Asivar wasted no time. Lifting up Avenger from the table it rested on, he strode towards the opened door his squid-brother left open. But standing in the opening, he first turned around and looked Ha square in the eyes. “I look forward meeting you again, down there, brother.” Before he walked out. It was as he thought. The mortal realm was open to them once more. How long before Ha would try to establish his wretched dominion again? Alas, it did not matter. No matter how advanced and unbelieving humans had become, there were always wild places. Areas spread over the world where no wall, fort or man clad in armor could stand. Where stout men stood in fur. Fighting not for something luxurious as chivalry but for survival of them and their next of kin. Their home was not a mansion, but a simple tent.
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Far up in the north there were still wild tribes. That never bowed towards the civilized world. Nor could the main Capital ever touch them. In the frozen, wooden wastes only so few could survive. But the Tribes here managed to live here for generations. And now a man is honoring his ancestors. Packed in furs and holding his bow close to him he made his way towards the woods. A storm had just buried their home in but now that was over. Yet now he had to get food and a new fur for his third child. The newborn baby was a fighter, they all were. His blood never brought forth weaklings.

With the warmless sun shining high above, Ludgar was nearly blind as it reflected off the snow. Only when he neared the edge of the forest did he see the figure, sitting before the ancient monolith.

Asivar had arrived near the place he loved most. The Godswood he called it. He wondered if the local tribes still named it that. It was here he loved to hunt the most. The largest forest on the planet. Humans could get lost in here for months. Some never make it out at all. It was here he made his Dire Wolves. It was here Ashevelen made them Shadow Wolves. His creatures of sinew and shadows still howled in the forests. The had survived the Silence, despite the absence of both of their gods. But here now he knelt. Before the moss overgrown monolith. It was a simple stone pulled from the ground. It go a bow and arrow firing upwards etched into it. Asivar never cared much how they depicted his symbol on material like stone. Yet there were exceptions. Like this monolith. It was one of the first “shrines” made for him. Hunters from the nearby tribes would gather here first, to pray for him. It was a simple thing. Nothing grand, nothing might. Not carved by masons so capable in their art. It was crude, but it held importance. People believed in it and it made the simple stone so much more than any of the grand walls Ha built.

“Excuse, sir!” the god suddenly heard from behind him. It was spoken in the bastardization of an old language he once knew. The dialect of the tribes must have taken over their initial language. “How can I help you?” asked Asivar. In his disguised form he still looked like a formidable man. Dressed in bearskins and wolf pelts. Wielding a dark, ornate bow and a very sharp knife on his hip. “You speak the old tongue!” said Ludgar surprised. “Tell me, what is a stranger such as yourself searching in such a barren place like this?” the hunter inquired. “The monolith.” Asivar answered.

“Ah, only a handful still stand up in this world. Moss-covered and weathered. Down south they… destroyed them all. Saying we could live without the gods and without prayer.” Ludgar’s words were not without doubtful sentiment.

“You do not agree with this notion?” asked Asivar. Hoping not to arouse too much suspicion yet. He could hardly just arrive among the people he was forced to abandon and tell them he was their god.

“No. Only fools with an assured warm belly every night can assume they no longer need the gods.” There was venom in Ludgar’s words. “Up here in the north, we must fight for our survival. Fields barely grow here. We must live on what the Mother of the Woods gives us and the Father of the Hunts let us have.”

“A wise notion. Is that why you are here?”

“Aye. The snowstorm has passed and my family needs bone, pelt and meat. Do you care to join me? If we are successful in killing some prey, well there is always room around my fire.”

Asivar accepted the invitation, and thus the mortal and the god marched into the forest. Asivar toned down his divine senses, so both men could hunt as equals. So long did Asivar have to miss this, a mortal hunt. Only on the dusk of the second day did they find their game. Asivar, for the first time, experienced things like hunger again. He realized how sweet water from a creek could taste, or how it felt to face down a mad hog. But his divine influence was everywhere. At night they heard shadow wolves running about to hunt deer. At day arrows killed immediately. After a week both men appeared once more out of the forest. Asivar carrying a massive deer while Ludgar pulled a wild boar behind him. They were jolly, yet scrapped and covered in small wounds. Such was the way of the hunter. Kalla, lady of the forest, made her places dangerously rough.

