Disclaimer: The songs within this chapter are adapted from the Prose Edda, in the Skaldskaparmal chapter. I do not own the rights to the Prose Edda, don't seek to make profit from it, ect.


Chapter 10

Ymirjar


X Underdog X

There was a strange tension in the air at Valhalas the following day. The audience was bubbling with questions and shouts, not the usual cheering, while Geirrvif remained with Gjonner in discussion for nearly an hour after Drekthac's arrival. He stood at the arena floor, arms crossed and waiting. There was a certain liveliness to the vargul though, barely tolerated on the surface of the world.

Finally, the val'kyr took to her wings again reentered the arena. The war drums began their beat, and the crowds cheered in excitement. At the floor, Geirrvif met with Drekthac, nodding to him. "You return, Drekthac the Immortal. Forgive the delay, but things have been in uproar since the death of Thane Byjron. It seems a return to tradition can only be found through further breaking of it.

"Now, your final trial is before you. Many believe you have already proven worthy of combat in Valhalas, and finding a more challenging foe is a difficult challenge, but from the many hate-filled petitions, we have chosen one of worth. She is a champion of a different challenge, the Hyldsmeet in Storm Peaks, and she is called the Hyldskvinnar. It is said that Midna Frangdottr has been possessed by the Lady of the Spear. Will you face the Hyldskvinnar in final battle?"

A Hyldnir champion. Drekthac nodded his acceptance, drawing his swords. He couldn't help feeling strangely elevated since the previous night. He shook off the daze though, announcing, "I accept her challenge!"

As she usually did, Geirrvif swooped up high, to the roar of the crowd, and bellowed, "From the tallest mountains of Storm Peaks comes this hardened champion! Hyldskvinnar Midna Frangdottr, blessed by the Lady of the Spear, challenges Drekthac the Immortal to final combat within Valhalas! We shall see now if he is truly worthy of combat in our sacred battle pit!"

To the shrieking cheers of the Hyldnir stands, an armored woman stood with her polearm and bellowed a vrykul battle cry. She jumped down to the icy rim of Valhalas, then inside to the pit floor. Drekthac did not return her cry, instead pacing aside with his swords at his waist.

From behind the confines of his helmet, song rose up:

"Swift God of Slain, that wieldeth

The snow billow's wave-hawks,

The ships that drive the sea-road,

To thee we owe the dwarves' drink."

The crowds roared at it, pointing and standing. Others shouted disdainfully, abandoning the old ways. Such was a song of before the Lich King, a Death Song, that glorified the deaths they now regarded so disdainfully. It was a long one, but Drekthac had learned it true.

It was low in the pit that they regarded each other. Midna advanced slowly, her polearm ready, but even with her size over him, Drekthac could see the icy walls around them rising up so high, and beyond even that the many faces of the crowds. As he sang, he looked up, only idly minding his opponent. At his back were the bones of a massive drake, either proto or dragonflight – he could not tell – from a Valhalas long past.

"'T is mine to pour the liquor

Of the Host-God's mead-cask freely

Before the ships' swift Speeder:

For this I win no scorning."

Roars and shouts, the division between the old and new clashing tighter. But then, the noise rose yet again, overtaking Drekthac's song, as Midna dove forward with her polearm and he parried. But it wasn't to them that they reacted. Behind her, three of the Ymirjar had entered the arena without prompting, and their weapons were bared. Drekthac pushed from the parry, pausing his song, as he paced aside with his blades pointed at them.

"What is the meaning of this?" Geirrvif demanded, soaring down to the floor between the advancing Ymirjar and the combatants. "You who are already worthy of combat here have no right to interfere with those who seek to prove themselves!"

The one at the lead, blue skinned and wearing rime-covered armor, growled, "Stand aside, Spear-Wife."

Geirrvif looked up to Gjonner, and the other host grabbed his two handed axe and leapt from the ledge, clear over the Ymirjar and beside Geirrvif. The crowds had quieted to a low murmur, seeking to listen in to the strange twist. Midna stood apart from Drekthac, glancing between him and the Ymirjar.

"You will return to the stands, or I will slay you were you stand, maggots! Have you no honor for the walls of Valhalas?" Gjonner boomed, his fury thick in the metallic voice. Freydis and another val'kyr Arbiter lowered themselves to the floor.

Without slowing, the one at the lead returned, "We will be taking over this challenge. This... Hyldnir is no match for the slayer of Byjron." He paused, only to draw his arm back and hurl his own polearm forward. Everyone was helpless to watch as it passed the blockade and skewered Midna through the center, despite her best efforts to dodge and deflect it.

"His steed the lordly Heimdallr

Spurs to the pyre gods builded

For the fallen son of Aman'Thul,

The All-Wise Raven-Ruler."

Drekthac continued his song, as the woman was flung back, impaled, and fell to the icy floor. It seemed this tournament had become a long string of broken traditions. Gjonner's reaction was violent, throwing up his arm and sending thick beams of light into the soil, raising ghouls from the defeated of Valhalas.

"Now you die, mongrels!" the death knight screamed. With the conclusion of his spell, he and all his score of ghouls leapt upon the Ymirjar. The leader deflected the first strike with a drawn sword, and he bellowed, "Beor, handle the Spear-Wives! Ignvar, the human is yours!

"What dream is that? quoth Aman'Thul-

I thought to rise ere day-break

To make Valhall ready

For troops of slain."

Drekthac did not wait for the challenge. He charged into the approaching Ymirjar warrior, and they crashed blades with equally powerful swings. Though unwavering in strength, Drekthac's size had his feet skid back several feet in the ice, but his eyes remained locked on the warriors, teeth bared in a snarl when not singing the Death Song.

He dove under the next strike, jumping up behind the vrykul before he could turn, and his blades descended with lethal might. Ducking, the warrior caught them on his pauldron, then he swung his hooked axe at Drekthac's side. He jumped back, feet pushing against the ice and snow hard enough to not slip. Once the blade passed, he dove forward again, managing to thrust his sword point into the armored stomach, but unable to pierce the armor, only sending the Ymirjar stumbling back. They leapt at each other again.

By then, the crowd was continuing the song, remembering from a distant past their traditions of old. The culture that had once defined them, before the wakening and the Lich King.

"I roused the champions,

Bade them rise swiftly

Benches to strew,

To wash beer-flagons;

The Val'kyrs to pour wine,

As a Prince were coming."

Freydis engaged the one called Beor. These warriors were Ymirjar no more, by all definition, to defy the sacred place of their Ascendance. His sword caught her polearm, sliding down to take her through her stomach, but her wings pushed her back in a heave just before. The other Arbiter dove from behind and scored a rend in his armor, before he turned and swatted her out of the air.

"You are no match for me, you sniveling fledgling!" Gjonner roared as his axe descended and shattered his opponent's. The Ymirjar man was calm and cold as he stepped back, the dagger called a scramseax finding its way into his hand. He was without fear as he struck down another two ghouls, keeping his eyes on Gjonner before rushing back in.

"I pray the high-souled Warder

Of earth to hear the Ocean

Of the Cliff of Dwarves, my verses:

Hear, Earl, the Gore of Kvasir."

Drekthac and Gjonner both growled as their back's touched, facing their opponents. The vrykul was much larger than him, making them an odd duo, but their attention never wavered at the contact. With equal bellows, they engaged again with the Ymirjar.

With a war cry of her own, Freydis called black magic to her hand, and she thrust the spell against Beor. The warrior had his blade absorb much of the attack, but still rotting corruption touched over his flesh. He drew a hand axe and hurled it towards her.

"The Dwarves' Crag's Song-wave rushes

O'er all the dauntless shield-host

Of him who speeds the fury

Of the shield-wall's piercing sword-bane."

"Spear-Wife, to me!" Drekthac hollered, and he kept his momentum from his latest attack as he locked his foe into a parry. The surprised Ymirjar was forced to step back, lest he be overcome. It left him trapped, however, as only a few moments later, Freydis appeared in a quick blur to strike him from behind. Against the force of Drekthac's push and the vrykul's own momentum, he was skewered clean through, with the spearhead appearing from Ignvar's breast.

"The body of the dame

And my dead be borne

Into one hall; the Drink

Of Dvalinn, Franklins, hear."

As Drekthac stepped beside Gjonner, the death knight cried, "His head is mine!" Drekthat took the shout with a smirk, returning, "We shall see!"

