Inspiration Friday 2016: Thousand Sons (until 1/13)

[Thedarkprincesnun]

A wolf and the Plague Lord

Zenka stood there clothed in a pale white robe almost pale enough to be transparent. While her skin was covered in blood, the pox marks on.her skin were still clear to see. She had devoted herself to the Plague Lord after the Death Guard under the command of Morbidrax Plague Born had assault Aegis IX with the intention of taking the world. The battle between the forces on the planet and the Death Guard had lasted no longer than a week yet it felt like it could of gone on for longer.

 

She remembered that as the Death Guard took the capital city the warriors of Russ had turned up led by a rune priest to try to save Aegis IV. She chuckled at this for those who had sworn allegiance to Nurgle and Lord Morbidrax had gathered all.of the children from the worlds orphanages. Those who accepted Nurgle into their hearts were allowed to live and were offered a chance to join Morbidrax's death guard warband, those who refused to accept Nurgle were dragged to the sacrifical.altars built in former temples which venerated the corpse Emperor.

 

She felt for her Athemae at this point remembering how the children to be sacrificed along with their parents screamed and begged for mercy but one by one they were sacrificed to the plague father led by the Warbands chief Apostle. It was a delicous conciet which she enjoyed. However her most clear memory of the battle was when Lord Morbidrax fought the Rune Priest Yenki.in one on one conbat.

 

Yenki kept trying to call the power of fenris to his aid to slay the chaos lord yet the warbands sorcerors easily blocked his powers. For the next 10 minutes a mini duel would happen between Morbidrax and Yenki with Morbidrax catching every single one of Yenkis force sword blows with his power fist while snap shotting his bolt pistol at Yenki until Yenki finally losing control of his rage channeled all his psychic power and rage into his force sword. Almost as if making a mockery of the psyker Morbidrax again caught the blade and this time snapped it in half before forcing his power fist into Yenkis chest and ripping out one of his 2 hearts before throwing the rune priest to the ground below. It was at this moment the chaos lord took aim with the bolt pistol and blew Yenkis head off.

[Kierdale]

Blood on the shoulder of Orion

Hidden Content

The second brightest star in one of the most visible and famous constellations of the night sky, Beit Algueze shone blood red. In the northern hemisphere of Terra it had been the shoulder of the hunter Orion, or the chthonic deity Pelops with his shoulder of ivory. To some in the southern hemisphere the star had been indicative of the leg of Zilikawai, severed by his own wife. In other cultures the star was presided over by Rudra, the god of storms and the hunt.

And indeed the hunt had come to Beit Algueze.

 

Castor watched as more snow fell gently from the heavens. On a planet further from its star the overcast sky would have been pale grey, but the bloody orb of Beit Algueze dyed the sky pink and veined with crimson where the clouds were thinner. The snow too, which carpeted all from the withered, calcified trees to the windswept plains to the cyclopean ruins, was roseate. Only the falling flakes, being too small to be significantly dyed by the sun’s light, remained purest white. He raised his head to watch the precipitation as it grew heavier, minimal vapour escaping the facial grill of his helmet, the great majority being recycled into his armour’s life support systems. This was but one essential function of his armour for, despite the snow covering all in sight and the babbling of the river a dozen meters distant, none of the water on the planet Heike could be consumed. This close to its star, Heike was bathed in radiation which would poison even the resistant flesh of an Astartes outside of his armour. His heavy flamer in his right hand, the pilot light ever burning, he extended his left hand to catch a particularly large flake as it tumbled down to earth. His helmet’s lenses, one red and one green, intensified his view of the icy crystal and he admired its six-fold symmetry. Hooked spokes and crescents radiating from a central ring. Surely a good omen.

Looking back he could see more of his kin and their mortal servants, the latter of whom would not live long enough to leave this world, working about the ruins.

At some point in the past the planet had been habitable. Such was evident from the remains of crafted structures. It was also evident that either those who had lived here had left and somehow caused the system’s star to make the planet inhabitable - bathing it in radiation - or some enemy of theirs had done so and thus killed them or driven them off. The architecture itself was familiar to Castor and his brethren, though the slight variations from that which they knew indicated that these ruins were from an earlier age.

The graceful curves, the non-Euclidean lines: unmistakably Eldar. The runes on most surfaces had been worn away by the wind over the ages, and the slow dying of the bone-like material they were crafted from.

The Imperium had always steered clear of Heike, situated so close to its star, due to the radiation which also blinded the auspexes of all survey craft and probes which had been dispatched to the small planetoid, and thus hidden the ruins. Only the Psychopomps, knowing now what to look for, had found it; piecing together alien legends and visions torn from unwilling minds.

Their ships having withdrawn to the nearby asteroid belt, the former captain of the Stygian Guard’s second company had been tasked with securing the area while the warband’s chief librarian and his acolytes worked within the ruins. As the Stygian Guard they had held duty above all else, denying themselves pride, anger, sorrow or any other emotions. But such days were now long gone and the Psychopomps sought excess. Sensation.

Castor found guard duty vexed him greatly.

 

Holusiax peeled a layer of scaly skin from his lower torso. Chief librarian of the Psychopomps, for the warband still clung to the titles they had used while a loyalist chapter, he had lost the lower half of his body in the blast of a battle cannon many years earlier on the planet Cyprius III. It had been there that they chapter had faced a populace corrupted by the Dark Prince of Chaos. Their battle doctrines had been found wanting and chapter master Sophusar had ordered the infiltration of the enemy cults and the eventual adopting of the enemy’s tactics. Master of Sanctity Angra had overseen the acquisition of the enemy’s lore and the chapter’s rapid descent into madness and debauchery had begun. MIA at the time, Holusiax had been captured by the enemy. While the cultists had attempted futilely to break him, he had been visited by a herald of Slaanesh. She had opened his mind to new powers, corruptive and excessive powers rather than the blunt applications the chapter had always practiced. He had fallen in exchange for these powers and the restoration of his body. Now, from the belly down, his body resembled a large rosy-hued serpent, and a second pair of arms, slender and purple-skinned like those of the Q’tlahs’itsu’aksho sprouted from beneath his armour-encased human arms. His armour only covering the human parts of his body, he noticed with great interest that the planet’s radiation seemed to be affecting his `altered` body parts - whether they were entirely post-human flesh and blood or daemonic flesh had never truly been determined. He examined the film of exfoliated scales and dismissed the temptation to consume them, before returning to his work satisfied that while the radiation ravaged their mortal servants his body would not be permanently damaged.

One of master Sophusar’s visions had brought them to Heike and the Eldar ruins within the skeletal forests. Beastmen and human thralls toiled to shift the debris, their breath escaping in clouds of vapour into the cold air. Occasionally one would collapse, vomiting blood, their bodies wracked by seizures as they were overcome by radiation poisoning. But more took the places of the fallen, their muscular bodies pierced with spikes and chains, some ending in jewelry, some tethering slave to slave, flesh covered in myriad tattoos: the mark of Slaanesh, the Octed, hands appearing to grope and probe the wearer’s own body, prayers and invocations, glyphs in the Dark Tongue and leering daemonic faces.

With a crash a cyclopean block was shifted from a doorway, followed by blood curdling screams as it rolled over a pair of musclebound eunuch thralls. Holusiax undulated his body, moving across the rubble-strewn courtyard, over the spasming limbs sticking out from under the block, and to the threshold. They had succeeded in reopening the temple. `Reopening it` for while the settlement lay in ruins the positioning of that vast obstacle had clearly been a deliberate act.

Thralls collapsing about him from exertion and succumbing to the environment, he motioned to his coven and the Psychopomp sorcerers moved within, toward their prize. The skull.

 

That it was one of the Death Knell - one of the warband’s elite who employed sonic weapons - who first heard the approaching fliers was perhaps not surprising, so keen was their hearing (rather than ravaged as some might have expected), but that they was detected so late was evidence of the enemy’s skill. The roar grew suddenly, the fliers evidently having flown nap of the earth for several kilometers and from its volume Castor initially suspected a Caestus assault ram. He was not much mistaken, for a pair of Stormwolf transports shot over the ruins. A dozen thralls, men and beast alike, exploded in pink clouds as they were strafed by sponson heavy bolters and two of the warband’s three rhinos exploded as they were bullseyed by lascannon fire. The remaining slaves scrabbled for cover while Castor called out to his men and the Death Knell to get into position to repel the enemy assault.

The Space Wolves had come.

 

Castor noticed that Xeolus, his lieutenant in the elite Reapers, was already attempting to hail the warband’s own ships, his hand against the side of his helm and the antenna on his backpack extended. The chances of getting through the radiation - and possible enemy jamming - were slim but nevertheless it was standard operation to try. If they didn’t get through to the ships then they’d have to fight off the wolves on their own, for master Sophusar was not going to return to pick them up for another sixty hours. Meanwhile the last rhino had rammed its way through the wall of a crumbling habitation in order to seek cover and the traitor astartes had manned defensive positions.

Positions they had already prepared, for Castor was formerly the captain of the chapter’s second company and while the old structure was steadily changing, with the Bloody First in chains, those of the Second were the elite of the chapter. As the rigid chapter rules had broken down, Castor had taken it upon himself to draw the best warriors he could to his sect. Renegades they might be but Castor kept them honed sharp. As the Stygian Guard they had reduced themselves to holding duty to the mission above all else. As the Psychopomps they found they were now the steersmen of their destiny and they had added to this the gifts of their new patron.

 

The Stormwolves howled as they came round, preparing to land upon the snowfield across the river from the ruins. The growling engines of one turned to a pained howl as several of the Death Knell squads together turned their heaviest sonic weapons upon it. The flyer’s starboard engine gave out, turbine blades fracturing under the sonic assault. Eating its own debris the engine exploded and while still a dozen meters off the ground the Stormwolf rolled and fell, landing upside down and crushing the pilot. Cries of exultation went up along the Psychopomp lines, faltering as the assault ramps of both opened, the damaged one jerkily, its pistons assisted by astartes muscle from within. And then in a blink the wolves of Fenris were charging across the pink snow. So fast they were that the traitors barely had chance to try to identify them, let alone find a commander to behead. Were they Blood Claws, Grey Hunters or fearsome Wolf Guard? None could tell for the Stygians had never fought alongside the Wolves and all alike were adorned with pelts, teeth and skulls. It mattered little for they were already crossing the river, their pace eating up the ground and sending up white sprays of water as they waded in barely slowed by the current. Still beyond bolter range, Castor watched as the Death Knell turned their sonic cannons upon the wolves, the scream-roars of their weapons parting the river itself, blasting the enemy from their feet when hit indirectly and obliterating those hit true. Power armour was no protection against the crescendo of destructive sonic waves, ceramite cracking and crumbling under the Death Knell assault. The warband’s Havocs kept up the assault on the surviving Stormwolf, pummelling it with their autocannons as it strained to lift off as soon as the last space wolf was out of its maw. It made it into the sky once more, smoke trailing from several punctures in its hull where cannon rounds had found weaknesses, and it throttled up and away. Castor had no doubt this was no retreat but a withdrawal to set up a strafing run and he motioned to the Havoc champion, Alethor, to keep his squad’s guns pointed skyward. The purple and turquoise armoured former Devastator continued scanning the horizon with his helm-tethered servoskull. The rest of the Psychopomps would deal with the wolves on the ground.

The screaming of the Knell’s sonics was momentarily drowned out by the roar of bolters as the enemy closed to range. Not a single wolf paused to fire a bolt gun; whether they realized the futility of firing upon the Psychopomps behind their defences or they were simply overcome with battle lust was undiscernible. More bodies dropped into the snow, splashing the pink ground crimson, and then the wolves were at the walls.

