Do you hear them? The screaming of the lambs?

Location: in between Leviathans sepulcher and Highvalley Hollow <3
A wild Ghidorah appears!

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His life goes by in a flash. As if he’s watching himself in third person. There he is — a god. The events of his entire being speed past and all of a sudden he’s being met with an image. Fire, lava, himself, and a beast. The monster rears on hind legs, spreads golden scaled wings wide — it displays its power. With three devilish heads sprouting from its shoulders, a hellish roar booms past serrated, crocodilian teeth.

That beast is a true god. That monster is him.

Ghidorah — king of all beasts. Lord of all monsters. A god amongst men. That is him.

Then, as if he’s been sucked away into a black hole — swallowed up by the universe — his entire being lights up into excruciating pain. A flash of white before his eyes, more fire, more lightening, thunder rattles his brain. He cannot feel his grand body of scales, wings, and teeth. He cannot feel the spark of powerful electricity that runs viral through him! Where?! Where are his wings? His whip like tail? He cannot feel any of it.

Just like that, in a bolt of lightning. He’s shot to the ground. Thick, eerie clouds foreboding the rapture itself fills the sky as a bolt of golden lightning cracks against the valley below, instantly setting the brush and shrubbery aflame. Ghidorah is deposited in its absence. He’s screaming from unfathomable pain, a horse sound fit for only those who believe they’re dying and in that moment he realizes he has.

His weakened state is left hardly standing, fur since and scales replaced with soft, weak, fur. His armor — it’s gone! He was a GOD! This he knows has changed, especially as his muscles ache like they’ve never done before and his body feels unfamiliar and lit up in that white hot uncomfortable feeling known as pain. His body is not his own and when he picks his head from its hanging position in between his legs to look at himself he finds the source of his discomfort. He’s been stricken by electricity. The most ironic of injuries for him — his godliness stolen from him. His skin is seared, burned, in jagged edges from his shoulder, across fragile ribs, and over a strong back.

He has become mortal. Has he ever actually been a god? Or was that a facade? His mind plays tricks on him so that he does not even know now.

He stumbles forward when fire licks his ankles. Pain. A seemingly new sensation. He clears his throat tilts his head up after he moves away, uncaring if he is consumed by the flames flickering beside him and drenched in the rain that falls down to put it out.

He screams. This one in rage and anguish, mourning for his old self.
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Tiptoeing along the Brim was not an easy walk to trek...especially at the thought that this foggy, haunted land might be the very last place his daughter had lived. Ranger did not know for certain the truth behind the story, though only hoped and felt with every ounce of him that Ynness would not have directly trespassed on to the islands.  After all, with what little working limbs she had left after the bear attack, it would have been hard to do so without using the sand bars and easily being spotted.

Bared teeth grind, his hackles lifted with the static in the air. He walks among the storm like each Archer before him- with fondness, with excitement, with pride. He hisses at the thought of his daughter's early demise but he is quick then to look about the open land around him, the crack of lightning demanding his attention. It brought an ancient instinct in him, the storm, the lightning, passed from one Archer into the next and he, Stormborn. And here, he finds Ghidorah.

Shot down upon the magical lands he had woken upon. The flash of light near Ragnar is so great it causes him to turn his face away, to shield his eyes with lifted paw. When he turns back, the man is shrouded in fog and smoke. The God cast out from the heavens. An angered and untamed beast, he roared out unto the skies and Ragnar, left to be the one to welcome and guide the once unstoppable, undefeatable, was awe struck, speechless.
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The darkness surrounds him, all except for the occasional strike of vicious lightning that bolts across the sky. Thunder rumbles occasionally, frowning out his screams of a past life gone — ripped away from him. His lungs and throat burn and side rise as he inhaled a deep breath after.

He blinks his mortal eyes, licks his chops with his forked tongue, his lips crinkle with anger, brow furrowed in wretched anger. Ghidorah growls low in his throat and it’s then he senses another around him. The valley is bear of much else but rolling, foggy hills, but his eyes catch another. A canine of sorts, the same thing he assumes he has become — unfamiliar with his own body and those who share the same features.