Together, they attacked, and against two foes, the Ymirjar found his armor needing to absorb most of the attacks as he struggled for a way free. Drekthac found his attention caught, however, as Beor struck his back, wounding him through his own armor.

The rage was burning hot then, beginning to exceed his limits, and Drekthac turned upon Beor in a red-white fury. Freydis did not need to assist him as he cleaved Beor nearly in half, though the vrykul seemed hardly phased as his torso still moved enough to strike back.

"I reveal the Thought's Drink

Of the Rock-Folk to Thorimsteinn;

The Billow of the Dwarf-Crag

Plashes; I bid men hearken."

It took a few more decisive strikes to have Beor lying dead, and all of them rounded upon the last. The Ymirjar, his left arm missing now, shouted, "You would have a human enter our gates! Hela take you all! They know not of glory, of honor! I would die a thousand deaths before permitting this disgrace!"

His rant was interrupted to parry an attack, and he was left retreating. He roared at first chance, "Gjonner the Weak! Geirrvif the Foolish! Freydis the Befuddled! Ionis the Jackal! Drekthac the Poison! I bid my curse on you all! May the gods never bless you again for this treason! You will die blind and lame!" He was still dealing with the ghouls, cutting them down mid-retreat, until his back touched the wall, and he fought like a cornered dog.

"The Prince requires my lore,

And bound his praise to pour,

Aman'Thul's Mead I bore

To Kalimdor shore."

With a roar, Gjonner hurled his two handed axe, and it spun end over end before taking the vrykul right through the chest. It cut off his continued words, while Drekthac slid up beside him and took down his leg. With the last of the Ymirjar defeated on the floor of Valhalas, Gjonner shouldered aside Drekthac to take up his axe again, then severed his head. The ghouls were left to feast on the remains.

All at once, the crowd that had taken up the song concluded it:

"Let the Princely Giver hearken:

I hold the God-King's liquor.

Let silence, then, be granted,

While we sing the loss of thanes."

Black and red blood was splashed over the five of them, as they panted in the after wake of the short battle. Even the white-bodied val'kyr were marred with the blood of those Ymirjar. Drekthac looked to Gjonner; Geirrvif looked to Drekthac; Ionis looked to Freydis. They said nothing, until Geirrvif hovered over to the fallen Hyldnir and touched her neck.

"Dead," she announced, shaking her head. The crowds were silent once again, with the conclusion of the song. Even the Hyldnir were speechless. Such an event was unprecedented. Taking to the air again, Geirrvif pointed a white finger to the last two Ymirjar, whom had not joined the others in the ring. "Do you possess honor, or will you die to defy all this tournament stands for?"

The one who sat his legs legs splayed before him, axe over knees, spat onto the ice. "Those were not our brothers! If that Whelp could not beat them, he would not be worthy of their place in our hallowed city!" Beside him, the female also spat, then pointed a fist at Drekthac and declared, "We wait to welcome you, brother!"

With a firm nod, Geirrvif descended to the Valhalas floor and met with Drekthac, who stood beside Freydis. She demanded, "You, warrior, who sought to prove his worth in Valhalas. After this heinous treachery, your trial must continue without pause. What say you! Will you keep on?"

Clashing his blades once, Drekthac shouted, "Let any who dare challenge my worth come down now!"

Turning, Geirrvif pointed to Gjonner the Merciless, whom had fallen silent, and she asked, "What say you of our combatant's worth, Host? You have fought with him, a brother in arms! Is he worthy of combat in Valhalas?"

From his position below the towering vrykuls, Drekthac could see the way Gjonner's lip pealed up, repelled, as if asked to eat a rotting apple. However, he still paced away from them, facing the crowds, and a gauntlet-encased fist gestured to Drekthac as he roared, "This small human, repulsive as he may be, has shown more strength, honor, and respect for vrykul way than any of these disgraces here!" He stomped on Beor's head, popping it and spewing out wet brains. "He is worthy of combat in Valhalas! He may pass the Gates of Ymirheim unopposed!"

Drekthac turned at the sound of rushing air, and he saw Geirrvif swooping into the sky once again. With her broadcasting voice, she roared, "ALL HAIL DREKTHAC THE IMMORTAL, CHAMPION OF VALHALAS!" Regardless of their opinion of him, the crowds cheered. The reaction was deafening, overwhelming him like a physical tide.

Drekthac's remaining rage finally trickled out. He thought to accept the praising cries with his usual bravado, to give the Dragon's Roar for victory, something of similar boast. But his swords fell from his hands, crashing into the ice with their heavy weight, and he fell to his knees, humbled. A choke of emotion tried to even bring tears to his eyes at the long-fought honor of this.

He was startled as a vrykul's fist seized his arm and yanked him up. He saw Freydis, smiling as she lifted him to his feet and held his arm up for all the crowd to behold. Standing on his own now, Drekthac found his voice, his excitement and energy, and he did roar.

He roared loud enough to be heard even in this uproar, and he roared until his voice ran out and throat creaked hoarsely. His victory roar. Those from the Underhalls jumped from their stands and sprinted down – even jumping over the ledge – to get into the ring of Valhalas.

They all watched as Geirrvif, beautiful in her rage, summoned forth the spirits of the defeated Ymirjar and raised them as vargul. Even the vargul in the stands joined in the jeering for the three men. As all three cried out at their fate, the val'kyr's voice boomed, "You three are exiled to the lowest pits of the Underhalls, never to witness the warmth of the sun or the honor of the blade ever again! May the darkness consume your bones and the Hela's rot give your every moment agony! Now go!"

There was authority in her voice, of a val'kyr over the spirits of the dead, and the vargul had no choice but to obey, bemoaning their fate even as they dragged themselves out of the pit to be spat on at cursed before entering the mouth of the Underhalls. The other vargul began to follow, their reason for coming complete, and each saluted and nodded to Drekthac as they passed. Drekthac did the same back, to the group of them, before being swept up in the storm of celebration from his followers.

XxX

It was many hours before Drekthac was ready to leave for Ymirheim. Freydis and the other val'kyr, Ionis, escorted the remaining two Ymirjar back to Ymirheim immediately, so he would be undertaking the journey alone. His approach and status would be announced prior to arrival.

His old traveler's backpack had been exchanged for a runed vrykul chest when he first settled into Jotunheim, which made carrying difficult. However, Overthane Ufrangsson granted Drekthac a Njorndar proto-drake for his Ascendance. It reminded Drekthac that the current Master of Jotunheim was as clever and diplomatic as his father, though thankfully with the right allegiance.

Ufrangsson had accepted Drekthac into his city long ago, resisted every plead to throw out or mob Drekthac, and now presented him with a gift. He knew that Drekthac carried power and intent, and opposing him, rather than making an ally of him, was a large mistake – one his father had more or less died for. Drekthac would not forget the Overthane's generosity or tolerance.

The chest was filled with all of Drekthac's meager belongings before being sent ahead as a forerunner to Ymirheim. He decided to name the green-scaled beast Coralhide, after his trek into the oceans of Stranglethorn Vale, so many years ago. It was tradition for the journey to Ymirheim to be undertaken by foot.

It was with a heavy heart he said farewell to the bedwarmers and meadhalls of Jotunheim, though already the reverence the people were showing him was alienating him. He was strangely glad his time as a Valhalas Champion would be spent in a new land, for he was already riding the winds of change once again.

So he left the city in just his armor, weapons, cloaks, and a sack of thick vrykul coin pieces. At the city edge, they sang a song in his name, until he was too far to hear, and then it was just him and the icy, howling winds of Northrend, placed beneath the colorful Ghost Light of the northern sky.

He followed the narrow mountain path through Jotunheim's natural, protective peaks, careful to watch his footing. Beside him, the icy rock could reach hundreds to thousands of feet into the sky, until a little over a half mile of climbing took him to its winding end, cresting a bluff well above the valley of Icecrown's glacier. It was a short walk over the bluff to reach its far end, and he stepped to the ledge to peer over the land.

It was distant, but he could make out the mountain of Ymirheim, where the city was built onto. It showed as a black rock in the distance, poking from the white-grey veil of fog down below, in the Scourgelands. He could also see the black lines of the saronite walls. Streching miles wide, they could be called nothing else, yet folk seemed fond of the label "gates" for the small holes at the very center to allow troop movement.

