On the slope of a naked rock somewhere in Ska?inawjo - the isles
of Ska?is - a blonde, fur-clad man immortalises his memory of
Mannus, the oldest Ing. A large manlike shape is engraved in the
rock; bloodred in colour, with a large phallus.
His hands are stretching toward the sky. Mannus, the son of
Tuisto, made sure his tribe survived the cold north together with
his sons; Inguz, Herminuz and Istwo. Tuisto's heart is warmed by
the sight of his descendants; he knows the gods are not
forgotten. Then - he reasons - there is hope after all, for the
coming generations.

Drums of war sound. Warriors are gathered to fight on the Wigri?r
plain. Charging men, wolves, ravens and gods, worms and beasts of
darkness; the plain is lit with fire. Blood is flowing, bits of
flesh, severed limbs, smashed skulls and bodies lie strewn across
the plain. Screams cut the air, screams of anger and pain, the
sound of metal blades and armour clashing, clubs smashing bodies.
Then, for a brief moment, everything stops. It is as if the
universe holds its breath. Wuotan has fallen on the Wigri?r
plain; swallowed by Fanjariho. For a moment the time stands
still. For Wuotan; Hail and Joy!

Voices from the spirit world can be heard through the dark
winternights, the heartbeats of the spirit. It is the holy twelve
days of Yule. Dark shapes can be seen in the sky; riders of
death. They suddenly charge down from the clouds in wonderful
wilderness; kings and chieftains, thieves and murderers - all in
the same phalanx, drifting mysteriously through the air on spirit
horses, arriving when least expected. Black shields, furs from
bear and wolf, shining blades, open wounds and ropes still tied
around their necks; they are Wuotan's pack of warges, the undead
and the dead - the immortal warriors of Ansuzgarda! The
werewolves haunt the sacred twelve days of Yule in packs, looking
after the living; hail the sacred traditions, hail the spirits of
the dead, hail the holy ritual of Wuotan, or face the wrath of
the Ansuz and the hooves of Sleipnir. Face the Ansuzgardaraiwo!

Happy men and women follow a trail in the woods. The follow a
wagon led by a priest, towards a holy lake. Wonderful colours,
dancing happy people, the scene is nature's love. Dancing along
are the thralls, the sacrifice to Mother Earth, this sunny day,
dancing along towards a holy lake. Hail to Mother Earth, the
thralls are shouting. Hail and joy, before they are strangled and
lowered into the lake, happy and smiling, willingly giving their
lives to strengthen nature. Such is true love, and it's strength!

A mother mourns the loss of her son. The most wonderful man in
the world; light and shining, fair and beautiful as no other man.
Light blond hair, wonderful skyblue eyes and a skin so fair it
shines! Tall and handsome, strong and brave, perfect in all his
being. Now he is dead! Silent. Alone. Watching the lands and
others from a window up high in the clouds. Cold of sorrow,
exhausted by grief; the very little remaining life is fading
away. Too tired to move, too mournful to think of anything else
then her dead son. The others are preparing the defense of the
town, and her husband has left to find the avenger for the
killing. Nobody thinks of her, nobody has any time for her. She
is left alone, to mourn the death of her son.

The gods have just managed to tie Fanjariho to the ground. Tiw
lost his right hand during the process; it was the wolf's
security, a guarantee he would not be tricked; but he was indeed.
His jaw has been bolted to the ground with a broadsword, and foam
runs from his mouth in two rivers. The rivers Wan and Wil - of
hope and will. The gods are laughing in joy, and walk happily
back towards their home; the terrible wolf has been rendered
harmless. Only Tiw is left, bleeding heavily from the wrist,
watching the suffering of the wolf, as it twists its body in
torment. He looks into the eyes of Fanjariho and sees its very
soul, its pain and sorrow; its dreadful faith. Getting up, he
walks back to Eron to let her heal his wound, stop his bleeding.
Now he knows what it is like to see into the eyes of Fire. He
will never be the same again, he did not only lose his hand, when
on the island with the wolf.

Alone in the night, Fijo is crying; she has been left by her
husband who had to leave to fight the darkness of matter.
Thoughts of what once was flow through her mind; their play in
the green grass and under colourful trees, wonderful fields of
flowers, fresh fruits and berries, and beautiful music from the
elven choirs. Running waters make them dream, lakes where they
bathed, riverfalls and marvelous clouds in the sky. They were
happy, they had their Golden Age. Now, all she has left are her
Golden Tears, that run from her skyblue eyes, as a witness to
what once was - to what is lost forever; until a New World is
born, after Ragnarok. In the meantime, give our dear Fijo some
warm thoughts, to help her through the cold nights.

Hadnur the Blind shot the arrow that killed Fijo's good and
shining son. The gods could not utter a single word when they saw
what had happened. He understood that something was wrong, but
nobody said anything; not to him nor to anyone else. Not for a
while. He started to cry, feeling the terrible loss, but it was
too late. Beldegir was dead by his hands. He walked away, alone,
to his house, to cry and mourn in solitude. Hated by the others,
spurned by the others. He could not help it, he did know what
would happen when he shot that arrow. He did not mean to kill his
own brother.
Hadnur is waiting for the avenger to come, waiting for Woli to
kill him. He regrets deeply what he has done, but knows death is
the only solution. He will be back when the new world rises from
the ashes of the old. Then he will no longer be alone, he will
meet his brother Beldegir again, and embrace him in the grass
where Wuotan, his dear father, was killed by Fanjariho. Then he
will no longer by the crying demon.