Brothers Keeper...

[Brother Tuditanus]

This is my first time writing Space Wolf fluff, and is planned as a back-drop to my upcoming/in progress army, a Pre-Heresy 13th Co... I am more than open to C&C, as harsh as you would like or care to be. I only ask you be constructive and helpful, and leave me not just with things to fix, but ways or ideas to do so.

 

 

Prologue: Wolf's Song

"And lo, when the fog had risen, so did their howls, keen to raise the hackles of every cur and hunter. Murderous they were, those Sons of Fenris, and bloody their axes.. Through fire and death, charged the Wolves of Russ, and of foe-men left none alive.." - Soren, Skald to Wolf Lord Bulveye of the 13th Great Company, Astartes Legio VI-

 

Shuddering in the grips of the grav-couch, feeling himself rise off the sparsely padded seat despite the restrainer bars, Soren looked about the cramped confines of the drop ship to see the rest of his squad. Valdnir sat in quiet, grim contemplation, his helm in his lap gripped by two massive gauntleted hands gleaming like dark polished obsidian. Teeth and fur hung from his Maximus armor, and an iron amulet of a rune blazoned wolf head about his neck.. Eyes of blue-white ice burned with quiet, cold rage. Lips thin enough to disappear in the face's current grimace were moving rapidly, voicing litanies to goad their spirits and gird them to war. But over the shrieking re-entry, they only sounded in the confines of his own memory.

 

To the left of Valdnir sat the Pack Leader for the Blood Claws assigned to them on this drop. Brash and cocky, the lad bore a ridiculous looking mowhawk with beaded and braided stands. How it stood straight at it's height was amongst debate in the Company, but Soren was more interested in the eyes, a bright brown that almost seemed gold.. He had seen other brothers fall to the curse, and this exuberant, yet scarred 'Claw may not yet make it through, despite the praise the others gave of him, or the kill notches on his long blade. Unusually lithe, the Pack Leader was slight for an Astartes, but made up for it with astonishing speed and grace, and a berserk-gang few could match even in the 13th.

 

Circling around in the rest of the seats were the remainder of the Blood Claw pack he and Valdnir had been assigned to, all yipping and yapping their little quips, trying to act as if they had been through a thousand thousand drops rather than a scant dozen. Though they brayed and postured, Soren saw their eyes. It was the first thing a bard learned on his home, and it was no different here and now... The eyes showed it always...

 

Even their scents were surfaced with calm, yet he could see the way their gaze constantly flickered across the seating to the amber runes on the studded control panel, or to one of the many hissing or dripping hosing and cable conduits scattered about. Or when the turbine of the 'pods engine whined especially loud, the sudden swallowing of the iris by the pupils showed fear.

 

With a jarring impact Soren felt the pod land, and saw some of the younger 'Claws slam and jerk against their restraints. He had felt the tug of gravity returning and had long since gripped the worn, cold steel of his restraints in prepartion. Across from him, Valdnir had donned the gruesome skull helm of the Chaplains, and was the first to stand, barking an order in Fenrisian as the 'Claws howled and surged after the Wolf Priest out into the battle field.

 

Standing firmly, Soren drew his shield from the rack next to the grav-couch he had occupied and fitted it to his left arm, the heavy disk feeling comfortable and familiar, like a phantom limb returned. He felt a stirring within himself, and despite his age, threw back his head and howled with glee as the gift of his Primarch sang in his blood once more, dancing in his heart to the beat of bolter made thunder. Shaking the long braids of nearly white-blonde hair from his flinty eyes, he stepped forward, each step faster and higher, the battles pulse infecting him.

 

As he charged from the drop pod, the last of the smoke from the hatch charges clearing, he felt keenly every pace made in the shifting sands of this world. At his side hung a battered horn, clanking slightly against the ceramite cased breastplate that clasped his torso and linked to the rest of his suit of gleaming MK VI armor. Most assumed the new plate to be a sign of honor, as it was still being tested. Soren secretly suspected it was because he had the lucky habit of finding himself in the center of the maelstrom.. And, well.. If you want to test armor, throw it on the bloody Skald that likes to dance with plasma bolts...

 

Shaking himself from his revere, Soren lifted the snow white auroch-horn to his lips, the silver binding and capping concealing what he knew to be micro speakers and enhancers that would speed his challenge. With a mighty heave, he exhaled, winding a call through the horn that seemed to shake the very spires of the planet his Legion made war on. Though he and his brothers needed no announcing, and war had long since retired such instruments as useless, but the smell of blood and gunpowder and sweat seemed all the more keen as his war-call split the muggy air, drowning out even the nearby gun-fire for a moments time.

 

Drawing his short-blade, and gripping it tightly, the Skald hefted his shield into a high guard and howled to match the pitch of the fading notes, an eerie ululating song of death and ruin to greet the red dawn. Already his mind composed the verse of the charge and his deeds, as he ran down into the valley on the first golden rays of light, his sword dispatching robed humans with quick, efficent slices born of decades of training under Terran masters, rather than the berserk rage of his Fenrsian brothers.

 

No matter the difference in home, in the end Soren still howled and snarled, laughing as he slew. Red armored forms filled his vision with a blinding hate, and something within him matched his snarl, and twisted the features of his face into a further rage... The Wolves had come to Prospero, and Magnus would be made to obey.. Or he would die...With that thought, all else faded to the beast, as he and his brothers howled and snarled their fury, the song of the horn long faded to the song of the Wolves..

[Jonas Stromclaw]

Excellent work brother! A couple of spelling mistakes, but hardly noticeable, and none at all distracting from the story. A keg for each installment of this tale!