Members of Castor’s elite Reapers torched the vanguard with their combi-flamers, champions threw back others with destructively-amplified screams and Castor turned his own heavy flamer upon the enemy scrabbling up the ruined Eldar walls before hefting his axe and hewing at the first wolf to complete the ascent. He doff the marine’s head and booted the body back down, dislodging two of his kill’s comrades before having to back away from the makeshift parapet as bolt shells flew up at him. Some of the wolves were covering their comrades’ ascent. Cunning bastards. The traitor captain laughed aloud and stood his ground as a pair of wolves pulled themselves up to face him. Though the wolves were famed for fighting bareheaded, their braids and beards trailing like techno-barbarians from before the Unification, they were not so foolish as to poison themselves in Heike’s atmosphere. One held an axe as big as Castor’s own, but while his arced with power the wolf’s appeared to be forged of deep blue, white-veined ice; one of their famed frost axes, Castor’s eyes lingered upon it covetously. A fine trophy it would make. Thus distracted he noticed the knife of the second wolf a split second too late, raising the haft of his axe too late and managing to deflect the wolf’s combat blade from severing his wrist, only for the marine to deftly yank it backwards and cut the power cables of his axe. Taking a couple of quick steps backward he nodded in recognition of the wolf’s skill, but his enemy had no time for such dueling niceties and Castor found the frost axe of the other arcing toward his chest. Rather than darting out or attempting to duck beneath the blow he threw himself toward the axeman, catching the frost blade’s haft upon that of his now-dead axe, and driving his right hand into the enemy’s gut.

While his power axe and his heavy flamer were weapons he had wielded since his ascension to captaincy of the Stygian Guard’s second company centuries earlier, his right hand was one of those gifts the Psychopomps had embraced since their seduction by Slaanesh. An overgrown daemonic claw of chitin half as long as Castor was tall, it scythed through the axeman with ease. Resisting the urge to perform a flourish and take the marine’s head too, Castor quickly turned, sensing the knifeman was pressing his attack. He would retrieve the frost axe later.

He now saw his foe better. The granite grey armour was pitted and scarred, the pelt and wolf tails ragged, the talismans old and worn. Castor’s assuming that the marine’s use of the knife indicated a low rank and lack of skill was a fault he now realized. This wolf used the knife because he favoured the basic weapon. Because he was deadly with it.

The knife - a sword in the hands of mortal men - was quick and what it lacked in range it made up for in utility, slipping under Castor’s blocks with the heavy axe to slice vulnerable joints of his armour. He cried out in exhilarating pain as the cold metal blade was slipped between the carapace plates of his claw-arm and swung it out to backhand the wolf away, only for his foe to slip under it, slicing as he did so. This however brought the wolf low enough and Castor thrust his knee up into the veteran’s faceplate. The wolves were not the only ones who could fight dirty and Castor never forgot that one’s entire body was a weapon. His other boot delivered a hard kick to the wolf’s sternum as he staggered from the knee and Castor took the moment to kneel and drop his dead axe. When the wolf veteran had shaken the stars from his vision and brought up his knife to block the traitor’s next blow he found not a dead axe blade impacting his knife but a stolen frost axe cutting clean through it, his hand and deep into his head.

 

The Psychopomps were being pushed back. Too many of his gaudily-armoured men lay in the pink snow, and too few of the Fenrisians. Close combat was the forte of the wolves and despite the losses the Fenrisians had taken in the landing and their charge across the snowflats and river, their ferocity with blades was formidable. Castor cursed as he hew about with the purloined blade; Holusiax and his coven’s powers could have turned the tide with ease, or at least leveled the balance.

As if called, Castor felt the veil ripple and a presence at his back; the ruined temple - for the Psychopomps had been pushed so far back. He stole a glance backwards expecting to find the serpent sorcerer and his warlocks there, only to find them stood about a far larger being. Reverse kneed, with a form neither entirely male nor female and with four powerful limbs sprouting from its sides, the beast’s head was bovine, like that Angra had found atop the head of the statue within the Temple of Astarte back on Cyprius III.

The Beast bellowed and the wolves staggered, their assault stalled. Though he could not see their faces, in their body language Castor could see that they now realized they were too late. Whoever or whatever had alerted them to the Psychopomps’ presence here on Heike had been too late.
The ground shook as the huge daemon charged forth from its prison and the wolves were scattered before it.

[Captain Malachi]

Aeolus howled with laughter as he tore the head off the Wolf in front of him. Dimly, he was aware that he was taking many minor wounds from loyalist bolter fire, but his soul partner was closing most of them in moments. Nonetheless, he knew his wings were likely in tatters by this point, and that he could not keep this up forever. He also knew he didn't need to though, as the sorcerer coven behind him and his allies were already casting a summoning spell to bring forth an army of daemonettes and other Slaaneshi daemons to the material realm to fight alongside their warband.

 

Another Marine came at him to avenge his fallen comrade, a great axe in hand, but Aeolus practically danced past it and hammered his claw in to the loyalist's chest. The next Wolf was faster, or perhaps simply more skilled, and managed to carve a chunk from his arm. Cursing, he was unable to react in time as the second axe swing knocked him to the floor, blood pouring from a great wound in his chest. Barely able to move, he glared at the marine as he moved to bring his axe down and end Aeolus' life. If it weren't for the timely intervention of one of his god's daemons that would have been his end, her rune-carved sword knocked the axe to the side, and curved back to cut the wolf through the neck and back out below his arm almost before he had a chance to even register her presence.

 

Laying on his back and struggling to breathe, he had time to see the horde of daemons surging past him and in to the Space Wolf ranks, many being shot down, but many more managing to make contact and cut the loyalist marines to pieces with their claws and blades. His saviour, the daemonette with the sword, took a moment to look him over, almost seeming fond as she glanced over his wounds. Putting her sword aside a moment and placing her surprisingly human hand on his head, he knew she was telling him to rest, that she and her sisters would finish the fight. He smiled, one last time, and blacked out to the screams of dying wolves.

 

 

 

 

Pretty short, but it'll do. Also he's not dead by the way, he'll be back.

[Scourged]

Ah... I'm a bit late to the party with my adjudication, but these things happen. Quite an eventful weekend for me, but anyway, here I am, so let's take a look.

 

Carrack brought us Most High -  that was a fun read, the introduction in particular. The scene-setting and dialogue between the trader and the governor was very nice. The ending, too, painted a hell of a scene. I especially liked the name: Teeth of the Maw. Only thing I can say is I wanted more in regards to the middle: more about the corruption, more about the fall.

 

I wrote Change Be Praised. Yup.

 

Kierdale brought us a couple of 'em, Voices Down the Thread and Thirsty - I particularly enjoyed the first of the two vignettes. It was a nice, slow build to the "hidden enemy within" idea. Funny thing about it: every time I read about the great spider, all I kept seeing in my head was Duke's Dear Freja of Dark Souls II.

 

Last up was Teetengee with 187th Nyriadnean - First person can be a rough choice for telling a story, but it worked well here. It made for a good progression from fear into hatred. Getting inside the head of a trooper, and why they turn rogue, it was nice. Plus, who among us doesn't enjoy the "villain is the real hero" trope?

 

So yeah... short list to pick from to decide a winner... but that doesn't make it any easier. Regardless, I have selected:

 

Teetengee, with 187th Nyriadnean.

[Teetengee]

Oooh, much appreciated!

If it makes you feel more villainous, I am not convinced Starscream didn't arrange for some miscommunications or "suggest" the tau attack the planet.

[Scourged]

Oooh, much appreciated!

If it makes you feel more villainous, I am not convinced Starscream didn't arrange for some miscommunications or "suggest" the tau attack the planet.

Oh, I would have it no other way. Just because he's the "hero" doesn't mean he's a "good" guy, heh.

Anyway, here's my entry for the week:

Red Snow

“Remind me why we are wasting our time here, brother.”

The heretic’s head crushed easily in the savage’s gauntlet. As the pulverized body was dropped and forgotten, another dying mortal was crumpled beneath an ice blue ceramite boot. The expelled viscera of the wolf’s victims melted the gentle snow and tainted it a rich red, permeating the underbrush of a conifer forest.

“We are here because the Wolf Lord commanded, Edvin. I would think that much was obvious.”

The young Blood Claw growled under his breath, annoyed by his brother’s literal response. They both continued trudging through the empty battlefield, ending the miserable lives of mortal heretics who still yet lived. The task was beyond menial to the noble savage Edvin Grimfang.

“I know this, Edvard. I will honor the Wolf Lord. But why does he command us here?”

There, a boy in robes of blue and gold. He begged to die. His fear and cowardice teased Edvin’s nose, drowning out the charnel smell of the boy’s open wounds. No smiting blow for him; let him wither and suffer for his heresy. Over there, a woman in azure fatigues, belly-crawling toward him with a blade in her hand. Filthy vermin. Edvin’s boot quickly silenced her blasphemous protests. To the right, a man with broken limbs slumped against a tree. He pointlessly pulled the trigger on his ammo-less autopistol. The man’s face was smashed between the thick tree and a ceramite hand.

“You have been briefed on this already, brother. The seeds of Chaos have bloomed on this frozen world. And more than that, these seeds were bore by the tainted fruit of our oldest foe: the Crimson King and his servants. All the more reason to bring the fury of Fenris to this icy heap of a world.”

Another annoyed growl emanated from the younger Blood Claw, his frustration with Edvard now audible to them both. But the older wolf betrayed no indication of notice, or caring. He moved forward still, powering his chainsword long enough to rend the head from an old man and not a second longer.

“No, I mean to ask why we are here, trudging through these snow-soaked woods, menially wading through these traitorous rats while our brothers engage in real battle!”

Edvard abruptly ended his forward pace, making a grandiose show of exhaling a long sigh. He turned, and the two brothers faced each other in the snow, speaking over the wailing and curses of the dying.

“I swear, you never listen. Were it not for me, you’d have wandered headfirst into a Fenrisian winter with naught but your lack of wits, wielding a blade to fight the storms.”

Through all their lives, Edvard could always manage to get a rise out of his little brother. And now was just yet another of so many occasions already occurred and yet to come. The older man knew just what to say and how to say it to torment his sibling best. The little wolf bellowed an angry howl and pulled out his bolt pistol, the cold face of the elder sibling square between the gun’s sights.

“Stop treating me like an ignorant pup and answer me!”

In a flash, a second bolt pistol was held at arm’s length, the small trinkets and fangs still shaking and clattering from the abrupt motion. Edvard met his brother’s challenge in stride. They stood there, in a deadlock, until the elder wolf finally spoke, in the same calm tones as always.

“Somewhere on this hill is one of the Astartes of the XV Legion. He was the mastermind leading this little coup. You and I have been tasked with hunting him down amid the mortal chaff. And once found, we will take from him the answers we need to hunt the rest of his warp-damned brethren… but you already knew that didn’t you, brother?”

Slowly, amidst their standoff, Edvin slowly pulled his upper lip back until it was in a fully mocking sneer. He dropped his pistol to his side – not before whipping it to his right to smash the face of a crying man – and threw his head back in laughter. Edvard was soon doing the same, holstering his firearm and laughing with his brother at yet another one of their feigned melodramas. They had long shared this running joke with each other, seemingly since they could both first speak.

“Come on. I saw the glint of blue and gold ceramite twenty paces to our west, and I can smell Astartes blood in the air. Enough toying with the mortals; let’s go.”

