Hordrön, god-lord of the Woad, receives visitors in one configuration: on your knees, crawling backward through two hundred feet of warm-floored corridor, permitted under no circumstances to turn around. Van described what he saw when looking was finally permitted - a gelatinous figure on a stainless steel throne, face dripping and hissing where it struck the flagstones, burning a shallow bowl into the stone across uncounted years - with the flat puzzlement of a man making a note he isn't sure what to file under. Those who look upon him are told they will survive one forge cycle; I have not established the length of a forge cycle, but I note that no servant at the dunlockslyn temple has lasted more than twelve months. At the anniversary rites, the plumpest attendants are selected for the kitchens - he eats the best-bred milting and clowns, and refers to himself in the third person throughout. When Van and his companion drove toward the throne, Hordrön screamed, hurled curses, and fled through a trapdoor in the dais floor. I find this the most important detail about him.