None of those lied in his way to Ymirheim though. Gathering his drake-skin cloak closer to him to deflect the icy winds, Drekthac looked down the mountain he must first descend. It was a languid switchback, with wide highways and many open mounds of snow and icy that rolled off to the distance either way. To the south, he saw the place he had distanced himself from Leyanna, a mere mile from here – but a long climb.

There was no use in delaying further. Drekthac turned from the view and began to head down the slippery path, one booted step at a time.

XxX

Drekthac was halfway through the misty vale between mountains when he noticed he was no longer alone. He appreciated the lack of subtlety of his confronter, for he was very unforgiving to those that hid in the shadows and struck when his guard was lowered. Such made him angry.

The raspy chuckle was distinct and very foreign. Taking the cautious route, Drekthac lowered his drake-skin and frost-weave hoods, then threw back his cloaks to reach for his swords, drawing them in the typical, long hisses of heavy steel passing their iron sheaths. He could make out the low silhouette of the creature, dragging forward through the mist towards him, with eyes that glowed green even in the monochrome here. Three eyes, how quaint.

"Well, well, what have we here?" Drekthac mused, approaching it in turn. "Tonight's dinner perhaps, or just something to get my blood burning and body warm again?"

It was a curious creature, that was certain. It appeared like nothing he had seen before, dragging its stomach over the ice and snow like a lizard, yet clearly humanoid in head and limbs. At least, so he thought, until two more limbs peeled off its back, squirming upwards into the position of poised claws. Now it was just interesting.

A certain wrongness struck him in his gut, though it hardly phased Drekthac. The feeling came whenever he encountered something from off of Azeroth. It had gotten better with orcs and draenei, though he largely ignored them, but it was the same feeling when he met demons or the old god's faceless ones. He had gotten it from his Valhalas opponent Valniox the Traveler too.

"You certainly don't look tasty, runt. You better last the first swing, or else your presence here is entirely useless," he told it, scoffing, as its grinning face was finally visible through the mist. He couldn't really make out any of it but the smile and eyes, but it was enough to fight this thing.

Knowing better than to underestimate his foe – which was a good way to lose a hand, foot, or finger – he slipped into a battle stance and prepared for the first encounter. It struck first, skittering suddenly in a burst of movement, and it flowed around him and out of reach for his first sweeping strikes.

It was fast, he acknowledged. The first mark went to it, as its back-claw scraped over his breastplate at the back and battered his cloaks. Turning, he lunged forward and managed a downward strike. It tried escaping, but he got his blade through its ass, skewering it into the ice. Leaving his sword there, Drekthac spun his other blade in his hands pensively, wondering now at his pinned opponent.

It began to cough and sputter, like a cat with a massive hairball, and Drekthac knew that was not a good sign. He stepped back and slipped into a more defensive stance, ready to dodge whatever acid attack or sonic-blast it was chewing up. It came with a bright glow of orange, like liquid steel, and he stepped aside just in time. There was no feeling of heat at its passing, telling him of its acidic base, and he rushed back in to finish the fight before another one could take him on the chest.

Roaring, he spun his whole body out of the path of its strike, then used the momentum to cleave its whole body at the shoulder, severing the head from the beast. Dark blood sprayed out in quick spurts, some on his armor, and he kicked aside the thrashing torso dismissively. His left hand grabbed its sword again and yanked it free.

It took him a second longer to realize the new lightness of the blade, before realizing it had been decomposed at the middle by a huge chunk. Cursing, Drekthac realized the acid was in its blood and he bent to scoop snow from the ground and rub out where it had touched him. Dark furrows were left behind in his armor, causing him to frown, but it was nothing that couldn't be fixed from a decent blacksmith.

He noticed then the smoking and shaking of the creature's corpse as it roiled upon itself. First one and then the other limbs began to pop off in violent bursts and snaps. When it was all finished, the was only black chunks of fleshy carapace and sizzling piles of blood lying about the area, but ultimately its reaction was nothing impressive. A curious creature indeed.

Giving a stern look around, Drekthac knew he could only see a few dozen yards in the distant for any direction. The frosty air killed any scent, even that of death here, which left him entirely blind in the valley. There could be any number of these creatures out there, just at the edges of the white. He shrugged off the thought.

Grabbing the severed and dripping head in one gauntlet, Drekthac continued on his way.

XxX

They had seen him long ago, that much was clear. However, none had hailed him or challenged him. In fact, the scouts remained carefully hidden, only caught twice by the frosty helmets as they hid themselves. Drekthac had taken the most obvious path, skirting all of Ymirheim to reach the way to the gates. He could have scaled the western side, but he wanted the honor of passing through them.

As he rounded the last bend up the mountain path, holding his cloaks closed with one hand and the head in the other, he saw before him the blue flame lantern that marked the start of the Ymirheim city. He was nearly there, to his new home. Staring now, he saw the wooden walls, and they were nearly as imposing as the saronite ones below.

Wooden beams were dug into the ground to stand, lashed by crude iron into thick segments, and each of those was held into place by massive chains that stretched all the way into the rock of Ymirheim itself. The walls stretched for hundreds of yards in either direction, and they soared upwards in forty to fifty yards of flat face.

For the gates themselves, thick columns of wood had their heads carved into the faces of dragons for either door, and those columns reached the upwards of sixty yards into the sky, the faces leaning over to glare down on travelers below. Clearly, to get get single logs that size, they must have been imported from Sholazar Basin or even down in Grizzly Hills.

None one took lumber from Crystalsong Forest. Not even the Ymirjar.

Drawing closer, Drekthac could see two sentries standing before the gates, and two others on top staring at his approach. He looked to the gates again and noticed the insignias mounted there. Not a flag, not for the Ymirjar. They did not mount the image of a weapons but weapons themselves.

A round shield, longer than Drekthac was tall, was the center piece bearing its drake-skull paint, with two intersecting vrykul two-handed axes beneath it. Tucked vertically behind it all was a massive claymore that put even Drekthac's swords to shame – it had to be between ten and fifteen feet in length. He couldn't think of any monster, humor or vrykul, strong enough to wield such a weapon.

In a challenging voice, one sentry demanded when he was close enough, "Declare yourself, small one. Why do you intrude upon our hallowed city?"

The woman was a huntress, a blue-skinned frost vrykul, in mail armor and a thick hood, with skulls bouncing at her waist. He noticed human and vrykul, but the third he could not recognize. Glancing at the head in his hand, he didn't see any connection, however.

Releasing his hold over the clasp, Drekthac allowed the strong, icy gusts to throw open his cloak, and he hailed her with his hand. "My name is Baelin Drekthac, also called the Dragon. I have won access through these gates in the sacred confines of Valhalas. I am Ymirjar."

"So you are the one they call the Immortal," her companion grunted, blades held lax at his side but not disregarded. "The non-vrykul that seeks to enter our realm. Many have sought the same, and we have allowed none to pass these gates."

Drkethac rolled his large shoulders, striding forward. "You are welcome to contest me, brother, but you will not stop me from what is my right."

"I was hoping you would say that," the hulking vrykul purred, his lips smiling. He began to walk forward, towards Drekthac. "First rule of the Ymirjar, boy, that any challenge must be accepted on the spot. I will welcome throwing your battered body down the slopes."

Drekthac only drew one of his blades, keeping the head clenched in his other hand – he did not know why it so fascinated him, but he wished to see it in the light, to make sense of his odd enemy. The final few yards between them, they worked their way into a sprint, both throwing their weight and strengths into opening blows. Too late, Drekthac realized he had grabbed his corroded sword, but the faithful steel managed to hold against the might of the Ymirheim defender.

Their fight was quick but brutal. The defender was remorseless and relentless in his attacks, but Drekthac quickly realized that the man was not seeking to kill him. Truly, it was a challenge match, like the duels he had participated in back when Drekthac was affiliated with Stormwind and the Alliance.

That made him comfortable with the bar of steel in his hand, and he used it to batter the vrykul as he could, while taking a few blows himself. It ended after an unfortunate blow clocked Drekthac in the head, but while his ears were still ringing and his eyes crossed, he manged to take from him the vrykul's footing, sending him to the ground.

Rage saw Drekthac through the staggering head blow as he scrambled atop his opponent and held the bar against his throat, keeping the vrykul pinned under his knee. The first attempt to swipe him off was blocked, and the second had the vrykul's hand twisted until the wrist nearly popped.

Drekthac stopped to the sound of vrykul laughter, coming from the gates. He eased up the pressure on his ruined sword and looked to see the huntress holding her sides, and those on top also laughing. "Well done, small one! You have won your first challenge in Ymirheim! Leave that weakling there and enter. Welcome home, brother."

