119 AG – Year of the Rabbit, Autumn.

Laboured gasps shovelled whispy air into taxed lungs while roiling highlands whipped past the periphery, every ounce of my concentration solely trained on the path forward, weary legs navigating the ditches, knolls and waterbodies native to these moorlands. I pumped my arms, increasing in speed, approaching a shallow creek, its crystal clear waters fed by hidden springs. With movements that had become second nature, the earth below me pulsed, launching me over the watery obstacle and onto the softened ground on the other side. I quickly resumed my sprint, intent on setting a new personal record.

Eventually, a towering obelisk signifying the end of the course peeked over the horizon, the sinking sun drawing on its shadow. Gritting my teeth, I pushed myself over the final stretch, ignoring bodily protests begging for reprieve. A final thrust sent me over the proverbial finishing line, and I dropped to my knees, thirsting for air like a starved man seeing food. “Not bad, laddie. You topped your previous best by a whole breath,” a gravelly voice sounded off.

Flipping onto my back, the silhouette of trainer Galti entered my vision. “Is that all for today?” I huffed.

“Aye, that’s all for today. We best be heading back. The ‘arvest celebration will be in full swing soon,” he said, offering an arm I accepted. “At the rate we are progressin’, I think we can begin your wilderness survival trainin’ come winter,” he pondered.

I ran a hand through my neck-length hair, dirt and grit filtering through my fingers. “I am ready for whatever you have in store for me,” I declared. Almost instinctively, my fist moved, “Hup!” shattering a stone hurtling for my face, “Hup! Hup!” then to my left and right.

“Hmmm, almost, but not quite,” trainer Galti mused, stroking his chin.

“Wha—pak.” I was cut short by a stone that struck the centre of my back, causing me to hiss in pain as I tried in futility to reach the point of impact. “Ow, ow, ow!”

“Stop foolin’ around, it’s a long way back down, and the sun’s about to set!” trainer Galti shouted, already walking away without so much as a word of care for his student’s condition.

“Ah! Do you even know how much that hurt?! How could you say I was fooling around!” I complained, running after his distancing figure.

“Don’t be such a whiner and man up,” he spat, uncaring of my plight.

“I’ll get you back, old man, I swear,” I mumbled as we made our way down. We were currently off the beaten path, at the breast of Thridifjall. Soon our feet touched upon the signs of civilisation, a paved road etched out of the immovable mountain called the Everspine, serving as the backbone connecting the cities of Vigrid. On particularly clear days, I could make out beasts of burden lugging caravans laden with wares and supplies and boisterous raiding parties marching to battle. Today was different, though, the path bereft of all activity apart from us. Trainer Galti and I took a left turn, conversing under the glare of the orange wheel looming over a joyous Skuldoscaring and its honeycombed lands.

Excitement was felt on every corner and side street, colourful banners crisscrossing between buildings dressing the city in multicoloured tapestry. Children ran to and fro, pinwheels, streamers and other such attractions in hand as the wind brought them to life. The adults showed off their best garments, exchanging greetings and compliments, friends and neighbours hand in hand. Similar happenings played out everywhere one looked, small groups coalescing in a throng of song and praise destined for what lay beyond the towering walls steadfastly doing their duty—the near-boundless fields of blonde, plump wheat, ripe and ready for picking.

The people broke off, towering bonfires drawing them towards the various homesteads that littered the auric landscape, glistening in the setting rays. Large cauldrons bubbled above smouldering fires, housewives barking at maids and the like, preparing for upcoming revelry. Everything had to be perfect, for the sacrificial feast was one of if not the most important annual celebration. This was a time of happiness, a celebration of thanks for abundant gains and also a prayer for wealth and prosperity in the coming year.

It was at a particularly rambunctious household, already flowing with beer and mead, that an odd scene was taking place.

“Morði ya bastard! Where has the feast cow got to!” a plump woman hollered, her outburst loud enough that even the few passers-by covered their ears.

“Sounds like it’s alive and kicking to me!” a gruff voice shouted back, followed by a cacophony of laughter bursting from within a farmhouse sporting thatched roofing and brick walls. It possessed a rustic and outdated vibe that was quite a departure from the stone-centric abodes of the city folk but did not lose out in any way to the war houses.

“Say that again, ya fucker! I dare ya!” she threatened, slamming her ladle onto the lip of an overflowing cauldron that sizzled at the fire below.

A burly man emerged with a slight sway, bellowing, “I was inside, woman! What are you riled up at me for!” He was thick of limb and strong of neck, thickened beard concealing the lower half of a broad face. Blueish tattoos branded his scalp, the telltale signs he was a man, a warrior.

She huffed, her apron stained with a hard day’s work, perspiration on her face made visible in the light of the flame. “Please find it, Morði. You know the importance it has for the ceremony.”

His green eyes drew crescents at his wife’s insistence, creeping behind her. Unscrupulous hands slithered up her body, squeezing, kneading. “I hope you remember my kindness,” he breathed down Ǫndótt’s neck, having his fill of flesh. The nearby maids, used to their masters’ antics, remained trained on their respective tasks, though a few couldn’t help but steal a few glances at the squirming woman.

Ǫndótt retaliated before things went too far, smacking her cherry-faced husband on the head with her trusty tool. “Git! Or else the only thing you’ll be able to drag to bed tonight will be Ol’ Hoggy.”

“Alright, alright!” he relented, storming towards the outer gate. “Cow! Come here, cow! Where ya at!”

“I married a hopeless idiot,” she moaned, reprising her former role of organiser-slash-tyrant. “Hremsa, make sure the beer doesn’t run dry! Mix it with water if you have to! You! Yes, you! Stop standing around and help cut the ingredients unless you want a stick up the bum!”

.