Edvin growled in compliance with his brother’s order and the two novice Blood Claws moved their way through the thick snow. Their joking forgotten, each warrior moved with purpose. Sure enough, the telltale sign of baroque blue armor with golden trim was shining in the double moonlight. The Brothers Grimfang walked with purpose, executing any lowly cultist still alive and in their path, until they stood looming over the broken son of Magnus the Red.

The body was half buried in the snow, and wasn’t moving. Edvard could hear no heartbeat, and the blood scent in the air was stale. Edvin lifted his foot and kicked the armored body once, but it did not stir. They both quietly stared at the body before Edvin shrugged and spoke.

“He’s dead.”

“Yes, Edvin, I can see that.”

The younger wolf pounded his fist on his brother’s pauldron, and then knelt to grab the dead heretic by the collar and pull it out of the snowy dune. To the surprise of them both, the XV legionnaire dead at their feet had half of his armor plate dyed a dark crimson instead of blue.

“Since when did the sons of the Crimson King start putting pretty red paint on their hands and heads?”

Edvard did not know. He knelt to examine the body, twisting the ragdoll corpse around to discern any information he could. Curiously there was no heraldry of the 1000 Sons upon this warrior. Still, he was obviously of the same Chaos taint. Pointed stars and blasphemous runes covered the ornate plating on the corpse. The symbol on the heretics shoulder wasn’t a self-consuming serpent, but instead a wicked eye with eight cardinal arrows. This situation was growing odd.

“They don’t. This is a different breed of traitor, though I do not know which. Still, we came all this way to interrogate a heretic, and so I will.”

Taking his blade in hand, Edvard pointed the tip between finger joints of the dead Astartes and sawed his way through until the digit was freed from the hand. In only a moment, the crimson shell of ceramite was cast aside and the flesh cleaned off of the bone. The wolf feasted on the scraps of muscle and skin, hoping his omophagea could provide insight.

At first, it brought nothing. There were small traces of lingering memories, but nothing of discernable quality. It was all very fleeting. It was nothing, until it became everything. Like a fire in his spine, Edvard’s omophagea was overloaded with information, bombarding his brain with the compressed memories from centuries of lies and betrayal.

Edvin watched helplessly as his brother fell to the snow convulsing and screaming. He was babbling nonsense and howling in pain, clawing at his face and head, legs kicking wildly. What had happened?! What foul intoxicant waited in this heretic’s flesh? The younger wolf reached out to grab his brother’s flailing limbs, but a ball of orange plasma sailed through the air and severed the wolf’s outstretched limb with a cauterizing wound.

The Blood Claw howled in painful rage, turning toward the origin of the blast with chainsword already drawn and powered. He looked everywhere, but saw nothing. He smelled the air, but the stench of ozone and burnt flesh concealed any trace of his attacker. He scanned the trees and snow, looking for any sign of the enemy, but saw only too late a second shot of plasma peel toward him. Had he not seen it and dodged, the wolf would be dead from a hole in his chest. The maneuver cost him his other arm, but he was alive.

With Edvin dismembered and helpless his concealed assassin came forward. The sorceries cloaking the ambusher dripped away like thick oil, slowly revealing an armored figure hiding in plain sight. As the tendrils of the invisibility spell fell away entirely, the wolf could finally see his attacker: it wore the same colors as the dead traitor at his feet. The sorcerer wore a cloak of rich green on his back, carried a force maul in one hand, and held out a still smoking plasma pistol in the other. A bald and tan face stared back at the injured wolf, all three eyes burning with menacing intent.

“You’re right – we’re not the children of the Daemon Prince Magnus. But we do serve the True Master, same as the Prospero-born.”

“Sorcerer…” Edvin forced the words through his teeth and canine fangs, biding back the pain from his lost limbs, “…what have you… done to… my brother?!”

Seemingly satisfied that the wolf was no longer a threat – a foolish assessment – the sapphire sorcerer lowered his pistol and took two steps forward. Edvin wanted to badly to lunge at the filthy heretic and rip out his throat, but he needed to wait. He would find the opening, and strike, but now was not the time to blindly charge.

“Your mutual ignorance to the nature of my warband – while understandable – is what plagues your brother. The minds of me and mine are scourged by the spoken lies of all of mankind. And right now? Your brother is hearing them all at once, just as we have for centuries. If you’re lucky, the experience will only render him comatose instead of dead.”

“Why… are you here…?”

“Same as you, amusingly. We are chasing the 1000 Sons as well. For as adept as my sorcerous brothers and I are, we are but amateur neophytes compared to those birthed on Prospero. We seek power, and we seek knowledge. So we seek the Sons. Tell me… do you know where they are, hunter?”

Ignorant traitor. Why any Astartes would seek to demean themselves with Chaotic magicks was an action Edvin could not understand. And to praise the heresy of the XV, and not damn it? This tainted being did not deserve the swift but painful death Edvin so desperately wanted to give him.

“No, traitor… I do not know.”

The sorcerer paused, seemingly thinking on those words, and then sighed. He grabbed the force maul in his crimson fist and an aetherial green glow washed over the bladed ends of the weapon.

“No, mongrel, of course you don’t. Oh well.”

Edvin charged forward, fangs bared and aiming them at the exposed neck of the sorcerer. It was a brash, foolish move that would see him dead in the snow in moments, but he did not care. Better to die fighting as a warrior than be executed like a worthless animal. Quite easily, the sorcerer dodged the armless tackle and let the blades of the maul crash into the young wolf with an overhead swing. The corpse of the wolf slumped to the snow in a heap, Edvin’s soul as battered and destroyed as his skull.

[EesiOh]

Oooh, much appreciated!

If it makes you feel more villainous, I am not convinced Starscream didn't arrange for some miscommunications or "suggest" the tau attack the planet.

Oh, I would have it no other way. Just because he's the "hero" doesn't mean he's a "good" guy, heh.

Anyway, here's my entry for the week:

Red Snow

“Remind me why we are wasting our time here, brother.”

The heretic’s head crushed easily in the savage’s gauntlet. As the pulverized body was dropped and forgotten, another dying mortal was crumpled beneath an ice blue ceramite boot. The expelled viscera of the wolf’s victims melted the gentle snow and tainted it a rich red, permeating the underbrush of a conifer forest.

“We are here because the Wolf Lord commanded, Edvin. I would think that much was obvious.”

The young Blood Claw growled under his breath, annoyed by his brother’s literal response. They both continued trudging through the empty battlefield, ending the miserable lives of mortal heretics who still yet lived. The task was beyond menial to the noble savage Edvin Grimfang.

“I know this, Edvard. I will honor the Wolf Lord. But why does he command us here?”

There, a boy in robes of blue and gold. He begged to die. His fear and cowardice teased Edvin’s nose, drowning out the charnel smell of the boy’s open wounds. No smiting blow for him; let him wither and suffer for his heresy. Over there, a woman in azure fatigues, belly-crawling toward him with a blade in her hand. Filthy vermin. Edvin’s boot quickly silenced her blasphemous protests. To the right, a man with broken limbs slumped against a tree. He pointlessly pulled the trigger on his ammo-less autopistol. The man’s face was smashed between the thick tree and a ceramite hand.

“You have been briefed on this already, brother. The seeds of Chaos have bloomed on this frozen world. And more than that, these seeds were bore by the tainted fruit of our oldest foe: the Crimson King and his servants. All the more reason to bring the fury of Fenris to this icy heap of a world.”

Another annoyed growl emanated from the younger Blood Claw, his frustration with Edvard now audible to them both. But the older wolf betrayed no indication of notice, or caring. He moved forward still, powering his chainsword long enough to rend the head from an old man and not a second longer.

“No, I mean to ask why we are here, trudging through these snow-soaked woods, menially wading through these traitorous rats while our brothers engage in real battle!”

Edvard abruptly ended his forward pace, making a grandiose show of exhaling a long sigh. He turned, and the two brothers faced each other in the snow, speaking over the wailing and curses of the dying.

“I swear, you never listen. Were it not for me, you’d have wandered headfirst into a Fenrisian winter with naught but your lack of wits, wielding a blade to fight the storms.”

Through all their lives, Edvard could always manage to get a rise out of his little brother. And now was just yet another of so many occasions already occurred and yet to come. The older man knew just what to say and how to say it to torment his sibling best. The little wolf bellowed an angry howl and pulled out his bolt pistol, the cold face of the elder sibling square between the gun’s sights.

“Stop treating me like an ignorant pup and answer me!”

In a flash, a second bolt pistol was held at arm’s length, the small trinkets and fangs still shaking and clattering from the abrupt motion. Edvard met his brother’s challenge in stride. They stood there, in a deadlock, until the elder wolf finally spoke, in the same calm tones as always.

“Somewhere on this hill is one of the Astartes of the XV Legion. He was the mastermind leading this little coup. You and I have been tasked with hunting him down amid the mortal chaff. And once found, we will take from him the answers we need to hunt the rest of his warp-damned brethren… but you already knew that didn’t you, brother?”

Slowly, amidst their standoff, Edvin slowly pulled his upper lip back until it was in a fully mocking sneer. He dropped his pistol to his side – not before whipping it to his right to smash the face of a crying man – and threw his head back in laughter. Edvard was soon doing the same, holstering his firearm and laughing with his brother at yet another one of their feigned melodramas. They had long shared this running joke with each other, seemingly since they could both first speak.

“Come on. I saw the glint of blue and gold ceramite twenty paces to our west, and I can smell Astartes blood in the air. Enough toying with the mortals; let’s go.”

Edvin growled in compliance with his brother’s order and the two novice Blood Claws moved their way through the thick snow. Their joking forgotten, each warrior moved with purpose. Sure enough, the telltale sign of baroque blue armor with golden trim was shining in the double moonlight. The Brothers Grimfang walked with purpose, executing any lowly cultist still alive and in their path, until they stood looming over the broken son of Magnus the Red.

The body was half buried in the snow, and wasn’t moving. Edvard could hear no heartbeat, and the blood scent in the air was stale. Edvin lifted his foot and kicked the armored body once, but it did not stir. They both quietly stared at the body before Edvin shrugged and spoke.

“He’s dead.”

“Yes, Edvin, I can see that.”

The younger wolf pounded his fist on his brother’s pauldron, and then knelt to grab the dead heretic by the collar and pull it out of the snowy dune. To the surprise of them both, the XV legionnaire dead at their feet had half of his armor plate dyed a dark crimson instead of blue.

“Since when did the sons of the Crimson King start putting pretty red paint on their hands and heads?”

Edvard did not know. He knelt to examine the body, twisting the ragdoll corpse around to discern any information he could. Curiously there was no heraldry of the 1000 Sons upon this warrior. Still, he was obviously of the same Chaos taint. Pointed stars and blasphemous runes covered the ornate plating on the corpse. The symbol on the heretics shoulder wasn’t a self-consuming serpent, but instead a wicked eye with eight cardinal arrows. This situation was growing odd.

“They don’t. This is a different breed of traitor, though I do not know which. Still, we came all this way to interrogate a heretic, and so I will.”

Taking his blade in hand, Edvard pointed the tip between finger joints of the dead Astartes and sawed his way through until the digit was freed from the hand. In only a moment, the crimson shell of ceramite was cast aside and the flesh cleaned off of the bone. The wolf feasted on the scraps of muscle and skin, hoping his omophagea could provide insight.

At first, it brought nothing. There were small traces of lingering memories, but nothing of discernable quality. It was all very fleeting. It was nothing, until it became everything. Like a fire in his spine, Edvard’s omophagea was overloaded with information, bombarding his brain with the compressed memories from centuries of lies and betrayal.