It took him a few shakes of his head to realize what she had said exactly, but then Drkethac had staggered to his feet and made his way to the gates. The woman stood aside for him, nodding once in passing, and for the first time, Drekthac beheld the frozen Ymirheim of legend.

It was... chaos. Very quickly, Drekthac's aching mind cleared as he focused on what he was seeing. At first, it seemed the city was in a state of war, with men chasing men and hulking vrykul braced in epic combat, from shattered swords to missing limbs, while hunters and huntresses maintained high ground before finding themselves overwhelmed – and switching to the snake-like melee of rogues and rangers.

The snags of bright white in his vision showed him val'kyr, flitting about to retrieve those grievously wounded in this battleground, and they healed the defeated back into life in the same burning rush Freydis had done to him between rounds. In some cases, accidents found a vrykul slain, but the same winged servants easily recalled their spirits to their bodies, raising them not undead, as had been the time of the war, but in the runic resurrection of the vrykul.

There were dozens to a hundred warriors that Drekthac could see, but not all vrykul were engaged in the war. On the sides, there were those bustling by with a glance and holler, laughing at particular moments. The defeated especially were escorted to his Drekthac's far left, where long tables were laid out and laden with foods and casks of mead. The val'kyr were there too, carrying frothing horns to fill the empty cups of those feasting there.

For a moment, it was as if stepping into battlegrounds of the heavens, exactly as the legends described it: where men could fight in daily wars without fear, and when all was finished, the could feast and drink with their brothers in arms. And there would be song, and women, to live the lives of champions without ever losing their skills of warefare – nay, they would only sharpen them in the passing years.

Standing near a blue-flamed lamp post, Drekthac watched the battle continue, as more and more were defeated, and the sides became more obvious. There was a wide mix of vrykul and frost vrykul, but the spread of gender was nearly five to one in the men's favor. However, the women that were here showed no disadvantage to any of their foes, be it through swiftness and limberness, or even hard strength.

In a few short minutes, the frantic conflict was over, and the last of the warriors – both wounded and victorious – shouted over moments in the battle, with friend and foe, with the last of the val'kyr following at a more sedate pace. They all spoke in the vrykul language, telling him he might need to finish mastering it. It was then Drekthac noticed he was no longer alone in his observation, as a black winged val'kyr waited patiently.

Seeing she was without words, Drekthac spoke first, "So the legends are true."

"Legends you are now apart of, Ymirjar," she returned formally.

Wistfully, he found himself watching the feast, where there was music and song, boasting and loud words. The brotherhood of the Ymirjar was so clearly real, and from the playful brawl that broke out for a brief moment, it was so clearly vrykul. There was no prejudice between vrykul and their frosty kin, no lines between clans.

Clearly, this was nothing like the organized, elite military force of the Lich King it had been in the war. No, these people were each champions, not soldiers. There was no government here, only common cause and tradition.

"What did the Lich King change?" he asked finally, still just a spectator of this home. Pausing, he repeated in the vrykul language, "What change Lich King has made?" He recalled after speaking the verbal inflection meant to make "change" plural, but she understood.

Still in Common, she told him, "Walk with me, and I shall speak. I am to be your guide in Ymirheim until you relieve my services. My name is Maldrid."

She turned from him to begin drifting along, towards the northern bend of the city and away from the tables. Drekthac clutched the head and his cloaks closer to him as he began to follow, peering from his hood with curious eyes around him.

They fell along the main, icy road of the city, and several vrykul were still about that had not been part of the battleground. At his appearance, many stopped to stare and speak questions to each other. They would know that a human had won Valhalas and would be joining them, but they did not yet know what to make of him and his impact on their traditions.

At least, so he had thought, until Maldrid began speaking, "A history then, of the people you have joined. Long ago, millennia before the Long Slumber, when the rock dwarves still traded with us regularly and the trolls were many, there was a persistent problem with the champions of vrykul-kind. To find true honor and glory, they would seek death in combat to a worthy opponent, but time and time again they proved greater than their foes, no matter their adversary. Life for the greatest warriors became dull and boring, spent dreaming of the battlegrounds of the heavens that it seemed they could never join.

"It started with intentional weaknesses. These champions, who then carried no name but their own, would open tournaments to face them, only with them weakened. Some would remove an arm, a leg, or both eyes, others would drink poison before each battle. They began to find the deaths they sought, and though slain in true battle, there was little glory to it and their sluggish, debilitated actions."

As Maldrid explained the history, Drekthac continued staring around them at the city. His map suggest the half-circle of it around Ymirheim mountain was around two miles long. He wondered where exactly his guide was taking him. They entered a marketplace, and he looked at the trade between Ymirjar. Coin rarely seemed to pass between hands, but often words were enough. He roughly translated one exchange as a calling in of a debt.

Maldrid continued, "Displeased with this, several champions came together and decided on a tournament between them. They met in the vast city of Jotunheim and dug the pit for their battle themselves. The people flocked, intrigued by this battle of champions, and so the first Valhalas was held, named after the realm of Valhall, the paradise for true children of war.

"As is the case for such things, one still lived, still escaped a glorious death, but for the first time, a champion found excitement in combat. A truly glorious victory indeed, to win that tournament. Arbiters were employed, tasked with scouring the land for those worthy of competing in such an arena, and more and more proved themselves as worthy of combat there. To win or to die, either result was truly a glorious end for the warriors of old.

"Even in the beginning, you must understand, Valhalas was not exclusive for vrykul, not since the first match. If you could provide challenge, you had a chance to prove yourself worthy. As the pool of winners began to grow, even as many reentered to find death at new, greater foes, these champions began to find comradeship, glad to die at each others' hands and at times take up arms together against encroaching threats. First a camp, then a village, was formed around the mountain of Ymirheim, which has evolved into the city you see now, which was exclusive to these warriors proven to be worthy of combat in Valhalas."

There was a plot of land devoted to the savage proto-drakes, many harnessed for travel and all snapping at each other restlessly. They seemed as eager and vicious as their masters. Coralhide, Drekthac's own drake, was not among them, but he remembered the green-scaled beast to be much smaller than these white.

"Ymirjar, these people were called after the mountain in which they dwelled," Maldrid said, with hardly a pause. She did not rasp her words in anger or frustration, but instead seemed to glow with pride at the history. "In only a few decades time, it was decided to style this place of champions after the realm of champions, spoken of in song. It was Valhall on Kalimdor, for those proven worthy."

Drekthac noticed a colossal building, with its entrance feeding into the mountain, and it echoed with noise inside with men, women, and val'kyr flitting in and out ceaselessly. He stared at it in question, prompting Maldrid to clarify: "That is the true feast halls of Ymirheim. Those tables you saw are hardly a picnic for the southern war games. Come tonight, you will witness the true essence of Ymirheim within."

"How many does Ymirheim house at the moment?" Drekthac found himself asking.

"We do not administer census, but it can be guessed that between five hundred to a thousand Ymirjar live following the fall of the Lich King, and nearly that in val'kyr. Of course, there are many that do not dwell here among their brothers and sisters but instead visit the world. Lately, however, there has been an increased return of your wayward clansmen."

"Things always seem in motion on this planet, in the last decades or so. The abrupt waking from the Long Slumber of the vrykul is only one such event," Drekthac told her, pensive, and Maldrid nodded.

With a gesture to the head he still clutched, she said, "You are not the only one to enter out gates carrying such a trophy. There are many faces we cannot identify, and of varying reports of strength."

Drekthac recalled the strange creature he had fought and briefly wondered at it again. Quickly, however, he shook his head and said, "Continue your tale."

Maldrid nodded, beginning to continue leading him onward. "In that time, they knew of two traits of Valhall that Ymirheim lacked: death and maiming were mortally concerns, and the women were not plenty for the servicing of the champions. The city possessed only the Ymirjar and their slaves. Those without still found themselves having to labor their own lives.

"So a call was put up, starting with the Arbiters of the Valhalas battle pit. Come to serve the Ymirjar, it said, if you were a female vrykul of strength and skilled in the ways of runes. Ascend to the position of the Val'kyr of Valhall, the Battle-maidens and servants of the legendary Ymirjar. Even among vrykul, who disdain the ways of labor, the honor was too great to pass up, and so we came to serve.

