The Saga of Jurgis the Wise

[Skirax]

Prologue

 

Bestial roars came from across the battlefield, the cries of the Orks drowning out even the deafening roar of the Boltguns that held them at bay. Wave after wave of unbridled fury made manifest came screaming at the Space Wolves across the frozen wastes of Grunda Secondus, their crude weapons spitting death at the beleaguered defenders.

Jurgis watched with his fangs bared, the glitter of the frost on them sparkling beautifully in the night sky. The banners of Waagh! Toofrippa fluttered in the roaring hurricane, and the shards of glass-like ice ripped shreds in the scarred cloth.

Pack-Brother Roalde came jogging up to Jurgis, his Frost Blade whirring in bloodlust by his side, and his plasma pistol was quietly humming, the glare of the Sun-Wolf momentarily contained.

‘My men are itching for combat, my Lord,’ said Roalde, and Jurgis turned to regard him. Jurgis had always been a huge man, and his being inducted into the ranks of the Space Wolves had only ever increased his huge physique. Now he would tower over his own battle brothers, and they feared him as much as sought his blessed wisdom.

‘Do you wish me to take down the wall of fire, brother?’ asked Jurgis respectfully, but the answer was already in his mind.

‘No, my Lord, but surely we could whet our chainswords for but a second?’ requested Roalde, the look of hope burning bright in his eyes.

Jurgis thought for a moment. ‘Let me answer that with my own question; if the shoal-fish were to throw themselves at your World-Sea Ship, and you had not seen food for dies on end, would you stop the shoal-fish? Would you choose their lives over that of your womenfolk and elders back at your land-home?’

Roalde did not even think for this one; ‘No, my Lord; I would allow them to beat themselves to their deaths, and then ensnare them in my trawl.’

‘Then why should your Claws, in search of their own glory, risk the lives of their comrades but for the simple thrill of the kill?’ Jurgis let Roalde think for a moment, and then turned back to the firing line; the Orks were in full retreat now. Jurgis smiled.

‘Now, young pup, we throw out the trawl.’

 

Howls replaced roars as the main sound of the field as the glorious Great Company of Mjalkir Blackfang charged headlong across the frozen wastes, the cries of glory hungry Blood Claws mingling with those of Wulfen howls of the Thunderwolf Cavalry as they rode down the Orks with the fury of living Gods. Land Raiders and Rhinos belched smoke and blew waste into the air as they chased down the last of the Ork Bikerz, clearing the flanks for Mjalkir’s specialised Net Trawl entrapment.

At the front of the Wolves’ spearhead charge, came Mjalkir himself, his fury unleashed and pointed at the enemy as a juggernaut of pure destruction. His claws were a blur of glorious blue and flashing grey as they disembowelled and beheaded Orks that dared to stand against him. He washed over the Orks as an elemental force, a river of blood and gore following his every step, and where he stood, all that moved died in but an instant. He was a beast unleashed, and all feared his touch.

Beside him strode his Wolf Guard, their very names carved into the halls of the Valgrind, Mjalkir’s personal battle barge; Harkon Ironsight, whose fell sight meant the death of traitors and xeno’s with every roar of his Assault Cannon; Kittel Banesword, whose Frost Blade had been the scourge of the Grunda Sector for the past three decades, in which it had felt the blood of heretical and alien generals alike; Marenus Rockglaive, whose Chainfist had silenced the roar of enemy artillery time and time again; Ørger Dreadshot, whose Storm Bolter and tore out the heart of all it touched with the cold fury that the Space Wolves could enact; and Torgeir Fireheart, who had survived the gruelling initiation process despite being well into his twenties, but the transformation had left his body damned forever; he was now touched by the 13th wolf of Fenris, and was slowly devolving into one of the Wulfenkind.

And at the centre of this living tempest of Russ’ fury, was Jurgis the Wolf Priest; he alone had tutored every one of the warriors in this renowned group of heroes and raging Gods of battle. With a heart of steel and the cold detachment to match, Jurgis had served his Wolf Lord for scores of years without fault, and Mjalkir, whose actions far outstripped those of even Jurgis’, even now relied on his council as surely as he relied on the armour on his back, or the claws in his hands. His cries of devotion to the All Father and how Russ would be proud of each and every one of them spurred them on to greater heights of glory, and the foolishly defiant Orks would now pay the price.