Edvin watched helplessly as his brother fell to the snow convulsing and screaming. He was babbling nonsense and howling in pain, clawing at his face and head, legs kicking wildly. What had happened?! What foul intoxicant waited in this heretic’s flesh? The younger wolf reached out to grab his brother’s flailing limbs, but a ball of orange plasma sailed through the air and severed the wolf’s outstretched limb with a cauterizing wound.

The Blood Claw howled in painful rage, turning toward the origin of the blast with chainsword already drawn and powered. He looked everywhere, but saw nothing. He smelled the air, but the stench of ozone and burnt flesh concealed any trace of his attacker. He scanned the trees and snow, looking for any sign of the enemy, but saw only too late a second shot of plasma peel toward him. Had he not seen it and dodged, the wolf would be dead from a hole in his chest. The maneuver cost him his other arm, but he was alive.

With Edvin dismembered and helpless his concealed assassin came forward. The sorceries cloaking the ambusher dripped away like thick oil, slowly revealing an armored figure hiding in plain sight. As the tendrils of the invisibility spell fell away entirely, the wolf could finally see his attacker: it wore the same colors as the dead traitor at his feet. The sorcerer wore a cloak of rich green on his back, carried a force maul in one hand, and held out a still smoking plasma pistol in the other. A bald and tan face stared back at the injured wolf, all three eyes burning with menacing intent.

“You’re right – we’re not the children of the Daemon Prince Magnus. But we do serve the True Master, same as the Prospero-born.”

“Sorcerer…” Edvin forced the words through his teeth and canine fangs, biding back the pain from his lost limbs, “…what have you… done to… my brother?!”

Seemingly satisfied that the wolf was no longer a threat – a foolish assessment – the sapphire sorcerer lowered his pistol and took two steps forward. Edvin wanted to badly to lunge at the filthy heretic and rip out his throat, but he needed to wait. He would find the opening, and strike, but now was not the time to blindly charge.

“Your mutual ignorance to the nature of my warband – while understandable – is what plagues your brother. The minds of me and mine are scourged by the spoken lies of all of mankind. And right now? Your brother is hearing them all at once, just as we have for centuries. If you’re lucky, the experience will only render him comatose instead of dead.”

“Why… are you here…?”

“Same as you, amusingly. We are chasing the 1000 Sons as well. For as adept as my sorcerous brothers and I are, we are but amateur neophytes compared to those birthed on Prospero. We seek power, and we seek knowledge. So we seek the Sons. Tell me… do you know where they are, hunter?”

Ignorant traitor. Why any Astartes would seek to demean themselves with Chaotic magicks was an action Edvin could not understand. And to praise the heresy of the XV, and not damn it? This tainted being did not deserve the swift but painful death Edvin so desperately wanted to give him.

“No, traitor… I do not know.”

The sorcerer paused, seemingly thinking on those words, and then sighed. He grabbed the force maul in his crimson fist and an aetherial green glow washed over the bladed ends of the weapon.

“No, mongrel, of course you don’t. Oh well.”

Edvin charged forward, fangs bared and aiming them at the exposed neck of the sorcerer. It was a brash, foolish move that would see him dead in the snow in moments, but he did not care. Better to die fighting as a warrior than be executed like a worthless animal. Quite easily, the sorcerer dodged the armless tackle and let the blades of the maul crash into the young wolf with an overhead swing. The corpse of the wolf slumped to the snow in a heap, Edvin’s soul as battered and destroyed as his skull.

BRUTAL, fitting, yet B R U T A L

[Carrack]

Dang, I had a story almost done, then I read Scourged's (what is the possessive of Scourged?) story. I realized that I would need to do better, so I brought out an old favorite character of mine.

 

For the Throne

 

 

Paimun grew annoyed with the chase. His anger at being followed had steadily grown with each step. He had been so careful, had planned everything out to avoid detection from his fellow legionnaires, then the enemy had interrupted his mission. Misguided fool, he would have to be dealt with.

 

Paimun spotted his chance, a wrecked Leman Russ lay on its side, it's turret twisted off and snow banked against it all the way to the top side track. Paimun ran wide around the tank, leaving footprints in the snow bank, then turned sharply and leapt to the leeward side of the wreckage, sheltering out of sight beside the driver's compartment. His leap had eliminated footprints leading to his position, his ambush set, Paimun waited on the enemy. The footprints were a clever touch, but they would not fool the enemy as to his general location. For the enemy was a Space Wolf, and would be tracking him by smell, not sight. Paimun knew this, but had a surprise waiting for the Son of Fenris with his powerfist. Paimun had learned to be quite clever over the centuries.

 

He had to be clever to keep his mission a secret. Discovery by the warband would see him killed for sure, and worse, the mission would fail. The mission had led him to sneak away from the Black Maw's position to find a place where he could commune with his masters via a secretly iimplanted communication node, and if time permitted, strengthen his faith with a moment of prayer. He had slipped out of his lines and ran a circuitous route to see if he had been followed. It had happened before, recently, one of the replacements in the Chosen of Lord Carrack, had taken an interest in Paimun's clandestine activities and followed him below deck to his secret chamber aboard the Bitter Revenge. He had barged in on Paimun just as he was voicing the warband's plans to his secret masters. Paimun's secret chamber had become a tomb for the interloper. His missing presence was assumed to be the result of someone upset at his promotion to Chosen, such was life in the Black Maw. But it didn't have to be like that. When he could finally rest control of the Black Maw from the deluded heretic, Lord Carrack, he would lead the Black Maw into a time of order and stability, a time of righteousness and redemption. He would lead the Black Maw into the light of the God Emperor of Mankind. His masters from the Holy Inquisition told him so.

 

The Wolf drew near. Paimun could hear him running through the snow towards the tank named after his father, how fitting. Paimun had ran long enough to be certain that it was just one Space Wolf following him. He had heard of the Lone Wolf custom before, where a Space Wolf had been left a sole survivor of his pack, and been unwilling or unable to bond with a new pack. A heretical practice no doubt a result of their mutant geneseed. Abhor the mutant. The Lone Wolf's death would not be as difficult as the collateral deaths he had been forced to cause while maintaining his cover. The Inquisition would indeed be pleased with the purging of this mutant.

 

Paimun could hear the wolf running towards him go around the tank by the leeward side, not following his footprints. He must have used some fell sorcery to have divined Paimun's ambush. A mutant and a sorcerer, doubly worthy of His wrath. Paimun turned to face the abomination and took a mass reactive bolt off of the top of his helm. He roared in rage as his head jerked back to the cracking sound of vertebrates violently being realigned with the concussive force of the pistol shot. He beheld the mutant in disgust. Bareheaded, the Lone Wolf howled in rage, displaying long fangs and feral eyes. His armor was adorned with pelts and talismans, as was his smoking bolt pistol and the rune encrusted axe that glowed with the blue of ice found deep inside the core of a glacier. Paimun shot his own bolt pistol as the wolf closed, aiming for the unhelmeted head, but going wide into the barrel of the wrecked tank. The wolf sprang into a leaping attack, timing the wide swing of his axe to strike Paimun at the end of his charge. Paimun countered by stepping back and cocked his powerfist for a straight punch. The wolf landed short, but checked his wild swing by sliding his hand up the handle of his axe. Almost on top of each other, they both swung their energized weapons. Paimun's powerfist punched a hole in the wolf's face, shattering the long canines along with the other teeth, as the fist crushed through jaw, soft tissue, and out the back of the wolf's skull. The short hafted swing of the wolf's frost axe glanced off of Paimun's pauldron, but found purchase lower down, and cut through his armor under his fused ribs. Paimun was forced to a knee.

 

The cut was bad, if he could get back to his lines in time, he would have a chance. His Astartes physiology was already flooding his veins with coagulants and pain blockers, but was struggling to seal the gaping wound in his side. He picked himself up and started back, at first running, then walking, and finally stumbling into base. Questions were being asked by the thinbloods on the perimeter as to what happened, and why was he out on his own, but they wouldn't be pursued. Being Chosen had its privileges. Before he could get much further than the outer perimeter, he finally lost consciousness as his body sent him into a restorative coma.

 

Paimun came to on an operating table, chirurgeons rinsing blades in antiseptic baths. He lifted himself up to a seated position. This could be dangerous, they could have found his communication node. At least he was still armed and armored, the chirurgeons able to operate through the gash in his armor, and not having the time to remove it. The senior chirurgeon came to his table, and started to explain the surgery they had performed. Paimun was not so interested in what the thrall had to say, he had been wounded plenty of times before, he knew this wound would heal, but the tone of the thrall's speech, the sound of his heart beating at a rapid rate, the smell of sweat in a cool room, they all indicated fear. This was no menial thrall who had never seen a Black Legionary up close, but a skilled and valued chirurgeon trained to cut on Astartes, his fear concerned Paimun. He spoke, "Out with it, or I will operate on you, and your condition is looking fatal at the moment." The chirurgeon tried to back away, but Paimun arrested his flight by grabbing his throat with his powerfist. The chirurgeon gasped out, "We found something while we operated my lord, you have been blessed by the gods. Their is a cyst on your spleen, it had a face. It was speaking to you about a mission while you were under the knife, my lord."

 

Paimun had heard these lies before. He was not fooled by such trickery. The lies enraged him to the point of causing his vision to constrict, and a scream of rage to escape his lips. He squeezed the throat of the thrall until his head popped off. He stood from his table and laid about the operating room with both fists, one powered, one merely gauntleted in heavy ceramite. In short order, nothing lived in the operating room. He then went about smashing the equipment and data slates in the room. He would suffer no such heresy as these lies. Finally, he went to the head of the chief chirurgeon and held it aloft, saying, "I offer this skull for Your Golden Throne, I offer this blood for your holy protection." The "God Emperor" was pleased, for he cared not whose skull was given, he cared not whose blood flowed.

 

[sitnam]

Dang, I'm mad I never looked at the link in the Lost in the Danmed forum, didnt realize these were story inspirations. I feel especially bad since there were only a handful of entries

[Carrack]

Dang, I'm mad I never looked at the link in the Lost in the Danmed forum, didnt realize these were story inspirations. I feel especially bad since there were only a handful of entries

The winner may already be determined, but it's never to late to submit stories.

[Teetengee]

 

Dang, I'm mad I never looked at the link in the Lost in the Danmed forum, didnt realize these were story inspirations. I feel especially bad since there were only a handful of entries

The winner may already be determined, but it's never to late to submit stories.

 

Quite so, joooiiiin usssssssss!!!!

[Kierdale]

Indeed, Sitnam, please do post a piece if you have one or feel like writing one. The award is not important really, what is important is being able to read more and more inspirational work, share ideas, etc. :)

[sitnam]

Awesome, thank you for letting me know! I now have a reason to make a story :)

[Scourged]

Awesome, thank you for letting me know! I now have a reason to make a story

Ah, yes! More glory to the Dark Gods!

[EesiOh]

Silence of the Lambs(in wolves clothing) 

 

 

Varg surveyed the battlefield thoughtfully, there was not much he had not seen during his centuries of service in Bjorn Stormwolve's Great Company and yet it seemed every time the wolves found themselves fighting something new, something slightly more unnatural and unsettling than the last. Not that it mattered he thought, ponderously raising his Lascannon to his shoulder and sighting a Herald of Khorne with his targeting reticule, felt the satisfying vibrations and heard the high pitched whine as the purple beam of incandescent plasma fired from his weapon, shoot the daemon off of its mount, the bronze beast it was riding roared in anger and began to stampede amongst the ranks of the bloodletters around it. Nothing mattered much, just him, the rest of his Long Fang squad, and the merciless crushing off Bjorn's foes. As he once again surveyed the battlefield looking for a new target his pack leader, Ferrus pointed out with a few bellowed curses that a Bloodthirster had just entered the theatre of war. Sighing he turned and with the rest of his squad began to pour fire towards the beast.