"Then, we were not as you see us now. We were vrykul as those you know, branded with the marks of rune-masters, and carried the title of Val'kyr, the handmaidens of the Ymirjar, and then, Ymirheim was much like you see now, where war is commonplace, and the paradise is real. You are free to summon any handmaiden you wish, and should your words be appropriately honeyed, you will find us willing to serve you in the bedroom too. Insult us, and you dare our wrath for a day. Also, if you step outside the city and let yourself be known as Ymirjar, do not be surprised to see women line up at a chance of bearing a child of your blood and strength – even you, human."

Her next words came with only a small reluctance. "Now, when we woke up from the Long Slumber, we were in a turbulent time. Even the Ymirjar could not escape the call to Sleep, and there was great disorientation as we tried to make sense of the world and freshly arctic land, where many of our cities were missing – and the chunk of the planet beneath what you call Northrend now icy waters. Kalimdor had been broken, we discovered.

"We were still in the midst of repairing our world when the Lich King came to us. You must understand, we thought him the Death God – he that oversees the true Valhall beyond, and when he called, none could say no to his promises. The Death God himself had come to guide us in our time of need. He took especial interest in Ymirheim, thankfully not full of scorn at the imitation but genuine interest...

"So it came that the Ymirjar were offered true immortality at his hands, to die once and be reborn to eternal lives, able to triumph any death. They were raised as death knights, and we the val'kyr were also so blessed, given power to extend our healing magicks and services to beyond the grave. With the change and urging of the Death God, the afterlife and Valhall lost meaning to us, as we strove to find ascendance on this planet, in this life, and that is where the disdain you must find common occurrence has come from. True death is no longer given the honor it deserves. The songs of Valhall have grown quiet."

"And now?" Drekthac prompted. He noticed two vrykul, a frosty male and regular female, raise stone mugs towards him and Maldrid, and he nodded back. The duo drank while watching them pass by.

"And now, Drekthac the Immortal, the cold grasp of the Lich King has been broken, and we are free to continue life as it was meant to be for the Ymirjar. Slowly, tradition is returning to us, and even though many despise small-kind for their triumph over the vrykul and Scourge in the war, even more see you as worthy enemies. The Ymirjar are unbroken from your efforts, but nearly half of our warriors were lost in Icecrown Citadel or in the ceaseless, daily raids upon our city."

Only "half," when legions of all races had given their gates a new coat of red paint and added more bones to the tundra.

As their walk continued, Maldrid explained that Drekthac's home would be on the opposite end of the city, in the south eastern end of the half-circle. His stuff was already there waiting, as was his proto-drake. When asked where she was taking him, if not to his home, Maldrid only said, "We are here, champion. Inside is the one who summoned you. I will wait here for your return."

With a pensive frown, Drekthac turned from the black-winged val'kyr to look up at the building they had stopped before. Surely they were near the end of the city, on the western end. Much like the feasting halls that had been pointed out, this one also built into the mountain and was of similar vast stature, though its broad, wooden double-doors were sealed shut. It looked heavy, made out of entire trunks for each plank, and each half of the door stretched at least ten yards from the center.

Up, Drekthac looked, to the dragon-skulled posts mounted atop the archway, to the slanted roof adorned with red drake-skin, and from that high ceiling, windows betrayed orange light within, mounted up high into the building, or on a second floor, if this building hadn't been of vrykul make.

Mounted on the arch, however, below those windows, Drekthac also noticed a black helmet that blended in with the painted wood. It was smooth, with upright wings before the ears, and the shape of it was clearly a face-mask. Drekthac knew where he was, and whom had summoned him here. The Val'kyr Halls.

Without further reluctance, Drekthac tied the skull to his belt with the string of a sack, wanting both hands free finally and uncaring of it jostling at his waist. Then he stepped up to the doors, planted his palms on the lacquered wood, and with his powerful legs, he pushed against them until the doors began to split and open, stepping through it until it was wide enough for even a vrykul to pass unhindered.

Indeed, there was no second floor, for it was a magnificent hall of the vrykul. Brick arches soared up into the air for thirty or fourty spans, with high-mounted torches and braziers giving light and depth to the massive cavern of stone. But this was no empty relic, even the receiving hall here. Brilliantly skinned val'kyr tossed about in the air, graceful as hawks, as they moved about their tasks in a dance of flight. Two Ymirjar stood on the ruby rug-covered floor, speaking solemnly with a small congregation of the winged folk. In the distance, just beyond them, Drekthac could see the alcoves beyond the arches began to feed into corridors, rather than armor racks and weapon stands.

Once he released the doors, the oiled and slanted hinges had them closing again under their own weight – slowly, but persistently – and a glance back showed the massive, iron handles to pull on to open them again. There were two ornate, twisting ones in the middle, for a vrykul fist, two much higher but smaller, for a val'kyr in flight, and two down low, also small, for one of Drekthac's height or even shorter – a dwarf – to escape.

For the first moment of looking into the hallowed place of angels, Drekthac listened. In the conversation before him, he picked at the words, hearing about what sounded of a small race army approaching (or passing) their city. They gleamed with familiar gold and carried heavy maces and shields, one said, and mentioned a reluctance to drag attention of the "light warriors" to themselves unless challenged. His partner was clearly in disagreement, desiring aggressions and using the word for "a glorious death in worthy battle."

In the murmur of the place, between the louder voices of the vrykul, Drekthac cupped his hands before his face and bellowed, "Freydis! Hear the call of the Ymirjar and come!" It was well that he was used to attention, for every head turned his way at once. Even with the natural deepness of Drekthac's voice, it distinctly lacked the mountain-rumbling of a vrykul.

Come she did, not by wing but on her sandaled feet. From the darkened bowels of the halls she came, marching with singular determination, and so called attention to herself among the spectating, and speculating, crowd. As she did though, and the words "Baelin Drekthac," "Dragon," and "Immortal" were passed around, there was understanding, and the watchers returned to their tasks without further comment.

"My," Freydis greeted, a smokey hum in her voice, "I did not think you possessed the stones to call upon me so publicly."

"You owe me... a great deal of things, Arbiter," Drekthac told her, his voice growling a lower pitch now that she was to him. "And I'm not sure what order I'm getting them in, but I am getting them all tonight."

"So you desire a fulfillment of debts and promises, Ymirjar?" she asked in a faux formality.

Drekthac rose to the bait. "I desire the deed to your name, val'kyr, and your services. And I won't be denied."

Some of the closer val'kyr looked over to them, hearing the last phrase, yet Freydis never hesitated: "You have them, my liege."

Taking her hand, Drekthac began to pull her towards the door, away from the gawking val'kyr. He felt her strong grip as her hand encased his, and she followed with long strides. He asked her, "Should I relieve Maldrid of her services?"

"Has she displeased you?"

Drekthac frowned, his brows furrowing, as his free hand found the handle of the door. He hoped the bolts ran all the way through the thick wood as he pulled with a great heave to get it open. In reply, he explained, "I have received my val'kyr."

"I am an Arbiter, who oversees the trials of Valhalas and the combatants within. That is my service to the Ymirjar, in finding them by spirit and leading them to their destinies. Maldrid is a handmaiden, whose place is to serve those within Ymirheim as the Val'kyr do in Valhall, and she was first to offer herself to be of service to you."

Freydis stopped them once they were through the door, before they could rejoin the woman in question. "You have no reason to dishonor her in replacement, unless you feel she needs replacing, and by an Arbiter no less."

"How does this "receiving" thing work then?" Drekthac asked. "Does every Ymirjar have their own handmaiden?"

"Those that are new do, usually for ten to fifteen years until they are no longer new. Following that, it is common to see a Ymirjar claim val'kyr he has personal ties with, much like what you have done just now. Often with the same handmaiden they had began with, years down the line." Freydis had an amused smile as she added, "Though never in history has a Ymirjar claimed a val'kyr on his day of arrival, let alone her accept the claim."

They moved the last distance to Maldris, as Drekthac exclaimed, "New for ten or fifteen years! Fifteen years ago, I couldn't even swing a sword properly, and I stopped calling myself "new" by my third year in."

"Yet compare yourself now with the third year Baelin. Would you not call that Baelin still new in the ways of arms? How about fifteen years in the future, do you think you'll still improve enough to call your present state new?"

"Sassy bitch," Drekthac grunted, before greeting Maldris. "So where will you be staying while I am at home? I'm not fond of inviting strangers in while I sleep."

