The Antarctic (Eastern Ice shelf)

A large figure is walking, dressed in well worn fur and leather, with his only weapons his hands, and his spears. Nearly six feet tall, with grey hair, and bleaker eyes then the deep sea floor, he's walking calming, yet wairly, to a open gulch. Even those who do not claim to be mystics can feel it here. A coldness, not the clean, crisp clood of the land, but as if the borders between the living and the dead are much thinner here.

This is no place for the living, the land sees to say. You have no place here. Here, you with beating heart, with warm flowing blood, tread where mortals dare not go but once. For this is deaths domain, and you are not ready.

And so, the Thane begins to brood, knowing that they await him.

The wars were going bad and well. Fighting is fighting, and the pay is good. But what good is it to fight and lose? What good is it to have nothing left? The only good victory is killing them, and not having many of yours die. However, when they cannot see common sense, drastic mesures are called for.

The wind is howling, sheriking like the damned souls that wander here. No matter what those warmlanders say, there are things out there that wait beyond the hearthfires, things that were once here, but now waiting to come back in. But that is not the point. I didn't come here to think about relgion or mystisim. I came here to deal with the Dead.

Inside the Gulch

The wind howling between the walls singing a agless lament, words are spoken.

"Leave the dead to their duty. Or join us."

The dead. Dishonored and cast out, deprived of weapons and clothes, to live or die by their own innate might. Few 'survived'. There only means to atone, to seek a final death against the most savage beasts they could. Many have died fighting the orcas, several with leapord seals. At other times, they arranged great melees, where they fought each other to the death.

"The Living call for the dead. The Warmlands are filled with war. There, the dead may have blood to sate their hunger. Their they may find redemption for their crimes. There, the dead can seek death. The ships sail soon."

Around the gulch, from several hidden caves, the Dead emerge. As large as the thane, wwith the apprence of wild beasts. Clad in crude leather, or rather skins of penguin and seal, with clubs or axes of stone, they do not look like man. They remeble something from a past man has tried desperatly to bury, to forget the shame of being far closer to animal then sentient.

And one moves up to the Thane, almost towering over him. A thousand scars adorn his body, his hair white with age. But this is the most fell of the Dead, the one they call the Reaper. The Legends spoken amongst the hearths tell of his exploits, to seek a brave death. His axe, Nameless is told to have been made of the bones and teeth of the Orca that gave him his name. And he wears the skin!

"The Dead hear. The Warmlands shall know the Dead, and we shall seek our attonment there."

The Thane nods, and leaves. The Dead will come to the ships, and the Warmlands will learn a valuble lesson. Do not fear death. There is far worse.