GOTY (Goat of the Year)

The snow had finally melted beneath the warm spring sun, color returned to the land slowly in the form of greenery and wildflowers, and the new year began. Hábrók, his hummingbird, had returned from hibernation, a welcome sight to the purple iridescent man who had desperately missed his familiar throughout the winter months. There was a lot to catch the bird up on, but first Tyrfing was determined to show appreciation for the new spring and new year with a hunt, something to present to the Gods in thanks. In truth, he wasn't sure if the changing of the seasons was an appropriate reason to go through with something as important as a Blót was, but without the guidance of his viking family, Tyrfing had resigned himself to simply doing the best he could with what he knew.

He'd decided to leave Mitros at home, understanding that the new yearling had not been raised with the same teachings as he was, and accepting of his cousin's lack of believe on the pantheon of Gods. To have the Regni present could be seen as offensive, and Tyrfing was not equipped to offend any of the higher being today. He left the boy back at their makeshift home on the shores and trotted off inland.

In the distance, an island appeared. Mitros and Tyrfing had been staying at the dancefloor of the gods for nearly a season now, and never before had they noticed this particular land bridge nor the volcanic-looking island it led too. The mists had parted in exactly the right way to reveal it for him - this was a sign, and Tyrfing obediently walked the path that had opened for him.

The island within was lush and wild, scent trails crossing every way beneath his feet as if the prey here had hardly seen predators. Tyrfing's spirits were high as he moved deeper into the isle, nose to the ground and searching. He had the fortune to be able to turn away multiple different species of potential prey, as each new step he took seemed to open up an alternative. Eventually he settled upon running down the faint scent of sheep. They would be a difficult prey, one that travelled in large groups and spent most of their time on rocky ledges and outcroppings. As one lone wolf, he knew the effort required to sacrifice a Dall Sheep would be enough to appease both his Gods, and the vættir who had generously allowed him to thrive with his cousin over the hard winter.

He spent hours tracking the mountain creatures, perplexed by the way their trails could nearly vanish as they made their way up cliffs that should have been impassible. Eventually Fin had determined that hunting in the traditional way would not suffice, and instead had set himself up a concealment blind at the island's fresh water source. Decorating his iridescent pelt with mud and foliage and pine needles, he settled in for a long wait for when the herd would come down from their mountain to drink. There were signs of their presence at the lake, a welcome coincidence that allowed Fin to hope they did not have a second, more convenient source to drink from higher up the cliffs. If terribly unlucky, he could wait here all day and never find his prey.

Fin however, was not unlucky. The Dall Sheep came down from the cliffs lacking in the usual caution and the keen eared wolf heard their loud bleats before he ever saw them. They did not cluster at the lake shore, another thing Fin could be pleased for, and he rapidly began the work of observing the rams and choosing the best target. As he did so, he moved in stealthily around them, careful to remain silent and downwind.

He hadn't even the chance to spring before the wind whipped up, it's assault so sudden and powerful that Fin's first thought was that he had somehow angered the gods. The winds carried the lake's waters in a cold, violent swirl of power that felt like knives against his pelt. The sheep had fled, and Tyrfing - trusting in their judgement - fled with them.

He chased the herd out into the deepest part of the island, where they could shelter from the ferocious howling water and wind. It was a successful strategy until he reached the volcano's base itself, where the rams simply began to scale the rock and Fin, assaulted by the continuing storm, could not trust his paws to remain steady upon the mountainside.

With a frustrated snarl he abandoned hope for his kill, pressing his body tightly against the cliff and tucking his head down into his chest to try and protect his sensitive eyes. No longer could he see past the storm, nor hear anything that wasn't the raging howling. He did not dare try to smell, for he felt any strong inhale would surely suffocate him as he gave nature the opening into his lungs. There was, however, a small thump at his feet. Something he felt in his pawpads rather then heard with his own two ears. He peeled one eye open cautiously, witnessing a squirming, pained ram who had clearly been thrust from the rocky wall by the power of the winds. It had badly damaged itself in the fall, the kill would be a mercy. Was this the point the vættir were trying to make? Not punishing him for his choice of target, but realizing the difficulty in doing it alone and offering him help?

Fin did not waste time wondering on it, he merely lunged forward and enclosed his jaws around the ram's flailing rear limb and pulled, ushering it away from the open and beneath a rocky outlet that served to shield him and his offering. He ended it's suffering with a quick slash of his crystaline fangs, and began with his sacrificial ceremony of thanks.

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