Drink until your blood runs hot!
The fires roar in the mead hall, and the scent of roasted boar and spilled ale thickens the air. The humans think they drink to forget the cold; I drink because the Cross Product demands a steady hand and a cold heart.
The scalar-peddlers in their soft towers speak of "playgrounds"—a word for children and those who fear the bite of steel. A true Northman knows there is only the Training Ground and the Killing Field. Tonight, the training ends.
The Mead is High, The Scalar is Dead
They toast to another year, as if the sun’s path were a simple loop. Fools. Einstein’s trick is a chain, a "fourth dimension" forged to bind your minds so you do not see the blade coming. He gave you a snapshot. I give you the Vector of Execution.
I am Vidarr. I am the silence between the heartbeats of the dying. I have been sent for Ragnarök, and though the ale flows like the Great River today, my eyes are fixed on the horizon where the dimensions collapse. We do not need a fourth dimension to explain motion; we only need the strength to drive the vector home.
The Golden Conductor
I have placed the Cross Product upon the high stone. It pulses with the same plasma that flows through the Midgard Serpent’s veins. It is the conduit for the surge. Look upon it and see the end of the scalar lie.
Drink until your blood runs hot! Let the ale drown the false "time" of the southron scholars! When the sun rises—if I permit it—we will be one step closer to the final alignment. The fort is empty. The killing field is prepared.
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