the battle pit for centuries, found similar fates, raised val'kyr and death knight respectively. At the time, most of them had desired the fate.

Once, according to Freydis, death at Valhalas had been worthy of praise and glory. The contradiction of the vargul had not been an issue, for there were no vargul. If Geirrvif called the name of a warrior to compete in Valhalas, then already he had reached a point in life of outstanding glory and ability. It was a battle pit for champions, and many were glad to finally fall fighting within. To be victorious, to prove oneself worthy of combat there, only demonstrated how truly great that warrior was, and he or she was allowed entrance to Ymirheim.

Ymirheim, the realm of Champions. In the old ways, the vrykul believed that in death, the greatest warriors were taken to such a realm, where the mead flowed freely and they could combat the best without end or death. The women were many, serving the champions as they pleased. Freydis explained that Ymirheim is the attempt to recreate such a place on Azeroth, for there was nothing left to truly contest them in life.

And the small races had attempted to destroy that city and were confused as to why they were only slaughtered in droves.

Light, Drekthac found it all too good to be true. It was the most beautiful story a true warrior, a true child of war, could ever hear, and to know that it was real, and that even he, Baelin Drekthac, could be given a chance to enter this fabled city and join his fellow brothers and sisters of combat... Dwelling too long on the subject, this paradise, would make him almost emotional, so he kept it firmly locked out until he was already allowed inside.

For now, Drekthac had to focus on the present, on Valhalas itself and proving himself worthy. The vrykul, whether they hated or loved him, accepted him as one of their own. He was of the Jotunheim clan. Abruptly, he recalled Thane Byjron the Thirster and his blight upon this tournament. True, if a warrior was not great enough to overcome the thane, then he was not worthy of being called Ymirjar, but that man shat on everything being a warrior meant, shat on honor, glory, death, combat, and Ymirjar. The rage flowed thick through Drekthac's blood.

The freezing air of Northrend bit against Drekthac's face as he paced back and forth beside Freydis, a few dozen yards south of the ring he was to fight within. Every day that he entered the Underhalls, he stood before that pit which resided below its mouth, stared down at the countless remains of the defeated, and imagined himself fighting there. He knew its every nook and cranny, down to the smell of tangy bone mixed with the scent-numbing ice of the air.

He took a deep, frosty breath and exhaled before asking, "Do you know how many trials I will face?"

Freydis beside him wore her usual winged breastplate and slender cloth garments. She remained grounded for the moment with her wings tucked in, and her polearm was impaled into the ice before her, waiting. To the question, she said, "Three challenges are already arranged for you. Following that, it is known that Thane Byjron will challenge you for the right to be called Ymirjar, and then if another wishes to contest your right, he or she is allowed. So you will face four or five trials."

Drekthac himself wore his full suit of plated armor. He wasn't one for grandiose color and decorations, but he left the shoulders thick and spiked, and his helmet, tucked under his arm, was pronged with two large horns, and their eye holes were narrow to prevent accurate arrows from reaching their mark.

Around them churned the massive crowds of people that Valhalas was attracting, moving towards the stands around the pit. They were animated and excited, nearly everyone, and many gave him deliberate glances in passing. If he had thought his blood match with Gardjon had gathered a large following, this put it to shame. Not a single villager would miss a Valhalas battle if they could help it. Even those from other villages, the Njorndar, the Mjordin, the southern clans of Dragonflayer and Winterskorn, had come, as had the armored behemoths from Ymirheim themselves, to watch he who sought to join them. Drekthac did not flinch under their hard glares, but their silence, neither jeering nor honoring, intrigued him. Even the vargul, from their halls of undeath in the Underhalls, crawled up to the surface and claimed a whole bluff to watch his battles here. Drekthac was told this was the first time the vargul had ever left their exiled homes.

While watching, they overheard the excited conversation between two warriors as they passed. Drekthac quickly noticed the red-stained bandaged stump at one's arm. "The look on your face as it bit your hand clean off! Like a woman receiving her first heart, still dripping!"

Stumpy growled, gesturing with the limb at his companion. "Little demon was the spawn of Hela! Quick as a snake, and blood like molten steel."

"It was a knee-biter, you simpering oaf!" They continued on, laughing and jesting.

Drekthac had a smile, acknowledging, Only the vrykul...

"I heard you haven't even taken a woman since your victory night over Gardjon. I am impressed by your dedication," Freydis mentioned. Drekthac only shrugged, resuming his pacing.

He was in full armor once again, after so long of the Underhalls. He had spent the last two weeks training to get used to the weight yet again, working at mobility and endurance until his boots sloshed with sweat and his feet blistered, until even his tendons and legiments groaned at the strain. He had reached his limits in strength training, at least as close as a man could get without devoting his every day to the practice, but he relished a return to the complex lifting regimen he had once followed.

Train big, eat big, sleep big. The big three. The previous four days he had rested, performing only cooldown exercises to keep his muscles from cramping up as they recovered, and even the butcher had been impressed over his appetite. Freydis noticed he had gained some weight; Drekthac had too. Not much muscle, not in that time or this near his human limits, but every bit of extra fat would keep him alive longer through wounds, so long as he could support the weight. He could.

He considered his position again. While his body may have hit the limits of human strength, his armor and trinkets took him well past it. That, and the supernatural power that came with the rage of a warrior's spirit. Much like how Freydis' polearm had given him the strength to preserve at the end of Gardjon's fight, every bit he wore now would do the same. Blows would do him less harm, cuts would not slice as deep nor bleed as much, and best of all, if Gardjon were to try swinging that monstrous axe at him again, he was easily strong enough to stop it with one hand.

His opponents would be no different.

This far north, the sun never truly reached a zenith, high in the sky – it merely hovered a distance over the horizon and lofted from end to end at that height. However, it was reaching it's highest point when finally a deep, throaty horn blared from the Valhalas arena. The drums began to slam and pound, and with the noise, the crowds roared and hollered their loudest cheers.

Drekthac's free hand came to the hilt of one of his two monstrous swords strapped to his back. He had debated switching one out for Gardjon's axe – all of the man's possessions were his, should he claim them – yet he found those much too awkward in shape and force. In truth, he trusted the polearm and spears the most as weapons, for they had the perfect mix of piercing force, distance, and plenty of blunt length at no weight disadvantage, but frankly, polearms were simply not manly enough for him.

Thus, he carried two swords, six feet in length, ten inches of steel wide, an inch and half thick, and roughly fifty pounds perceived each, after the minor weight reducing enchantment. It took the grip of a titan to carry the monsters in battle, but Drekthac knew he was the baddest fucker around when he did.

"It's time," Freydis mentioned, ripping free her polearm from the snow, and they began to walk down the slope into the arena.

Into Valhalas they descended, to the roaring cheer and jeer of some many vrykul. The all-female Hyldnir held a notable section, mocking him for his size and gender, and it seemed those of the Underhalls sort also claimed a stand, chanting his title.

Drekthac studied the crowds, for he knew that by the end of this day, he would never live among them again. Either he would die here, or he would win and enter Ymirheim. His time with the Jotunheim vrykul was over.

In the center, waiting for them, was another val'kyr. A woman of legends and song, Geirrvif, of the white wing. On the way, Drekthac glanced to his right, to the main overseeing ledge, and he saw the hulking monster Gjonner the Merciless. The sponsor of the tournament. Once a Ymirjar – one of the Lich King's personal champions – then turned death knight, gifted with abilities and ungodly power, to determine whom would join the Ymirjar and serve the Lich King following. No one, not even the Overthane, could command Gjonner to act, unless the Horn of Balargarde was blown.

Drekthac hoped to one day cross blades with the man. He felt only through Gjonner's blade could he find his own honorable death in battle, worthy of Drekthac's skill.

