A/N: Ensemble miscast. Also, characters don't necessarily speak for the author's beliefs, especially when they're deliberately being as insulting as possible.

Chapter 2: It's the Failure!

"-. Hrothgar the Sacrifice .-"

He used to be a lowly goatherd, doomed to a life of ridicule. No favor in the eyes of men or women, never mind the Dread Gods. Bad enough he was born of a thrall, he also lost his father early so there was no one to teach him axe and sword. He was deemed unfit to join the men on the summer raids up until his nineteenth year. Every time the High Chief called all the Graelings to raid, Hrothgar had to stay behind and tend to the goats, much to the cruel delight of Valbrand and his cronies. 'Haargroth' they called him at every opportunity, a sound like the grunting of a pig in mockery of his real name.

It would probably have been the same for the rest of his short life, but fatherhood had a habit of making men want more than scraps and horse piss.

He was refused even after he volunteered, that first time, but he was afforded the 'honor' of serving the skyr at the feast. So he spiced the drinks of the chieftain's most braggart bondsman, and then let himself be overheard muttering as he left, such that it seemed like the man next to the braggart had said it instead. That Valbrand was boasting about fucking his wife while he was gone, see how he liked it.

The ensuing holmgang resulted in a bloodbath because Valbrand always escalated things, so it ended up a four-on-four.

With so many sudden vacancies, they had to let him come.

That Hrothgar not only survived that raid, but managed to land the killing blow on that injured and exhausted Bretonnian knight was pure luck. Probably the shit kind, considering the even worse turn his life took afterwards. Not that he helped his situation by trying to become a barley farmer, of all things. At least a goatherd could claim to know his way in the wild.

Hrothgar wasn't going to come on this one. Valbrand had made quite the raucous scene at the feast, and then challenged Hrothgar to a flyting. Everyone thought he was punching down, and they were right, what did Hrothgar have to boast that Valbrand hadn't done better thrice over? But they still laughed with the arse, because he was shoe-in for next Chief. Besides, Hrothgar was cursed by the gods themselves, didn't that mean he deserved every jeer and insult?

After the shitshow, Valbrand declared that they'd all be better off without Hrothgar weighing them down this time, and everyone agreed.

Quietly, shamefully, Hrothgar agreed with him too. He'd have been a no-show at the march even without the Chief's bondsman coming over to quietly tell him so. He'd just been even more ashamed to tell anyone.

If his son hadn't…

Hrothgar always knew his son was special, and his son obviously knew it too if he went through the trouble of pretending to be possessed just for his sake. Not that Hrothgar realized it at a time, fearful halfwit that he was.

The sagas all had a point where the hero's life suddenly took a big turn. Hrothgar was no hero, but at the end of the day…

AROOOOOOO! Sounded the horn.

"Go on, Haargroth!" Valbrand laughed and shoved him forward when the mad charge into the woods started without him, because it wouldn't do for the real warriors to waste their lives springing the ambush waiting inside. "You'll never be afforded such high honors again! Go forth and seize your glorhkh-!"

At the end of the day, Hrothgar was a killer just like everyone else.

Valbrand fell to his knees, clutching at his throat as blood gushed out. Because the Arabyan sword he'd mockingly let Hrothgar keep was sharp enough to slice through mail. The look of disbelief on his face was only matched by how Hrothgar himself felt, but he'd expected that so he'd overextended from the start. That's why the shamshir sliced Roffe's throat open too.

"You treacherous fu-" the horse piss in Hrothgar's waterskin returned to sender with a foul-smelling splatter right in the eyes. When Hrothgar swung his sword this time, Stig's head came right off because he was a half-naked berserker that hadn't yet berserked.

Bjeir had already died in the last landing, more's the pity.

"KNUUUT!" Hrothgar howled in a voice he almost didn't recognize. "Knut, Chief of the Mammoth Riders! Mammoth's shitstain, you nutless coward come here and face me!"

Hrothgar's gamble to stall his own death a few more heartbeats was cut short by a horse's charge he only avoided by pure luck. "You little rat!" yelled the Graeling King as he lifted him clear off the ground by the throat. "I said no more feuding until we have the castle! You'll spoil our counter-ambush!"

"N-no," Hrothgar wheezed in the Marauder High Chieftain's iron-clad grip. "T-that would be the mushrooms I mixed with the shamans' water."

"What?"

The combined fire spell that the shamans had been about to unleash on the forest destabilized and exploded in their faces, with timing more perfect than Hrothgar could ever have managed intentionally.

The fireball was bright, gigantic, and so hot that none of the casters at the center of the ritual circle survived, including the king's own advisor.

"… You – you!" The High Chieftain, also unfortunately named Valbrand, was so angry he couldn't speak.

Hrothgar spat in his face and gave a bloody grin. "Don't force a man to do a woman's work."

With a scream of rage, the Graeling King failed to crush Hrothgar's throat due to the plate gorget, so he stabbed him through his eye with his knife instead.

My life was never going to make you proud, son, Hrothgar thought as life ended. Will my death?

He was thrown aside like trash, but he didn't feel the fall. He did feel himself becoming lighter and lighter, but at the same time more and more constricted, like – like when you dream you're awake but you're not, and you feel like a giant's foot is pressing down on your chest. Around him was a soft, warm light, but it only made him thrash harder against the weight. Soon it was too much, and Hrothgar struggled to move, to roll away.

Miraculously, he did.

