Veteran’s Plateau Altar

Real gods require blood.  It was as it has always been.  It is as it will always be.  Their presence, Víðarr can feel it.  Always around this time of year, but more than usual, even.  Though the gods walked among them always, this was... this was even more.  The shadow could feel it in his very bones.  He did his best to steady his thoughts, loud as they'd been lately.  The call of the familiars wasn't just so, this was the call of the gods themselves.  Anticipation welled up in Víðarr's chest, in his throat.  The familiars had sought him, and he'd do well to answer their call.  By the same token, he chooses to ask his own to remain encamped.  This would be a journey for the shadow, and the shadow alone.

He came upon the statue, and was at once struck by its condition.  The staining, as if bloodstained in battle.  The stoic expression, the strength, the poise of it all.  The likenesses Víðarr pulls apart, considering the tabby's words carefully as he does.  He would hear their voices, let them speak through him now.  It's a long thought before Víðarr approaches the statue, head bowed.  Solemn, though he usually was.  

With one fluid motion, the shadow drew the pad of his paw across one of the sharpened jet spikes in his gauntlets.  It was enough to make a clean break in the flesh, blood bubbling to the surface moments later.  Víðarr barely flinched, though the pain was enough to jolt and shock his system.  A religious experience in and of itself.  Víðarr allowed a small amount of blood to pool on the altar, speaking quietly in his mother tongue.  The prayer came first, words that he still managed to hold from his mother.  

Lowering his head further, voice barely a whisper, he offered his conclusion.  "Real gods require blood."

"Víðarr"