The prior god stares at him, the other stares back. No words leave his lips, but Ghidorah finds this as an opportunity to gain information on his whereabouts. Using limbs that seem too heavy for him at the moment, he steps forward, head still level with his shoulders. He looks menacing, wild, feral, the other male might feel as if he would be in danger of catching teeth with the way he looks right now.

“Where am I, wolf?” Is all the rolls from his lips in that deep voice of his. It sounds more like a hiss than anything. He looks around, up to the sky, then back to the other. “I do not belong here.” He says then. It’s the truth. He’s supposed to be a god.
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The thunder rolls and the lightning strikes (cue Garth). And all the while Archer blood believed thunderstorms were a sign of luck, of good fortune, due to the fact that the after first Archer was a making of the Gods, born unto the earth through the striking of lightning. This creature, however, was no ordinary wolf.

His tongue shot out his mouth and rolled slowly over his maw- forked. His tail, tails....??? Ragnar did not know yet if it was a God, cast upon the earth for his wrong doings to live as a mortal (being punished) or if it was indeed a mortal made by the gods (as Romanov Archer) with intended power and abilities.

The beast steps forward and Ragnar's tail is rigid behind him, straight out from his body. His hairs would rise, had it not been already from the electricity around them. The tension is clear and Ragnar bends his long legs, ready to spring away and into action if walking into this scene would end up being his doom.

Instead, the beast speaks, his voice guttural, raspy. “You are on earth, Stormborn.” Or was he Stormbringer? From the way he said he 'did not belong here' it suggested to Ragnar that he indeed had not been just born, but transformed. “Mortal lands.” Icy eyes tip upward, past the man's head and to the raging skies before moving back down to the werewolfed creature. “Were you a God?”
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The pale wolf is tense. Good. He should be. He is in a god’s presence — or former god now, it seems. It makes no difference to Ghidorah, he still carries some of his god like qualities, but not enough to make him happy. No, he is anything but happy that’s for sure. He’s livid — absolutely pissed — he wants blood. Maybe if he takes enough lives he will be a god once more.

When Ghidorah speaks, the other listens. Previously speechless, a voice meets his ears over the thunder and rain then. Deep, but clear —

You are on Earth, Stormborn.

Yes, he is Stormborn. He was Stormborn as a god and he is Stormborn once more as a mortal. Perhaps the gods are willing to give him back his prize of perfect immortality. Maybe, just maybe, he could be a god once more.

The others icy eyes shift up to the clouds and Ghidorah’s follow. He tilts his entire head up, lips still snarled slightly, and death in his eyes he hears the words he says with acute anguish.

Mortal lands.

Ghidorah growls low in his throat. Rage and vengeance growing for whatever did this to him. Then the question of the hour strikes.

Were you a god?

Ghidorah doesn’t look back at him, rather he keeps his malicious stare to the eerie clouds above. Rains completely soaks his pelt, runs down his face, drops from his chin, falls into his eyes, but he doesn’t move an inch. Eyes of fire and ice glare and follow the movement of lightning spreading across the sky.

“I was.” Ghidorah spits.

His head drops suddenly, wild, mismatched orbs meet the others. His hackles would’ve raised if they weren’t weighed down by the drowning of his pelt.

“A king. A lord. A god. A grand beast with wings, head of three, armor of scales.” He’s growling it out, almost yelling. He pauses, squints his eyes and growls. “The touch of lightning — I HAD it. I OWNED it. I CONTROLLED it. Now…now, I have nothing.”

Ghidorah moves forward a few more paces and looks up at the sky. “A punishment fit for a god is what I have now, pale one. Mortality — the worst punishment of them all.”
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To the skies, the former God looks, to home and an emptiness hits Ragnar in the gut. For the man before him torn from his home, for Frigg and Ynness, separated from Ragnar now. Ragnar would be up there too, one day, but he must be deserving of it, he must be patient. He would know when it was time for the heavens to call him home.

Back down again, the beast looked, his rage endless, his words making Ragnar's gut now twist. He couldn't have imagined the feeling, far different even then those who had come here from their Awakening. Waking away from their home, waking up from their deaths... this man had woken as such, but from an all powerful God and unto this. Ragnar doesn't say anything, once again speechless. There is a pain and sorrow in his expression for the other, far more then words could ever offer.