Edvard howled his ecstasy, soaring through the skies he touched down briefly to lop the limbs off of a group of cultists of Nurgle, but finding little satisfaction in how easily their diseased and rotting limbs simply fell off. Taking to the air once more with his pack he spotted a more worthy foe. A swarm of Furies was making a bee-line towards him and his pack. Revving his chainsword Edvard flew ahead of the rest of the pack and laid into the oncoming swarm. However the sheer numbers were too much, and two of them managed to rip of his jump pack. Edvard howled in fury as he plummeted from the sky. Only to fall broken and lifeless at the feat of Kargoth. Kargoth, a Bloodthirster blessed by Khorne himself. He charged towards a squad of older looking Spacemarines, those wielding the heavy weapons. Dodging and shrugging off the majority of their shots he flew high into the air before slamming down into their midst. The force of the landing caused a crater, in which the paste of one of the space marines was spattered. The rest shortly followed their brother in various other gory ways.

Bjorn watched in anger as around the battlefield his wolves were beginning to fall. "Astropath, is there any assistance nearby, it pains me to say this, but there is a possibility we will not win this fight on our own" "Yes master" the Astropath replied, her head bowed in supplication. There is a ship entering the system now in fact, presumably drawn to the deamonic presence as we were, but master, I must inform you. The ship, its broadcasting Inquisitorial identity codes, codes of the Ordo Malleus, however they feel... odd" Bjorn considered the information for a second before letting forth a string of curses. "Of course it’s the fething inquisitors" he seethed "and yet we have no choice, if they are not aware of our predicament alert them, we could use their expertise" "at once great wolf" the Astropath replied before retreating a short distance and beginning to contact the Inquisitorial Vessel.

Old Bjarke leaned against his totem thoughtfully. Like the rest of his kind he didn’t take kindly to inquisitors. But he had to admit, this lot did their job well, and with greater discipline than the Space Wolves ever could. He admired the way the black and white warriors fought in utter silence, seeming almost mechanical in their battle technique and discipline. At their head was a librarian and a Terminator Armour equipped Inquisitor. The Librarian especially interested Bjarke, he didn’t seem to use any kind of fathomable mental powers but instead almost seemed to project his powers from within, he didn’t understand what the Librarian was doing but it seemed to be highly effective against the daemons. The Inquisitorial force had not been long in the battle but already the tide was turning. As the last daemons ran or were slain Bjarke approached the Inquisitor and the Librarian. “None of my kind likes yours” Bjarke began “But what you have done here today was a mighty feat, what are your names, so they be interred in our sagas?” Bjarke asked still leaning on his totemic pole, it had begun to feel oddly hot but he ignored it. The Inquisitor smiled to him and replied “My name is Rowan, this is a companion of mine, Kislev” Bjarke nodded his head “Well met Rowan and Kislev, I am Bjarke, though sometimes called The Bear” Bjarke replied “well met Bjarke” Replied Rowan, “However” and here he lost his smile “the battle is not yet done” so saying, Rowan drew his trusty pistol and fired, the mass reactive round entering Old Bjarke’s skull and then detonating, pulping Bjarke’s brain into mush. At this action the Silent Laughter turned around and began their silent and merciless assault against the warriors they had just fought with “FOR THE REBEGADE” Rowan and Kislev called out in unison

 

 

It took me a while to find insperation but it was certianly fun to write, whatever its quality (or lack their of) I wasnt planning on bringing Kislev back so soon, but there you go. 

 

EDIT: Becuase 1 pun in the title just isnt enough

[DarKnight]

How long are these allowed to be?

[Kierdale]

How long are these allowed to be?

I would think of it this way:

The judge has to read every entry (likely six or more) so think about how much you would like to read were you the judge ;)

I know when Tenebris was at the helm I submitted entries longer than 20 pages. In retrospect this must have been hell for him to read. Then again, two of my longest entries won so I must have done something right. :D

 

It can be worth waiting a while, after finishing writing, before submitting an entry. Proofread it, perhaps trim it a little, do rewrites.

 

One last point in this unstructured post written as I walk through Shinjuku station dodging people:

In 2015 I had to read all the entries and choose a winner at the same time as I posted the next topic. But in 2016 the judge can make their choice at any time before the start of the next next topic... Teetengee needn't choose a winner until March 4th.

Then again I'm sure we don't want him keeping us on tenderhooks that long...

[Carrack]

I have a loose goal when it comes to writing length. I call it the Evening Coffee method . :) I write my stories in an evening between my kids bedtime and my much later own. My goal is to have a story that can be read in about the time of a coffee break. I occasionally win the contest, but more importantly, I have found this to be the most enjoyable method for me to both write and read the other entries. Kierdale's 20 pagers, and some of the others like Warsmith's stories and occasionally my own stories that go long, just necessitate longer coffee breaks. :) that is my method. If you want to write long stories, you can also try weaving the challenge entries into a longer story, my first dozen or so followed a plot arc, and I've strung a few together here and there since. I think all of Kierdale's are part of an ongoing plot, and many people like to write about strictly their own warbands, but one-offs are good to. If you want to do shorter stories, that works as well, for a while there was a 250 word count limit. Some of the stories I submitted during that time were some of the best I have written. The main thing is have fun. I've found the stories themselves a great source of entertainment, and it has also helped bring to life narrative games, and motivates me to add character to my models. Whatever you decide, I'll read it, as I'm sure the other frater will as well. Good luck.

[Kierdale]

Carrack put it far better than I managed. :tu:

 

Indeed almost all of my pieces are about the same warband and form a narrative (though I jump about the timeline a bit). Telling your story in episodes, as Carrack suggested, is an excellent idea...

And something which will be a key feature of a coming challenge...

[EesiOh]

Carrack put it far better than I managed.

Indeed almost all of my pieces are about the same warband and form a narrative (though I jump about the timeline a bit). Telling your story in episodes, as Carrack suggested, is an excellent idea...

And something which will be a key feature of a coming challenge...

Oooooo... that sounds fun, can you let anything more slip? or has your oracles vision faded?

[Teetengee]

I'm all caught up on the previous IF's now, so feel free to go hog wild, especially since had things gone slightly differently in my life I might be a wolves player today.

-snip-

Then again I'm sure we don't want him keeping us on tenderhooks that long...

Bad, Slaanesh devotee, bad.

[Kierdale]

Oooooo... that sounds fun, can you let anything more slip?

 

 

I'll give a little more then.

A series of linked IF challenges charting a campaign, spread over a few months.

That's all I'm saying for now :)

 

Bad, Slaanesh devotee, bad. ;)

Whilst one enjoys being strung up, let it not be too long lest the blissful agony turn to soul-rending ennui. ;)

[Warsmith Aznable]

Kalfdan of the Space Wolves and Hakon of the Iron Hounds have a different kind of battle:

 

Hidden Content

Kalfdan dismissed the nervous Astra Militarum soldier, contemplated the news for only a moment, then turned to his squad.

“The guardsmen all say the same,” He looked into their eyes and saw the same resolve that he felt inside. “Different coloured power armour, but wolf head insignia and runic fetishes.”

“So maybe what?” Caerl, the ever present voice of skepticism, grunted the question. “Fenrisians who have forsaken their oaths? Our kind do not fall so low.”

“Arrogance. Hubris. Stupidity.” Hakon challenged Caerl. “Our kind have fallen before, even if you are ignorant of it.”

“Those are tales not often told.” Kalfdan interjected before Caerl could take offense. He could not let their anger turn inward, and moved to redirect it. “But no conclusions can be drawn from second hand reports from the regular soldiery. And whatever the case may be, wherever these space marines come from, they fight against the Imperium on this planet. Our task is clear, but we will examine them with our own eyes.”

+++++++++

The Space Wolves rhino rumbled down the cold, muddy road. Tall, thin trees disappeared into the heavy fog above, their long, green needles weighed down with clumps of wet snow. Tromping through the mud, slush, and snow to either side of the road was seemingly endless line of tired, haggard guardsmen heading the opposite direction. At long intervals both before and behind the lone space marines rhino covered trucks transported relief troops that eyed the retreating soldiers nervously, the lone squad of space marines offering only the smallest of comforts to them.

Finally the road curved into deeper, heavier forest, and the rhino veered off the road and clattered to a stop. The rear ramp thudded into the frozen earth, and the Space Wolves squad emerged, bolters directed away from the road and cold breath collecting in rolling puffs of vapor.

“We’ll leave the rhino here.” Kalfdan said to no one in particular, his dark eyes searching the dark forest in the general direction they knew the approaching enemy to be coming from. “We hunt patiently. Exercise restraint and caution.”

Without another word, the Space Wolves fanned out disappeared into the snowy gloom of the forest.

+++++++++

Four hours before the local star was to rise they began to make contact with the enemy. A kilometre away was the front lines surrounding the village the Astra Militarum was determined to hold against their advance, and the Space Wolves ranged across the land between their defensive perimeter and the estimated rally points of the enemy. scattered groups of enemy soldiers patrolled the mist laden forest, probing the defenses of the Imperials, and many of these fell prey to the Space Wolves.

Kalfdan padded through the soft, pine needle covered ground, occasionally shifting the muzzle of his bolter and loosing a singe round through the fog to drop an unaware soldier. He wanted to enjoy their advantage and leisurely scythe his way through the disoriented rabble that crashed and shouted and swore as they stomped in circles through the fog, but he knew that this is where enemy space marines would eventually show up if they were in the area. He needed to be alert, and the oppressive fog was dropping even lower.

Kalfdan removed his helmet, but not before activating the rally rune in its display. One by one his squad appeared from the fog like ghosts, gathering around him expectantly.

“I feel them, but I have no sign.” Kalfdan admitted.

“I saw several plasma shots, mere lights in the mist.” Caerl offered, indicating the direction he had returned from.

“Aye, the guard are mounting counter-patrols, and they must be ambushing them as we ambush theirs.” Another Space Wolves warrior bobbed his helmet, then indicated a similar direction. “I saw bootprints through a creek nearby. The right size, and not ours. Whoever these are, they walk lightly, and I lost the trail soon before you recalled us.”

“I caught the smell of incense.” Hakon wrinkled his nose. “It was heavy, strong. It made my nose itch and my eyes water. Difficult to safely track.”

“Aye, I got a whiff of that too.” Another reported.

Kafldan closed his eyes and considered their words. Trusting his luck, he chose a direction to hunt on impulse and chose to have faith in the hunch.

+++++++++

The Space Wolves had slowly prowled the forest all night. The tell-tale sounds of enemy space marine weapons had teased them, the muffled thumps and shrieks echoing from all directions. The muzzle flashes and plasma bursts glittered distantly through the thick fog like faerie lights. The frequency with which enemy patrols stumbled across the Space Wolves had fallen to next to none, and the forest was eerily quiet.

Kalfdan stopped the squad, uncertain as to his next course of action. As he stood and pondered his next move, the rising morning sun began burning off the night’s fog, and a sudden gust of breeze lifted the fog’s ceiling well over their heads.

Kalfdan froze.