The final few spans, Freydis did not continue with him. Drekthac turned his head, a frown on his thick lips and question in his dark eyes. His val'kyr friend told him, "Fight with my blessing, Dragon, and take with you my spirit. Bring honor and glory to us both." She touched Drekthac's shoulder, and a blue light spiraled from her touch over his whole form. Drekthac felt a new fire churning in his blood, something mixed with pain and euphoria, like touch of a shadow-healing. With a wordless nod to him, Freydis turned and began to fly out of the ring.

Drekthac pulled his helmet from under his arm and slid it over his head. With an arcane snap, the completed enchantment of his armor set formed over him as he did the strap to hold it in place. A very special enchantment, that one. He faced Geirrvif again, visually similar to Freydis down to her winged breastplate, and hailed her.

"So you finally answer the summons of Valhalas, Baelin Drekthac the Dragon. You have garnered much honor in your time among us. As you know, Valhalas knows no race, no gender, and can embody the spirit of up to five warriors. You are a renowned warrior, but here in Valhalas I offer you different sport. You choose to fight for ascendance alone?" Geirrvif began, her voice soft and measured for a former vrykul.

Drekthac knew better than to nod with a helmet on. "Indeed. I will ascend through my own strength."

"We shall see if you are worthy. If you believe yourself ready to begin then I have just the match for you to cut your teeth on.

A group of outsiders thought themselves prepared for the rigors of Valhalas. They had much hubris, but in the end they fell like all of the others. If you think yourself so different – if you think that you have the skill and experience to fight here amongst such storied warriors – then please accept the challenge."

The crowds were deathly silent now, straining to listen in to their conversations. Drekthac drew his two massive swords and held them without strain, then announced, "I accept!"

The crowds roared their approval, starting up the war drums once again, yet still Geirrvif's soft voice could be heard unabated, "Valhalas is yours to win or die in, Dragon. But whatever you do, stay within the bounds of the arena. To flee is to lose and be dishonored."

Swooping upwards, the val'kyr's voice changed pitch to a vrykul roar, demonstrating the fire and passion they all possessed, and she declared, "Drekthac the Dragon has chosen to accept honorable combat within the sacred confines of Valhalas! There can only be one outcome to such a battle: death for one side or the other! Let the Dragon prove himself upon the bones of these outsiders who have fallen before!"

She cast her hand forward, releasing thin streams of dark magic into the soil. A few seconds later, Drekthac watched as hands ripped free and began pulling bodies upward, rising from the bones of the defeated. Five fallen heroes, small raced, carrying with them their weapons.

It was a pathetic first trial, but meant to clear the fodder before the true rounds. Drekthac found a fellow warrior by class, and he matched blades with him before spilling his bones back into the icy graveyard. Turning, he deflected an arrow with a sword flat, then leapt over and sundered the rotting elf back into the grave with a scissoring strike. Throwing one sword ended the flimsy mage, and the last two were as easily demolished.

Nearly insulting, to send such warriors against one called to Valhalas.

The crowds were roaring at the show, as Drekthac walked over to the fallen mage and pried his gold-hilted sword free. He heard from above, Geirrvif shouting, "The Dragon has defeated the fallen heroes of Valhalas battles past! This is only a beginning, but it will suffice!"

Swords sheathed again, Drekthac walked towards the front edge of the pit and faced Gjonner the Merciless. The hulking warrior's expression was masked by his helmet, but Drekthac could hear the vrykul fury beneath his metallic voice as he boomed, "We shall see, human. We shall see if you have what it takes to fight here. The game has changed since the days of the Scourge."

It had, Drekthac agreed. To a better time, he wished he could say, where once gain Ymirheim was the home of champions and not solely housing for Scourge elite. But also, monsters like Bryjon had awakened from the Long Sleep, plaguing upon these hollowed grounds.

Turning, Drekthac marched through the throbbing cheer of the crowd, back to Geirrvif. The val'kyr nodded to him, seeing him ready to continue. "From all over the world, beings aspire to prove themselves within Valhalas. Some come from other worlds. What you face now is a traveler, one who makes his way from arena to arena, seeking to find one who can prove his greater. Should he win here, he will take your place as the combatant of Valhalas. Do you accept his challenge now?"

Whomever was undergoing the trials of Valhalas was allowed a time of rest between rounds, up to twenty-four hours. Freydis promised to heal him at that time should he need it, and she told him an honorable blacksmith had already been set aside for his equipment at any time.

After that first round, though some adrenaline still lingered and Drekthac still carried some of the rage of battle, he told her, "I accept," and drew his swords again.

"Prepare yourself then, Dragon. Valniox the Traveler will enter from the northeast. Remember, do not leave the arena or you will lose the battle." She swooped up again, wings stretching wide and brilliant for an instant, before shouting, "Drekthac has accepted the challenge of Valniox the Traveler!" The crowds roared their approval, milder in manner if not excitement than those in the Underhalls. "May the gods show mercy upon Drekthac, for Valniox surely will not!"

In the wait, Drekthac clashed the flats of his two swords, sending a deep clang through the arena. He repeated the sound again and again, until the crowd took up the beat, and those that knew him chanted his name.

Dragon.

Dragon.

Dragon.

His blood churned with familiarity, the fires of rage already building once again. From beneath his helmet, he smiled, an expression bettered suited for private quarters with a woman than at a pit for battle.

The chant was interrupted in part by those in the northern stands, who erupted in cheer. He looked after their attention and saw the approach of his opponent. His fingers tightened their grip over the massive swords, pacing back as the opponent began to descend the slope.

Valniox the Traveler was not of this planet, but he could have been. He had the appearance of the qiraji, or the nerubians, or was of apparently similar aqir descent. Like a sentinel of black and pink carapace, crowned in golds with emerald and opal gemming, he skittered on small legs, stretching at least twenty feet upwards in height. His body was flat and wide like a qiraji Prophet, but rather than spider-like arms and limbs, they possessed a certain fluidity of tentacles, and its face carried the mandibles and jaws of an insect. For a weapon, Drekthac assumed the bone scythes hanging from its four tentacle-arms would suffice.

At the arena floor with him, Valniox screeched in an inhuman voice, "I left the service of my great masters to witness the strength of the mortals. I have witnessed many bold words with little bold actions, though the sight of the withering body of the great C'Thun was inspiring. Now, the time for me to move onto the next planet has nearly come, mortal, but perhaps you can show me something of value before you and your planet succumb screaming into the dark void."

Drekthac was already calculating his way of battle against this opponent. The shape gave him a very neutral, solid ground, but perhaps susceptible to tipping. The traits of the arms and blades suggested perhaps a whipping motion for them, rather than muscle against muscle. By race, it was clear Valniox would possess mentally invasive tactics, and perhaps a strong center of black magicks.

Unleashing a roaring battle shout, Drekthac charged in recklessly. Valniox interrupted his momentum by launching a bladed arm forward like a lance thrust, and Drekthac dodged to the side, turned, and swung down to sever the limb entirely. In an impressive show of control over the limb, Valniox's arm bent away from the strike in a squirming "U" shape, allowing Drekthac to hack into the icy bones of the arena floor.

With a quick glance, he saw the arm already approaching him again, and he deflected it with his sword flat, and then the second and third arms with his other blade. Noticing the fourth arm sweeping low to the ground in an attempt to cut off his feet at the ankles, Drekthac firmly planted his foot and used his strength to break free of his pin under the arms and then leapt through the gap, just as the blade hissed under his feet.

Dropping into a roll, Drekthac continued his momentum to come up with a slash to Valniox's many serrated insect legs. Quicker than expected, the monster skittered back to dodge. Not deterred, Drekthac pushed off his one planted foot again and jumped from kneel to the air with full armor, swords up high.