 

Around the campfire, Jurgis was chewing on a huge lump of elk meat while the Claws about him chewed on his every word. Jurgis swallowed the giant lump of mouth-watering meat, and downed a stein of ale to wash the taste away. He looked at them all individually, and he gulped down the great tasting liquid with remorse; he loved the way it rolled about his tongue and the way it made his mouth feel as though he was receiving a kiss from his beloved back on Fenris.

‘So you pups wish for a tale, eh?’ asked Jurgis, his Saga-telling self welling up as he prepared to tell the tale of how he became his Great Company’s high Wolf Priest.

Murmurs of anticipation ran about the circle, and steins were handed from brother to brother as they prepared for the Saga of Jurgis the Wise.

 

 

(I would just like to note that this will not dettract my attention away from the Time of Ending)

[Skirax]

Chapter One

 

Gather round younglings, and I shall tell you the tale of Jurgis the Wise, a Wolf Priest who was once like you, but rose to one of the highest ranks possible in this Great Company. He has tutored all of the higher echelons of this Company, and some say he is nearly as old as Ulrik the Slayer, but such hearsay must be disregarded, for that is not how Saga’s are born. Quiet down, whelps! Now, it all began on a storm-tossed day in the World-Sea...

 

The dragon-boat tossed and turned in the waves, the anger of the World-Sea throwing itself full pelt at the man-made craft, the dragonskin ship dashing about as the fury of the Kraken descended upon them.

Jurgis grabbed hold of the side rails, the World-Sea spitting in his face in an attempt to break his hold. His spear was slung over his back, and his long black hair was draped over his head in drags. His lip was curled back in a snarl, and the ship slowly began to tip backwards as it attempted to climb to the crest of the closest wave. Men cried out as they lost their hold, and tumbled back into the World-Sea, where the snapping of their bones and the splatter of their blood could be heard, even above the roaring waves.

As the waves towered over the boat, the water broke up to reveal a great head that reared out of the roiling ocean to stare down malevolently at the dragon-boat. Two eyes the colour of obsidian glared at the terrified warriors and it spread its wings in a terrifyingly glorious display of power. Throwing its head back, the dragon roared at the Sky-Wolf, and the sound shook the boat from its prow to its stern, and all of the men aboard the craft cried out in sheer terror, fear gripping their gut and causing them to either jump into the ocean without a moment’s respite, or run around screaming before going into the hold, like the cowards they were.

All, except one.

A great armoured warrior stood at the head of the boat, his armour the colour of the storm and his eyes as cold. His skin was leathery and faded, and a great grill-thing at his mouth. At his side hung a huge weapon, the head fashioned into a wolf’s head, only bare of flesh and with glowing eyes, a dark red emanating from within their sunken sockets. In his right gauntlet, he held a blocky weapon that looked as though it could break a man’s head open with one smack, and a blow to the stomach from that fearful thing could make a man double over in pain and never be straight again.

A pelt of wolf fur cascaded from his shoulders, adding to the noble savage’s look, as though he were a warrior born out of legend, ripped right from the saga’s told by the Jarl of his clan. The pelt ended in ripped cloth and tattered pieces of armour, as though the cloak had been worn by the armoured warrior all through the Great Storm and through the Summer Seasons, in which the Eye of Russ bore down on the world and scorched the surface with his gaze.

Beside the warrior stood the most fearful thing that Jurgis had ever seen; a Blackmane Wolf, the scourge of his island and the ruin of his previous one. He despised them, and the very sight of one made his lips curl back in a snarl. A growl slipped past his lips, and the wolf turned to look him straight in the eye. In that moment, Jurgis became aware of a greater intelligence in the Wolf’s mind, one that he himself could not comprehend, but might one day come to accept. It saw intricate thinking, clear decision making sequences that, while basic, were blunt and efficient. The beast snarled at him, and Jurgis ripped his eyes from the beast, though the image of the snarling titan stayed with him, and would probably hound him to the end of his days; rows of bared teeth and were flecked with blood; snarling lips that spoke of pure hatred for anything the beast did not – could not – understand; hackles that rose in an instant when threatened and stood on end to make it’s already incredibly and utterly terrifying stance even more horrific and awesome.

