Yule regarded the body of the fallen goatherd chief in his last instant, thus honoring the departed mortal far beyond human words, and then stalked over among the warriors to retrieve his prizes.
The chieftain was burst open, already a banquet awaiting the death birds—There, Father, a feast for your pets courtesy of your bastard enemy son!
His henchman though still breathed, and his strong heart yet pumped blood to seep from his shattered legs. Yule stripped him quickly, tearing off the pants above the knees, leaving the man only his loincloth. He then set aside his plunder as the man regarded him in agony. He came to kneel next to the maimed warrior and placed one iron-like hand under his heart:
“Harken to my words, mortal warrior. I, Yule, First Warrior of Heaven, do take from you life in the old way, in the way of the giants and of their father—my mighty father!”
With that solemn proclamation Yule drove his matchlessly strong fingers through the man’s skin and abdominal wall, up under heavily muscled ribs and into his chest cavity, to grasp the warrior’s still beating heart. He tore out the precious organ and feasted greedily upon it even as it pumped its last—and thus War once again experienced the divine ecstasy, once again knew what it was to drink a worthy soul.
I feel you wandering and lost within me. No worry, you shall find your way and take your place among the strands of my life-reaping thews.
Yule then built a battle shrine, propping up the warrior and goatherd bodies about his faithful—and now lame—Dodging Charger. But not before he lifted the magnificent scalp of the chieftain and used it to adorn the spiked helmet.
Yes, I once had such a scalp-adorned helmet when I stalked the Skraeling Realm and they hailed me as the Song of Death.
He selected the chieftain’s mechanical iron-horse and, before leaving on the warpath, gazed at his likeness in the rear-spying looking-glass attached to the rigid reigns, “Yes I look every bit the nomad war-chief of the Young Tribes.”
He turned before the looking-glass and admired the artwork on the back of his new battle jacket, a winged death’s head streaking—presumably—after some fleeing quarry. He admired the emblem for a long moment, and was then suddenly content to be back among men, among the warlike nomads of the Young Tribes.
It is a shame though that I go adorned as a Yorkman.
I should have sacked their hold myself—in time, in time. Perhaps this New York shall be the well where you slack your battle-thirst? Perhaps…
He then looked skyward, toward the quarter of the North Wind and roared, “Mother, another battle—a proper one, no mean ambush, I promise—and I shall be worthy to take the prophet’s head in your name. And then, Mother, I shall feed the still-dripping heads of the petulant merchant princes who rule this land into your loving maw!”
War was satiated for the moment. But it was not in his deign—Oh, I am not designed, not crafted like some mortal meat-doll dancing at the end of godly strings!
War had been satiated, now he was angry with the mortals again for seeming so akin to him.
It was in my nature to be satiated after battle. But no longer! I am marred by sin, the many sins of human compassion, and I shall erase these from the wretched slate that proclaims my once weak will, wash these blightful scratches from my graven image glowering in Hel, so I might ride to the final battle proud and whole!
That is better. I feel like War again.