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Darkness swooped in, blinding moon and stars fighting an illumination cascading from firelit farmlands, a tussle of gold and silver. Restrained merrymaking that had been fermenting in cramped homes all day ripened, spilling into the accompanying courtyards. Tables offering every delicacy imaginable were torn apart by voracious guests, the scent of roasted meats dripping with fat overriding all others.

Ǫndótt stood in the midst of a scrumptious feast, tapping her feet furiously, Morði nowhere in sight. Her guests were sated, for now, drunk off their faces, ‘and thank the Great Guardian for that’, but it wouldn’t stay that way for long. The ridicule and embarrassment a botched sacrificial feast would bring, she just couldn’t bear the thought! She peered down the dirt road with a squint as if it would help her husband return home that much sooner. A waving shadow in the distance seemed to answer her pleas, materialising a familiar figure with a larger one in tow. Flickering light soon caught hold of the person, causing the worried woman to loosen her shoulders and let out a held breath.

Morði waved at her, sporting that stupid grin she had to wake up to every morning. “Look what I found!” he yelled.

“Took ya long enough! I was in two minds to use your beloved pig as the beast of honour had you taken any longer!” she screamed, sighting a smaller figure walking in the shadow of her husband. “Um, I think you’ve brought back a little extra.”

The man laughed, moving aside, revealing a young boy no more than eleven years old. His hair, as black as night, was tied in a ponytail framing sharp eyes and a hard nose that were offset by the chubbiness inherent to all children of a similar age, resulting in a look that some would say was adorably stoic. “Ah Sǫl! You’re late! I had to practically beat back your father from going out in search of you,” Ǫndótt rejoiced.

“I’m sorry, auntie. It took longer than expected to clean up, and then I met uncle on the way here and was roped in on his quest,” the boy apologised, giving the stout lady a hug, nuzzling her bountiful chest.

Ǫndótt looked at her husband while caressing the boy, saying, “Everything’s ready, Morði. Call everyone out before they develop a taste for their fellow guests.” Morði fastened the cow’s leash around a wooden stake nearby and made for the residence, yellow light emanating from inside, not forgetting to pinch Ǫndótt’s buttock on the way there, earning him a glare that would send any other man to an early grave.

“O-Okay, that’s enough, Sǫl; I have things to attend to,” she said, peeling the reluctant boy off herself. He assented, stealing one final poorly concealed glance at her assets, plodding off in search of a spot closest to the food that fancied his taste. ‘Cheeky boy. He was so innocent when we first met him too... I guess he is reaching that age,’ she reasoned while doing a final once over.

The doors burst open, releasing a splurge of laughter and shouting followed by a stream of ruddy-faced celebrants donned in their best garb. Wives and daughters helped their wobbly-legged fathers, brothers, and husbands to seats occupied in haste, empty bellies dictating their action. Morði rose to his feet at the head of the feast once everyone had gotten comfortable, arresting the attention of everyone present. “I know everyone’s eager to dig into my beautiful wife’s cooking, so I’ll keep this short! To my dear friends who’ve stuck with an ass sore like me and family who were forced to! Skål!” he cheered, raising a bowl, sloshing with mead. He took a large chug to thunderous applause, passing it off to his neighbour, a collective cheer sounding out at every swig.

The communal drink made rounds, landing in the hands of Sǫl, who handed it to the person beside him after taking a zealous gulp. The young girl struggled against the weight of the vessel, childishly sticking out her tongue in hopes of lapping at the golden liquid. Right when she was at the precipice of success, an unknown force tipped the bowl over, dowsing her in a deluge of the specially fermented honey her parents were famous for. “Sǫl!” she shrieked, pummelling him in a flurry of blows to the hoots and hollers of the surroundings.

“Kekekekeke, I suurendaa! I suurenda Mardǫll!” he begged, much to the annoyance of the one in question.

“I hate you! I hate you! I hate you! You ruined my hair! You ruined my dress! All you men are brutes!” she shrieked, her assault petering.

“Mardǫll, be nice to your cousin. He doesn’t come around often,” Morði ordered.

“But father!” she gasped.

“No buts, young lady,” he chided, smothering her complaints. She pouted with crossed arms, mentally cursing the boy in question in every way imaginable. ‘Stupid! Fat hands! Shit shoveler! Svartr!’ She only realised the odiousness of her final swear after it slipped out, turning to Sǫlmundr with a guilty expression.

Noticing the sudden change of air around her, he smirked, leaning closer. “You thought something bad about me again, didn’t you,” he stated, breath warming her cheeks.

Mardǫll shoved him back, denying the claim. “No, no, you-you can’t prove a thing.” A sigh of relief escaped her lips when she glanced at his cheery face, thanking the Great Guardian she wasn’t found out. ‘Good, he didn’t suspect a thing.’ The last thing she wanted was their relationship to sour. Her cousin was an odd one, but he was one of the few she could call a friend.

A chicken wing abruptly appeared in her vision. “Here, you’re going to need to eat more if you ever want to have a chance of hurting me.” She snatched the foodstuff and began chewing at the meat with an annoyed expression, much to Sǫl’s amusement. The feasting carried on, blazing bonfires watchful over the multitudes dancing beneath a pale moon.

During the depths of night, when children nodded off to the land of dreams and women beat back the wandering hands of intoxicated men, something unbelievable occurred. A shriek or cry—no one could decide on one or the other—entered the ears of man and animal alike. Its spectral screeches echoed over the whole settlement as if announcing the arrival of something, someone. All those not passed out on grog emptied out of the homesteads and lined the road, trying to ascertain the cause of the phenomenon. Then they saw it. Beyond the tree line, a bugling elk, star’s incarnate, shattered the gloom, a being clad in light seated atop.