Standing not four metres from him was an enemy space marine. He was indeed painted orange and black, and his helmet was a leering white skull with penetrating red eyes. The fog quickly peeled back to reveal a full squad, equal in strength to his own, mere metres apart. The two squads had been creeping up opposite sides of a shallow ridge, and had both apparently stopped activity in the face of the fog’s spiteful last powers.

It happened so suddenly that neither side reacted to the sight of the other with anything except surprise. After a moment, the space marine nearest Kalfdan (he guessed he was the leader, for his skull mask helmet was angrier and more frightfully visaged) reached up released the catches at his neck ring. He removed his helmet and regarded Kalfdan with some interest.

“I am Kalfdan. We are loyal sons of Russ.” Kalfdan announced, taking in the details of the enemy squad leader’s power armour. There were indeed runic fetishes here and there upon his person, but also others of an entirely different ideographic writing system. The runes in use were also different, though obviously of similar origin and maintaining clear meaning to him. Though there were visual similarities, there was a feeling that Kalfdan could not put words to except that the runes in question were simply “off” to him. Come to think of it, Kalfdan told himself, everything about these warriors from the runic fetishes to even the way they stood arranged scratched at the back of his head as being both familiar and repellent to him.

“I am Hakon. We are loyal sons of Perturabo.” The enemy squad leader announced, and the Space Wolves known as Hakon bristled at an Arch-Traitor sharing his name.

“No son of an Arch-Traitor can be said to be loyal.” Kalfdan said, baring his canines.

“That is a hard line of talk from one who bares the sign of the mutant.” The enemy Hakon sneered.

The two squad leaders regarded one another, examining the details of the other with open interest, circling around each other like two hostile dogs not quite ready to bite. Their squads remained stock still, eyeing their counterparts but refusing to move a muscle while their leaders spoke.

“You are a curious thing for a son of the accursed Perturabo.” Kalfdan dared to reach out and flip with his finger a rune-carved stone hanging from the cross guard of the power sword that the enemy Hakon held in a passively ready position. “I have heard that imitation is a sincere flattery, though.”

“And you are an incurious thing to not understand the mytho-historic context from which we both derive our respective cultures.” The enemy Hakon dared to poke Kalfdan in the center of his chest plate, right over his heart, with a chiding fingertip.

“Typical.” Kalfdan grunted dismissively, then bared his fangs. “The only thing that matters here is your readiness to die.”

“I am ready to die.” The enemy Hakon smiled, displaying a perfect row of straight, white teeth. He feigned a bored expression. “Your savage pantomime is incapable of causing even a child from my homeland to frighten.”

Without another word, Kalfdan released the mag lock on his frost axe and swung it in a swift arc at the enemy Hakon’s head. He stopped it at the very last second, the razor sharp edge of the axe a mere millimetre from Hakon’s skin. Hakon, for his part, neither flinched nor stopped smiling.

“That is a fast draw.” Hakon commented, as if only out of politeness. In a flash his plasma pistol was in his hand. Two bolts of white hot plasma streaked through the air, one on either side of Kalfdan’s bare head. The heat from the plasma bolts was enough to singe several stray hairs, curling the burnt ends back toward the unruly mass of hair on Kalfdan’s head, but neither came close to harming him. The two shots perfectly framed his head, each passing level to Kalfdan’s eyes but just far enough to either side.

Hakon reholstered the plasma pistol and gave Kalfdan a lopsided grin.

“Remarkable.” Kalfdan said dryly. “It must take a lot of practice to miss a target with that much style. I hope you’re half as good with that pretty sword.”

“Do you like it?” Hakon held it out for Kalfdan to see. It was indeed a well wrought weapon, with silver and gold knotwork decorating the hardware, with similar etching running down the length of the blade’s fuller. Kalfdan pretended to appraise the weapon and remain disinterested, but Hakon saw the avarice in his eye.

“Your eyes betray your heart.” Hakon turned the sword and held it out handle first to Kalfdan. “It is yours, freely given. Let it not be said that the Iron Hounds are misers, even by their enemies.”

“Iron Hounds.” Kalfdan said the name slowly, turning it over in his mind. Like everything else about their appearance and demeanor it seemed “off” to him. It was a bothersome feeling. Kalfdan then looked down and realized that he had accepted the gift of Hakon of the Iron Hounds, and he heard the disapproving tooth-hiss of Caerl from behind him, and heard the agitated shifting of his squad behind him.

Kalfdan held the master-crafted power sword before him, then hefted his own frost axe next it.

“Kalfdan, no...” Hakon of the Space Wolves protested.

“What?” Kalfdan turned sideways and looked at his oldest friend with exaggerated protest. “Do you think anyone else in my own squad could loot it off his body before I could? These two weapons will make a fine pair at the end of the day.”

With no further protest from his squad, Kalfdan held out his sacred frost axe, determined not to be outdone in hostile magnanimity.

Hakon of the Iron Hounds laughed a little too loud, and took the haft of the frost axe in one hand. In a sudden move, Hakon pulled Kalfdan close so that their chest plates bumped, and with his other hand slapped Kalfdan upon the shoulder pad as if the two were old, close friends.

“I like this one, Geirvaldr!” Hakon of the Iron Hounds called back to the nearest member of his squad. “He understands a thing or two!”

Kalfdan forced a smile upon his face, and used his free hand to slap the shoulder pad of Hakon of the Iron Hounds. The first slap was as one friend to another, but each successive slap came harder and swifter, and Hakon of the Iron Hounds was surprised and nearly stumbled.

The two caught one another as the one’s misstep threatened to take the other down with him. The grips became fierce, and the expressions on their faces hardened. Though they embraced as if brothers, their bodies were suddenly tense and an electric emotion of impending violence caused their respective squads to shift with agitated restraint, each side yearning for the moment when blood began to spill, but still hanging on by a thread to the will of their respective alphas.

Finally, the tense silence was broken.

“Sergeant Hakon,” The Iron Hound called Geirvaldr cocked his head to the side and held up a hand. Everyone present recognized the sign of vox communications, and even the Space Wolves were curious at the sudden interjection of the world outside their unfolding drama.

“What is it?” Hakon of the Iron Hounds asked, fierce eyes still locked with the hateful eyes of Kalfdan of the Space Wolves.

“The time table, sergeant.” Geirvaldr said, an edge of urgency apparent in his voice. “Phase 2 is commencing.”

“Phase 2?” Kalfdan bared his teeth and snarled his derision. “What is Phase 2?”

“Nothing important.” Hakon of the Iron Hounds said dismissively. “We are not afraid to die, you and I. Or isn’t that so, my brave friend?”

“Me?” Kalfdan said mockingly. Both sergeants had righted themselves, but maintained their angry grip on one another. “Of course. Cowardice makes one a traitor to oneself, and the loyal sons of Russ know nothing of betrayal. Let death come, and I will laugh in its face.”

“That is good to know,” Hakon of the Iron Hounds said. “I was afraid you wouldn’t stay. It will do you good to witness the iron will of the loyal sons of Perturabo.”

The answer to what Phase 2 was came to them all a few seconds after that. The distant sound of heavy artillery thudded from the direction of the arch-enemies battle lines. A few seconds after that and the sound of artillery shells impacting several hundred metres away from the two squads shook the ground and forest.

“A lovely day for it.” Hakon of the Iron Hounds smiled at Kalfdan and finally broke their death grip on one another, pushing Kalfdan a step backward. “Though I’ll understand if you have other things to do.”

“Oh, there’s no place I’d rather be.” Kalfdan squared up to Hakon and thrust his chin out. He gave Hakon’s power sword a few test swings and then rested the blade across the palm of his off hand.

The two sergeants calmly faced one another, never breaking eye contact as the sound of the walking artillery barrage came closer by fifty metres with every interval. The two squads shifted back and forth, fighting the urge to either take cover or open fire on their opposites.

“A bit of a breeze today.” Hakon of the Iron Hounds looked around at the sky as the hot wind of bursting shells blew through the forest. He had to yell to be heard over the sound of approaching doom.

“I think it might be starting to rain.” Kalfdan of the Space Wolves held out a bleeding hand to show Hakon, a jagged piece of shrapnel embedded deeply into the side of his thumb dripping thick red blood.

Kalfdan watched Hakon’s lips move again, but could not hear what was said over the terrible din of the artillery barrage as it was imminently upon them. He was trying to think of something to say himself, when the trees immediately behind the enemy squad burst into splinters. The very next second the world went white hot but curiously silent.

+++++++++

Kalfdan’s ears were ringing. His head hurt. His everything hurt. After a long while the ringing in his ears began to subside a little, and he heard a strange whoomp whoomp whooping. It was as if he were underwater and listening to the sounds of someone talking from above the surface. He drew in a hot breath and tried to sit up.

Fighting down a rising panic, Kalfdan tried to come to terms with the discovery that he no longer had any arms as quickly as possible. With some difficulty he managed to force himself into an upright sitting position by shifting side to side while he pushed off with his feet. Breathing heavily he looked around and tried to make sense of his new situation.

There was no more forest around him. There was the remains of forest everywhere, with splintered and felled coniferous trees scattered absolutely all about. Nearby was a power armoured figure, and after a second of staring at it he realized that the stranging whoomp whoomping sound was the laughter of the dying man.

“That,” Sergeant Hakon of the Iron Hounds paused his deep belly laughing when he saw that Kalfdan was looking at him. “That was the dumbest thing I think I’ve ever done.”

Kalfdan stared at Hakon, unable to process what those distant sounding words might mean. Hakon was missing both of his legs and one of his arms, and was grinning like an idiot, covered in dirt and blood. A moment later Kalfdan watched Hakon’s slackening grin and fading eyes turn into the neutral, half lidded expression of the deceased.

“This, I think, is mine.” The Iron Hound called Geirvaldr picked up Kalfdan’s frost axe and prised it from the dead hand of Hakon’s severed arm. The helmeted space marine turned to look at Hakon, and after a while simply turned and walked away from him.

+++++++++

Kalfdan did not remember how he had got there, but he was staring at the inside of the top hatches of a rhino from the position of the deck. He felt there were others piled on the floor next to him, and he knew more were sitting along the troop benches.

Caerl was staring at him, his face a blank expression. Kalfdan could not read that face; it was a different one than he had ever seen Caerl wear before, but it did not give him a good feeling.

A bump in the road caused an object on his chest to shift, and turning his face down Kalfdan saw that someone had placed Hakon of the Iron Hounds fancy power sword upon his grievously injured body. He remembered then the image of Hakon’s second walking away with his frost axe, and he felt a creeping shame coming over him.

He was happy when he felt the dark edges of consciousness slipping away from him.

+++++++++

Kalfdan loped across the tundra, stripped to the waist, wearing only breaches and boots and carrying only the gold and silver sword in his rough, cybernetic arms.

Hakon of the Space Wolves was no more. He had died in the same barrage that had killed Hakon of the Iron Hounds. Caerl was squad leader now, those few that remained chose only to follow the dour, quiet warrior instead of Kalfdan.

Kalfdan tracked a Fenrisian beast, and tracked it alone. He would return to the Fang, draped in the pelt of the beast, and he would be among the others again at the end of his self imposed exile, but he would forever be alone.

He was not afraid of death, but life had become a burden. All that kept him moving, driving him forward, was the thought of one day finding Geirvaldr of the Iron Hounds, and using Hakon’s sword to sever the hands that wielded the frost axe he had so pridefully given away.

Kalfdan the Lone Wolf threw back his head and howled at the indifferent sky.

 

I hope you like it.

[EesiOh]

Kalfdan of the Space Wolves and Hakon of the Iron Hounds have a different kind of battle:

 

Hidden Content

Kalfdan dismissed the nervous Astra Militarum soldier, contemplated the news for only a moment, then turned to his squad.