"You need have no concern of me," Maldris told him, bowing her head to him and to Freydis. "I will be there only when you call, or when you partake in the games of war. I can depart now, if you wish for privacy with Arbiter Freydis?"

Drekthac glanced at Freydis, still unsure of val'kyr customs and how they related with the vrykul ones he did understand. With a shrug, he said, "I expect to see you at the dinner feast. Prove to me there you live up to the name of the sacred val'kyr of Ymirheim."

A certain brightness came to his guide's face. "You will be dead drunk before your horn can go dry. Welcome home, hero."

XxX

Gods above.

Drekthac had thought that vrykul women were monsters in the bedroom. Their strength and heart, their unrelenting and voracious passions, did things for him no goblin brothel could ever emulate. It was for this reason he would always be glad to take one to bed, no matter his size relative to hers. It's not like it was difficult to set a woman off, if one knew the tricks.

However, for all that he had thought of vrykul, it turned out that val'kyr were even more. Passions and duty were all they were composed of, Freydis had told him, and it made the swell of emotions that much more intense. Every touch elicited a response, a gasping breath, and trying to frustrate her... well, Drekthac did not yet know if he could walk to that feast without a flash of healing first.

Gods, Freydis was so beautiful, and in those moments together, there was none more erotic.

As they lay curled together, breathing returning to normal at a slow pace, his skin still slick with sweat, Drekthac began to stroke Freydis' black hair. Her full face looked to him so sweetly, the small smile there that she always tried to hide around him. If Drekthac believed love was a real thing, he was sure this would be it. Since there was no such thing, he could only say he was happy with her.

Here they were though, in Ymirheim, as she always promised he would be, if he gave it the chance. Just this night easily made up for all the pains of Valhalas.

He kissed her broad forehead, then her thick lips, before breaking their long silence: "I believe I was also promised answers."

"About?" Freydis asked absently. She sounded exhausted and sleepy, despite lacking a mortal body.

"How I can take that collar off your neck."

That sparked her attention, and Freydis scooted up in the bed, allowing the blanket to fall off her chest. Her eyes opened again. He caught the serious mood of her and prepared himself. This was not just something "big," it was something that defied the very nature of the Lich King's tight, inescapable control. Even dead and frozen, the Lich King's grip could be inescapable.

"Understand, Baelin, that is still a matter whispered in secret between us val'kyr, and even then only a theory, still untested. I trust you with my very soul, and this conversation will reveal the very depth of that. I know you'll need no further caution of discrepancy. Not even to the other val'kyr, to Maldrid herself."

"You know me, Freydis. Now speak, tell me what I must do."

"It is not a matter of you. It is us. I am bound here by the will of my master, the duties he has impressed upon me. So long as he sleeps dormant on Icecrown Glacier, I must remain on Icecrown Glacier. But tell me, if my collar tells me to do every action I already want to do, is it still a collar?"

Drekthac actually considered the question. Philosophy was for the cowards who busied themselves books and words and tried to dictate a world they would never fight for, but he understood the basic ideas. "No, it wouldn't be." Essentially not, for she would still possess freedom of will.

Freydis nodded once, then followed with: "And if I were to swear fealty or offer my services to a lord, and he would have me do actions I might not always do, does that make me a slave?"

He began to wonder where she was going with this. Years prior, Drekthac had done some casual bodyguard work, so he knew what she was speaking of. "It is respect and trust, on loyalty freely given, but indeed slavery if impressed into work otherwise."

Again, his beautiful Freydis nodded. "That is why, Baelin, I would make a pact with you, and tie my soul to yours. You would become my master, my lord, and I would swear all fealty, in life and death, to you. And in this way, I become free."

There was a beat of silence, a pause. It began to stretch. Freydis shifted forward in the bed, looking to his face, but his gaze remained locked on the wooden wall of his longhouse. Then, at the gentle touch of her hand, he began shaking his head.

"I can't do that, Freydis," he rumbled thickly. A pain began to grip his heart, something vaguely familiar, and a thrum of rage began to trickle through him in response.

"You can, but you chose not to," she returned, her voice indifferent. "Why?"

He turned finally, his large, dark eyes of coal and deep earth shining. His hand found her large one and squeezed tight. "I mean to marry you. I cannot have you as my servant, my slave. I cannot!"

That familiar yet unfamiliar white face of hers softened as her hand gripped his in turn. "Just because you have the ability does not mean you must abuse your hold over me. I would only be a slave if you made me."

"Made you? Made you?" Drekthac shouted. "Look at who I am, Freydis! At who we are! My wife would be strong, independent, and keep me in check. I am just to pretend that she isn't a pathetic slave bent to my every word? That if I asked you to do something, you are doing it freely, and not because magic compels you to?"

"I would already do anything for you," she admitted quietly. "My liege." The words cut into his heart in a joyous pain, and Drekthac continued his violent refusal:

"But you can argue with me, fight me. You make me feel not alone in this world, one a human clearly would not be a part of! If we did this, you would become a tool, regardless of if we choose to label it that way, and you mean so much more than that to me. I have you, Freydis, and I will keep you as my wife, not my slave. You will be by my side and command all the respect I do when I actually take slaves."

"It is the only way I can be free."

"Then let your duties coincide. You must serve the Ymirjar, so serve me as my val'kyr, not my slave. If you cannot leave Icecrown then we won't leave."

"You aren't even sure if it will mean full compulsion like it does with the Lich King," Freydis remarked, as Drekthac drew back the blanket from the rest of her, leaving their naked bodies entirely open to sight. "You might be able to loosen the shackles, or my mind overcome the bindings when it is your kinder will."

Drekthac was stroking her thigh now, upwards, to a tremble of goosebumps and a short inhalation of breath. His dark eyes glared up into her white ones. "Enough. I know what compulsion is like, especially that of the Scourge. If a time comes where such is imperative, we will decide then, but for now the topic is done." His hand reached her mound, dragging down to the plump netherlips.

Freydis glared back as his fingers dragged along, beginning to probe lightly, until her large hand encased his shoulder, squeezing. "You gods damn honorable, lovely, magnificent, fool of a hero." She yanked him up so their hips were aligned, and his hardness touched her. "If I am yours, then show me. Claim me. Make me yours."

So he did. For the fourth or fifth time that evening.

XxX

Drekthac was sure his legs were wobbling as he made his way into the feast halls of Ymirheim. Behind him flanked two val'kyr, Freydis and Maldrid, the latter of whom came to rejoin him halfway into their walk. His body still felt light and elevated with afterglow, not to mention completely exhausted. Freydis seemed to be lofting about lower than usual, with careless bobs in the air.

The doors to the halls remained open, presumably always, and so the trio entered. Other Ymirjar were with them in the tunnel, some of them moving with val'kyr and some val'kyr simply hurrying by to perform her duties within. There were looks, smirks, scoffs, and nods from the vrykul, but Drekthac seemed immune to it all, save for returning any nod. It was as polite as a vrykul got, a positive acknowledgment, and he ensured he returned the favor.

The noise within only got louder as they moved, from echos to full cheering, until it sounded like standing in a stadium for battle with the crowds around you. There was hollering and cheering, singing and jeering, with the clatter of stone and steel mugs with wooden tables and iron plates. They passed the threshold of the feasting area, and Drekthac paused to stare.

Likely, everyone in Ymirheim had come. Tables upon colossal tables with colorful draping stretched down, seven lines, and reached back at least a hundred bustled with hulking vrykul, feasting and dancing and singing and fighting, while the white-bodied val'kyr flitting up and around in desperate attempts to keep the tables overladen with foods and the drinking horns topped. It helped that there were hundreds, at near equal amounts to the vrkyul themselves. At the left-most wall, five massive caskets held the ale and mead that the champions drank, and the val'kyr filled large pitchers in an endless line to return to the Ymirjar.

There were well over a thousand occupants, crammed into this one vrykul hall.

Maldrid overtook them then as she separated, and she hovered above Drekthac with a broad grin. "Find your seat and introduce yourself well, champion. I will find you." With a bow in the air, the turned and flapped hard to propel towards the casks and her sister val'kyr.

Drekthac was dressed in only his drake-skin clothing and his cloaks, with his one good sword over his shoulder. Looking to the vrykul, many were in similarly plain clothes, even in the brawls, though some were still strapped to the chin in Ymirjar armors. He resisted the urge to grab a hilt as he looked to Freydis and gestured with his chin towards the right.