“Papa!” It came from a new voice. One that came from the village. Before he knew it, Ludgar next to him was hugging a child. His child, Asivar presumed. After the long embrace he put the boy back down, asking: “You’ve been good to mama?” The boy whirled a little on his heels. “A little.” But Ludgar could only smile. “That’s my boy! Here, help me with the hog.”

That night, Asivar was indeed welcome around the campfire. After a week living off berries, nothing on the table of the gods could rival the taste of a meat stew. “So tell me, where do you come from?” asked Ludgar next to him.

“I come from a faraway land, many leagues from here. It is probably a land you are not familiar with.”

“Then what is your business here? So far in the north. There is so little here. Only fur, blood and snow. We are hardened people, sir. But not a very interesting one. We only sing songs around the fire. That is the only art we practice. We don’t have gold, only stories. We make no pottery, only tools out of stone and wood.”

“You underestimate yourself, Ludgar. Your people are artists of blood. Look at this deer, or the wild boar. You are the makers of the heart. With courage and ferocity you stand against the land itself. And I recon, you do not pray for and easier life. But-“

“-for the strength and courage to survive a difficult one. Old words. Words since before the… the great Silence.” There was a clear sadness in Ludgar’s voice. “I still pray, you know. I still hope our gods return. Kalla, lady of the forest. And Asivar, Lord of the Hunt.” He looked up, at his people around the fire. “We are dying without them. Our elders do not want to admit it, but the gods gave us reason to live. They helped us, even in war we flourished.”

“You want to relive the times of the Gods?” asked Asivar.

“Aye, I do. But they left us, and now we must fend for ourselves.”

“What if I told you that there is a way. Not to connect again with your gods, but to experience the traditions your kind had in the Era of Gods.”

Ludgar looked up amazed. From his pack, Asivar pulled a needle and a small vial of ink. Ludgar, with a nod, allowed it. He gave Asivar his arm, and on the lower part of it Asivar began to tattoo Ludgar. Who never once called out in pain. As ink mixed with blood on his arm, a figure gained shape. Of an arrow pointing down upon his palm. “A long time ago, this was the first Mark of the Hunter.” Asivar told Ludgar, as he constantily prodded the skin. “It was given to the hunters who first killed something in the woods. Be it a deer, a rabbit or a wolf. It is said that by sacrificing the blood of an animal to Asivar, that they could come in touch with the Divine Huntsman. So he would bless the hunters.”

The next morning, the tattoo artist was gone. The tribe roused from its sleep and went on its way. Until an elder caught sight of the arrow tattoo of Ludgar. The old woman, with wide eyes rushed over to the man. “Where! Where have you gotten that! Where have you received such a mark!?” she demanded. “I… A friend. He came with me from the hunt. He gave it to me last night.”

The elder lady, still strong for her age, pulled Ludgar with her into her tent. “I have seen such a bearing only once more. I was a youngling.” She said. “Barely five. I saw it on my great-grandfather’s arm. The mark… is the sign of Asivar.” Ludgar nodded. He knew it was, his friend told him so.

“You are not listening! Ludgar! It is the sign of Asivar! The last who could ever give such a sign perished more than a century and a half ago! Listen to me, Ludgar! The art of the Shenhun is one given by our god.. Ludgar. No-one has carried a Shenhun in over a century… It is impossible that you received one.”

“Then how did I get this!?” Demanded Ludgar. “Was he some imposter? Someone making fun of our belief!”

“No… Not even that is possible. The art of Shenhun was kept secret among the Elders. During the God Wars… it elevated us, mere mortals. Ludgar… We… have been visited by someone who has not been among us for over five hundred years!”