He rolled out of his body, and stood up in confusion to watch the chaos he had caused.

The world was the same, but also colored different. Like the normal shades were brighter, tinted eight different colors, but unnatural reds and purples were trying to overpower them at the same time. He could see around him, but also other things and shapes over them, or behind. Humans and monsters, a forest and a field of steaming blood, and four stained paintings trying to form over each other all around him, only to break into the same many-stacked tunnels of fractured light that he'd seen all those times.

He looked to his right and saw Arabyans spilling out of the forest to take advantage of the disarray. They were backed up by mystics, ogre maneaters, dwarves from that cave along the coast that the King had pretended not to avoid, and even the native Sartosans who'd apparently chosen to support their current masters over the new ones.

He looked left to where the shaman ritual had been, and saw that only a handful of the elders remained to contest enemy spells. The rest of them were apprentices who could barely shoot their bolts far enough to make a difference from the back line. They should be using the chants and hymns to bolster the warriors instead, but they weren't. They seemed to have panicked. Or the mushrooms finally had them flying through squiggly holes.

The mushrooms were something Hrothgar had found out about while carelessly eating random things out in the wild. No, not carelessly, there was no point in pretending anymore. He'd been wanting to die for years but never made the last leap, so he was hoping to 'accidentally' poison himself. Instead, he'd given himself the most euphoric and mind-blowing experience of his life. It lightened the burden on his soul for days, and every time after when he felt ready to jump off a cliff.

Surely the shamans knew about them, they were the most magical thing Hrothgar had ever experienced. They were probably part of their brews already. But he'd counted on that – once you experience a strong taste, milder ones don't register for a while, and a similar flavor would just pass as aftertaste. The shamans' potions were foul-tasting and then some, so they had no way to know he had messed with their water. And it had been so easy, Valbrand always made him do thrall's work before a battle, it was easy to get 'volunteered' to haul the shaman's water and other supplies.

Or maybe they didn't use the mushrooms at all and it was all nonsense. Instead of having a spiritual journey. Hrothgar had probably just spent a few hours in delirium every time.

The more normal dreams after the weird light tunnels were certainly ridiculous enough. Losing a goat, looking for it, finding it being eaten by a beastman warlord that was somehow all alone instead of at the head of a herd. Then Hrothgar picked up the creature's axe – conveniently dropped just out of reach – and made mincemeat out of the thing because the weapon, even more conveniently, just happened to be a Daemon Weapon of Kharnath, one of the bloodthirsters themselves bound to iron that fed on his enemies blood!

If not for the warriors all hailing him as 'Haargroth, Haargroth, Haargroth!' after he killed the Graeling king, Hrothgar might have actually tried to trace his dream self's steps in the real world too. Maybe he was destined for his own saga! As it was, he was clearly just going to be possessed, no doubt to become a stepping stone for the real hero. And since the hero usually turned out to be the scorned son in the epics, the axe daemon would just have to find someone else.

Well, it didn't matter now. All that mattered was that the vision journey overtook the shamans at a bad enough moment to turn the 'Glorious Capstone' of the raid into a shitshow. He'd guessed the amount and timing well enough.

Shame that one vitki got caught up in the worst of it, the good mystics were already outnumbered by the bad ones, and that one in particular been kind to Hrothgar. Well, compared to everyone else anyway.

Hrothgar watched with detached captivation as the Norsii's triumphant rapine degenerated into a bloody slog without any of the 'real' warriors even making it to the treeline.

He heard wings.

Turning around, Hrothgar watched in shock as Valkia the Bloody descended from the sky and planted a daemon axe in the earth between them.

"Hrothgar Fatebound!" said the Dread-Consort of Khorne in all her bloody glory, unseen and unheard to anyone but him. And maybe those apprentices tripping over there. "Be joyful, for you are blessed twice over! Your actions have pleased the Blood God. You have earned your place in his halls for eternity. And you have earned the right to rise again. You, who spurned the Trickster's meddling without a second thought, take up this axe and seize the fate your Lord laid down for you!"

Hrothgar stared at the daemon weapon from his dreams. He knew, somehow, that if he grabbed the thing, the real one would disappear from wherever it was half-way across the world, and appear in his flesh and blood hand right here.

He stared at the she-daemon.

Then he began to laugh. And laugh. And laugh.

Because… Because…

Everything the shamans claim are lies, everything the tribe believes is false, everything you do is in service of evil.

"Ahahahahaha!" Finally, his frenzied laughter was expended. "Go ahead, make me laugh some more."

The rapturous bloodlust was completely gone from the she-daemon's face.

"I've been tormented and humiliated all my life for being the weakest of my tribe," Hrothgar mocked with bravery he'd never had in life. "So I should let this here daemon devour my soul and possess my body, or you'll make me suffer the same torment over and over again for all time!" Hrothgar gave one last laugh. He looked at Kharnath's one and only woman and decided the Blood God had the shittiest taste of all time. "Fuck you."

"Wretch!"

Next thing he knew, Valkia had him by the throat. He belatedly realized he didn't have any armor protecting him anymore.

What? Hrothgar thought in bewilderment. But – how can she touch me, she should – son, you said –

Let the lantern take you in and even Chaos won't be able to touch you.

… Shit, he was supposed to go inside the Lantern!

"Your death will last days," the horned she-daemon snarled in his face as Hrothgar's spirit began to bleed from his eyes and ears. "And your suffering eons, you will-!"