Ragnar would not ask what the former God had done to deserve such a fate. Perhaps he never would. After all, Ragnar did not wish to smear in the face what bad deeds he had done to deserve it nor did Ragnar equally wish to take the man on by angering him so, only to make another enemy for himself and his family. But wait... could he make an ally instead?

“I could help you, if you'd have me.” He spoke, his creamy paws shifting, his pale blue eyes lifting to meet the heavy gaze of the once-god. His eyes were wild, deep and within them timeless tales of battles and ages long past. Like looking into the eyes of an aged and worn warrior times a thousand.

Ragnar turns away then, not down in submissive manner but up and to the skies again. He does not wish to challenge the other, but wants him to know that he would demand equal respect. Ragnar was but a mortal but now, this one was too.

“From what you have lost, I do not think you could ever find happiness. ”He honestly admits. “But keep in mind mortality is but a chapter, but a blink of an eye, especially for a God.” The beast before him would be all well aware, but now that he was mortal he would learn to  understand every bit of what mortality entailed, including time. “Let me teach you of mortal life.” How to move, how to navigate, how to even eat, shit and sleep for all Ragnar knew. “And maybe together, we will both find a path that will lead us back to the heavens.”
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Maybe Ghidorah is doing a little too much self pitying. Just maybe. If he truly is a god he will learn the ways of this life and die a warrior. Steal the souls of the living and achieve his godly self once more. That is his only option. With that an opportunity arises.

I could help you, if you’d have me.

Ghidorah also takes his gaze from the sky. Those words steal his attention. Help? A god that needs help? He wants to scoff, but if he wishes to achieve his prior status it is necessary. So the massive, mountain of a wolf levels his head with wide, bulky shoulders and stares right at him as if to silently say go on. Perhaps it’s that look that causes the other to avert his eyes. For the god’s own are harsh and worn despite being born anew. He demands the words of his preposition with a simple look. Yet, he knows this stranger is not submissive, but he is definitely careful. As he should be.

His gaze is to the clouds, where lightning strikes and thunder booms. There, he speaks once more. Talking of how quick a life is in mortal terms compared to a god. He is not wrong. This means he knows. Perhaps he can relate in some way. He does not know, either way he has him temporarily hooked.

Let me teach you of mortal life.

Those words… they’re useful. This man is wise. Perhaps he could be of use to Ghidorah. A follower — a disciple is what he would’ve been called if he still had his former godly body. But the tundrian can also see that he too is a king of some sort. He carries himself as so. Perhaps he’d be able to earn his respect with time, if time permits it. He’d have to see if he deserves it.

And maybe together, we will both find a path that will lead us back to the heavens.

Ghidorah’s multicolored orbs haven’t shifted from the paler. Those words have him moving closer with that scowling face of his and hard set eyes. There’s interest in them though snd that alone should be enough to satisfy the other’s knowledge that Ghidorah won’t be killing him today.

So as he moves forward, large paws thumping in the soaked grass, he stops a foot or two from the other if he doesn’t back up. A single nod shows as he dips his head a pinch, merely a slight tilting of his chin in acknowledgment.

“Then this is the way I must walk, mortal one. You will teach me and I will become a god once more.” He hums over the rain, deep growling voice low and serious, but seemingly, reluctantly, accepting of the situation. “If you satisfy, you may just ascend with me.”

Ghidorah hardly gives him time to say much after that before he’s grunting out a huff of a breath and brushing past Ragnar. Looking out into the range of valley and mountain.

Without looking back his voice sounds out again. “Lead me, pale wolf, I have much to learn and you have much to teach.” His tone is neutral if not a little pissed sounding to himself, but to most others he would sound volatile, sly, and just down right evil. Hopefully Ragnar will be able to differentiate the two.
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As careful and cautious as Ragnar were in this instant, he was also ambitious and fool-hardy. He did not know if the God would bring him more trouble (but so, hadn't his own daughter!) or if bringing him to his home would make for a mighty ally and powerful device. Ragnar was not a God. He did not know all the answers. But alas, hadn't Odin given his eye for the  knowledge he sought? Ragnar would have too.

At a side glance, the beast draws nearer, bi-colored eyes of fire and water looking to him- unwavering, hard, yet Ragnar has captured the beast's attention and has obtained his interest. Ragnar did not know if this other would find his place back on a Godly throne again. But what Ragnar did know is that he would live and he would die and the winter wolf would assure the once-god he would be there to teach him until his time came to an end (or his advisory was no longer nessisary).

