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Follow Thistle’s Rite Of Passage Ragnar had slept for two days and nights, plagued by ravaging fever and dreams. Endless dreams. What the Viking had attested to his God taking possession of his body was really just side effects from the mushrooms he had collected and carried back to his private and what he thought was well hidden cache of them in the chance that he should need them. Ragnar had understood their addictive properties, had watched his comrades become hooked on the blood frenzy that the substance within them put them into, but Ragnar was lucky in that he did not know of, or feel the addiction. Ragnar did not need them, and only sought them because he needed to be prepared.
He dreamt of many things, only two of them rotating in some type of subconscious carousel, vivid even as they began to bleed into one another while the others were forgotten as soon as he saw them flashing in his minds’ eye. He dreamed of Odinn and separately of Thistle, both dreams having an entirely different feel to them than the other. Ragnar dreamed of Thistle, intense and passion filled, each time more pleasurable than the last as he claimed his tiny Viking until the rapture would blaze until it would merge and cut off as a different, measurably less significant dream. Of Odinn Ragnar dreamed of his possession again, or maybe just a piece of the Allfather that resided within him, the heavy feeling of the God’s power and knowledge, the endless thirst that Ragnar felt himself without the Allfather’s intervention. You gave your eye for knowledge, Odin, but I would give much more… Dream Ragnar told the Allfather brazenly, trying to appease the God, trying to show him that he was worthy, that they were similar.
As he dreamed of the Allfather currently, he could feel the empty hollow of Odinn’s eye socket, feel the flames that licked in it’s crevice. It burned hot, licking up to Ragnar’s face until soon the flame spread and consumed him.
Slowly, tortuously, Ragnar burned.
He woke then with a jolt, jerking awake, his pants heavy from his body attempting to cool itself off, his icy, Caribbean blue eyes glassed with the fever that still commanded him. If Ragnar were a human he would have been entirely soaked with sweat. His head throbbed in pain from the intensity of the fever, the echoes of Odinn’s flame burning his flesh still felt even as he stretched stiff and aching muscles to exit the den, wondering if he threw himself unceremoniously into the sea if it would work as a coolant.