"Ever heard of Klinefelter's syndrome?"

Valkia whirled around. "Who dares-what!?"

The moment her eyes were off him, a wisp bounced off her wrist with the faint whisper of a word that made Hrothgar's entire soul ring.

The man was freed from the she-daemon's grip and fell down next to his body just shy of the Lantern.

"Hypothetical scenario."

Valkia the Bloody pounced on empty air and swiped her spear with wings spread wide, looking for the new threat.

"Chieftain Merroc of the Schwarzvolf clan is about to have an heir."

The Gorequeen whirled left and right with a snarl, the other realm seeping like blood into the world where her spear sliced.

"He's served the Blood God more than enough to deserve a blessing. The wife's egg is fertilized by the chieftain' seed, the babe grows in the woman's belly, Khorne goes ahead and blesses the infant, and nobody notices that Slaanesh also placed his mark long before this."

With a roar, Valkia soared skyward spear-first where she thought the voice came from. "Who is this? Where are you? Show yourself, coward!"

"But Slaanesh didn't do the obvious thing this time." The – Nimrod's voice, that was his son's voice! "Instead of branding the babe like usual, the prime hedonist acted earlier, before Merroc even bedded his wife that fateful night, and made one little change. Instead of the usual one-to-one, the babe inherited one part from the father and twice from the mother."

Valkia went into a frenzy, thrusting with her spear seven times in the time it would take a man to strike once, but she wasn't aiming at the right spot, even when she attacked in a sweeping circle all around her. How could she not see Nimrod? His son was glorious, floating straight and stern, bright of skin, clad in vestments made of flowing wisps and strands of purest white and he shone-

"When I catch you, you'll wish you were never conceived!" Valkia roared.

"The result should be an abomination," Nimrod continued his tale, always well out of range of the daemoness even as his voice came from elsewhere. "A malformed weakling of a boy, slow of mind, slow to grow, gangly of height, weak of flesh, wide in the hips, not a scrap of man's grit, the manner and breasts of a woman, certainly no balls on him at all. But Slaanesh fancies himself the prince of perfection, and he had an entire extra half of she-lineage to seep more of himself into, whenever something would marr the perfect image of womanhood as Khorne saw it."

Valkia's scream of rage as she redoubled her wild attacks took an almost hangdog edge as a louder, distant, masculine balk of outrage came from unfathomably far away.

"How like a man, isn't that right Valkia?" Nimrod invisibly taunted the apoplectic daemon princess, even as Khorne's mounting fury was joined by the most delighted gasp from beyond. And a bird's squawk. "Live like a man, kill like a man, court Khorne himself like a man, and when Khorne gives you a piece of him like you've always wanted, the entire third of you that was really Slaanesh gets to fuck Khorne like he always wanted."

Hrothgar felt like his body might come back to life just to rub himself to death all over again, as the Warp shook with the delighted laughter of the Pleasure Prince.

Is – is this why Kharnath never made more like her?

That was when the Blood God's roar of outrage overcame every other noise in the world, and a brass skull came hurtling from Khorne's Citadel right where Nimrod flew.

Nimrod turned into a wisp and darted out of the way.

The brass skull went on to hit the last of the elder shamans right in the face.

His head exploded.

The coven's last joint casting backfired, and so they failed to counter whatever spell the swarthy men were preparing behind the trees.

There was a crackling rumble, and a hot blurry haze began to rise above the woods.

"Pathetic trickster, you will rue this day!" Valkia the Bloody vowed where she hovered impotently. "My lord is eternal and all-powerful! No matter what tricks you play, how well you hide, his reckoning and mine will find their way to you. When it does, your suffering will be unending!"

"Your lord's a scratch," Nimrod's voice sounded from seemingly everywhere. "Nurgle, Khorne, Tzeentch, Slannesh, they've barely been around for a cosmic second. Nurgle's a pustule rotting in his own filth. Khorne has never fought a single person in his life, the most he's done since waking up is squirm in his chair. Before Slaanesh existed, I'd already lived for tens of thousands of years. And Tzeentch, hah! He acts like he owns hope and history, when he can't even tell apart fantasy from truth without a mortal doing it for him! Lick the feet of your gods of ruin for what little time they can fathom, Man reckons time in kalpas!"

The realm of Chaos seemed to warp under the heavy TRUTH of that word that had never been heard before in the world.

"Hear Me, Willing Slaves of the Wretched and Misbegotten! I Am Libet-Ili Lugal-Marad-Da, King Of Babel And Emperor Of Shinar, the Hunter Of Godly Stature Who Erected the Tower Transcendent upon The Summit Of Wannet-Es-Sa Dun, Sorcerer-King Ascendant Of Mankind from Whom Springs Eternal the House of the Eye of the Lands unto the Star Ocean!"

The Warp battered futilely against the veil between worlds, as the forces of Chaos tried and failed to enact their will upon a True Name released so brazenly.

"Hear Me, willing slaves of the wretched and misbegotten, and know that thirteen years ago it was my first breath that saw the Chaos Gate unmade!"

The colors of the world rippled violently as Valkia's howl of rage was joined by the covenant daemons of the shamans Hrothgar had killed.

"Life, death, hope, passion, they existed for eons before your gods existed, and they will exist for eons more after they're gone. Your gods were born, your gods will die, and nothing important will be lost. It might be hard, it might be painful, it might take us a while to pass them, but sooner than later They Will Pass. They Will Pass. They Will Pass, like a pile of shit!"