He managed two blows against the carapace, and they resonated like the clash of a gong, only deeper. Valniox hissed a sudden laughter, building distance between them again with his short legs. "Yes, yes! You have emotion, mortal. You have what is called passion, a fire within your mind and soul. As volatile as the chaos the birthed us!"

The arms whipped back at Drekthac. He tried to lock one into a parry, but the blades only reflected off his swords like hammering down a shield, and he grunted at each blow. He needed to be quicker. Sucking in a breath, he lurched aside in between two blows, feeling and hearing one blade carve a path through his left spaulder, and then he began to sprint forward, blades in hand. Valniox casually redirected the aim of his blows, but Drekthac was in motion now, and he made himself even more difficult target with quick lunges and side-steps.

At one over-extension of a tentacle-arm, Drekthac roared in victory as he swung down with both blades and severed it. He noticed from the side the approach of others, whipping in a short arc for his right side, and he caught it with his bracer – only to watch it slip through his enchanted steel and bury between the two bones of his forearm.

Drekthac shouted out in pain. As he was about to rip out the offending blade, Valniox abruptly pulled at it and flung him, arm first, towards the wooden wall of the Valhalas. Just as he thought he was about to hit it, the monster pulled again, ripping the wound even deeper at the change in forces, and Drekthac almost lost hold of his right sword at the blinding pain.

He deliriously thought of cutting off his own arm for freedom as he scrapped against the icy floor, still hooked, but in a moment of clarity, his left sword swung up and cut through much of that tentacle. Though lacking the power of his usual attack, it did the trick of sending Valniox into a shrieking roar, and his own attempt to withdraw the limb dragged Drekthac a few feet farther along before ripping the rest off.

Hissing, Drekthac removed the blade from his wrist as he stood and let that arm hang limply at his side for the moment, still gripping the sword with its tip grounded. For a moment of consideration, he realized that not only was the pain diminishing there, but the spell Freydis had laid over him to had mixed the pain with its burning euphoria, and the blood had stopped oozing. Her blessing was a slow blood-heal.

Valniox stared with his wide, green eyes eyes at the two severed limbs and rattled, "It will take a troublesome hour to recover these. I will take my revenge upon your flesh." Drekthac took the first step of his next charge just as the creature looked up into his eyes.

The first mental invasion began then as Drekthac found his body freezing completely. He felt the indomitable will of this creature try to impress itself over him with the dark and cold of the void, trying to consume every essence of the fire within him. At first it succeeded, but like dipping red hot steel into water, the violent reaction of steam blew back the attempt with searing reprimand, and, far more volatile than hot steel, Drekthac's rage leapt back at once, and then bloated even further in what seemed like multipliers.

"Your mind... burns," Valniox hissed, retreating from his attack. Drekthac shook off the cold tingle from his spine and began to charge again. "Such rage shouldn't exist in one mind. No mortal has the capacity for so much of one emotion."

A thrust of the arm was deflected in what seemed like an instantaneous swing of Drekthac's massive sword. Valniox gave a slanted blinked in surprise, then struck again and again, only to hiss and begin retreating as a third limb had its bladed head cut off. "What is happening? Your mind has vanished beneath the rage!"

Drekthac leapt up for duel overhead strikes, and Valniox easily retreated back to dodge. It was clear though that Drekthac had no intention of actually hit him directly. Roaring with such blazing fury, he slammed his blades into the ground on impact, and the shockwave rippled through the ground and split the icy beneath Valniox. All that weight on thin limbs had them fall through the loose ground, trapping him in place.

Drekthac was already running again, his eyes intent and unblinking upon Valniox. The creature stared with clear confusion, and it swung the last arm forward futilely. Failing to halt the charge once more, it finally called a spiral of oily magic and thrust it between him and Drekthac. "Know oblivion, mortal!"

Drethac's enchanted swords made a flat wall before him, and he reflected the spell as surely as he could with a shield. At the last step, his boot planted, and every morsel of strength he could muster, starting from his legs and up to his core and into his arms, became enhanced and multiplied by the storm of rage within. His very weapons took on an orange tint in their swings, and he tore into the thick shell of the monster and ripped it open in a wave of black blood.

"How is this... possible?" Valniox gurgled. "One mortal... does not possess the strength... to..."

Drekthac leapt a few feet into the air with his swords up, and he impaled them into the carapace of the chest, then let his weight combined with his armor drag him down and rend it open towards the middle. Valniox could only stare as his body was left sundered yet again, head tilted at the efficiency his shell was penetrated.

Panting with his rage, Drekthac seemed to have calmed after unleashing those attacks, and he finally tipped Valniox backwards with an impaling strike with one sword. On the ground and clearly dying, with the vrykul cheering Drekthac's title, Valniox asked very calmly:

"I could not possess your mind for something even more powerful already had, and that same entity gave you the strength to penetrate my blessed armor. Tell me what has happened here, mortal."

Standing before the insectoid head of him now, Drekthac poised a sword over his neck. He paused to answer, "My rage gives me strength, and it knows no limits." He flinched as the fourth arm suddenly slashed at his back, tangling with his cloak but gouging the back of his breastplate, then severed the beast's head from its body, killing all actions.

From above, Geirrvif wasted no time to announce, "Valniox the Traveler has been defeated by Drekthac the Dragon! Let the next challenge be issued!"

Drekthac sheathed his left sword to pick up the head by an antenna, and he walked it up the slopes of Valhalas to Gjonner's stand and laid the head at his feet. The death knight' eyes were more visible up close, as glowing orbs of blue, and in the shadowed confines of his helm, his lip curled.

"You expect me to be impressed by the fact that you defeated one other outsider? Get out of here before I summon my ghouls upon you!" He kicked the dripping head back into the arena.

Drekthac smirked, making his way past the host to where Freydis waited for him. Such was the rules of the tournament, to begin each match with Geirrvif and end them with Gjonner. Along the way, he sheathed his other sword and immediately set upon stripping himself of his armor, starting with his gauntlets.

At his va'kyr friend, he threw down his entire set of armor, even kicking off his boots. He was left standing on the ice in nothing more than his gladiator subligaculum. The wounds on his wrist and back were still open, clearly painting dark trails over his pale skin.

Freydis' large hand settled over his forehead. Inside, Drekthac felt liquid fire pour from her hand and wash through his whole body. The strain on his tendons and aches of his joints were cleared in its wake, and the ripped muscles and split flesh were repaired instantly. When the feeling passed, he was left feeling wholesome... and hungry.

The crowd's loud cheering progressed to the excited murmur and shouting of the usual breaks between rounds. The blacksmith took Drekthac's armor and swords and set to work and fixing the damages to them, after being cautioned to be extra careful of the large runes carved into each piece ("Damage even one edge of a rune and I'll stick you ass to mouth on my sword for everyone to witness your final flailing moments before shattering every masterpiece you ever conceived in your armory!").

A sizable portion of the spectators took a break from their stands and descended to do whatever they wished, be it eat, piss, or fuck. Women returned home to inspect their stews, and many men went to the pit floor to see Valniox's corpse up close. It was understood that Valhalas was not a quick tournament, and assuming Drekthac did not delay a match a night, it would last them until past sunset. Geirrvif briefly met Gjonner and spoke in hushed tones before returning to the battle pit floor to wait for Drekthac.

As Drekthac sat with a bowl of warm soup and ate during the wait, Freydis mentioned, "I had nearly forgotten your prowess under the effects of your armor. Is it wise to rely upon your enchantment? You cannot heal until a match is over, and my blessing cannot match the rate of the damage."

Drekthac smiled in between bites. He mentioned, "The enchantments are only a tool, a catalyst. What you saw against Valniox never even exceeded my capacity for fury."

"Your words both worry me and impress me."

After his meal and quiet talk with Freydis, Drekthac stood from his place, accepted his armor from the blacksmith, and dressed again. Realizing this, the crowds broke into an excited murmur, the war drums beginning again, and many bounded down to rush off and find those that still remained away. Once Freydis reapplied her blessing to him, poisoning his blood with fire, he began to descend the slopes back to the battle pit.

