The Kingdom of the North, a stygian blot, sprawled across the snow-choked wasteland, its blackened shape tucked firmly within the rugged mountains of Zhuul. Its frost-bitten spires stood enshrouded by dusk as biting winds howled from the icy wastes, slicing its mountain peaks like knives.
The dark fortress, a nameless blight, propped wearily against a jagged rockface. Its dilapidated walls rose from the gloom, groaning with every wind shift. Wrought with rust, the iron gates towered twice a man's height, etched crudely with eldritch runes, hiding atrocities in brick and shadow.
Beneath the spires, in hidden corridors and forgotten dungeons, evanescent shrieks of a damned people haunted the halls. The caged populace, reduced to expendable livestock, served as fodder for a greed-driven cult serving a bloodthirsty god.
Rotting wood held their decrepit pens together, housing their helpless tortured souls. Their gaunt, hollow-eyed faces mirrored the hell outside their prison. They were bred for one depraved harvest: human meat.
What the cult did not devour, was fed to the black-eyed cattle that were the north's only successful trade.
Within the castle's heart lay cavernous halls of blackened stone, dredged in darkness that absorbed light. Iron chandeliers swung on groaning chains, lit by the pitiable glow of weeping candles. Crude carvings bored into the walls wove a tale of madness: etchings of stag-like beasts with coiled, dead branches for antlers, devouring men and runes from a forgotten tongue that no man spoke. The umbra clinging to walls and floor morphed into shapes beyond comprehension, too terrible to name.
The gathering hall blazed brightly, lit by dancing torches illuminating the cult's depravity. Platters of human flesh heaped upon groaning tables, roasted and sauced, the coppery scent of ichor lingering as cloaked cultists gorged themselves. Soured wine flowed from massive barrels as brown-cloaked servants scurried the aisles, filling empty chalices.
Near the entrance, a weathered iron bell stood guarded by two masked figures in red cloaks. Their hulking bodies were stiff, as if they seldom breathed, staring blankly into the crowd. Below their garments, stood not the feet of man, but blackened hooves forged in a hell unknown.
On each flank of the great room, iron pens held masked slaves writhing in a green-lit mystically forced orgy. The women's bodies, pale canvases of scars and neglect, contrasted the well-fed, muscled men whose eyes glowed vacant, entranced by the same sick light that fed the cult's hunger.
The hall echoed with whipping, moaning, and utensils clanking against plates as onlookers celebrated, blood dripping from their sullied jowls.
High atop the hall's apex sat King Harrod, a balding man of middle age, ruling the cult with waning influence. Merely a shadow of his former glory, he sat bowed on his throne, graying beard pressed upon his red cloak, frail hands twitching on the arms as intrusive thoughts tormented him.
Sagging under his iron crown, Harrod's pale eyes stared in a haze of dread. Once the feared scourge of the north, his reign of brutality sent chills through those who spoke his name. But after a military victory that decimated his forces, a mania of otherworldly origin consumed him. Paranoia set in, and madness had begun to devour him.
Dreams of a shadowy beast haunted him. Slithering black tendrils consumed his naked body, dragging him into oblivion. Perhaps a message from his god, or an omen of something worse to come? No one knew.
Now, rumors spread among the clergy that a coup was taking root, and Harrod's reign might soon end. The mad king, losing his grip.
To his left, the sorcerer queen, Anabel, presided with cold indulgence. Her ruby lips curved in delight watching her slaves writhing, a result of her wicked magic. Unlike Harrod, paranoia held no sway; for the uprising he feared was of her own design.
"Anabel," the king's voice sputtered as he sat higher, fanning his hand at her wrist.
"Yes, my king," she replied, her fair hands resting on his, her jaw tightening briefly with suppressed pain.
"They plot against me, Anabel. Do you not see it?"
Anabel's brown eyes darted among the crowd. "The clergy, dear?" Her tone shifted to sarcasm.
Harrod's jaw clenched, squeezing her scarlet-painted fingers. "Yes! They despise me for the losses at Bluud… They conspire against me! I feel it!"
A chuckle slipped her lips. "My dear, you're overthinking. Every battle has losses, and Bluud gave us more fodder for our lord, and food for us to eat."
The king's head snapped, fiery eyes catching hers. "Watch your tone, woman!" he whispered, clutching her fingers.
She didn't fear his hand, not anymore. Years of beatings taught her to soothe his primal urges. Her deep brown eyes met his sharp stare. She leaned closer, her left hand cupping his. "Of course not, dear. I meant nothing of it. Our followers are loyal, my king. Should any of these fools cross you, they'll pay dearly."
Harrod's gaze softened, his grip waning.
From the rafters, sharp rustling began to emerge. Anabel's eyes darted to the shadows above, glints from the rafters responding with cold loyalty. With a gesture, she signaled their talents unneeded for now.