Ragnar's legs at tense, locked in place more so as the large wolf draws nearer still. Ragnar turns his head back down from the sky then and onto him. Head not held high, yet chin tucked down somewhat, to protect his throat if need be. With the other so near, Ragnar dares to look to the former God directly, in this moment he has no choice but to do so, should he not falter from his good will.

A small turn of a smile plays to the corner of Ragnar's mug then from the God's words of ascension and Ragnar tilts his head to the side and dips his muzzle down with silent gratitude.

A grunt, a huff and the great beast is stomping past Ragnar with irritation, going off about how they both had much work to do. Ragnar's smile widens, having begun to feel quite jolly with having been the first to come across the wolf struck down from the heavens. And the God, as hardened as he were, might one day come to take kindly to those who not only believed his tale to be true, but marveled the idea of it and did not mock or ridicule him for his mortal plight. Ghidorah would find home among the Godly folk... speaking of which...

“What may I call you then?” Ragnar speaks as he lifts both forelegs up, making a quick turn about and coming to trot up along the other's side. “I do not think that God alone would be fitting, as many there are.” He speaks and, with a pause, juts his muzzle towards the north-western chain of mountain. “That there is home.” Another soft smile. “House Stormborn”. How fitting that they had come together. Perhaps fate. Perhaps a perfect plot of the Gods.
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He can tell Ragnar is tense as he moves closer, but he meets his eyes and he never strays. He does look prepared for Ghidorah to pounce on him, but that’s very smart of him. Especially standing before a man like the former god himself. What with his great image and scarred fur, piercings, and deadly gaze. He looks like a monster in simpler terms — he looks dangerous. And truly, he is, so it’s in everyone’s favor to fear him. Ragnar would learn how lucky he is to have a god on his side that doesn’t fear death and yearns for the thrill of battle.

He’s interested to see a smile gleam on the others face then. He doesn’t joke when he talks if ascension, but he understands that the smile is not patronizing, but a mutual agreement of knowledge on how the god sees things. He doesn’t acknowledge him much though, only walks past him, eager to get on the road.

The paler is quick to catch up, moving to move next to him. Ghidorah spares him a single sideways glance, but it’s not a nasty one, merely one of acknowledgment.

What may I call you then?

Ghidorah hums low in his throat at that and raises a brow lazily.

I do not think that God alone would be fitting, as many there are.

At that, the fallen god rumbles out a deep laugh that resonates within the pit of his throat. It’s short and to the point, but either way it entertains him. For his name is not God. He is one but that is not his name. He has always been King Ghidorah.

Only then the man of Northfall tilts his chin to their supposed home. Ghidorah’s eyes move towards the mountain. House Stormborn he calls it. Ghidorah doesn’t miss the soft smile on his face and he wonders in that moment what emotions are required to have a smile so natural, genuine, and easy going. Ghidorah smirks, shows his teeth, and grins. He does not smile and he never has. He’s too malicious for anything like that and he finds that he’s not even envious of said emotion. He never wants to feel that.

So Ghidorah pulls himself from his thoughts and finally answers his previous question.

“Ghidorah.” He looks to Ragnar. “And you are Ragnar the pale, yes?” He hums back with a glance of a teasing smirk.
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The great beast rumbles a 'hmmm' and not long there after a short and deep laugh. It is there and it is gone, quick, but enough that Ragnar knows already the former God was relenting to him. Maybe he could come to enjoy his time around here after all. If even a little.

After a toothy smirk, Ragnar gets the answer he'd been waiting for. “Ghidorah...” Ragnar repeats, testing the name on his tongue and secretly pondering it in his mind if he had heard the name before. He had not. Then again, the only ones he knew enough by name were some few of Sindri's Norse roots. Ragnar's own which he were born to, surely went by many names though the form in which Archers used them was very simplistic.

“I am Ragnar, yes.” The Stormborn didn't know how Ghidorah had come to know it already before it was introduced. Ragnar didn't seem shocked by it, either. He had been a God, of course. What Ragnar found most intriguing was that Ghidorah knew him despite only having just met. Maybe the gods had already an eye in him...
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