At the floor again, he hailed Geirrvif. "Lo!"

"Welcome back, Dragon. For your next match, the iron dwarves of Ulduar have brought their creations to Valhalas, seeking ascension through ingenuity. Brain and brawn have come together for this next match of colossal proportions. I do not see victory in steel over machine for you, but the choice is yours. "

Drawing his blades, Drekthac accepted the challenge, beginning the third match of Valhalas. With a single nod, Geirrvif swooped up again, booming, "From the southeast comes the Iron brothers Mjorion and Loigen! From deep within the frozen depths of Ulduar, they birthed the mechanical monstrosity called the Bousder! The brave and foolish Dragon stands ready to face the iron trio!"

A three on one battle. The crowds roared their approval, even the Hyldnir who had previously scorned his victory. Perhaps they were eager to see him die. The audience grew even louder at the sight of the three arriving at the sloped entrance and beginning to descend.

Drekthac frowned at the sight of his opponents. The iron dwarves were straight-forward, carrying a hammer and flame-cannon respectively, but it was their construct that caught his attention. It was as tall as an iron colossus, around Valniox's height, and shaped like a walking snap-turtle. A defensive guardian, he assumed, accounting for it mentally. The Iron brothers would need to be removed first.

At the battle pit floor, the red, likely copper, bearded brother shouted, "Here we go!" His saronite-bearded brother called out in agreement.

XxX

Throwing hammers and fireballs. Drekthac easily swarmed through the range attacks and dodged the attention-dragging monstrosity before cleaving apart the brothers. Both had the oddest enchantment to them, where once struck, they shrunk to mechagnomes, but he paid it little mind when facing the Bousder.

The shell proved even more impenetrable than Valniox's carapace, but Drekthac discovered the weakness of its own weight as he spun it by the tail and smashed it into parts against the pit walls. An odd battle, its danger in taking any hit from the iron beast, but Drekthac found it an easier win than the last.

"The Iron Bros and their pet machine are no more! Could it be that the Dragon is truly worthy of combat in Valhalas? We shall see!" Geirrvif announced for him, as Drekthac limped up the slopes to Gjonner.

The heads of the two iron dwarves were tossed to his feet, and Drekthac waited on the words of the champion death knight. With a loud, metallic huff, he drawled, "You showed skill and mental ability in that fight, Whelp. I would have preferred to seen you a smeared stain under that machine's foot! Now, your strength has taken you this far, but now your time of reckoning has come! Back out now if you wish to see the raise of tomorrow's sun!"

A cold feeling trickled down Drekthac's spine as he realized what Gjonner was on about, why he was so confident. Quiet enough to only be heard by the two of them, he returned, "The time has come to return Valhalas to its honorable roots. Thane Byjron will fall here."

Hands on his armored hips, Gjonner boomed a metallic laugh. Grinning viciously beneath his helmet, he said, "I can respect a Whelp like you! Let us see how much honor you maintain while he Tans you!" A mental flash of the last Valhalas, the crowd roaring "Tanner! Tanner! Tanner!" as Byjron pulled the skin from the woman.

Red-hot rage seized him then, and Drekthac roared in challenge as he kicked both heads of the iron dwarves off the ledge he stood upon. Cupping his hands before his face, he screamed, "Your time has come, Byjron the Honorless! Meet me within Valhalas if you dare!"

The cheering crowd hesitated at the bold shout, turning amongst themselves with animated whispers. Then, the most unprecedented occurrence, the vargul hollered from their secluded place with voices strained from death and rot. The more recent ones had found their deaths at the hand of the Thane. Next, the Underhalls crowd cheered wildly, prompting the rest of the vrykul to follow suit, impressed.

The expressionless Ymirjar actually turned to themselves, discussing something of importance to them. According to Freydis, they had not seen any inclusion to their ranks since the Thane's awakening.

"A call for your own death," Gjonner muttered behind Drekthac. "You die with my respect, and I will spit on your corpse for warranting this disgusting feeling. Now go meet your fate!" With a holler, Gjonner grabbed Drekthac and flung him into the air, to fall back into the battle pit.

Drekthac landed on his feet, braced with his powerful legs as best as he could, ending with a small, awkward roll. At the impact Geirrvif flew up into the air, not waiting for him. At the same time, Freydis – who hovered at the northern edge of the pit – darted inside with two swoops and landed before Drekthac, taking his head in her palm and burning away the bruising he faced at the Bowsder's hand.

"The unimaginable has happened! Drekthac, who vies to prove himself worthy of Valhalas, has called out his next challenger without rest! The Dragon he may be, but the Immortal he must be to survive the next coming minutes! Thane Byjron the Thirster, your time has come to challenge the combatant of Valhalas!

"You fool," Freydis hissed to him. "Your swords are dulled from cutting through iron, and you can no longer repair them!"

"Good," Drekthac growled, still immersed in his rage. "I won't give him a clean death. I will bash his fucking brains out and break every bone in his body before he finds release!"

"Gods damn you, Baelin!" Freydis cried. "You lie in Hela's hands now! Pray to the Lady of the Sword!" She flapped her wings and retreated to the edge, just as a the crowds along the southern stands began roaring and cheering, while facing behind them.

The other val'kyr shouted, "It appears Thane Byjron comes from the south! Remember, stay within the ring of Valhalas!" Following her cry, the first of the crowd began gasping, the sound progressive as more and more realized something, until even Geirrvif hesitated then flew down near the arena floor. She told him, in a voice indifferent to the crowd, "Let your rage guide your blades, Drekthac, but do not give in to him. I am sorry."

Drekthac frowned at the reactions, holding his blades tense as he fist caught sight of the thane at the edge of the slope. The same bull's head helmet that stopped at the nose, the barbed wire shoulders and bracers. His animal fur vest over the burly, hairy chest. At his waist, cleavers and a hunter's knife mixed with more furs, and under that were heavily armored legs and thick boots.

Though a thane, it was not said that he only sat on his throne brooding. Byjron was raised with worgs, they say, which explains his ever-thirsting bloodlust. His first encounter with a fellow vrykul was against a trapper and cannibal, the name long forgotten, but after nearly having his heart eaten – the jagged line still there between the stitched vest – Byjron had overcame him and ate him as the worgs do. That was how the rest of the people found him, naked, covered in blood, and licking at the bones of a vrykul, and he took quickly to learning language and culture, rising up to be a thane of his modest village that no longer existed. Following the Great Slumber, he remained in the wilds, returning to civilization only to the war drums of Valhalas.

So it was said, but Drekthac knew that the thane had his own estates in deep Njorndar Village, near Balargarde Fortress, filled with several wives, slaves, and the occasional invite to games in Byjron's battle pit. Needless to say, those were not popular, but Drekthac had also heard that Byjron had turned several small race slaves into his own gladiators. Though curious for his kin (or closer to his kin), he didn't dare meet something already twisted into obeying that thane.

As Byjron drew closer, Drekthac noticed he had something clutched in his hand, dragging behind him and leaving a red furrow in the snow. With a frown, he studied the object, only to watch the thane scoop his free hand inside the object, pull out dripping entrails, and take a bite with already smeared lips. A fresh meal still in hand, he realized.

But even as he raised his swords in challenge, preparing for a battle shout, he noticed the wicked smile in those jagged, red-stained teeth, and his eyes caught blue from the carcass. The crowd was deathly silent now, save for the outside clans whispering questions to those of Jotunheim.

The top half was already eaten into a hollowed stump, but what remained was a blue horse body, dragged by its front legs. There were no such thing as blue horses, only... nymphs of that color.