The armoured warrior uttered a tiny growl, and the wolf turned back to look at its master. At the same time, the warrior raised it’s right gauntlet, the bulky thing in his hand pointing right at the space between the monster’s eyes; a roar louder than anything Jurgis had ever heard, and a dazzling flash that left him clutching his eyes and feeling around in pain later, and the dragon reared its head, it’s teeth bared in a display of terrifying power, and it’s huge tongue flapping and flopping about in the dragon’s mouth. A gaping hole was in its forehead, the bone and flesh torn, but as if they were torn from within the beast. Jurgis knew this was not possible; what sorcery was going on here? Instantly he began to distrust the warrior.

The warrior leapt forward, his huge other weapon raised to smash the dragon’s head to pieces, raised far above his own head and clasped in both the warrior’s gauntlets; he brought the weapon down in one almighty swing, and the top of the dragon’s head, exactly where the hole was, fell inwards, as if a piece of clothing hit by an axe, and the dragon howled in pain. Leaping back onto the boat, the warrior stared down at its Wolf-companion, and laid a huge hand atop its head. ‘Easy, Hermanda,’ said the warrior soothingly, and Wolf began to lay down on the now level deck of the boat.

The dragon howled, and threw its wings out to the side. With a huge crash that could have been heard on the Iron Isles, where even the hammer’s toiled endlessly, the dragon toppled into the now still World-Sea.

Jurgis stared at the Warrior, and he looked at the young boy. He smiled, and Jurgis recoiled in horror; he bore the same fangs as his Wolf-companion.

What is this sorcery? Thought Jurgis, as the Warrior turned back to the prow.

[Nacho Wolf]

Its prettu good, but I'm just wondering wether its a little too much like how ragnar was found by a wolf priest?

[Skirax]

It's similar, but there's a reason for that.

[Nacho Wolf]

Ahh, knowing you it'll probably be a huge plot twist that'll leave us all gobsmacked :D

Anyway, looking forward to the next installment

[Skirax]

:P Maybe :)

 

Hopefully Chapter Two will be up today, but I've got to be working on the Time of Ending as well :S

[Skirax]

Chapter Two

 

Jurgis chewed on his elk, and men came up to him and slapped him on the shoulder for surviving his maiden voyage, muttering praises, such as, ‘Very few come back, young one,’ and, ‘Nice to see you’re still in one piece.’

Rellis was skulking in the corner of the camp, his arms folded and his brow furrowed. He stared maliciously at Jurgis, and whenever his mother would offer him a stein of ale or a slab of meat he could sharply shake his head, mutter something, and sneer at Jurgis, all the while never breaking eye contact with his peer teenager.

The fire crackled and spat into the air, the Sun-Wolf blazing angrily within the confines of the blaze, raging in an attempt to escape, to run wild, to burn all in its path. It cast gloomy shadows across the camp centre, and the long huts glowed ominously in the roaring light of the fire. Blades and shields winked as they lay propped up against the Hall of Heroes, and the strange whistling of pipe-instruments gave the fireside a nice relaxed tone, a contrast to the encroaching darkness that lay beyond the walls of the camp.

From the gloom came the Jarl, his face painted in blue and black stripes, and a many seasons old pelt taken from a Wolf-cub draped across his gangly form. His eyes were sunk deep in the tough and leathery skin, and bags of lost moons hung deeply beneath his eyes. His mouth opened, and out flowed the sagas; as they came, the music-makers swelled their tones and buoyed their jovial moods.

‘The moon shone down hard, and the Ice Troll strayed from his homecave in the gloom. His eyes were like the light of the Eye of Russ, and his skin the colour of the storm. His roar was the thunder that we so fear, and from his mouth rolled the water of the World-Sea,’ said the Jarl, his crusted lips twisting as the coarse syllables fell from his mouth.