Hrothgar couldn't help himself. He burst into guffaws.

Valkia was on him in the blink of an eye.

She'd have gored him straight through if not for a white dove, of all things, swooping between them to bewilder her in a burst of tail feathers.

Suddenly, Nimrod appeared next to Hrothgar's ghost and kicked him in the face.

Hrothgar barely felt it, his son was hitting him, glaring at him like – why-?

… Towards the lantern, oh fuck! He'd forgotten all about it again!

Just before Valkia would have gotten him, he finally dove into the light.

The last thing Hrothgar saw, before the lantern finally pulled him in, was a gigantic conflagration erupting from the forest, like a shrieking cyclone except made completely of fire.

The last thing he heard, before the calm and soothing warmth of that place lulled him to sleep, was his own voice. Maybe laughing. Maybe weeping.

Constantly repeating 'they will pass, they will pass, they will pass' to himself, over and over and over.

"-. Valnir, Chieftain of the Crow Tribe .-"

As the moors went and managed to conjure a gods damned djinn, Valnir of the Crow Tribe experienced the nearly overpowering longing to run over and jump down its throat to finally put himself out of his own misery.

Unfortunately, as ever he was still obliged to his men, so he ignored the yearning to end it all like every day for the past fifteen years.

"This is why you don't let lunatics bully warriors!" his oldest bondsman Olaf shouted as he rode over with their vitki ahorse behind him, and Valnir's own mount by the reins. "Brass balls, someone who hates his life only lives on because he hates everyone else more, we live in the Wastes and even we know this much!"

Valnir was walking proof that wasn't always true, but he may as well be dead so what did it matter? "Seer," he asked instead as he jumped on his warhorse. "Did you see and hear the same things I did?"

"You're wasted as a chieftain," came the mutter from beneath the wolf skull, which was a yes.

But the same words hadn't been heard to the living. Did that mean the upstart's power was as worthless as he claimed the Gods were? Or did he deliberately keep the living out of it? Did that bode good or ill? Did it matter?

The shaman hesitated, then removed the folds of his wolfskin cloak to show a smooth brass skull bundled underarm. "The newcomer didn't do it. He goaded Khorne into dooming us himself."

Newcomer, not upstart? Interloper? "A godly act then?" Valnir spurred his horse into a charge, wondering…

"A hero's feat at least!" the seer shouted begrudgingly over the noise. "It's not like he fooled the Crow himself – ek fyrbýð!" Gautaz incanted a spell of bewilderment at the Graelings that seemed about to stumble in their path, trusting that Valnir had good reason to ride at their allies instead of enemies.

Their ride had to stop anyway when a massive streak of fire sliced right through their path, cooking Norsii by the dozens and lingering like a wall of flame up ahead. Above the trees, the top of the giant flaming funnel began to take a vaguely mannish shape as more and more of the forest came ablaze to feed its rampant growth.

"Chief, what do we do?"

Valnir looked at the djinn. And the messy battlefield. His eyes saw the world as it was, and the things unseen on the threshold too. The colors of witchery were being sucked into the fire creature. The pact spirits of the many dead shamans were braying for vengeance that no one could give them. Valkia the Bloody was gone, vanished to be useless somewhere else the moment Khorne fell silent again. Only the laugh of Slaanesh still brayed. If the Wanton Shornal was excited because the newcomer's story was true, or because it was the greatest idea he'd ever heard, Valnir didn't know and he didn't care.

On the corpse of the poor fool who'd caused the whole mess and then spat in the Gods' face when offered ultimate glory, a white bird stood undaunted by the death and the flames.

The White Dove. The hopeless spirit that failed eternally to save their souls, even all the way up north where she had no dream. The seers all warned against her blandishments, said she'd doom them by making them soft and pitying. But Valnir, whose whole existence was a hopeless task from start to end, may as well be her kindred spirit.

Did… he suddenly feel a stirring in his dead soul?

… At least the poor fool had reasons for his despair, unlike me. "Get me one of the Graeling banners, and the tribal necklace of that dead bondsman of their High Chief over there!" Knowing his command would be heeded, Valnir charged forward and jumped over and through the flames, because Kelp was as brave a horse as the Chaos Wastes bred.

He jumped off even before Kelp skid to a halt. Went to one knee next to the corpse. The equipment was surprisingly good for such an ill-treated warrior, and the corpses around him proved the Mammoth Riders couldn't judge for shit. If Valnir had known the mighty Graelings were prone to such waste, he'd have gone with the suggestion to sail the long way and approach the Bjornlings instead. They were more like the southerners than any of them, and the contempt was mutual, but they still kept thralls and they always had food. Besides, with the 'Chaos' part of the Wastes gone, they all had to change with the times.

If Valnir could – if he had it in him to care about anything…

… Stirrings, feelings, even ill ones – it had been so long since he felt anything but the yawning hollowness in his chest, was this a sign? Would he believe one? The White Dove's grace? Did he want it?

If it wasn't, the invisible stare he felt that wasn't from the dove was about as clear an omen as he'd ever felt.

He drew his knife. His other hand hovered over the pendant. A small lantern on a chain. It felt like a cozy hearthfire on his spirit and shone to his witchsight like a spark stolen from the Northern Lights in the sky. In that moment, he experienced the utter certainty that the Gods would approve if he destroyed it here and now.