 

“The guardsmen all say the same,” He looked into their eyes and saw the same resolve that he felt inside. “Different coloured power armour, but wolf head insignia and runic fetishes.”

 

“So maybe what?” Caerl, the ever present voice of skepticism, grunted the question. “Fenrisians who have forsaken their oaths? Our kind do not fall so low.”

 

“Arrogance. Hubris. Stupidity.” Hakon challenged Caerl. “Our kind have fallen before, even if you are ignorant of it.”

 

“Those are tales not often told.” Kalfdan interjected before Caerl could take offense. He could not let their anger turn inward, and moved to redirect it. “But no conclusions can be drawn from second hand reports from the regular soldiery. And whatever the case may be, wherever these space marines come from, they fight against the Imperium on this planet. Our task is clear, but we will examine them with our own eyes.”

 

+++++++++

 

The Space Wolves rhino rumbled down the cold, muddy road. Tall, thin trees disappeared into the heavy fog above, their long, green needles weighed down with clumps of wet snow. Tromping through the mud, slush, and snow to either side of the road was seemingly endless line of tired, haggard guardsmen heading the opposite direction. At long intervals both before and behind the lone space marines rhino covered trucks transported relief troops that eyed the retreating soldiers nervously, the lone squad of space marines offering only the smallest of comforts to them.

 

Finally the road curved into deeper, heavier forest, and the rhino veered off the road and clattered to a stop. The rear ramp thudded into the frozen earth, and the Space Wolves squad emerged, bolters directed away from the road and cold breath collecting in rolling puffs of vapor.

 

“We’ll leave the rhino here.” Kalfdan said to no one in particular, his dark eyes searching the dark forest in the general direction they knew the approaching enemy to be coming from. “We hunt patiently. Exercise restraint and caution.”

 

Without another word, the Space Wolves fanned out disappeared into the snowy gloom of the forest.

 

+++++++++

 

Four hours before the local star was to rise they began to make contact with the enemy. A kilometre away was the front lines surrounding the village the Astra Militarum was determined to hold against their advance, and the Space Wolves ranged across the land between their defensive perimeter and the estimated rally points of the enemy. scattered groups of enemy soldiers patrolled the mist laden forest, probing the defenses of the Imperials, and many of these fell prey to the Space Wolves.

 

Kalfdan padded through the soft, pine needle covered ground, occasionally shifting the muzzle of his bolter and loosing a singe round through the fog to drop an unaware soldier. He wanted to enjoy their advantage and leisurely scythe his way through the disoriented rabble that crashed and shouted and swore as they stomped in circles through the fog, but he knew that this is where enemy space marines would eventually show up if they were in the area. He needed to be alert, and the oppressive fog was dropping even lower.

 

Kalfdan removed his helmet, but not before activating the rally rune in its display. One by one his squad appeared from the fog like ghosts, gathering around him expectantly.

 

“I feel them, but I have no sign.” Kalfdan admitted.

 

“I saw several plasma shots, mere lights in the mist.” Caerl offered, indicating the direction he had returned from.

 

“Aye, the guard are mounting counter-patrols, and they must be ambushing them as we ambush theirs.” Another Space Wolves warrior bobbed his helmet, then indicated a similar direction. “I saw bootprints through a creek nearby. The right size, and not ours. Whoever these are, they walk lightly, and I lost the trail soon before you recalled us.”

 

“I caught the smell of incense.” Hakon wrinkled his nose. “It was heavy, strong. It made my nose itch and my eyes water. Difficult to safely track.”

 

“Aye, I got a whiff of that too.” Another reported.

 

Kafldan closed his eyes and considered their words. Trusting his luck, he chose a direction to hunt on impulse and chose to have faith in the hunch.

 

+++++++++

 

The Space Wolves had slowly prowled the forest all night. The tell-tale sounds of enemy space marine weapons had teased them, the muffled thumps and shrieks echoing from all directions. The muzzle flashes and plasma bursts glittered distantly through the thick fog like faerie lights. The frequency with which enemy patrols stumbled across the Space Wolves had fallen to next to none, and the forest was eerily quiet.

 

Kalfdan stopped the squad, uncertain as to his next course of action. As he stood and pondered his next move, the rising morning sun began burning off the night’s fog, and a sudden gust of breeze lifted the fog’s ceiling well over their heads.

 

Kalfdan froze.

 

Standing not four metres from him was an enemy space marine. He was indeed painted orange and black, and his helmet was a leering white skull with penetrating red eyes. The fog quickly peeled back to reveal a full squad, equal in strength to his own, mere metres apart. The two squads had been creeping up opposite sides of a shallow ridge, and had both apparently stopped activity in the face of the fog’s spiteful last powers.

 

It happened so suddenly that neither side reacted to the sight of the other with anything except surprise. After a moment, the space marine nearest Kalfdan (he guessed he was the leader, for his skull mask helmet was angrier and more frightfully visaged) reached up released the catches at his neck ring. He removed his helmet and regarded Kalfdan with some interest.

 

“I am Kalfdan. We are loyal sons of Russ.” Kalfdan announced, taking in the details of the enemy squad leader’s power armour. There were indeed runic fetishes here and there upon his person, but also others of an entirely different ideographic writing system. The runes in use were also different, though obviously of similar origin and maintaining clear meaning to him. Though there were visual similarities, there was a feeling that Kalfdan could not put words to except that the runes in question were simply “off” to him. Come to think of it, Kalfdan told himself, everything about these warriors from the runic fetishes to even the way they stood arranged scratched at the back of his head as being both familiar and repellent to him.

 

“I am Hakon. We are loyal sons of Perturabo.” The enemy squad leader announced, and the Space Wolves known as Hakon bristled at an Arch-Traitor sharing his name.

 

“No son of an Arch-Traitor can be said to be loyal.” Kalfdan said, baring his canines.

 

“That is a hard line of talk from one who bares the sign of the mutant.” The enemy Hakon sneered.

 

The two squad leaders regarded one another, examining the details of the other with open interest, circling around each other like two hostile dogs not quite ready to bite. Their squads remained stock still, eyeing their counterparts but refusing to move a muscle while their leaders spoke.

 

“You are a curious thing for a son of the accursed Perturabo.” Kalfdan dared to reach out and flip with his finger a rune-carved stone hanging from the cross guard of the power sword that the enemy Hakon held in a passively ready position. “I have heard that imitation is a sincere flattery, though.”

 

“And you are an incurious thing to not understand the mytho-historic context from which we both derive our respective cultures.” The enemy Hakon dared to poke Kalfdan in the center of his chest plate, right over his heart, with a chiding fingertip.

 

“Typical.” Kalfdan grunted dismissively, then bared his fangs. “The only thing that matters here is your readiness to die.”

 

“I am ready to die.” The enemy Hakon smiled, displaying a perfect row of straight, white teeth. He feigned a bored expression. “Your savage pantomime is incapable of causing even a child from my homeland to frighten.”

 

Without another word, Kalfdan released the mag lock on his frost axe and swung it in a swift arc at the enemy Hakon’s head. He stopped it at the very last second, the razor sharp edge of the axe a mere millimetre from Hakon’s skin. Hakon, for his part, neither flinched nor stopped smiling.

 

“That is a fast draw.” Hakon commented, as if only out of politeness. In a flash his plasma pistol was in his hand. Two bolts of white hot plasma streaked through the air, one on either side of Kalfdan’s bare head. The heat from the plasma bolts was enough to singe several stray hairs, curling the burnt ends back toward the unruly mass of hair on Kalfdan’s head, but neither came close to harming him. The two shots perfectly framed his head, each passing level to Kalfdan’s eyes but just far enough to either side.

 

Hakon reholstered the plasma pistol and gave Kalfdan a lopsided grin.

 

“Remarkable.” Kalfdan said dryly. “It must take a lot of practice to miss a target with that much style. I hope you’re half as good with that pretty sword.”

 

“Do you like it?” Hakon held it out for Kalfdan to see. It was indeed a well wrought weapon, with silver and gold knotwork decorating the hardware, with similar etching running down the length of the blade’s fuller. Kalfdan pretended to appraise the weapon and remain disinterested, but Hakon saw the avarice in his eye.

 

“Your eyes betray your heart.” Hakon turned the sword and held it out handle first to Kalfdan. “It is yours, freely given. Let it not be said that the Iron Hounds are misers, even by their enemies.”

 

“Iron Hounds.” Kalfdan said the name slowly, turning it over in his mind. Like everything else about their appearance and demeanor it seemed “off” to him. It was a bothersome feeling. Kalfdan then looked down and realized that he had accepted the gift of Hakon of the Iron Hounds, and he heard the disapproving tooth-hiss of Caerl from behind him, and heard the agitated shifting of his squad behind him.

 

Kalfdan held the master-crafted power sword before him, then hefted his own frost axe next it.

 

“Kalfdan, no...” Hakon of the Space Wolves protested.

 

“What?” Kalfdan turned sideways and looked at his oldest friend with exaggerated protest. “Do you think anyone else in my own squad could loot it off his body before I could? These two weapons will make a fine pair at the end of the day.”

 

With no further protest from his squad, Kalfdan held out his sacred frost axe, determined not to be outdone in hostile magnanimity.

 

Hakon of the Iron Hounds laughed a little too loud, and took the haft of the frost axe in one hand. In a sudden move, Hakon pulled Kalfdan close so that their chest plates bumped, and with his other hand slapped Kalfdan upon the shoulder pad as if the two were old, close friends.

 

“I like this one, Geirvaldr!” Hakon of the Iron Hounds called back to the nearest member of his squad. “He understands a thing or two!”

 

Kalfdan forced a smile upon his face, and used his free hand to slap the shoulder pad of Hakon of the Iron Hounds. The first slap was as one friend to another, but each successive slap came harder and swifter, and Hakon of the Iron Hounds was surprised and nearly stumbled.

 

The two caught one another as the one’s misstep threatened to take the other down with him. The grips became fierce, and the expressions on their faces hardened. Though they embraced as if brothers, their bodies were suddenly tense and an electric emotion of impending violence caused their respective squads to shift with agitated restraint, each side yearning for the moment when blood began to spill, but still hanging on by a thread to the will of their respective alphas.

 

Finally, the tense silence was broken.

 

“Sergeant Hakon,” The Iron Hound called Geirvaldr cocked his head to the side and held up a hand. Everyone present recognized the sign of vox communications, and even the Space Wolves were curious at the sudden interjection of the world outside their unfolding drama.

 

“What is it?” Hakon of the Iron Hounds asked, fierce eyes still locked with the hateful eyes of Kalfdan of the Space Wolves.

 

“The time table, sergeant.” Geirvaldr said, an edge of urgency apparent in his voice. “Phase 2 is commencing.”

 

“Phase 2?” Kalfdan bared his teeth and snarled his derision. “What is Phase 2?”

 

“Nothing important.” Hakon of the Iron Hounds said dismissively. “We are not afraid to die, you and I. Or isn’t that so, my brave friend?”

 

“Me?” Kalfdan said mockingly. Both sergeants had righted themselves, but maintained their angry grip on one another. “Of course. Cowardice makes one a traitor to oneself, and the loyal sons of Russ know nothing of betrayal. Let death come, and I will laugh in its face.”

 

“That is good to know,” Hakon of the Iron Hounds said. “I was afraid you wouldn’t stay. It will do you good to witness the iron will of the loyal sons of Perturabo.”