To the tables they went, gathering attention all the while, until one wrestling pair landed on the stone floor before Drekthac, interrupting his path. They threw fists and elbows, grappling like they'd trained for it their whole lives, but frankly, they were in Drekthac's way. And he needed to introduce himself.

He grabbed the first by the collar of his leather armor, lifting him a good few feet from his opponent, and with his right fist, clocked him across the face and sent the vrykul rolling over the floor. Laughs and cheers rolled at that, as Drekthac caught a sudden strike from the opponent, a frost vrykul in woolen tunic and leggings. It took him a few seconds to shake off the last of his languid fatigue, and then Drekthac darted forward, pulling the arm under the vrykul and behind him, then locking it against his back.

The booted feet scrambled for hold on the ground, and Drekthac knew sheer mass would send him flying off if the vrykul managed. Before he could, Drekthac grabbed him by the tunic in his other hand, and collectively lifted the whole hulking humanoid off the ground, over his head, until even the boots couldn't even touch the ground with bent knees. More cheering from the Ymirjar, up until Drekthac hurled his opponent away from him and onto the end of the feasting table.

He wiped his hands as if dusting them as he continued to where he had seen a space large enough to fit him and Freydis comfortably. The table was much too large and dwarfed him easily, so Drekthac didn't bother sitting on the bench when he managed to get atop it. He noticed then that the deep blue table cloth before him wasn't just colorful as the rest – it was an Alliance war banner. And beside it, one of the Scarlet Onslaught, and the Horde, and Dalaran. They used the war banners of those they triumphed over as table clothes!

"A lousy host for guests, you lot are!" Drekthac roared at them, stomping his boots against the wood as Freydis sat. "When's the last time you found a champion of the small races, eh?"

Someone flung a metal disk at him, aiming for the throat, and Drekthac caught it in a hand and slammed it into the span before him on the table. It was a plate. Next, he reached for food, while the man beside him hollered something in the vrykul language to a nearby val'kyr.

Freydis opened her mouth to translate, but Drekthac understood the gist of the question. Literally, the man was asking what Drekthac had asked. The floating woman set her arms akimbo, careful not to spill her pitcher, while she thought, then yelled something back to him, her accent too heavy for Drekthac.

"Dwarf!" the man shouted at Drekthac, grinning like he won a prize. Drekthac gave him a stare, clearly unimpressed, until the vrykul shrugged and grabbed more food for himself.

"Fooking hooman!" a feminine voice addressed next, yelling from across the table. Drekthac saw a frost vrykul huntress there, her hair feathered with trophies and large tattoos taking up her right cheek. A cheeky grin was on her face. "He mean say last tiny rat be dwarf, but long so long go."

Gods, their Common was as good as Drekthac's Vrykul. He found himself laughing, giving her a nod before tearing into his own roasted boar. He nearly moaned, finding the meat juicy and tender as only the best cooks could manage.

"Hooman laugh be at Britta?" she demanded, eyes flashing. Her arm, bared to the shoulder, slammed an elbow on the table, revealing biceps the size of Drekthac's chest. "Wait see strong who laugh then! Fooking hooman!"

"I want no blood black on shirt clean," Drekthac returned in their own tongue, raising the empty mug he found waiting for him. "You sound be like this."

The vrykul around them laughed, and her eyes darkened considerably. The knife she had been using to tear open her meat was suddenly flung towards him, end over end, and reflex had Drekthac try catching it rather than dodge, knowing there were people behind him. He missed, and its teethed end dug into his left shoulder.

"Aha!" she shouted, triumphant, with her nearly white teeth – a rarity, in the vrykul world – gleaming in her grin.

Drekthac hardly reacted to the pain, flaring breath from his nostrils, and then he chucked his iron mug at her wide forehead. Britta's eyes widened just before it smacked her clean center, and the robust missile bounced back into the air, for Drekthac to catch again. He laughed once it was in his hand again; he hadn't done a trick like that since his childhood days.

Britta stared with large eyes, unmoving, while the Ymirjar around them couldn't contain their amusement. She lifted her hand to touch the blue skinned ridge, finding a line of blood where the rim had cut her. Drekthac saw a black drop of it sliding down the side of his cup, and he lifted it to give a lick over the line, then winked at her with the strong metallic taste of her blood in his mouth.

She blinked once at him. Her hand fell across her stomach then as she tilted her head back and roared a laugh. Drekthac's own free hand was still over the knife, where his wound throbbed and begged to flood him with combat-ready rage. Seeing her laugh so easily though, after the nearly humiliating counter, sent Drekthac into a fit of laughter of his own. Gods! Gods and gods! This was the world of the Ymirjar?

Maldrid appeared while he still laughed, filling his mug with her own pitcher now, a purple thing with pink marks over it. The orange bonfires and many torches lit the chamber rather well in a bronze glow. While he took his first drink, he felt her hand settle over the hilt of the knife and drive it out carelessly. He grunted, nearly snorting his drink, at the new lance of pain as the hole widened. Maldrid hesitated none in placing her hand over it though, and he saw three runes blossom into existence surrounding her hand.

The three red marks caught his attention for a long moment, until they slowly dissipated from the air and her hand moved. As his mind returned to him, he expected the usual throbbing there, only to realize the pain had vanished entirely. No burning fire, no unpleasant restitching of flesh – just gone, and the wound with it. Runic healing.

"To ah brother!" Britta shouted, still with blood leaking over her pretty face. An actual horn was in her hand, dripping with frothy fluid. "Wel-cahm home, Drekthac!"

From the rest, it was a mix of Common and Vrykul welcomes, and further out, those that noticed roared the same things, until most of the hall had echoed the greeting. Drekthac raised his own mug in response, and the noisy hall was replaced by the sound of hundreds of brutes guzzling down their alcohol.

The festivities picked back up quickly, as did the low roar of noise in their stone chamber. After her drink, still with froth on her upper lip, Britta pounded the wooden table with her palm, setting a beat, before raising her voice in song. It was in Vrykul, its tempo fast and the words clipped, and Drekthac realized it was one of the more humorous ones. Beside her, the two men also pounded at the beat and joined her in its words.

Something of a princess, a drake, and a shield-bearer. If Drekthac wasn't mistaken, the song was about the princess fighting the drake and the shield-bearer the captive? Vrykul songs, even in Common, were confusing enough already.

Still, it wasn't the lyrics that held his attention. Britta did, her voice and her throat. He recalled easily that knife throw, and the speed at which it had taken him. She was no pretty woman; she had won Valhalas same as him, a champion. Seeing his eye on her, the frost vrykul winked back, shouting the lyrics louder.

"Not going to drink?" Drekthac asked Freydis then, turning his attention to his companion. Maldrid had vanished quickly after the healing.

She had her face-mask back on, showing only her mouth to him as he so well knew. She shook her head. "Not here, in the Hall of Heroes. Only the Ymirjar may feast here."

One eye ticked at that. Drekthac enjoyed it when she drank. She got loud and bold. Feet braced, he reached up with his left hand and seized her shoulder, then yanked her down, so her head was low as his chest. Drekthac shoved his mug against her lips, tipping it down, while Freydis still flailed at being pulled over.

She actually took a sip, at least that which was pouring over her face, before her quick elbow took him in the hip, and Drekthac was flung clean off the bench he stood on. On the ground, Drekthac grinned up at her, lifting his mug, while Freydis' cool glare returned his look and she wiped her mouth. Mead had dripped onto her chest and between her breasts.

Drekthac wasn't sure what was allowed and what wasn't here, but he was sure someone would pummel their traditions into him when he slipped up. Down several seats, he saw one vrykul slapped a val'kyr's buttocks in passing, and when she turned sharply, he stole a kiss. She pushed away lightly, and he noticed her lips trying to not smile.

Good, so that was allowed at least.

On the bench again, Drekthac took his own kiss from Freydis, then resumed his feast. Even in the den of his own paradise, his mind couldn't help but recall their conversation before they had come here. He would take her as a Battle-maiden , certainly, but to assume control of the Lich King's compulsion... He couldn't bear the thought of her losing any part of herself. What val'kyr would dare knock the Lich King off his seat in his own dining hall?

As Drekthac began to fill up, and most of the other patrons concluded their meals in song and the occasional dance, he took a firmer look around him at the hall. He wondered to himself, What now? Here he was, at the heart of the place he desired most, with whom he desired most, and he wondered what came next. He could war, he could feast, he could fuck – he'd even find challenge in getting any of the three here, if he wished. But even to a true warrior, there was more to life.