He closed the dead man's eyes, pulled the pendant off over his head, stared at the white feather suddenly hanging off the bottom of the thing, and stuffed it down his tunic.

It felt… like peace felt like. He didn't know how he knew that, he'd never had peace in his life. But he still remembered calm from when he was a child, and this was mountains higher than that.

The yawning gap wasn't gone, but he felt he might be able to see out of it now.

He rode Kelp back through the dwindling fire, charged into the fray, charged past the fray after Gautaz changed his face to that of the Graeling man whose things Olaf had scavenged, and rode around the battlefield to mix in with the Graelings proper.

When he was close enough, he snatched one of their war horns and sounded the retreat.

Valnir was good and gone by the time their High Chief galloped over to erupt in rage at yet another traitor, and everyone was already in full retreat by then.

They should have just finished filling their ships with easy plunder. Alas, the Graeling King decided their momentum was so strong that they could do much better in the sight of the Gods than just goods and thralls. So when they were done sacking Vercuso, Vermunte, Beffardo and Senelite, they didn't turn west along the high rise to sack Ossomunte and Caprio, the richest of all places on the island. Instead, they poured inland towards the north with the ultimate goal to cut straight through the woods, all the way to Robe and Sartosa proper, and from there assail the Fortress of the Pirate King himself. Perhaps Valbrand even dreamt of founding a Skeggi of his own.

All ruined because the Graelings presumed to decide for the Gods which champions to choose.

Idiots.

"-. Hrami, Vitki of the Mammoth Rider Clan .-"

"What's a kalpa?"

"An eon."

Hrami's eyes snapped up from where he was packing the food, dirt, crushed rocks and powdered metals he'd been ordered to prepare. He was unable to contain his disbelief. It was the first time he ever addressed his ma– the boy first since he was bound to servitude. But he still got an answer as casually as if they talked all the time.

"More specifically, a timespan of 4.32 billion years."

"… You're not surprised." It was the only explanation for the complete indifference that Hrami could think of. He'd expected – he didn't know if he'd hoped for it or not, that the boy would react violently. React somehow, instead of the disregard he seemed to treat Hrami's existence with. Everyone's existence with. If anything were to make him crack, he thought that being blindsided by this would do it. That his Great Boast had been witnessed by someone outside his plans, never mind him. That his secrets weren't as safe as he might wish.

Instead, it turned out the boy just didn't care. Either because it couldn't be used against him, or there was no danger of it from Hrami himself. Or… "You're not-?" But the answer came to him right then. "You wanted the gods to react like that. There ain't no mystic that didn't see or hear at least some of what happened there. The Lord of Skulls practically announced you to the whole world with that roar."

Hrami hated how much he longed to have seen the whole thing. As it was, he only caught the Hound's howl, and some choice parts just before and after. He didn't even know what incited his – the boy to do it, never mind like this. There was always the easy explanation that it involved the boy's father, but he didn't trust the easy answer with this – whatever the boy was. Hrami didn't dare consider it, even in his thoughts. It was blasphemy.

"It wasn't tactically planned, if that's what you're thinking," Nimrod said absently. "I just made the best of the situation in front of me."

Hrami tried and failed not to be disconcerted by his flippancy. Did the boy not see him as a threat at all? Even though he was the one who'd blinded him in that eye? Not for the first time, Hrami experienced the overwhelming impulse to lunge across the room and wring the damned boy's scrawny neck.

As every time before, his wish was obliterated with the feeling of something being churned and squeezed inside his head.

"I've never heard the word." Now that he'd broken the long silence, he couldn't bear the quiet obedience anymore. "Billion. How high is that?"

"A thousand million, where a million is a thousand thousands."

"Khargash," Hrami cursed. "Who'd even need to count so high?"

"You'd be surprised. Or maybe not, depending on what you've been sleeping on."

Hrami hated the jolt of dread that speared through him. "… You know about the dreams."

"I suspected, and you just confirmed it." His – the boy said.

How could he be so at ease with it? The things Hrami saw – tales as old as time and others never told, men that never lived anywhere in the world, races that didn't exist, horseless carriages, carriages that flew, and ships, and more, entire cities that flew, and structures that covered entire worlds while their uppermost spires reached all the way into the Great Dark, and the journeys through the expanse – such impossible spans of time and space, the Star Ocean-

"What I did to you was an improvised patch job," Nimrod ripped Hrami out of those memories of wonder without an ounce of shame, not looking up from the framed walrus hide he was using as a drawing surface. And to write. Not in runes, but something else. "Memory bleed-through is mild compared to everything else that could be happening."

Hrami's hands slammed hard down on the table. "What the hell is wrong with you?!"

"Pardon?"

The wood under his hands began to twist and spike under his rage. "What kind of god even are you?! You play mortal up until you don't, you look down on our best and cavort with slaves, you don't declare yourself but still punish us for not giving you due, you even feign weakness! When you don't even need pacts to bind us to your will, or even a measly verbal agreement! No mere spirit can do that, even the Dread Gods can't do that! Not like this, not for this long, not without-" Without torment. Without pain. "Why are you even here? It's like you don't care about ruling us at all! Is this just a sick game? Are we just playthings, is that it?! Fat lot of difference you are to the rest then!"

Hrami's heart pounded, his blood throbbed in his temples like it might burst, his fists clenched so tight he even felt a ghost of pain in his wooden arm. He'd lurched to his feet at some point in his outburst, and now he loomed over his little mas– over the boy like there were no fell spells binding him at all.