‘Hrothgar stood his ground, and the Troll saw the hero of the Icetooth Tribe, spear in hand. Morkai howled into the night, and both knew that only one could emerge from confrontation. With a roar and a howl, Hrothgar and his Brother-wolf leapt forward at the Ice Troll, teeth snapping and biting, spear stabbing and rending. The Ice Troll cared not, for his skin was like that of Gormenjarl, and his strength that of the Kraken; he blindly swung his fists and the Brother-wolf was knocked to the side of the ice-plain, bloody and dying. Hrothgar roared in defiance, and stabbed his spear into the Ice Troll’s heart with the power of Russ himself, the cold metal tearing through the Ice-flesh and into the frozen heart of the beast.

‘The Ice Troll toppled, his power spent and his heart ripped in two. The ground shook beneath the monster’s bulk, but Hrothgar cared not; he ran to his fallen companion, and saw that the wolf was already dead. Cold steel gripped his heart, and Hrothgar returned to the Icetooth Tribe, bloody and in shock, but victorious as only a hero could be.

Hrothgar earned the name of Beastslayer, but he never found true company again in his fellow tribesmen, and spent many of his nights roaming in the wastes of the island, until he found and fought a Blackmane. Hrothgar died that night, but all Blackmane’s now fear his name, forever living in terror of Hrothgar the Beastslayer,’ finished the Jarl, and Jurgis realised he had been leaning forward on his perch on the log. He cleared his throat, and sat further back, not wanting to be seen as a book-seer, a position viewed as ‘wimpy’ in his Tribe’s hierarchy.

The Jarl bowed, and the Tribe Leader raised his ale to the story teller. He shrank back into the shadows, and the music-make died down to be replaced with stories told by overenthusiastic glory mongers and boastful bed-jumpers.

Rellis came and sat down next to him, and leant in close so that only Jurgis could hear him; ‘I know that you are power-hungry, and that you seek my father’s position as Tribal Leader; I warn you now, Jurgis, son of a coward, you better watch where you tread.’

The barb stung deep, and struck something deep down inside him that he didn’t even know was there. Snarling in anger, Jurgis leapt at the bastard, aiming to close his hands around the arrogant twat’s neck. He managed to get a hold, and began to squeeze with all his power; he was lying on top of Rellis now, and he could see the boy’s struggle to breath.

Suddenly he felt a powerful blow in his left ribs, and he rolled away as pain seared through his torso; Rellis stood back up, his fists bunched and his expression bloody; now he leapt at Jurgis, fists flying and blows landing tellingly on Jurgis every second. It became clear that fighting this boy was a mistake, and that he was clearly the stronger fighter. A fist smacked him right in the middle of the face, and he recoiled as he heard his nose break.

Blood streamed from the wound, and his eyes glazed over; suddenly it was like watching everything through a pane of glass, and as though everyone moved as if through water. He saw the rising and falling of Rellis’ chest, the glistening sweat on his upper lip and the bulging veins in the boy’s head. He blinked steadily but slowly his vision was getting cloudier and darker.

He uttered a soft moan, and fell steadily back until his head hit the frozen ground with a loud crack!

[Nacho Wolf]

Nice, and I liked how you told the saga

[Skirax]

Cheers, but I've just noticed some mistakes... fixing now.

[Skirax]

Chapter Three

 

Jurgis’ eyes snapped open, and the first thing he felt was the cold bite of the snow against his bare flesh. His skin stung, and the driving gale ripped and tore at his soft pink hide as it whipped its way across the wasteland. He inhaled deeply, and felt soft flecks of snow fall from his chest as it rose and fell. A dull pain came from the centre of his chest. He moaned, and rolled over, to see a pool of blood extending out into the distance. The crimson snow danced in his vision, and he felt a throbbing pain in the centre of his face. He gingerly touched where his nose would be, to find that it had travelled halfway across his face in a trail of blood and broken cartilage.

His lips tasted coppery, and as he smacked them together, he realised that his mouth was incredibly dry, and that he needed a drink. He tried to rise into a sitting position, but fell back again with a cry as pain exploded in his right side. He looked down at it, to see that the entirety of his right side was black and blue with bruises.

His stomach ached like he had been swatted by an Ice Troll, and he cried in pain as tried once again to sit up; this time he was successful. He saw that he still was in the camp, that was good, but where once the fire had roared, there was a heap of blackened snow and charred twigs. A thick layer of snow covered everything, and the blanket of soft white snow was attempting to scale the sides of every long house, and had settled on the roof of each one.