"I'm afraid you caught me in the middle of my evening meal, Whelp," Byjron told him, his voice grating like stone dragged through snow. With a casual wave of his hand, he tossed the body aside, to join the many bones of those already slain. "No matter. I am not opposed to you witnessing what you clearly missed out on. Delicious, those simpering fey folk."

Both swords touched the snow as Drekthac's arms lost their strength, only barely held still by his loose fingers. He was absolutely still.

Byjron smirked, then paced further into the arena, and he spread his blood-splattered arms wide. "Let us get the match underway, shall we? I see the day's champion tries to hide in snow, remaining oh so perfectly still to escape sight, but I'm afraid to announce, I am not so unintelligent as to fall to the classic trick!"

No, the thane was terribly cunning. He knew exactly which buttons to push to excite the crowd, and which to push to utterly demoralize his foe.

Byjron's voice rolled with grandiose engagement, luring in the crowd with what could be called charismatic speech – odd for a vrykul, but the mix of boasting and deep voice left him verbally strong. Already, the crowds were back into cheering. This is what many came to see: the Thirster would give them the show of a lifetime from their great champion.

Turning to Drekthac, with his lip turned up, he demanded, "What's the matter, little human? No words for your opponent? No tears? Or does your kind not understand sorrow, too barbaric and uncivilized to know care and compassion? Come along now, Whelp, I know you were at least breathing a minute ago."

Drekthac still had yet to budge, staring right at the unmoving nymph.

"If you will not start the match, then I shall. I'll thank you now for the meal!" With swift, surely steps, Brjyon approached Drekthac from behind, hands still empty, and likely thinking of ripped Drekthac apart with just his fists. As he reached down to pluck up the human, there was a blink of movement, and Byjron stepped back suddenly, minus a finger.

He boomed a laugh. "There you are!"

Now facing him, Drekthac still had his sword up, its end smeared with fresh red, and the sausage-sized finger on the snow before him. All that rage inside that had built up before the match seemed gone. The raging fire, the inferno of passion, was silent. Instead, there was a pulse, like a heartbeat of a separate entity, and with each pump, pure ice was forced into each of his veins. Drekthac's lower back hurt with the tension so tightly coiled there, and his fists shook in their hold of his swords – not from strain – but by the mighty grip he had on them. The steel was warping beneath his fingers.

Drekthac's prime foot slowly raised up the only action between them. The moment it set down, he forced every bit of his body off of its strength, striking with both swords in a burst of violence. Byjron met the blows with his cleavers, quickly drawing and parrying, and his grin was vicious. A stomp crunched the icy bones of the arena, and then Byjron struck back, his cleavers a flurry of movement.

From the holes in Drekthac's the helmet, Byjron could see the dark eyes glaring back at him, cold as their waters, and they did not stray from his as Drekthac deflected every strike of the cleavers. It could be unsettling, being pinned under those eyes, yet it only served to amuse the thane. Then Drekthac side-stepped, sliding over the icy and turning his momentum into a whirling strike against the back of Byjron's armored legs.

The thane stumbled forward several steps, but no bones broke with how thick that armor was. He shook his head, still laughing. In between steps and without warning, the laughter died an abrupt death and Byjron turned and launched a chained claw from his waist against Drekthac. He caught it on his sword, but before he could severe the chain, Byjron yanked him forward, and he was flung towards the thane.

With practiced ease, Byjron had his clever descending exactly where Drekthac would be, cutting him even in the air, yet Drekthac caught it with his free sword, being taken from the force directly down into the icy floor, with the change in momentum leaving his head fogged and woozy.

Hardly a beat passed before Drekthac found himself kicked away, feeling the strap of his shoulderguard biting into his armpit as it tried ripping free, but then his continued grip on the snared sword tried ripping his arm off and he hit the end of the slack, crashing back into the ice. He was yanked once again, neck straining in the whip of it.

There was no way to get his sword up in time, and the thane's clever bit into his breastplate with a shriek, slashing a deep rend through his belly and splitting the armor as his momentum carried him farther. Drekthac landed on the floor between the thane's legs, capable of only looking up into the hungry eyes, before he noticed the shift of movement, and he was kicked away again.

There was a pop in his wrist at the extremity this time, and he lost the grip of his sword without meaning to, no longer able to control his fingers of his right hand. He slid far this time, scraping up a furrow of bones, and stopped only when his back hit the horse carcase.

His offhand still held his other sword.

The fire began then too. Drekthac's eyes remained locked on the thane even from that position, and his useful hand planted down with an unsettling squish into nymph guts as he stood once again. His mind was too far to realize it, but Freydis' fiery blessing cooked his stomach wound and wrist, and the spark seemed to ignite all the flame that had had been strangely absent in the presence of his rage.

There was no noise in the arena now to Drekthac. His mind had vanished, been wiped under the control of something else, and his very muscles began to clench and relax in a strange dance of inhuman feelings. They writhed unnaturally, infusing with rage, finding amplification in physical ability as more and more of that supernatural essence filled his soul. There were limits to how much one human could handle, capping out in human emotion, but Drekthac seemed an exception to the rule, as it exceeded the natural human limit by many multiples.

His body was tearing itself apart from it.

Drekthac shifted his weight to his toes, standing there as he was, yet just that contraction of his calves caused a twitch of his thighs, and he was rocketed forward in a leap even greater than the one they called heroic. Byjron saw the approach with wide eyes and mouth, and he stepped aside to escape its path. Drekthac ripped open another path of ice at his sliding landing, and then he was sprinting forward, with a starting few normal steps that accelerated into a blurring sprint.

Byjron caught the first projected strike on his cleaver, only to shout in surprise as his blade was shattered into grey droplets that showered over his arm and face with cutting intensity. The helmet became porous with new dents and chips, but the right eye was popped by a long shard that took him clean through.

Drekthac's forward foot stopped and caught all his force, then projected him to the right, following Byjron's path. The joints screamed and strained, but they held under the change of force. Drekthac's next slash took Byjron in the chest, cutting off the hide vest and splitting a deep rend over the chest. Drekthac's dulled blades hadn't touched flesh, despite the spray of red mist.

But with those few attacks, the rage was mostly expelled from the muscles, and Drekthac was left roaring in agony and challenge as he stood before the staggering Byjron. Freydis' spell was a hot fire in his blood as it tried fixing the damage left behind. The fury in his expression still smouldered unrelentingly.

As his mind came back to him, Drekthac realized again the difference in height between him and a vrykul. Byjron towered over him, his eyes barely level with the thane's crotch. Staring at the wound on the vrykul's chest, he wondered just how he had managed it so high up.

Truthfully, that was only the second time in his life he had ever been so consumed in rage, due to his armor. He wasn't entirely familiar with the effects, or able to control his actions fully.

It was clear now to Drekthac, Thane Byjron, Freydis, the hosts Geirrvif and Gjonner, and everyone in the crowds that this match would not be as one sided as the rest of the Thirster's matches. He and the thane regarded each other carefully now, during the tremendous roaring from the crowds. The war drums had taken up beat again.

When armor was crafted, blacksmiths usually included an enchantment or two for value, leaving enough room for one more of the buyer's choosing when he found an enchanter later. For Drekthac's armor set, crafted upon the enchanted anvil of the Forge of Fate in Dalaran when it still hovered over Crystalsong Forest, Drekthac had personally overseen its shaping and enchanting.

The better enchantments were too large to be etched on armor or too powerful for small pieces of steel. They needed to be broken into pieces, like a puzzle, and when the puzzle was complete, the enchantment could finally form. After the usual enhancements for bodily durability, stamina, and strength, Drekthac had chosen a nine-piece set enchantment that heightened the efficiency of the supernatural rage that empowered true warriors. It directly infused into his muscles, so the more he had made him that much stronger, and the enchantment removed the limit his spirit could hold at once.

