The Saga of Friedrir Black-Hand

Drenthri's Ritual

It was when the two travellers crested over the last icy hill that they saw the sight laid out around the Grey Stone. There stood the vast rock, jutting out of the ground and dominating the horizon for miles around, and Friedrir and Brasannerr took a moment to respectfully examine the sacred monument. Upon the surface of the rock lay a magic which left it unnaturally smooth and unable to be marked in anyway. Yet the names of those who died in honour of their gods could easily be carved upon the stone, as though cutting through hot wax. In the shadow of the Grey Stone there was a hooded man, cloaked and obscured from view, supporting himself upon a wooden staff. The mysterious figure stood just in front of a crude iron cauldron and a deep black liquid bubbled within it, a low hiss emanating from the rippling surface. There was a small gathering, three onlookers in total, assembled, and as Friedrir and Brasannerr approached they could make out the faces of those amongst the group.

Most notably amongst the group was Tarsannar, who Friedrir did not expect to see, however, he just gave Friedrir a friendly nod as he passed by. Alongside Tarsannar was Gramhild, an unusually tall women who wore a grim expression on her face. She had often proven herself in battle and Friedrir had heard rumours of her hurling her enemies from cliffs and other brutalities as part of her bloodlust. She barely looked at Friedrir as he went past. The last of the three onlookers was Fadagils who smiled at Friedrir as soon as they locked eyes. He was a short fellow, smaller than most, and remained unwaveringly cheery even in preparation for war and in such a hostile place as the Grey Stone.

Finally, Friedrir walked towards the cauldron of black liquid and came face to face with the hooded man. Brasannerr took her place amongst the others, ready to observe the ceremony. The man behind the cauldron bowed his head slightly as Friedrir approached and gently lifted back the muddy hood, revealing a worn face hidden beneath a thick brown brow. Almost immediately, Friedrir recognised the man as Badaran, who greeted him warmly.

"Welcome, Friedrir, to the Grey Stone. Are you here for a purpose?"

Friedrir might have been confused by the question if he did not know that this was part of the ritual. Although Friedrir had never seen this ceremony in person, he had heard of it from a young age as Norbren warriors undertook the ritual for themselves. Friedrir was mindful of tradition and replied in the only way he knew how.

"I am here to pledge myself to the service of Drenthri, who I accept as my queen in life and death."

Badaran nodded and moved on with the ceremony calmly, he hardly let any emotion show throughout the ritual - this was an experience which he had undergone many times before. It would be difficult to find a person in all the Norbren lands who did not know the words. The Norbren had been fond of their ceremonies and sacred rites for generations, long before Friedrir's time, and in all that time the words had always been the same. Hundreds of brave warriors from the mythic past had spoken the same words that Friedrir now spoke, on the same spot that had been consecrated for as long as time could remember.

"And you will give your life in honour of the deathly god and sit by her side, ready to come to her aid at the end of days?"

"I will"

Friedrir's mind was no longer focused on the words. He knew them. Instead he was looking down into the dense black liquid in front of him, he had never seen anything like it. The black water seemed to absorb the light around it, so dark was it that the surface became almost still despite bubbling constantly. It was then that Friedrir notices that there was no fire beneath the iron cauldron, but it seemed to be buried into the snow and still it bubbled and boiled. Suddenly the words of Badaran filled his ears once again and Friedrir took notice of the world around him.