“Fehr five hundred years we hunted!”

A hulking man roared out to his rallied soldiers, brandishing a man’s arm in lieu of his weapon.

Handling the severed limb proved as unwieldy as the very claymore which had sundered it off the victim; whose thick blade was now freshly impaled into its oversized rib cage, dwarfing his slayer.

“We traveled through sea, mountain, an desert for oor divine reward.”

The enthralled audience festered in a compulsory silence.

Repulsed at the desecration of their countrymen.

His corpse lay on the cold ground.

Around the city stood houses made of polished stone; their dense walls were not too dissimilar to the pyramid they accompanied.

Red puddles dotted the scarlet streaks painting the worn granite floor.

“Aftar centuries o tracking Fordha, in Odin’s name…”

His blazing hair raining over his war-painted face granted him the unmistakable appearance of the barbarous denizens beyond the northern mountains.

As if dialect wasn’t indication enough.

“Finally the mission gifted in my nam, by the All-Fadher…”

He moved the lifeless limb up to his broad teeth.

“Oor new hame, oor new kengdom, oor promised land, is at haund. ”

Biting into one of its rotund fingers like a mastodon’s trunk, his canines ruptured through the sinew, splitting off its thumb.

A spatter of blood struck the ivory-robed figure that stood beside him.

Blood droplets rolled down the cross of his aureate staff, staining his silk gloves.

“GASP!”

"BLAAARGH!"

Men and women heaved at the grisly spectacle.

“The Zodiarchiate will smite your people for this treachery Scanvarg.”

The priest condemned, leering toward his wrist, eyeing the stones fixed onto his golden bangle.

“Xalfos haus abandoned ye Fhordha.”

Reaching for the horned helm waiting upon the crown of his dead podium, the red-haired man rested his arm atop the priest’s stave.

“Jus as Odin’s prophecy foretold Grand Primus.”

The tall northerner scoffed.

“Soon ye will bear witness te the power o true diviniteh.”

His belittling words held an undertow of menace.

“An… it’s Iard.

Or King.

Whatever is more palatable for yer heathen tongue.”

“SKOL to Iarl Thorvald!”

His men chanted.

“May he lead us for centuries te come!”

"SKOL!!!”

They cheered to their Iarl..

His equally imposing warriors surrounded the temple courtyard, blockading the passageways.

Herding their smaller, darker captives within their barracks.

Twelve white hooded men stood beside the foreign invaders.

The rows of gold lining, running from their collars down to the frill of their immaculate frock, noted their ranks.

The dozen of them were gilded in relics and jewelry.

Wrinkles of wisdom complimented their beautifully embroidered cowls, distinguishing them from the common priest.

With those of a lower clergy counting themselves among the many cowering villagers, hostage among the chaos.

To the Scanvaragn these men were no different than the giants they pursued.

Defiant ones were prisoners at the heels of the conquerors, while the more docile holy men like saints guided their new allegiance to victory.

“The blasphemers o his authority purged o thair sinful blood!”

Thorvald's sonorous shouts echoed in waves, over the crowded subjects.

Genuflected before him, the humiliated prisoners rang their shackles as their jagged cuffs dug into their naked flesh.

The dirt and mud blended with their sunbathed complexions.

“Free will be oor lands o the wicked, an corrupt…“

His wild beard clumped as he spat through his words

“Oor souls liberated o thair fallen seed!”

From a simple glance, one could see even the smallest of the pale barbarians eclipsed their captives.

Their great swords alone were mere inches higher than the average villager.

Behind the imprisoned soldiers stood their families; pleading for their loved ones as they waited before the pyramid’s court.

The green stone of the structure was stained with the remains of their sacrifices.

And the smell of death permeated the raided city.

“Tak yer men an bring the lest ane, Primus…”

He grunted at the gold-studded man standing at his sides.

As the holy man marched to his orders, the Iarl grasped reached gripping him back.

Holding him by the scruff.

Thorvald extended his free hand and stretched his fingers in demand.

“Let’s no forget the fragment Faither.”

Mocking the priest.

Turning to look up at the Iarl's icy blue eyes, the robed man searched his collar for a delicate silver lace.

His accustomed knuckles quickly yanked the pendant.

Plucking it from its hoisted gem, he handed it over to Thorvald's possession

“Breng me the Jotunn Mongrel.” The red-haired man prompted the priest once more.

Shoving him forth.

“YA!”

“Bring the fallen.”

“Kill the beast.”

His warriors repeated.

The Iarl waited for the priests to fetch the young giant.

Placing the twelfth necklace in his grasp, chiming while they collided with the other crystals as he tucked them in his satchel.

Thump

Clomp

Thump

The ground shook with the weight of the approaching footsteps.

Looking around Thorvald could see the topside of the Quinametzin's scalp peeking over his brigade, marching ever closer.

CLANK

CLANK

Chains struck across the lumbering body of their hostage, rattling as he dragged his feet.

The links’ girth and weight made more for beasts than men, but only restraints this dense could hold the young giant.

Although still adolescent, his build was already formidable, even for specimens as monstrous as the Scanvaragn

“Move ye vermin!”

His men swept the lower end of their spears against the crowds’ ankles, tumbling back the civilians.

The Primus vestry heaved on the giant’s irons.

Ease was afforded to them by a glowing energy, which extended from their bodies; Its power caused the Xicalancatl to stumble on the stone floor, the aftershock starling the villagers.

Iarl Thorvald dislodged the sword protruding from the cadaver below him.

Swinging and planting its blade into a makeshift altar of melted stone beside his kill.