What Drekthac had noticed, the few times his rage exceeded what he was supposed to feel, was a possession of his body and mind. A being of fury and bloodlust, nearly demonic in intent yet controlled by his own desires. He trained not to control this being of possession, but to control his passions that guided it. Even at his worst, he would maintain control.

Against Thane Byjron, who was both deceptively quick and physically mighty, he felt this enchantment would be needed for victory. The thane had experience in fighting the small races, and Drekthac experience in fighting the large. Their skill would be matched. Also for this fight, Drekthac knew he needed to extend it as much as possible. Freydis' blessing healed him over time, so the longer it lasted the more he could recover while Bjyron grew exhausted, and since he would be cycling amassing large amounts of rage and channeling it back out, he would need every bit of healing to maintain the efforts.

Drekthac attacked first, swinging in wide with his sword and locking Byjron in a parry. Despite the sheer mass of the thane, their strength was matched, and it was an easy trick for Drekthac to seize advantage of the awkward angle of Byjron's arm to weaken the parry and split open a gap. With a lunge, he jabbed his sword into the fleshy stomach. Iron-like flesh pinched inward at the force, the rocks beneath bruising, but Freydis was right that his sword had been dulled by his last fight against true iron. His hit was no different from a mace's blow.

Turning with the blow, Byjron planting his back leg and shoved forward, swinging his cleaver up quicker than Drekthac could block. It chipped his shoulderplate and sent him spinning back once. They both pressed forward again. This time, Drekthac called upon more experience against the vrykul, and he weaved by the decapitating strike to stand between his trunk-like legs, then disregarded his sword to grab one fur-covered tree in a bear hug and pull back with all he could.

Immediately, the Underhalls group roared in excitement, calling out his tile Dragon in a mantra. It was their Champion's classic vrykul-tripper. Byjron, falling off balance, quickly seized Drekthac by his cloak and tugged him with him, then over his head, and Drekthac panicked as he saw the icy ground rushing towards his head while carrying the weight of himself, his armor, and all of Byjron's. Such a quick reflex!

Mother... Drekthac started, arching his back to shove his plated elbow into Byjron's bull's head helmet to press him lower. They hit the ground with equal, tremulous force. Fucker!

He tried rolling away after, but Byjron still had his arm around Drekthac's legs. One vice-like fist clamped around his plated leg, and the pressure began. Drekthac didn't even have time to worry about the metal warping or shattering as Byjron began to pull, clearly intending to rip his leg clean off.

By then, the rage was already strong in him again, still within normal levels, so he raised his left elbow from the helmet to smash his hilt into it, denting the dark and green saronite. Growling, and screaming, he flailed on top of Byjron, just enough to lower himself down a few inches, and as his hip dislocated – sinew held by their waning elasticity – his dull sword crashed with a clean blow into the helmet, leaving a furrow several inches deep.

Byjron knew his position. Claim the leg but have his face cleaved in by his own helmet, or let go. The binding arm released him, and Drekthac was flung off his sweaty, bloody chest and ragdolled into the ice. The armor absorbed most of the blow, but he fell dazed. He found Byjron still had his leg clenched as he was flung again to the other side, and then was dragged up as Byjron sat up for a better angle.

Again and again he was helpless to the flailing arm. He closed his eyes and let his armor do its work in protecting him, and he focused with all his rage into keeping his head through it all. Byjron could not beat him this way. It ended with him shoved face-first into the icy, bone-snapping soil – flattened by his own body – and then Byjron leaned his massive weight onto Drekthac as he yanked free a knife from his waist.

At the pause, Drekthac struck, mustering whatever he had left. Freydis' spell burned his body like lying in a bonfire. His fists planted in the ground, several ancient bones cracking, and he pushed himself up, lifting all of Byjron's weight in the meanwhile. The thane jumped his weight, sending several tons of force against his back, but he held through, locking out his elbows. Byjron conceded the hold by grabbing Drekthac by the helmet, massive fist encasing it, his shoulders, and half of his chest, and then flung him aside.

Drekthac ended his new slide and stood back to his feet, smiling victoriously. His rage burned deeper inside him than Freydis' spell could, and he found himself excited for the next round between them. Briefly shaking his head to clear his swimming vision, Drekthac found Byjron again. He also saw his second sword, stuck into the ground fifteen yards away.

Byjron stared at this human champion with his lip turned up. Like a cockroach, it refused to be squashed, no matter how small. He saw those human eyes through that battle-worn helmet, intent dead on his still, unforgiving. He did not know what the Whelp's relationship was with the nymph, but apparently it wasn't enough to demoralize him, only serve to fuel his rage.

Gods be damned, a true warrior to know how to use his rage, rather than fall prey to it. But he wasn't the only one to know how to tap into the consuming fires of war, to use its power.

Byjron never cared for the other vrykul, not the people or their ideals. Honor was a fools ideal, and excuse when he fell in battle. There was only survival, and the pleasures of life to enjoy before ones own end. However, just this once, he knew the vrykul-respect for an enemy. Consuming his heart would taste only that much sweeter now. Perhaps his skin could be stitched into a cloak, as a memento of this enemy that could challenge him in a ring.

They came together again, Drekthac low and Byjron high. The human slide down to escape the first engagement, but Byjron was ready for the attempt, and he plucked up the child-sized opponent by his breast plate. In a lightning quick strike, the dull sword broke Byjron's wrist, but his good hand managed to yanked at Drekthac's armor by the collar, straining to rip it from him. The small wrist slammed against Byjron's and stopped the attempts, but there was the satisfying snap of buckles, and the armor loosened before Drekthac fell back to the ground.

There was another quick scuffle as Drekthac broke free of them and managed to dive and find his sword. His noticed the white puff of his breath as his hand found the warped hilt – the curve away from his palm now – and he continued his momentum forward with it before turning against Byjron at the ready. His right hand, the wrist healed now, spun the sword briefly to let the curved hilt fit properly in his fist.

The roar of the crowds was painful now, but it was also outside his focus. His ears were of no use in this battle, was the assumption, as nothing Byjron did could be heard. Only the vibrations of noise could be felt. The looseness of his armor was an annoyance, and it was clear the last two buckles would snap easily if caught. Without his breastplate, on top of being utterly exposed, Drekthac' enchantment would fail, leaving him the usual warrior.

He knew he needed to expend what he had built before that happened.

Byjron was a bloody mess now, but clearly it was not enough to even slow him. He was missing a finger and had a broken wrist, unfortunately on the same arm, and the wound on his chest had dripped over everything below. Only one silver eye glared out of that helmet now, the other ruined, and both were riddled with small lacerations from the roughness of battle – Byjron more than Drekthac due to the completeness of his armor.

With his good hand, Byjron scraped up his chest with it, smearing himself with his own blood, and he held it under the snout of his helmet to take a good lick, grinning.

In a rage-fueled burst of speed, Drekthac came again, but he stomped the ground before confrontation, staggering the thane. He threw his all into one heroic strike undertaken with both blades, and they came arcing in from opposite directions too swiftly to be dodged. Still with a hideous smile, Byjron had no intention of doing so. He stepped closer awkwardly so for the angle of the strikes, and threw his clever down Drekthac's chest, slipping it under the line of his loose armor, between it and his skin.

The fight changed pitch then. Everyone in the stands jumped to their feet, screaming every word imaginable, their excitement frantic now. Gjonner no longer watched with disdainful, apathetic eyes, instead leaning over the end of his ledge intently. Geirrvif had a hand over her breastplate, where her heart had once been, in a gesture of life carrying over in undeath.

Like the sound of a wooden beam snapping, Drekthac's sword impacted the vrykul's legs just above the knees and broke the titanium strong bones beneath, and his right sword also sundered into pieces from the impact. In the same instant, the clever slide down and inside not just the cavity of his breastplate but inside his body, deflected by – but cracking – his ribs and burying into the guts of his intestines. Drekthac could feel the cold, hard, rigid steel interfering with the flex of his abs, gasping out at the sensation.