"Oh I'll rule alright, it just won't be you lot."

The callous answer was like a wash of snowmelt down his back. "You mean to kill us all," Hrami breathed as everything finally came together in a clear picture. "That's what all these things are for, aren't they? The raid – the numbers – you plan to – you lost your power!" Why had he let himself be fooled into doubting that? "You destroyed the Eye in the North, but it broke you too. That's why you're hiding. That's why you're making soul traps – enough for the whole raid and everyone they bring with them! You – you're going to kill us all. Destroy us all." Hrami hated the flash of terror he felt, and the pang of pain in his spirit where his familiar had once been before his – before the boy ripped it out of him 'for his own good.' "You mean to sacrifice us all. Devour our souls to ascend – to regain your lost power."

Of all the answers he imagined, he didn't think the boy would give him such an incredulous face. "Sit down."

Hrami sat down.

Nimrod leaned back in his chair and gave him a long stare. "The reason I'm making these lanterns," he explained slowly. "Is because every time the Graelings return from a great raid, you lot all gather before the Monolith of Katam for feasting, plunder distribution, dispute resolution, and worship of the gods. This involves the mass sacrifice of at least half the thralls you capture, never mind whoever dies in a brawl or duel because shamans like you teach this is the only way to live. The reason I'm making these lanterns is to save those souls before the daemons can get them."

He – but – that – that's it?

The shadows from the windows had grown much longer when he finally found words again. "You – you can do that? Just – steal from the Gods?"

"Steal from them, starve them, send them into self-destructive rages that shake their influence loose from the world, anyone can do that if someone teaches them. And sometimes even without it." The boy gave him an inscrutable look then. "Do you want to learn?"

Hrami shied away from the question. "All this trouble for a bunch of thralls?"

"What, you mean like you?"

Hrami tried to cover his jolt with a scowl. "That's different."

"How?"

'It isn't' was the only tr – the only answer his – the only answer the boy would accept, and they both knew it.

Hrami clenched his jaw and didn't say it. The boy was strangely soft for a godly tyrant, his geas only bound Hrami to obey instructions, not volunteer services like some sycophant. He still had his mind. His will. Most of his will. "Have your thralls then," he tried treating the boy like he did him. "When you're done sifting through the rest of the world, you'll just end up back here to try and earn our loyalty like you should've."

"Don't lump me in with the likes of you," the boy scoffed as he began to roll up his drawskin. "All it takes to 'win your loyalty' is murder your big man in broad daylight and everyone will cheer my name. But only so long as I don't ask you to do more than eat, drink, rape and kill. The moment someone actually tries to build something up here, you murder him so you can go back to eat, drink, rape and kill some more. And when you inevitably run out because none of you work for anything you have except the shit strewn through the streets, you just go and steal from someone else because you have nothing of your own except more thirst and more hunger."

He should jump across the room and rip the brat's neck off his shoulders.

"Let's pretend the Bjornlings are tainted by the soft southerners, but the Vargs, Aeslings, Skaelings, Sarls, even the Baersonlings can at least claim to have some constancy in how they treat right to rule and coming of age. They certainly don't have their vitkir saying to keep a man alive specifically so the rest of you can indulge all your worst impulses, eternally tormented by the most repulsive among you every time your sins catch up with you. No. You Graelings aren't men, you're animals. I'd sooner call you cows than humans, a herd of beastmen without the horns. Why would I ever think I can salvage anything from the likes of you?"

Hrami could no longer withstand the insults. He surged to his feet with soul braying for blood, but the impulse to kill was crushed as soon as it came. He fell back down and slumped in his seat, feeling clammy and light-headed.

"I compromised with your lot precisely once – by overstepping my ways to make a slave out of you. Because you're right about one thing, I am entirely too weak at the moment. But even so, there will not be a second compromise. As far as I'm concerned, you've all earned the same punishment I'd usually reserve for rapists in a more civilized society."

"Ahn-" He had to wrestle with his scattered wits. "And what's that?" What would such a soft, naïve g- boy think qualified as-

"Tear off the scalp, cut off the ears, slice off the nose, gouge out the eyes, chop off the feet and hands, and finally leave the sod on the side of the main road for everyone to see. Burning the stumps is optional depending on how long you want his death to take."

Hrami felt goosebumps. "That's worse than a blood raven."

"But a woman and child would be able walk the length and breadth of Norsca without fear of molestation."

Hrami shied away from the image of such a land, and the dreams he seemed to remember more and more clearly the longer this talk went on. "All Norsca?" He asked more leadingly than he'd planned – than he'd meant to. Thought he'd meant to. "Not just our part?"

For the first time, his little mas – the boy beheld Hrami with something other than contempt. "Do you… want me to rule?"

Hrami refused to answer. He tried not to think about how he didn't know what he even wanted to answer. "Don't put words in my mouth!" He blustered instead. "Your kind's the ones who always come to us demanding our spears and our ships."

Mercifully, the boy didn't call him out on his lies or command him to speak the truth, may the Dread Gods curse him to endless torment for making Hrami crave anyone's mercy, pity, he'd been reduced to wishing for pity, and not just any pity but – but -

"Nobody can feed on souls, by the way," the boy punctured his rapid spiral of self-loathing. "Well, they can but they'd just get indigestion. Souls aren't quite irreducible, but they're close. What entities of the Warp do devour is the spirit, which is just the soul's other body. You can certainly trap souls though, even torment them, for information, for vengeance, for your enjoyment if that gets you off, maybe eventually coerce them into compliance, and worse. But that doesn't give energy or nourishment, you're the one putting in effort and energy. It's always a net loss."