"That's it, dear. Come now." Her silky hand slid under his robe as he stared at the crowd. Her touch closed soothed his troubled mind, if only for a moment. A relieved sigh slipped from his lips, as her intoxicating embrace distracted his thoughts.
Sex resolved nearly every argument.
Anabel learned this early, sold as his child slave to the depraved king so many years ago. It was the only tool in her arsenal to offset his violence, for a while.
He finished, the gasp of release unclenching her hand. Her misdirection was complete. The king sighed in relief as her soft touch left him, her lips curving, marking her disdain.
The bell tolled, its clanging commanding all to heed. Every eye turned to their masters, kneeling before their authority.
Harrod rose from his throne, a groan escaping him. His eyes peered at the shadowy rafters, met by glinting beady eyes above.
"Brethren," he began, clearing his throat, "tonight, we have feasted well. Since our conquest of Bluud, our god blesses us!"
Sinister cheers erupted from the cloaked clergymen, fists raised as a smirk crossed Harrod's weathered cheeks. His hand extended, calling for silence, deafening the crowd.
"However," he continued, "our blood sacrifice does not satiate our Lord's appetite! But fear not, brothers, there is a way to return to his graces. This morning, your queen received a premonition!"
Gasps escaped the clergy, whispers darting: "Premonition? Another one?" "What else could it want? We've lost half of our troops!" "He jests!"
Harrod's hand rose again, silencing the crowd. "Yes, our queen received a vision from our god during her séance with the priestesses."
Anabel's eyebrow raised, a slithering look of deception hid in her beauty as she recalled her morning. While her husband slept, she slipped to the library, using her body to gather support for her betrayal, ordering priestesses to hex stray clergymen to her will through pallid entanglements.
"Our Lord demands more souls. Our Lord demands blood. Our Lord demands, Naboth!" Harrod's voice echoed, garnering jeering feedback.
"My king," a voice erupted, quelling the crowd. Harrod's pale stare scanned, his hand pointing. "You, Piker," his voice grizzled as men parted around the priest.
Piker's sunken cheeks emerged from his gray hood, bald head reflecting torchlight. "My king," he stammered, "Naboth is no Bluud. Jarec's armies are vast! We need time to train more to our ways. We simply lack the manpower or resources to attack Naboth my king! Surely the vision was misinterpreted!"
The crowd murmured, cultists clutching amulets in fear as angst swelled. Harrod's stare hardened, nose crinkling in anger.
"You doubt our queen's visions, Piker?" His voice sliced through dissent as his foot slammed the ground.
Silence fell, a gap forming around Piker like oil in water.
"N-no, my king, I only—"
"SILENCE, WRETCH!"
Anabel's eyes darted to the rafters, her sharp fingers gesturing toward Piker.
Harrod sneered, nose high. "Our god DEMANDS Naboth. And soon, he will have it! And I," his hand rose, thumb and middle finger pressed together, "will not have doubt in my ranks!"
With his snap, Anabel's eyes flared green. A screech shattered the silence as a winged creature jolted from above. Terror struck as its talons sank into Piker's shoulders, carrying him to the rafters.
Piker's cries were brief, snarls and screeches making short work of him. Bones crunched, flesh tore, then silence. His blood rained upon the onlookers in a depraved show of dominance.
Harrod cleared his throat, the crowd's eyes returning to him. "As I was saying, tomorrow we begin preparations for the attack on Naboth." His fist rose. The crowd mirrored him, Anabel withstanding. "Gloria Wendigo!" he shouted, pointing high in the air.
"Gloria Wendigo!" the crowd's sinister reply echoed, chanting repeatedly, "Gloria! Gloria!"
The Queen's eyes hardened, gazing at her king. His waning power was a farce, his control an illusion.
***
Far beyond the cheers from the cult, Grimm loomed in the snowy badlands. Atop his steed, the obsidian-clad monolith stared coldly at the mountains of Zhuul.
Snow dusted from frozen peaks ahead. Dancing flurries sent a message from beyond. The wind whispered, "Gloria! Gloria!" the vile message bored into his mind. Flashes of cattle feasting upon flesh, absorbed by lightning, dogs feasting on bloodied meat, and a child's dead eyes haunted him.
This was the calling of G'norr. Hiding in the place between places. Whispering, watching, waiting. The images persisted; the darkness demanded a reply.
Grimm's milky eyes tightened, fists clenching the reins as a sullen whisper slipped from beneath his scarf: "My former self is buried deep; your wicked souls are mine to reap."
The winds swirled around him, hissing from beyond: "Go forth, debtor of G'norr…"
With a flick of his wrists, the reins cracked, propelling the horse forward, vanishing into the blizzard.