With his shaking right hand, he dropped the hilt of his shattered sword and grabbed Byjron's wrist, then forced it upward, clenching his eyes shut as it carved a new path up and pulled at his innards clumsily. He staggered back, unable to breath, but then Byjron's sword caught at the top lip of his breastplate and yanked back. He saw the grin as it came ripping off, and he fell back onto the ice, his very skin numb to the feeling at the moment.

It was inhuman, the way Byjron still stood on those clearly broken legs, but then he too fell, stopping himself with his hands. Vrykul were born into the world able to walk on their own power. There was something different about them. Looking down, he could see pulsing spurts of blood oozing out of the wide line on his chest. It burned with pain and Freydis' spell, and perhaps the wound wouldn't kill him because of it, but the fight was nearly over now.

Teeth clenched to the point of nearly cracking, Drekthac slapped his right hand over the line, stopping more blood from spilling out. He fought to stand but failed, hearing Byjron laugh across from him. He looked to see the thane dragging himself forward, legs semi-useful. "Your time has come, Whelp. I'll take my first bite into your heart while it still beats!"

Delay, every instinct screamed inside him. The blessing would work its magic, but it needed time. Drekthac opened his mouth and sucked, using abs that clenched and fought him the entire burning way, managing the slightest breath and was immediately puffed out. He tried again, quicker, finding only faint pants.

He was strangely glad then for the bit of extra fat he had packed on. With his ribs deflecting the blow down, the blade had caught only the end of his bulging stomach, not the full inside – just behind the abdominal muscles. He was downed, mostly defeated, but he wasn't dead yet.

The things he'd do for a healing potion at that moment of time.

He found a second wind suddenly, and his lungs took in greater and greater quantities of air. The very rage that drove him began to heal part of his wound, working with Freydis' blessing, and Drekthac began to struggle to his feet again, before Byjron could get to him. Hand still over the wound, he found his feet, beginning to push on weakened, straining muscles to stand from his squat.

It was the most basic and essential of strength exercises, the squat, which gave his legs all the power that carried over to the rest of him. The motion was something he was so experienced in, and he found himself comparing this moment to standing from the last attempt in a heavy set. Groaning, he pushed himself up entirely, and gasped relief as his knees straightened once again. His hand slipped, gushing more warm blood over him, but he readjusted quickly.

Just then, Byjron's hulking fist found his leg and clamped down with all of the thane's unwavering strength. Drekthac was grateful for all of the training meant to teach him to never release his swords, no matter his predicament. Through it all, his left hand still barely clung onto the blade, and he slammed it into the wrist. In his current state, it wasn't enough to do any damage.

Drekthac hissed as Byjron pulled him down onto his back again. Not as much blood oozed out when his hand slipped, clearly clotting with supernatural speed. Staring at the thane's face, Drekthac remembered Leyanna. The darling nymph that hated brutal violence, hated where he was now. She made him promise he would kill Byjron, to put an end to such a monster. A flash of the mostly eaten nymph followed the memory. Using more of his rage, Drekthac swung his sword again and crushed Byjron's fingers, freeing his leg.

He found new strength, scrambling around and releasing his hold over the wound to advance. In an awkward kneel, he lifted his sword over his head and roared as he swung it down and smashed into Byjron's good wrist, shattering the bone. He remembered the woman raped just before her husband, watching her being stripped first of clothes and later of skin. He remembered the brutality, the remorselessness, the excitement everyone was demonstrating. Being in the pulse of the crowd when witnessing Byjron in action.

Stumbling forward, he swung down again, holding the massive sword in both hands, and there was a pop somewhere when it crushed the vrykul's back, near the shoulderblade. He reached to serve more punishment, natural rage sustaining him now, but something elsewhere called attention, demanded his battle-attention when nothing else in the crowds did. Someone was standing at the edge of the ring, a spell of black in her hands, with ruby red hair dancing in the sensations of magic.

Hardly a second later, there was a white blur – swooping down – and he witnessed Freydis skewer the woman from the air in a perfect thrust. The two vrykul were carried into the air, Freydis' force continued, and then they fell into the hollowed ground of Valhalas with the caster at the center of the fall, still with Freydis atop holding the polearm inside her stomach. The vrykul reached up once for the val'kyr, but then Freydis lifted her polearm and plunged it down again, into the chest. She twisted it, a scream resounding, and the woman died a few moments later.

"Useless... bitch," Byjron hissed, and Drekthac's enraged eyes fell upon him again. The human returned, "May Hela show you special attention, coward!"

Strangely, he found himself praying as Freydis commanded: Lady of the Sword, see my strike true. Byjron's hand swiped at him despite the wrist, and Drekthac deflected it with his sword flat before lifting his sword high. He found strength returned to his arms then, with no strain to lift it, and he swung down with every bit he had left. The stubborn thane's other ruined hand tried to grip the skin of his stomach, the thick fingers digging in and twisting as if to rip his skin off, but the sword swung down into the bull's-head helmet once more and the saronite contraption broke to the blow, allowing the sword all the way down and into his skull. The bone cracked and head flattened under the dull blade, before the skin split and pinched, pulling it aside to reveal red and pink in a swell of vrykul blood.

Thane Byjron was dead.

The crowds saw the last blow and roared, the intensity overwhelming. Drekthac blinked with dizzy eyes at them, hearing only pain in his ears. He was delirious, he realized, and chuckled to himself, falling finally aside and not moving. The last words he heard were Geirrvif screaming over the crowd, "A-Amazing! The unthinkable has happened today... Drekthac the Dragon- Nay! Drekthac the Immortal has slain Thane Byjron the Thirster! Who would dare to challenge him after that? Who dares contest that he is worthy of combat in Valhalas!"

Then he blacked out.

XxX

Drekthac's return to consciousness was not like the usual times he blacked out, with the dizzy, distorted memory leading up to wakefulness. No, there was fire, consuming his whole body, and he lurched awake with a start, as if from a dream. His eyes opened to a dark, wooden cabin, and he saw a bright, ethereal hand of snow pulling away from his face. A moment later recognized the covered face of Freydis, and the dull lighting of his own longhouse in Jotunheim.

Sweet pickled his brow and skin from her form of healing, but Drekthac paid it no mind as he stared at her. He could tell, from the darkened windows at the corner of his eyes, that night had fallen. He could feel too that he had been stripped nude and washed of blood before being laid here and his healing finished. It was just the two of them.

"Leyanna," he started, voice hoarse, but Freydis shook her head quickly.

His friend told him, "I personally raised that nymph's corpse to see the identity. It was not she." Drekthac nodded, relieved.

They sat in silence for a few moments longer, him on his bed, her on a chair beside him. He felt like a child, dwarved first by his bed and also by her. The vrykul world required shoes bigger than he could fill, physically speaking. He liked to think he managed it metaphorically, but there was always the chance that one of the giants looked down as if at a young upstart.

Snorting, he began to sit up, grunting at the pains still ailing his body. Only time and movement would work that out. As the heavy, furred blanket fell from his chest, he noticed the wide, white scar demanding attention just below his ribcage, visible beneath his thick chest hair. It made all of the other pink and white lines seem insignificant, nearly an inch wide and the ends splitting in two like a narrow 'X'.

Looking up, he saw his armor complete and flawless, resting on a chest at the far wall at the foot of his bed. She had seen to it being repaired, and the swords too, he noticed next, with their hilts straight again peaking up from behind the chest. Nodding absently, he asked, "So Valhalas?"

"Delayed until tomorrow," she replied simply. "You have one final match. Several thanes were demanding challenge to Geirrvif immediately following, calling your victory a fluke, but she confirmed she would choose only the single greatest from among them for your final trial."