"The Önd, you mean? They just get the Önd, not the Sal?"

"Notwithstanding the various spells to affect the other parts, mind, body, the third eye of inspiration, your totemic spirit – that crow replaced your real one by the way."

Did the spirits all lie about this then? What was he saying, of course they would if…

If it was true that none of their tutelary spirits were still around, and they'd all been replaced by daemons masquerading as them. It would make right proper certain the Norsii would have nobody else to turn to.

"Yes, this is a big part of why the Chaos Gods demand a constant supply of new sacrifices," the boy guessed where his thoughts were going, or he didn't and it was just coincidence. He didn't seem to be reading Hrami's mind. "Their very nature dictates that they inflict themselves on their victims. All their victims, several times over in the case of the Serpent. Chaos spawn, daemons, the Four themselves, they'd all be many times more powerful if they let all those souls move on. But they can't, because they're slaves to their own nature. Drunk on power and bitter with impotence, curdling in the malefic nightmare of their own existence."

The boy gabbed his supplies, took the bag with the dusts and powders he'd had Hrami prepare, and… left. Someplace. To do something. The boy was very clear and firm in what orders he gave him, but beyond them he… never actually explained anything.

Until asked to, maybe. He certainly hadn't held back from answering all of Hrami's questions. Especially the ones whose answers he ended up despising the most.

Hrami spent the rest of the day, and the one afterwards, calling on the so-called 'Jade Wind' to heal wounds, end blights, banish sickness, and give the land around their hold more life than it had ever had before, just for the practice. He had to guard against misfires, but not as much as before. Some of the spells were draining, but there was always more to draw on after he was done. He hated to admit it, but the amount of power he could work now was several times what the spirits ever yielded for the same time and effort. Or in total. Especially since the boy ripped out and slew that crow.

Maybe Hrami imagined it, but the boy's mother served him food a bit less begrudgingly than before too.

The day after, someone decided to be smart-mouthed about Hrami's 'farming' within his hearing, so he made the inside of his skin grow thorns. He left it at pain this time, and even healed the fool so he didn't die and waste the lesson, but next time he'd not be so merciful. He had to emphasize that twice, unfortunately, and still everyone was surprised at his 'lenience.' The Four all damn that boy, if it wasn't the clan questioning him, Hrami was now questioning himself.

And everything else!

Nimrod returned on the third day.

His gait was lighter. He'd filled out a bit of muscle too. He'd even grown in height despite that his growth spurt still hadn't come in. If Hrami had to guess, the boy was as tall as he would have been if he hadn't missed out on any meals growing up.

When they were all behind closed doors, Nimrod took off his bandages to reveal that his eye had completely regrown. He stretched. Wide. So wide his joints popped, and Hrami's new attunement to the wind of life warned him that the body in front of him had just injured itself. Strained its own sinews to breaking.

Hrami didn't offer healing. If the boy still allowed him a scrap of pride, he was going to hold onto it as long as he could.

It was all unnecessary in the end. Nimrod relaxed, and all harm mended itself between instants. He didn't pant and he didn't sweat, but there was a brief flaming glow to his eyes, and shimmers of gold and red in his veins here and there. The air wafted off him like a furnace too, for that moment.

A god of fire then? Either that or he'd figured out fire magic just by daydreaming about it, which was a pretty godly act on its own. The healing was a tad too clean for fire magic, though, and wasn't the boy supposed to be unable to work magic while he had Hrami to keep bound? Had he lied after all? If he lied about that, then-

No, wait, no he didn't. He never actually talked about it at all. Hrami just noticed that he never attempted any magic after the fact, going so far as to make Hrami himself do all such work for him, and then drew the only conclusion that let him keep any amount of dignity. Guess he was wrong to do that too.

"We're moving up our timeline," the boy told him after they all ate and the woman was out of sight and hearing again. "The Hound's barking was the spark that finally set the whole world on fire. Among other things, this means the raid will be returning a bit earlier than they planned. I'll need you to get some people to start collecting three very specific substances for me."

The boy didn't explain anything beyond that, and Hrami didn't expect him to. He did as he was told, because he had no choice.

His mind was still his own, though. And with the silence broken between himself and the – his little master no matter how much he hated acknowledging it – he couldn't just keep his commands and the rest of his existence separate anymore. Every day, every moment he failed to find something to busy himself with, his mind kept returning to the god child's look of complete disgust and contempt. For him, and all others like him.

It was personal. Of course it was personal, they'd made sport out of abusing and humiliating him, and his mother, and especially his father. Because Hrami himself had said it was tradition. The fact it was true only made things worse in the boy's eyes. Doubly so, probably, since the tribe's skalds still recalled a time when they didn't have that tradition. Even still, it felt like more than that.

It was the chief's job to intercede with the spirits and the gods on the clan's behalf, just like the jarls did for entire holds, and the king for the tribe as a whole. The vitkir just gave the spirits a mouth to speak through. But the chief was on even thinner ice than him, and he wasn't here. He wouldn't be allowed to know anything even if he were here.

That boy…

This god child.

He truly believed they all deserved to die in the most excruciating way possible.

Hrami…

That…

He…

… There was no one else with more than a white dove's dream to persuade him otherwise, was there?

