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Chapter 1 - Chapter 1: Voracity

The Kingdom of the North, a stygian blot, sprawled across a snow-choked wasteland visible from afar. Its frost-bitten spires stood enshrouded by dusk as biting winds howled from the icy wastes, slicing mountain rocks like knives. 

A dark fortress, a nameless blight, propped wearily against the mountains of Zhuul. 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 with 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 vassals, served as fodder for a greed-driven cult serving a bloodthirsty god. 

Rotting wood held their decrepit pens together, housing tortured souls. Their gaunt, hollow-eyed faces mirrored the hell outside their prison. They were bred, harvested for the cult's appalling appetite—not for animal meat, but human flesh. 

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 no man spoke. The umbra clinging to walls and floor morphed into shapes beyond comprehension, too terrible to name. 

The gathering hall blazed bright, 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. 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 men in red cloaks. Their bodies were stiff, as if they seldom breathed, staring blankly into the crowd. 

On each flank of the great room, iron pens held masked slaves writhing in a magically forced orgy. The women's bodies, pale canvases of scars and neglect, contrasted the well-fed, muscled men, their oiled skin glistening beneath a glowing green light that entranced them. 

The hall echoed with whipping, moaning, and utensils clanking against plates as onlookers celebrated, blood dripping from their 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. 

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 he descended into madness. 

Dreams of a shadowy beast haunted him. Slithering black tendrils consumed his naked body, dragging him into oblivion. Was it a message from his god, or an omen? 

Now, rumors spread among the clergy that a coup was taking root, and Harrod's reign might soon end. A mad king, losing his grip. 

To his left, the sorcerer queen, Anabel, presided with cold indulgence. Her ruby lips curved in delight watching the slaves writhe, a result of her wicked spell. Unlike Harrod, paranoia held no sway; the uprising he feared was 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." 

The king's head snapped, fiery eyes catching hers. "You dare mock me, 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. Our followers are loyal—cross them, and they'll pay." 

Harrod's gaze softened, his grip waning. Anabel's eyes darted to the shadows above, glints from the rafters responding. With a nod, 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 his eyes, her soft skin intoxicating. 

Sex resolved nearly every argument. She learned this early, sold as his slave at ten to the depraved king. 

He finished, her misdirection complete. The king sighed in relief as her 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? But what?" "What else could they want?" "He's pulling our leg!" 

Harrod's hand rose again, silencing the crowd. "Yes, our queen received word 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 lack the manpower or resources! There must be another sacrifice!" 

The crowd murmured, cultists clutching amulets in fear as angst swelled. Harrod's stare hardened, nose crinkling in anger. 

"You doubt our lord, 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, then at 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 insolence!" 

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 dripped from the darkness. 

Harrod cleared his throat, the crowd's eyes returning to him. "As I was saying, tomorrow we begin preparations for Naboth." His fist rose. The crowd followed, Anabel withstanding. "Gloria Wendigo!" he shouted, pointing. "Gloria Wendigo!" the crowd's sinister reply echoed, chanting, "Gloria! Gloria!" 

The Queen's eyes hardened, gazing at her king. His power was a farce, his control an illusion. 

Two days' ride from Harrod's fortress, a specter loomed in the snowy badlands. Atop a pale horse, the obsidian-clad Grimm stared coldly at the mountains of Zhuul. 

Snow dusted from frozen lakes ahead. Dancing flurries sent a message from beyond. The wind whispered, "Gloria! Gloria!" boring into his mind. Flashes of a bloodied axe slicing mutated flesh, silhouetted by lightning, dogs feasting on bloodied meat, and a child's dead eyes haunted him. 

This was the calling of his masters, infernal creatures shrouded in darkness, hiding in the plane between planes. Whispering, watching, waiting. The images persisted; the dark 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. 

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