The storm beat at him, tearing at his eyes and scratching his skin in an attempt to down him; he would not let it prevail. He rose to his feet, ignoring the roaring pain in every fibre of his body. He could not see clearly for more than five strides, and everything beyond that became a blur, a ghost in the mist that could be anything from an Ice Troll to the most feared Thunderwolf. His temples pulsed with pain, and he moved to rub his head. As his hand left his midriff, pain flared up once more, and he clutched his stomach, crying out in pain as his whole body shook from it and the freezing cold.

He stumbled forwards, everything a blur, and he realised just how cold his feet were; they were like lumps of clay ending in stumps of wood, completely numb and as though someone had tied a lump of boar-meat to his feet.

He squinted as he saw a movement in the darkness; it was swift and as though a ghost, but he knew that he saw it; a hulking monster, the shaggiest coat of fur he had ever seen, and long claws that ended with your death, planted feet that looked as though they could be human, but were far more twisted that any feet he had ever seen.

With the monster were more beasts, each smaller and hunched over on all fours, glints of teeth the size of icicles and teeth the colour of the blood-snow on which he walked. Sounds of barking and snarling came from these beasts, and for some reason, Jurgis began walking towards where he saw them.

He trod on something warm and soft, and his foot went straight through the object; he looked down, and saw that his foot was buried ankle deep in the torso of Rellis’ still warm corpse. Dead eyes stared up at Jurgis, as if accusing him with the judging stare of the Morkai-claimed, his lips twisted back in one last snarl. His flesh still had a faint glow to it that spoke of a recent death. Despite hating this bastard, Jurgis could not help but feel responsible for his death; maybe his throttling of him had led to his loss of breathing close to his death, which prevented from fighting off his attacker sufficiently.

He bowed his head, and as he did so, he caught sight of more dead bodies laying about the camp, there corpses defiled and, in some places, whole limbs torn from the still warm bodies of his Tribesmen.

A wave of sadness hit Jurgis, and suddenly the cold was shaken off as loss and realism took it’s toll on him; he was the last of his clan, his brothers dead and ripped apart.

He had no Tribe.

He had nothing left.

He had nothing to lose.

Hatred filled him at this prospect that those who had loved and hated were gone forever, never to return, never to see their smiling faces again, never to feel the warm embrace of his mother’s hug again. At this thought his mother, his hatred dissipated as quick as it had formed, and loss and sadness ravaged his body. He bowed his head again, and his form shook as sobs were ripped from his lips and tears flowed freely from his eyes as he was overcome by a wave of emotions; sadness, loss, abandonment, vulnerability, and last of all, fiery and hot, anger. Anger at who had done this, who had ripped apart his own world at their own whim, and thrown him into a world of endangerment and fear.

He peeled his lips back to reveal his snarling teeth, anger and hatred filling him and giving him strength and warmth once more. A howl of loss and anger welled up in his mouth, raging to escape from his lips.

As he began to throw his head back, he came face to face with a beast ripped right from hell; he was staring into the eyes of the mythical Wulfen-beast.

[Nacho Wolf]

Damn! That guy beat the B) out of him, looking forward to seeing how he escapes though

[Skirax]

Thanks Nacho, did I go too over the top with his injuries?

[Nacho Wolf]

Mayby just a little, I mean, you cant bash a guy that badly in the middle of a feast without someone noticing :lol:

[Skirax]

Maybe, but maybe he was punching him for a while while everyone else was drunk... I think I need a rewrite, or at least add things in.

[Nacho Wolf]

Ah, drunkeness, makes everything better :eek

[Skirax]

Hopefully the next part will be up tonight.

[Skirax]

Chapter Four

 

Jurgis felt the sweat bead on his upper lip; seconds dragged on forever, and he felt every feeling of pain vanish from his body to be replaced with blind fear; he had been standing here for Russ knows how long, with a Wulfen-beast breathing in his face.

He dared not move, his chest barely rising and falling as one ragged breath after another slipped past his lips. His body was shaking as his breaths were ripped from his lungs that ravaged his form. A single tear rolled down his cheeks and he closed his eyes as thoughts raced through his mind.

I’m going to die here and now, thought Jurgis, and he whispered a prayer to the Sky Gods to save him from this horrible fate.