"-. Elliriad, Loremaster of Hoeth .-"

The Newcomer had finally made his move, and it wasn't a feat of strength or magic like his debut seemed to portend. Instead, they got a Trickster.

A Trickster whose Great Boast had thrown Slaanesh into his most obscene throes since the Great Catastrophe, and Khorne into a fit of rage so loud that it shook the Winds all over the world, such that even the weakest mystic must have heard him.

Now, mere weeks later, words from the other Loremasters were streaming in, and they all fit his own discoveries.

Cults were breaking out to do as much damage as possible all over the human lands, Beastmen were going absolutely mad with bloodlust in every forest, orcs and goblins were forming bands into hordes so they wouldn't be left out of the imminent fighting, even the forest of the Asrai and Eonir were closing off with mists and brambles as if gearing up for defensive war. Worse, not one but two Chaos Lords were making a bid for Everchosen in the lands of the Norse. The only place that hadn't taken a dramatic turn was the Vampire Coast, its bewitchment holding just as steady as when it first began luring and felling ships eighty years ago.

Upon also convening with the Swordmasters, further suspicions were vindicated – the picture beneath the surface was much less bleak. In a move that Elliriad earnestly hoped was intentional, the Newcomer's display – and the subsequent outburst by Khorne and Slaanesh – had caused all these many cultist and Chaos plots to explode prematurely. Before they had acquired or maneuvered all the assets they could have, or even moved themselves fully out of the danger zone.

Norsca might have been their most urgent concern, if not for one thing.

Alternative concentration and dispersal of Black Arks in the ports of their wayward kin, a comparative ease of scrying mainland Naggaroth, entire chunks of ocean where farseeing weaves either couldn't look or didn't see anything besides storms or great banks of mists.

After thirteen years of the Asur being at their weakest, the inevitable was finally unfolding.

Malekith the Betrayer was coming to Ulthuan, at the head of an invasion fleet.

The next chapter is available on P treon (karmicacumen),Ko-fi (karmicacumen) and Subscribestar (karmic-acumen), along with advance chapters on Understanding Does Not Presage Peace (Naruto)(last one), The Unified Theorem (Warcraft), and Everything, Everywhere, one Thing at a Time (Harry Potter Multicross).

"-. Forms Grasped .-"

Deft Animus Adaptation of the Dragon School

200

Re-Spec

HighSchool DxD

Making

A type of Sacred Gear that naturally manipulates energy in a very limited way. Letting you categorize and allocate your reservoirs to different 'stats' to enhance them; the more you devote to one category, the more bang you get for your buck. You can shift your stats around at will to be exceptionally fast or strong at any given time for example, but it would be a trade-off when it comes down to it. The regular Balance Breaker is an armband that allows the user to 'steal' energy and magic from the ambient and enemies, while permanently increasing its own. It's also known to have a sub-species that allows the users to spend energy into brute forcing learning skills or obtaining traits they normally wouldn't be able to.

(rejected)

600

Mechanic

Fast and Furious

Domain Vehicles

Machines, especially ones that go fast, just speak to you. You have no problem fixing up and tuning any motor vehicle, and can rebuild them after the most devastating crashes. You can keep anything in top condition with just a few simple tools. Of course, you also need to understand the electronics, so hotwiring cars (and sometimes, alarm systems) is not a problem either.

Marvelous Management of Mitochondria Bio-Fission

200

Extremis Formula

Marvel Cinematic Universe Vol. 1

Domain: Databases: Mundane

Another attempt at creating super soldiers, this formula creates a virus that can enhance a person to superhuman strength, reflexes, and endurance. Additionally, normal Extremis users gain the ability to generate extreme amounts of heat through a complex metabolic process, generating heat from their bodies up to several thousand degrees Celsius on any part of the body they desire. When regenerating body parts, the wounds take on the appearance of burning ashes while growing back the lost body part, in a matter of minutes, and cooling into regular skin, flesh, and bone. Be wary however, as this makes you light up on thermal sensors, and should your body heat up too much, you may end up exploding. Keep this in mind.

(failed)

600

Extended Warranty

Ben 10 0.1

Domain: Quality: Durability

Let's get real for a second: You are a scientist, not a repair monkey. You shouldn't have to teleport all the way from your home planet to fix something one of your assistants managed to break in the time you took your eyes off of them. As a result, your technology is now durable and long-lasting...you can go years without seeing a prototype of your creation before it actually needs you to fix it directly, even the most idiotic and primitive species being able to guesswork how to fix it even if they don't know how it works. Also when I say durable, I mean the universe could collapse into nothingness and that device of yours would still be floating in the empty void that used to be said universe. Point being, technology you create is both insanely durable and is easily maintained. Now maybe you don't have to handle everything yourself.

Distorted Reflections of the Aquamirror

200

Photomirroring

Duel Monsters - Duel Terminal Part 2

Domain: Crafting: Magical Items

Every Gishki wields their own Aquamirror. But these artifacts are mere replicas of the true Aquamirror, much weaker and limited than the original, even if they still function as potent foci for ritual magics. While the true Aquamirror still eludes you, you've become an accomplished crafter, and can easily replicate all sorts of magical artifacts in much weaker forms. I wouldn't be surprised if a portion of the Gishki currently active are actually wielding copies made by you instead of Noellia. Still, it's gonna take a lot more than this to improve on your copied designs, or even just make them easier to wield.

Banked Points: 100