“The arts of my people are rooted in connection to the land and its spirits,” Jorfr answered. “Since our bout, I have traveled to places where nature still rules in this land. I communed with the spirits of this land, gathered herbs, and sought out the hide of a great predator that I might impart unto you my people’s arts as I had promised. Within the bag are these material components, within my mind the rest.”

“It sounds like- No, you look like you did all that in quite a rush,” she commended, albeit with a bit of confusion. Jorfr made it sound as if he had gone straight from the fight pit to doing whatever it was he had done with full focus on his task. Sure, Zelsys would’ve likely had done the same, but it still felt strange for someone else to act nearly exactly as she would’ve. Strange, but good.

He looked at her, giving a sharp nod, “Were circumstances permitting I would have waited until such a time that the spirits of the land were more easily reached, but I know well that you do not have the luxury of time. Willowdale herself doesn’t, if the tales of the Mountain-mover’s waking are to be believed. The caravan and its cargo of tank suits, the suspiciously quick work on reviving the Slayer’s Guild, the recent quake not least of all… Official statements are unnecessary when rumor abounds, and rumor alone is enough to drive hardy souls into seeking out Ubul’s Tomb of their own volition.”

“You went there, didn’t you?” she asked. Now well into the sect’s entrance hall, a few of Makhus’s employees passed them by. None of them paid any particular attention to the scene, for a change.

“Only because it was a brief day-long detour, but so I did,” affirmed the norseman. “An army of dead men in stone shells now surrounds the monster, ones I do not think will remain as stone-still as they are now when he wakes. The serenity of an old battlefield is gone from that cursed place, and so, I felt it necessary to be quick in contributing what I can.”

“Contributing what? I’m more than willing to go through a shamanistic ritual, but it would be nice if I knew the purpose of it. What part of what you used against me in the pit has to do with this?” she questioned as they entered the hub room.

“All of it. I do not practice Fog-breathing as you understand it, instead drawing power from the land and its spirits… Although, it is true that what you receive will not be akin to my gifts. I carry with me ancestral spirits from my homeland, and possess a natural affinity to frost besides - whatsoever nature spirits bond to you I cannot know, but something tells me they will be terribly violent. No, spirits may not be the correct translation; think of them more like spiritual gut bacteria, allowing you to reach into the abundant rivers of power flowing through the land and filtering that essentia which is of use to you whilst feeding off the rest.”

“Not unlike the manner in which breathing techniques serve to pull usable essentia from the air…” murmured the beast-slayer as the pieces fell into place in her head.

“Yes,” Jorfr nodded. “...Do you know how to access the leyline crossing beneath this place? I will need a place as close as possible to the crossing to prepare for the ritual.”

Before she could answer, however, a familiar Ankhezian face showed itself through the door.

“I would gladly show you both to our leyline well, if you would be so kind as to enlighten me,” said Ozmir, his eyes scanning the norseman’s filth-crusted countenance before he asked a question. “Is the ritual which I think you intend to perform for our Elder’s benefit not relegated to Blood Kin?”

Jorfr stared the elf down for a moment. Then, he nodded, “I follow the spirit of our law first and foremost. The people of this land are our kin to begin with, and even if she is not Ikesian, it matters little. Among our sagas there are no less than three which mention beastmen, foreigners, truly strange people from far-off lands, even Imperials such as yourself becoming Blood Kin and learning the ways of the tundra-striders. What matters is that they carry the spirit and prove themselves worthy to an existing Blood Kin, and I have had the pleasure of learning her worthiness with my very own jaw. If my judgment is wanting, then the spirits of the land will be judge enough.”

“My, so terribly thorny. Do I convey such a convincing facade of Old Ankhezia?” questioned the chef amusedly, making even less effort to hide that amusement than Jorfr did to hide his less than stellar disposition towards Ankhezians.

“If it does aught to soften your disposition towards me, know that I have no more connection to Ankhezia than any modern man… And I am in no position to stop the sect elder from accessing our leyline well even if I did happen to be a true Imperial. I merely wanted to make sure I was understanding the situation correctly, is all - if you would wish to follow Lady Newman as your chieftain in this land, I would be full glad to welcome you in our midst.”

“Cease with the meaningless pleasantries, if you truly are not an Imperial,” grumbled Jorfr, though his voice too now carried a hint of amusement.

“Come, then,” Zel beckoned. “Show us to this leyline well.”

Ozmir nodded, turned on a heel, and did just as asked, walking towards one of the many sealed doors on the hub room’s ground floor, waiting beside it until Zel broke the seal. Afterward, it was into an unremarkable stairway, spiraling down for a few dozen steps, ending in a room with a black, metal door bearing hammer marks and sealed with a cross-shaped composite seal.

“Here, we may enter the basement proper, but we want to continue downward,” said the elf, walking up to what seemed a normal, solid wall as he did, then beckoned Zelsys to approach. “Please, if you would approach with the intent of revealing this illusory wall.”