"Who was that, on the wall?"

"The woman? Gardjon's first wife, Helnif. She was thought to have walked into the fires of the funeral pyre, but we discovered she had sent only an illusion, and she had bargained with Byjron to have you killed no matter what. Her spell would have turned your innards into acid, meant to be cast if it was clear that Byjron might not win."

Drekthac snorted a laugh, ignoring how it tugged at his sensitive stomach. "What a bitch. Tell me Byjron wasn't raised vargul."

"No, he was left to rot, unattended and unhonored, and join the bones of the dead at the battle pit floor."

There was another pause of silence, only his heavy breathing and the crackle of his braziers, until he asked, "So is anyone out there petitioning to Geirrvif as deadly as Byjron?"

It was Freydis' turn to laugh scornfully. "Not a chance! When the Overthane refused to challenge you, they asked the Arbiters to find and raise Iskalder. Your victory has caused quite the uproar."

Iskalder, Drekthac mused. The name was familiar, but he had never met the vrykul himself. Apparently, he had been the greatest vrykul warrior to ever exist, but because it was so, he was one of the slowest to wake from the Long Slumber. During the war against the Lich King, his death was prearranged by some adventurers. He was not given a fair battle, nor a fair death. It was also said that his killer went on to slay Overthane Balargarde, the last Master of Jotunheim before Overthane Ufrangsson, before being called into Valhalas and winning it all.

He wondered what happened to her, that warlock now sung in vrykul songs.

His attention returned to Freydis when he noticed her standing. "You need to rest, to sleep. Healing cannot account for everything."

She stopped when his small hand caught hers, the rough bumps of past wounds and calluses scrapping over the unnaturally soft skin of the spirit. He asked, "Must you leave?"

Her lips turned into a smile as she beheld him without eyes. She squeezed his hand once, then shook her head. "Emotions and duty are all this body is composed of now. I would not be able to restrain myself if I stayed." She tried to pull away.

"Good," he rumbled, and he tugged her back, strong enough to move her to him.

Freydis stumbled, and she caught herself with one hand planted beside his head, her face only a few inches from his. "Baelin," she whispered, pleading, as his hand reached behind her head and began to pull off her face-mask. It was snug to her head, but with the right grip, he inched it upwards and off, finally revealing her full face to him.

She carried all the strong features of a vrykul. The broad forehead and pointed nose, the high cheek bones and nearly square jaw. Her ghostly eyebrows were thin and refined, dark as her hair, and her eyes were smooth, pupil-less orbs of light blue glass. Their eyes locked, his first time beholding hers, and the first time she had seen him physically, without the perceptions of a spirit.

After setting the helm aside, his thick fingers came to her large lips and touched them, dry but smooth and soft. Her eyes were intent upon his, and she bit her bottom lip when his fingers left them. His right hand left hers to find her shoulder, and he pulled her closer to him, as he leaned towards her.

"Baelin, please-" she breathed, just before their lips met.

It was like a splash of cold water, the realization that Drekthac was kissing Freydis, and they were completely still for a long moment. Then the fires began. Left hand tucked behind her head, Drekthac pulled her closer to him, and she returned the kiss with all the passion that he was demonstrating. The bed rocked as she leaned her weight onto it with him, resting over him now.

The kiss separated to them breathing heavily, even her, and Freydis sat up straight for a moment with her hands going behind her back, kneeling over his legs now. The bindings that covered her chest unraveled, and she threw her breastplate aside, letting it clatter over his stone and wood floor. Her vrykul-sized breasts dropped into sight, no longer so tightly confined, and she was topless before him.

With an arm around her waist, Drekthac yanked her back down, and they fell into another powerful kiss. His other hand slid up her smooth stomach to her breasts, and he seized a handful, kneading. Her skin wasn't the typical burning warmth of a vrykul, nor the amiable steel-like cold of a frost vrykul. It was skin, perceived without warmth like it exactly matched his, everywhere he touched her or she touched him.

His tongue met her lips first, only for her to aggressively turn the tables by thrusting hers into his mouth. It's thickness and length, that of a vrykul's, tried filling his mouth, and his met the slimy appendage. The fingers of his hand found her stiffened nipple, and he pinched and rolling it, feeling her groan lightly into his mouth.

Their was no perceivable difference between this val'kyr and a regular vrykul, he realized quickly.

The hand reaching to her waist dragged down over her belt and bottoms to her smooth, white thighs, rubbing them briefly, before coming back up and taking a handful of her ass. It was always a stretch, with the difference between size, but she had accommodated by sitting higher than usual and arching down her torso to kiss him. The hand moved back around, to her thighs, and went up and in, to her dark frostweave bottoms. His first notice of strangeness was that her skin was not warmer near the crease, but then he dug his fingers under the cloth.

Hissing against his lips, Freydis pushed herself up off him and reached one hand down to to where his was, yanking it back. With a thumb, she undid her buckle, pulling her belt off, and the flimsy cloth came undone with it. While she was off him, Drekthac threw aside his blanket, letting the cold air wash over him, and then she sat again, just below his engorged member. Her torso came to his again, a softness to his hardened body. She carried all of the strong thickness of a vrykul.

Drekthac let his hand see for him, dragging back up her thigh to the apex. The usual coarse hair was trimmed close down, and his fingers curled downward over the mound to the split. His hand touched only the outside, but he could feel already the the wetness she was demonstrating. She wanted this as much as he did.

Just as his fingers ventured to go further, her hands found his shoulders and shoved him back against his pillow. The hungry look this new face of Freydis showed only served to fuel his arousal, and he beheld all of her at the break of motions, relishing the yearning dig of her fingers into his melon-sized shoulders. One of her hands left him to reach down and grasp his manhood, stroking up in a slow, deliberate motion.

Under the strength of her pin, he could only watch as she sat up and positioned him to her. He was at full, tensed rigidity when he first felt the touch of her folds, impatiently waiting for the penetration. She slid him down the slick line into place, and both caught their breath at the hanging moment before it would happen.

The moment began to linger though, the hesitation clear, leading Drekthac to look up to her white-blue eyes in question. Her face seemed scrunched in pain at the moment, dispelling his thought of pushing up in prompting.

Her fingers still clutched at his left shoulder, and she began to drag her hand down, nails scrapping over his skin along his chest, as she hissed in a strange fury, "I can't!"

Drekthac said nothing in reply, knowing what he wanted but honoring her choice, whatever it may be. He began to realize though that the val'kyr only served that Ymirjar, and this was a physical conflict between her duty – what she can do – and what she and all her passions so desperately wanted. It showed on her face as painful.

Finding his voice, he growled, "Tomorrow then. I'll be a fucking Ymirjar tomorrow, and I'll rape you if I have to."

Her glossy eyes fixed on his again, expression vicious. "You fucking better, Drekthac. Gods damn you for starting this!" She released him and slammed back down on his thighs, her face angry.

Still in the heat of the moment, Drekthac didn't let her rest there, instead seizing her wide waist in both hands and tugging her beside him to lay down. Her feathered wings remained closely tucked as he pushed her to her back and slid up on top of her this time. Their faces remained locked for a moment, before his hands came back to her clenching abs.

"You may not be able to please a champion tonight, but I'll have you screaming before the morning sun," he told her, voice throaty.

"You'll pleasure a val'kyr?" she asked scornfully, knowing her place and duties. The bitterness was at her position, not him.

"You gods damn know it," he snapped, just as his fingers cupped her sex again. Freydis stared at him, eyes wide. With one more kiss, Drekthac positioned himself downward over her.


AN: Well, the bottom of my chapter had notes for me to review. You're free to offer your own speculations on them:

-Should Drekthac have been more hurt? Should it have lasted longer? Should there have been less decisive blows and more casual fighting? Was Byjron's use of rage not properly shown?