After he proposed the question to Freydis, with him now leaning his back against the table's edge to look out into the hall, she told him, "Whatever you wish, my liege. You are Ymirjar. Do you wish to blacksmith? We have the finest in the land eager to take in dedicated students. The finest archers in the land can teach even you to sharp-shoot at four hundred yards. If you are content with the ways of iron, there are those who seek to discover new recipes for better meals, and those that seek the greatest meads that will be poured here, to their brothers and sisters. You can learn to ride a proto-drake into battle, or to measure a house that would stand using the least wood."

Essentially, Ymirheim was a capital city, only composed of champions, and it seemed as if coin had little value or need here. He could refine his skills over and over, and learn knew ones, always improving himself – and he could relax, resign himself to a quieter longhouse further up the mountain, to remain in contemplative silence with a pleasant woman for company. The world was his.

And he was not alone. All around him were brothers and sisters. He had been called Jotunheim when he had lived there, included in the name of the clan, but they hadn't been true kin with him. Strangely, he felt it here, that connection. Some might hate him for what his presence meant, like those that had been slain at his Valhalas, but for the most part, this was his people.

He noticed one val'kyr drawing an unusual amount of attention. He certainly didn't remember this one flying about beforehand either. She wore no armor, not even a face-mask, though a blindfold covered her white eyes from the people. Platinum hair, either silver or pale straw, was tied back into ponytail. Without armor, her excessively feminine form was rather visible, especially with how it jostled about with every turn and flap of her wings. And the men couldn't turn away.

When this val'kyr turned away from him, Drekthac noticed she was wearing a thong in place of the usual val'kyr bottoms, and his eyebrows rose at how... displayed she was. Her comely smile, the fine arches of her eyebrows, and the seductive drawl of her voice only heightened her effect on the people around her.

Well I'll be. A val'kyr bombshell, Drekthac noted, his lip turning up in a smile. At her first turn though, when she first demonstrated her thong, he gave a contemplative look at Freydis where she sat. She didn't even glance at him, or to whom he looked, as she replied firmly, "Not a chance in Hela."

Drekthac sighed, then spotted his black-winged Maldrid hovering nearby. His lips pursed thoughtfully again as he imagined her prancing about in that set-up. She had, as promised, been serving him quite well.

Freydis finally turned, sitting with her legs now away from the table, and she joined him in looking at the new val'kyr. "That is Hilda. If the val'kyr had a queen, she would be it. Among the runemasters present, she is the greatest. Feel honored if she deems you worthy enough to serve even a plate of food. I encourage you to do the impossible and get her into a bed."

"An Ice Queen, eh?" Drekthac asked, his voice gruff.

"Appropriate title," she replied, smiling. "Like me, she was Hyldnir, and she ascended at the Valkyrion into service. She is the only val'kyr raised by the Lich King to work as handmaiden, rather than Arbiter or taskmistress."

"Any reason for that?"

"Traditionally, Val'kyr were elected. They were vrykul, not these winged spirits you see now. They needed to be the best runeworkers around, to heal and revive the dead, in order to serve the Ymirjar. The Val'kyr, the group, were women of great honor, and beauty, and their service to the Ymirjar covered other fields as well. When the Lich King began raising us at the Valkyrion and calling us "val'kyr," we had control over the dead and healing, and such power, but I cannot serve a champion like Maldrid can. Those not pressed into immediate services work as Arbiters, for Valhalas. Hilda, however, can service – better than even the Val'kyr from before the Lich King."

As if drawn by their conversation of her, Hilda's eyeless gaze fell upon Drekthac and Freydis, where they watched her, and her smile turned predatory. Drekthac felt his lower spine trying to tense at the look, and the casual grace of the approach, but he resisted it. Even if this Hilda wanted to fuck like animals, he doubted he could go another round, after Freydis.

"Catch your tongue, Baelin," Freydis whispered beneath her breath then. "A slight against her is taken as a slight against all val'kyr."

Him? Catch his tongue? That was a plan doomed to failure.

"Well, well, well," Hilda said by greeting, her words rolling over her tongue smoother than Drekthac thought possible from a vrykul. "The one they call the Immortal. Baelin Drekthac. Your dear Freydis was talking about you here before you even dreamed of Valhalas."

"Hilda the Silvertongue. I hear you have quite the reputation yourself," he returned, resisting the urge to drawl. Couldn't be caught imitating her.

Those lovely lips rose in a beautiful, if mocking, smile. "Flattery might get you somewhere, champion. I am curious how you... measure up again your brethren."

Well this conversation turned sexual fairly quickly. Dekthac thought to turn its course. "I am here, aren't I? Claimed a val'kyr on my first day to boot."

"So word has passed," she purred, turning her head to his companion. "Among many other things, that has intrigued me. But such is a conversation for another day." She looked back at him, her smile in full bloom. "What say you of our city, hero? Are you lonely without your kind?"

"Oh, I'm with my kind," he growled. For Freydis' sake, he took the challenge out of it. "For the city, we'll see tomorrow how many skulls don't crack when I enter the battlegrounds."

"Oh yes, we all know combat here," she returned, and she drifted aside, body nearly lascivious in its motions. Leaning forward, she said, "What of the rest? Do the women please you? What will you take in your time here? Has anyone caught your eye so early?"

The coy tone clearly referenced herself, in a sort of self-amused manner. Drekthac snorted. "Been considering some trophies, aye, but I figure I'll learn to settle first." Whoops.

But Hilda was not insulted, only further amused. "You do interest me, little Baelin. But for now, you are like a child among us, who will use big words and make loud actions. I long for the day I see depth within you."

"The day I feel the depth within you, I dare you to repeat those words." There, now Freydis was ruffled, but he wouldn't be here if he couldn't deal with what he'd been dished.

Still, Hilda only laughed, and she waved down Freydis. "Calm yourself, Arbiter. One does not get insulted by the tough words of children." Her face looked to him again, nearly gloating if she hadn't been so refined. "Many have tried, human. None have succeeded. Apart from our words here, I do look forward to seeing the one called Dragon in the battlegrounds. You may find a few of your kin have earned the title "Dragonslayer" for good reason. Or, you may surprise me, as the Ymirjar often do."

Her words were oddly neutral, Drekthac noticed. Goading him on and easing him back in one statement. Testing his character in different states of challenge and praise. The queen of the val'kyr? Perhaps she will prove herself of that in his time here.

With a smile of his own, splitting the strong features of his face, Drekthac told her, "You and I will get along real nicely here, darlin'." He raised his mug to her. "May the blessings of Hela keep you strong."

To a living warrior, such would be insulting. Hela, the goddess of the dead, where those not worthy of Valhal went. Their keeper. To a val'kyr, a spirit technically classified as undead, though they kept a physical form... Hilda's attention seemed to tighten on him, pensive, until she nodded once, a smirk finding its way on her face. "May the night treat you well, Drekthac. Feast, sing, fuck. Tomorrow, we will see you in action."

Hilda turned away from him and drifted on, to speak to other champions. Her words were familiar with them, though now she spoke in fluid Vrykul, the change between languages seamless.

Behind Drekthac, he heard a woman shout in astonishment, "Fooking hooman!"

Thus was Drekthac's first day in Ymirheim, his true home. Certainly, he felt his life would never grow boring or complacent here. The words of Freydis, her pact, remained festering in the back of his mind, while a dozen swords remained before him, poised for eager bloodshed. At his side stood two val'kyr, the Arbiter and the handmaiden, and outside their walls crawled a new race of darklings from somewhere off-world. He'd study that head better tonight, he told himself.

It didn't fit the halls, nor the commotion around him, but Drekthac raised his mug and began a Death Song, one separate from the one sang this morning.

"Since I have appointed

To proffer Aman-Thul's Breast-Sea,

The War-God's Verse, to Thorimsteinn;

The Tree of Swords so wills it.

"Thou, fierce War-Staff, maintainedst

Maugre two kinds, they borders

With heroes' kin, where the ravens

Starved not; keen-hearted art thou."


AN: For now, I just want everything posted. Later on, I'm likely going to revise the "Death Songs" into something more suiting - though really, I think they are a nice example of where all of WoW's vrykul / viking / nordic fantasy (elves, dwarves - especially WoW's earthen) found its roots. The last one here especially, I'm going to adapt later into a sort of prophesy about Sin. "Tree of Swords" and "War-Staff" referring to Shed'Beshal and Shed'lahk respectively.