“Come, all Gultn
On to Dhourrin,
Morn’s arising
Bloody tidings”


The warrior-gods Falkkr and Vorr call you hence.

To take up your horn and fill it with ale, pour in also the blood of elk, wolf, and man, and drink deeply in oaths of brotherhood, war, and vengeance.

The old heroes call you also, ashen-faced from ages long passed, to hear their legends sjald-sung in the mead-hall.

To feel the heart-stir of memories rekindled by a wolf’s howl.

Memories borne upon the deepening hum of a war-horn rung out in the dawn, and faded by the black stain of blood on a pebbled shore.