A trumpet sounded, the first seal was broken and the scroll read…
Eikpyrnirs mighty hoof comes crashing down into the underbrush, standing valiantly, horns pointing heavenward.
And the pointed caps cry,
“Eikpyrnir the Hart of Valhalla Lives. Long live Eikpyrnir!”
And there in the green grass turned blood red, the hunter rests his head, a hoof print in the center of his forehead, panting, bloody tendon between his teeth.
And the robed ones shout, their voices rising, “Eikpyrnir the Hart of Valhalla lives. Long live Eikpyrnir!”
The hunter will die by his own hand, on some fortnight in a dark moon soon, as his bow rings out across the forest, a boomerang arrow in his tainted liver, a quiver no longer needed that carries the old medicine home.
And the mystics sing, “Eikpyrnir the Hart of Valhalla lives. Long live Eikpyrnir!”
And that mighty snorting Stag of red turned white leaps off into sun born woods a glowing with an orange sunset shimmer.
The priest and priestess raise their arms and chant, “Eikpyrnir the Hart of Valhalla lives. Long live Eikpyrnir!”
And Eikpyrnir returns in the dreams of the Seeker to establish a new kingdom when and whence wherever an old one dies.
“Eikpyrnir the Hart of Valhalla lives. Long live Eikpyrnir!”
…And the rivers rise again, swallowing up that dark Knight.
The hunter and the hunted.
And a low tone snort escapes my lips, and I raise my warm breath in the cold morning air to whisper, “Eikpyrnir the Hart of Valhalla lives. Long…live Eikpyrnir!”
And the man on the grassy knoll, ensconced in his conical white tent triangle chants, “Holy! Holy! The fourth is born.”