The Wulfen-beast breathed out on his face, and he screwed his face up at the stench of its rancid breath. He opened his eyes and looked into the eyes of the Wulfen-beast, and it was as though seeing into its heart; he saw anger and hatred; wild, unfettered hatred that left the beast prone to attacking all within its path.

Then he looked around, and felt that anger again; he felt the loss of his father, his brother, his mother. His eyes began to well up in tears, droplets forming in the corners of his eyes. His lip quivered, and he stifled a yelp of pain. The Wulfen-beast roared at this, droplets of spit flying out, some hitting his face, followed by a wave of a stagnant breath that reeked of blood and torn flesh.

Jurgis stared into the face of this monstrosity, all thoughts of pain and loss gone, replaced with hatred for this beast that had butchered his whole clan. A red mist fell over his vision, and he pulled his lips back in a silent snarl. He felt a coldness descend upon his heart, and for a moment he was shocked that his soul could contain such a vicious nature.

Then he roared, his whole heart and soul put into the warcry, and it was as though his every breath was ripped from his lungs and thrown at the beast in a moment of savagery that made even the beast pause of a second.

Before the roar had even finished, Jurgis threw his whole form at the hulking beast, barrelling into its chest and winding the monster. He felt himself hit the huge fury chest, the shaggy coat of the Wulfen hard and stiff with sweat, ice and blood; he heard bones crack and splinter as he hit the beast, and it let out a yelp of pain and shock as it hit the floor.

Taking advantage of his moment of respite, Jurgis lunged for the weapons-hall, wiping the snow away frantically in an attempt to get to one of the spears; a feeling of relief washed over him as his hands clutched the wooden hilt of an oak-spear that had been buried by snow.

He swung around, the spear at the ready; he was caught off guard.

A huge paw, greater than his face, swatted him on his cheek, and he was sent sprawling to the ground. He cried out in pain as he hit the ground hard, he broken bones and injuries grating, pain flaring through his body in a wave of excruciating agony.

Before he could even turn, the beast was on him; it clawed at his face, ripping it to shreds, deep gashes appearing all over his features. When his face was in ribbons, the beast resorted to beating him with its huge great paws; what was left of his face was bruised and beaten, and slowly began to feel his life-force drain out of him.

In a defiant cry, he threw the beast off of him, which whimpered as its broken bones began to dig at it. He stumbled up, his strength spent and his eye sight bloodshot and misty. He saw the beast lumbering at him, and tears stung his eyes; he knew he was about to die.

Roaring a praise to Russ, he stabbed blindly and smiled as his efforts were rewarded with a bleating cry of pain and agony, and the snapping of bone and tearing of flesh.

The Wulfen lashed out wildly, and its huge paws swatted him away, hitting his right side with the force of a tank. Pain raged through his body, but he cared not. He was as good as dead, and he knew that nothing could save him.

He hit the ground, and rolled for a few moments before coming to rest with his back on the King’s Hold. His vision blurry, he could just about make out the hulking Wulfen limping towards him. Despite his sight, he could make out the eyes clearly; they shone like beacons in the now growing storm, golden and cold, unforgiving in every sense. He could smell its hunger, and he knew that he was truly damned to walk Morkai’s cold realm forever.

Suddenly huge percussive bangs came, but it was as though he was hearing them from out at the World-Sea, and his ears were covered up by bandages. He saw the Wulfen’s side explode as missiles struck him, but these were not any missiles he had seen; they were grey, and moved at lightning speed. The Wulfen was thrown sideways and it landed in the snow, dead and unmoving.

Jurgis knew that he could join him soon, as his vision faded even more. He heard panting and the padding of armour feet in snow, but he didn’t care; there was nothing they could do for him now, he though as his vision turned to black.

[Nacho Wolf]

Not bad, but I think the wulfen seemed a bit too weak, i mean, he was a guy who had the :P bashed out of him, and he broke the wulfens ribs by barreling into him, unless of course it was an aspirant who had recently fallen and he wasnt fully wulfen yet

[Skirax]

Imagine him like Kren from the books. But don't worry, the next chapter clears things up.

[Nacho Wolf]

righto then, looking forward to it

[Skirax]

Working on it now :)