CLAAAANG

The resilient metal rang, wedged into the red-soaked boulder.

With the Primus guard holding his chains, the Quinametzin's posture groveled near the floor.

“By the will granted to me…”

Releasing the giants’ bonds, the flowing magic surged from their prayers, enveloping the chains.

With a mind of their own, they wrapped the giant’s extremities, constricting their movement.

“FELAGI! Oor destiny awaits in the promised land!” Thorvald declared.

The Twelve Primus’ all took their place; surrounding the offerings.

Everything was ready, after centuries of suffrage and sacrifice.

This victory was the final threshold to the Scanvaragns’ awaited glory.

“Master Thorvald, the poison sir.” One of the cloaked priests handed the Iarl a round wooden jar covered with animal hide.

“IARL!!! IT’S IARL YE FORDHA!!!”

His mug blushed in annoyance, as he swiped the container from his hands.

“Tell yer pagan spawn, te start singing.”

Thorvald shoved the priest, dispatching him to his post.

“Protect Xicalancatl.”

One of the enslaved clerics whispered to his staring colleagues.

“May the one light grace us with salvation.”

“May the…“

“…grace us…”

“…one light…”

“…with salvation…”

Prayers from the clergy arose from within the mass of prisoners.

A whirlwind began forming around the fettered disciples.

The glistening currents’ fluorescent strands wreathed the huddled captives.

Vague runes upon its surface, waxed and waned with their uniform chanting.

Taking notice of such courage, the few Primus’ who had remained obstinate to the barbarian’s wishes, joined their lowly peers.

“SAVE THE QUINAMETZIN!”

As one of them shouted, the other had already begun their orations.

“…grace us…”

“…with salvation…”

The protective spell emitted a field around the vulnerable civilians, insulating them from the encircling hordes of pale Scanvaragn.

As the gathering force began to jostle the stalwart northerners, a shout boomed through the commotion.

“BARTALOM! Stop thaim!”

Thorvald commanded one of the traitorous priests to intervene.

Amid the ring of the surrounding Primus, their collaborators commenced channeling in retaliation to the loyal clergy.

“For the order of justice.”

“The safeguards of truth.”

“We condemn your will.”

PFFIIT

PFIIIT

PFIT

Streams of sheer light blasted from the defectors’ bodies.

Causing a tempest to erupt from the clashing between their spells.

The disrupting shots pummeled the swaddling barrier.

Branches swept about the court, winds howled between their ransacked homes.

“UTRED! JURGEN!”

The Iarl's baritone overpowered the uproar.

He pulled the lace strapping the skin unto the small jar.

Burrowing his index into its contents, a pitch-colored clay clung to his fingers.

“USE TE EITR.”

Thorvald instructed his men.

Reaching out the Iarl grabbed his informant, pulling the Primus recreant near the outer ring of the populated court.

"WHAA-”

The man’s robes flailed as he realized he was in the clutches of his new master.

Cradling the priest’s jawline, Thorvald proceeded to crush its hinges, forcing his mouth ajar.

His inked fingers inched towards the choking mouth.

"CouGH COuuGh coUOuGh!"

As much as he resisted ingesting the tarry substance, it seemed to snake its way through his clenched throat.

The priest’s body stiffened to a statue, his flaying tongue macerating the words with his contorting mouth.

Thorvald's men stood reticent, awaiting their leader’s next order.

The Iarl's silent lips uttered two words, prompting the Scanvaragn into action.

Standing behind the twelve Primus, the barbarians seized the arms of the praying clerics.

Pulling out globs of the black substance, they clenched their white cowls, dragging their head back;

Their hands slathered in the black gunk.

Sssss

Silky strands of the sludge began reaching for the choking priests.

Gloop

Its slimy consistency became more viscous and animate, clumping itself into a convulsing sphere.

With its long thin tendrils muffling their screams, the lump slithered atop their cocooned faces.

Leaving their handlers’ arms clear of any trace.

The Treasonous priests, in their attempt to subdue their hostages, blinded themselves of their newfound allies.

All they could manage was a whimper, their lungs asphyxiated on the obsidian slime, quashing their struggling lungs.

As their bodies seized in shock, the amassed energy guarding the peasants rose into the atmosphere.

VrrrRROOOw

vRrOooWow

An ominous groan warped in the skies above the temple summit.

The empty air above them seemed to reverberate like ripples over the placid surface of a still pond.

GASP!

AAAAAAH!

As the warping grew in size and breadth, the villagers horrified screams joined the clamor.

Unlike the smirk-clad faces of the Scanvaragn.

Iarl Thorvald in particular could not hide the boastful mug beneath his gruff exterior.

Pulling the pendants from their pouch, he paced towards the knelt Quinametzin.

The gem of each necklace undulated with a gentle light.

The young giant looked up at the lording Iarl.

His pointed blade stared at his chest, ready to deal the finishing stroke.

“I stand afore ye by the will o the ALL-FADHER.”

Thorvald recited resting the tip of his blade upon the XIcalancatl's giant ribs.

“My kingdom in his glory is written, his will by this sword be duin.”

Gradually he slipped the blade deeper into his chest.

"N-Neh, yoll-oxoqu-"

The small giant strained.

“Fordha savage.”

Thorvald plunged the sword into its chest.

“RAAAAWR!”

The Quinametzin howled in agony

His exhausted tongue devolved into gibberish.

"Brkhsn-xcoloebsfr"

With Xicalancalt's entranced gaze fixated on the aerial whirlpool, his pupils sweeping back and forth as if following something within the window.

The fluctuating air seemed to crack as the distortion became more volatile.