Viking's Moot

The waters of Beacon Hill stirred with unnatural motion. Standing at the edge of the tournament's most treacherous water hazard, Clinton Atwater felt the weight of his Lusca Vanquisher bag tag grow heavy against his hip. Something ancient moved beneath the surface—not the Kraken itself, but an echo of its growing power.

"The waters remember old battles," he muttered, kneeling to trace ripple patterns with practiced eyes. Years of hunting the Lusca in southern seas had taught him to read the subtle signs of large creatures moving through deep waters.

Bjorn Odinsson approached, his staff clicking against the morning-frosted ground. "What do you see, Vanquisher?"

"The same patterns I observed when hunting the Lusca," Clinton replied, standing. "But there's something else—see how the ripples form perfect circles? Natural movements never create such precision."

Bjorn's jaw tightened. He had feared this. "Sigrid's ritual."

"Aye," Clinton confirmed. "The water hazards—they're positioned like the pools we used for scrying in the southern temples. If players' discs strike the water in specific patterns..."

"They complete another piece of her working," Bjorn finished grimly. "Just as at Dragonfly."

The morning sun crested the horizon, catching on Clinton's bag tag. The metal seemed to pulse with an inner light, responding to the disturbed waters. As Lusca Vanquisher, Clinton had learned that some creatures could only be defeated by understanding their domain. Now, that knowledge might prove crucial against both the Kraken and Sigrid's schemes.

As the tournament began, Sigrid the Wise watched with calculated interest as players approached the water-heavy holes. Her Rune Seekers had performed well at Dragonfly, their discs unknowingly tracing the first patterns of her grand ritual. But today, something felt different.

Her suspicions were confirmed when she saw Clinton Atwater step up to hole seven—a challenging par 4 with a massive water carry. Instead of taking the standard route over the hazard, Clinton threw a low line that skimmed just inches above the water's surface. The disc's flight path cut directly through where one of her ritual nodes should have formed.

"Impossible," she breathed. "Unless..."

Kenneth Oetker appeared at her side, his eyes carrying that pearlescent sheen that marked his visions. "The Lusca hunter knows the ways of water," he whispered. "What we seek to bind through knowledge, he has learned through battle."

Sigrid's fingers tightened around her staff. "Then we must adapt our approach."

Throughout the round, Clinton demonstrated why Odin had chosen him as the Lusca Vanquisher. Every throw near water seemed precisely calculated to disrupt the subtle energies Sigrid had begun weaving. His expertise in underwater combat had given him an instinct for how energy moved through water—whether it was a Lusca's attack or a ritual's forming patterns.

"The key," he explained to his cardmates between holes, "is understanding that water remembers. Every ripple, every splash, leaves an echo. The Lusca taught me that the hard way."

Erik Stormhammer nodded thoughtfully. "And Sigrid's ritual?"

"Creates ripple patterns too perfect to be natural," Clinton replied. "But disrupt those patterns..." He demonstrated by throwing another low shot that seemed to slice through invisible lines in the water. Where his disc passed, the subtle wrongness in the water's movement briefly normalized.

Above them, ravens circled—Odin's eyes watching the battle of wills playing out through seemingly ordinary disc golf shots.

As the final cards approached the eighteenth hole, the air grew heavy with tension. Sigrid's carefully laid plans had been systematically disrupted throughout the day, but one crucial node remained. If completed, it could salvage enough of her working to maintain the ritual's progression.

Clinton knew this was his moment. As he stepped up to the final tee, his Lusca Vanquisher tag blazed with sudden warmth. In his mind's eye, he saw again the patterns of the Lusca's movement through deep water—how understanding those patterns had led to victory.

"Odin," he whispered, "guide my throw."

His disc flew true—a perfect flex shot that curved around the water hazard rather than over it. The disc's wake through the air seemed to shimmer with divine purpose, and when it landed, the impact sent ripples through reality itself. The water in every hazard on the course suddenly calmed, returning to natural patterns.

Sigrid's staff cracked audibly in her grip.

Later, as Bjorn presided over the awards ceremony celebrating Odin's Chosen's victory, he spoke with quiet pride. "Today we were reminded that knowledge comes in many forms. The wisdom of battle, earned through trials against mighty foes, can be as powerful as any ancient text."

Clinton stood among the victorious, his Lusca Vanquisher tag now bearing a new mark—a ripple pattern that seemed to move when viewed from different angles. He had proven that his experience hunting the Lusca had prepared him for an entirely different kind of battle.

But as the celebrations continued, Kenneth pulled Sigrid aside, his eyes once again taking on that otherworldly sheen. "The waters may be calm," he whispered, "but beneath the surface, the Kraken stirs. What was disrupted here will only make it hunger more."

Sigrid's lips curved in a knowing smile. "Then perhaps Clinton's victory serves our purpose after all. For what better way to understand a beast's power than to witness how it can be disrupted?"

The sun set over Beacon Hill, its light catching on the water hazards that had become a battlefield in an unseen war. The ripples had settled, but the echoes of this day's events would resonate through tournaments to come, as both factions learned and adapted in their approaches to hunting the greatest monster of them all.