 

The answer to what Phase 2 was came to them all a few seconds after that. The distant sound of heavy artillery thudded from the direction of the arch-enemies battle lines. A few seconds after that and the sound of artillery shells impacting several hundred metres away from the two squads shook the ground and forest.

 

“A lovely day for it.” Hakon of the Iron Hounds smiled at Kalfdan and finally broke their death grip on one another, pushing Kalfdan a step backward. “Though I’ll understand if you have other things to do.”

 

“Oh, there’s no place I’d rather be.” Kalfdan squared up to Hakon and thrust his chin out. He gave Hakon’s power sword a few test swings and then rested the blade across the palm of his off hand.

 

The two sergeants calmly faced one another, never breaking eye contact as the sound of the walking artillery barrage came closer by fifty metres with every interval. The two squads shifted back and forth, fighting the urge to either take cover or open fire on their opposites.

 

“A bit of a breeze today.” Hakon of the Iron Hounds looked around at the sky as the hot wind of bursting shells blew through the forest. He had to yell to be heard over the sound of approaching doom.

 

“I think it might be starting to rain.” Kalfdan of the Space Wolves held out a bleeding hand to show Hakon, a jagged piece of shrapnel embedded deeply into the side of his thumb dripping thick red blood.

 

Kalfdan watched Hakon’s lips move again, but could not hear what was said over the terrible din of the artillery barrage as it was imminently upon them. He was trying to think of something to say himself, when the trees immediately behind the enemy squad burst into splinters. The very next second the world went white hot but curiously silent.

 

+++++++++

 

Kalfdan’s ears were ringing. His head hurt. His everything hurt. After a long while the ringing in his ears began to subside a little, and he heard a strange whoomp whoomp whooping. It was as if he were underwater and listening to the sounds of someone talking from above the surface. He drew in a hot breath and tried to sit up.

 

Fighting down a rising panic, Kalfdan tried to come to terms with the discovery that he no longer had any arms as quickly as possible. With some difficulty he managed to force himself into an upright sitting position by shifting side to side while he pushed off with his feet. Breathing heavily he looked around and tried to make sense of his new situation.

 

There was no more forest around him. There was the remains of forest everywhere, with splintered and felled coniferous trees scattered absolutely all about. Nearby was a power armoured figure, and after a second of staring at it he realized that the stranging whoomp whoomping sound was the laughter of the dying man.

 

“That,” Sergeant Hakon of the Iron Hounds paused his deep belly laughing when he saw that Kalfdan was looking at him. “That was the dumbest thing I think I’ve ever done.”

 

Kalfdan stared at Hakon, unable to process what those distant sounding words might mean. Hakon was missing both of his legs and one of his arms, and was grinning like an idiot, covered in dirt and blood. A moment later Kalfdan watched Hakon’s slackening grin and fading eyes turn into the neutral, half lidded expression of the deceased.

 

“This, I think, is mine.” The Iron Hound called Geirvaldr picked up Kalfdan’s frost axe and prised it from the dead hand of Hakon’s severed arm. The helmeted space marine turned to look at Hakon, and after a while simply turned and walked away from him.

 

+++++++++

 

Kalfdan did not remember how he had got there, but he was staring at the inside of the top hatches of a rhino from the position of the deck. He felt there were others piled on the floor next to him, and he knew more were sitting along the troop benches.

 

Caerl was staring at him, his face a blank expression. Kalfdan could not read that face; it was a different one than he had ever seen Caerl wear before, but it did not give him a good feeling.

 

A bump in the road caused an object on his chest to shift, and turning his face down Kalfdan saw that someone had placed Hakon of the Iron Hounds fancy power sword upon his grievously injured body. He remembered then the image of Hakon’s second walking away with his frost axe, and he felt a creeping shame coming over him.

 

He was happy when he felt the dark edges of consciousness slipping away from him.

 

+++++++++

 

Kalfdan loped across the tundra, stripped to the waist, wearing only breaches and boots and carrying only the gold and silver sword in his rough, cybernetic arms.

 

Hakon of the Space Wolves was no more. He had died in the same barrage that had killed Hakon of the Iron Hounds. Caerl was squad leader now, those few that remained chose only to follow the dour, quiet warrior instead of Kalfdan.

 

Kalfdan tracked a Fenrisian beast, and tracked it alone. He would return to the Fang, draped in the pelt of the beast, and he would be among the others again at the end of his self imposed exile, but he would forever be alone.

 

He was not afraid of death, but life had become a burden. All that kept him moving, driving him forward, was the thought of one day finding Geirvaldr of the Iron Hounds, and using Hakon’s sword to sever the hands that wielded the frost axe he had so pridefully given away.

 

Kalfdan the Lone Wolf threw back his head and howled at the indifferent sky.

 

I hope you like it.

winner winner chicken dinner? 

[Kol Saresk]

Kalfdan of the Space Wolves and Hakon of the Iron Hounds have a different kind of battle:

 

Hidden Content

Kalfdan dismissed the nervous Astra Militarum soldier, contemplated the news for only a moment, then turned to his squad.

 

“The guardsmen all say the same,” He looked into their eyes and saw the same resolve that he felt inside. “Different coloured power armour, but wolf head insignia and runic fetishes.”

 

“So maybe what?” Caerl, the ever present voice of skepticism, grunted the question. “Fenrisians who have forsaken their oaths? Our kind do not fall so low.”

 

“Arrogance. Hubris. Stupidity.” Hakon challenged Caerl. “Our kind have fallen before, even if you are ignorant of it.”

 

“Those are tales not often told.” Kalfdan interjected before Caerl could take offense. He could not let their anger turn inward, and moved to redirect it. “But no conclusions can be drawn from second hand reports from the regular soldiery. And whatever the case may be, wherever these space marines come from, they fight against the Imperium on this planet. Our task is clear, but we will examine them with our own eyes.”

 

+++++++++

 

The Space Wolves rhino rumbled down the cold, muddy road. Tall, thin trees disappeared into the heavy fog above, their long, green needles weighed down with clumps of wet snow. Tromping through the mud, slush, and snow to either side of the road was seemingly endless line of tired, haggard guardsmen heading the opposite direction. At long intervals both before and behind the lone space marines rhino covered trucks transported relief troops that eyed the retreating soldiers nervously, the lone squad of space marines offering only the smallest of comforts to them.

 

Finally the road curved into deeper, heavier forest, and the rhino veered off the road and clattered to a stop. The rear ramp thudded into the frozen earth, and the Space Wolves squad emerged, bolters directed away from the road and cold breath collecting in rolling puffs of vapor.

 

“We’ll leave the rhino here.” Kalfdan said to no one in particular, his dark eyes searching the dark forest in the general direction they knew the approaching enemy to be coming from. “We hunt patiently. Exercise restraint and caution.”

 

Without another word, the Space Wolves fanned out disappeared into the snowy gloom of the forest.

 

+++++++++

 

Four hours before the local star was to rise they began to make contact with the enemy. A kilometre away was the front lines surrounding the village the Astra Militarum was determined to hold against their advance, and the Space Wolves ranged across the land between their defensive perimeter and the estimated rally points of the enemy. scattered groups of enemy soldiers patrolled the mist laden forest, probing the defenses of the Imperials, and many of these fell prey to the Space Wolves.

 

Kalfdan padded through the soft, pine needle covered ground, occasionally shifting the muzzle of his bolter and loosing a singe round through the fog to drop an unaware soldier. He wanted to enjoy their advantage and leisurely scythe his way through the disoriented rabble that crashed and shouted and swore as they stomped in circles through the fog, but he knew that this is where enemy space marines would eventually show up if they were in the area. He needed to be alert, and the oppressive fog was dropping even lower.

 

Kalfdan removed his helmet, but not before activating the rally rune in its display. One by one his squad appeared from the fog like ghosts, gathering around him expectantly.

 

“I feel them, but I have no sign.” Kalfdan admitted.

 

“I saw several plasma shots, mere lights in the mist.” Caerl offered, indicating the direction he had returned from.

 

“Aye, the guard are mounting counter-patrols, and they must be ambushing them as we ambush theirs.” Another Space Wolves warrior bobbed his helmet, then indicated a similar direction. “I saw bootprints through a creek nearby. The right size, and not ours. Whoever these are, they walk lightly, and I lost the trail soon before you recalled us.”

 

“I caught the smell of incense.” Hakon wrinkled his nose. “It was heavy, strong. It made my nose itch and my eyes water. Difficult to safely track.”

 

“Aye, I got a whiff of that too.” Another reported.

 

Kafldan closed his eyes and considered their words. Trusting his luck, he chose a direction to hunt on impulse and chose to have faith in the hunch.

 

+++++++++

 

The Space Wolves had slowly prowled the forest all night. The tell-tale sounds of enemy space marine weapons had teased them, the muffled thumps and shrieks echoing from all directions. The muzzle flashes and plasma bursts glittered distantly through the thick fog like faerie lights. The frequency with which enemy patrols stumbled across the Space Wolves had fallen to next to none, and the forest was eerily quiet.

 

Kalfdan stopped the squad, uncertain as to his next course of action. As he stood and pondered his next move, the rising morning sun began burning off the night’s fog, and a sudden gust of breeze lifted the fog’s ceiling well over their heads.

 

Kalfdan froze.

 

Standing not four metres from him was an enemy space marine. He was indeed painted orange and black, and his helmet was a leering white skull with penetrating red eyes. The fog quickly peeled back to reveal a full squad, equal in strength to his own, mere metres apart. The two squads had been creeping up opposite sides of a shallow ridge, and had both apparently stopped activity in the face of the fog’s spiteful last powers.

 

It happened so suddenly that neither side reacted to the sight of the other with anything except surprise. After a moment, the space marine nearest Kalfdan (he guessed he was the leader, for his skull mask helmet was angrier and more frightfully visaged) reached up released the catches at his neck ring. He removed his helmet and regarded Kalfdan with some interest.

 

“I am Kalfdan. We are loyal sons of Russ.” Kalfdan announced, taking in the details of the enemy squad leader’s power armour. There were indeed runic fetishes here and there upon his person, but also others of an entirely different ideographic writing system. The runes in use were also different, though obviously of similar origin and maintaining clear meaning to him. Though there were visual similarities, there was a feeling that Kalfdan could not put words to except that the runes in question were simply “off” to him. Come to think of it, Kalfdan told himself, everything about these warriors from the runic fetishes to even the way they stood arranged scratched at the back of his head as being both familiar and repellent to him.

 

“I am Hakon. We are loyal sons of Perturabo.” The enemy squad leader announced, and the Space Wolves known as Hakon bristled at an Arch-Traitor sharing his name.

 

“No son of an Arch-Traitor can be said to be loyal.” Kalfdan said, baring his canines.

 

“That is a hard line of talk from one who bares the sign of the mutant.” The enemy Hakon sneered.

 

The two squad leaders regarded one another, examining the details of the other with open interest, circling around each other like two hostile dogs not quite ready to bite. Their squads remained stock still, eyeing their counterparts but refusing to move a muscle while their leaders spoke.

 

“You are a curious thing for a son of the accursed Perturabo.” Kalfdan dared to reach out and flip with his finger a rune-carved stone hanging from the cross guard of the power sword that the enemy Hakon held in a passively ready position. “I have heard that imitation is a sincere flattery, though.”

 

“And you are an incurious thing to not understand the mytho-historic context from which we both derive our respective cultures.” The enemy Hakon dared to poke Kalfdan in the center of his chest plate, right over his heart, with a chiding fingertip.

 

“Typical.” Kalfdan grunted dismissively, then bared his fangs. “The only thing that matters here is your readiness to die.”

 

“I am ready to die.” The enemy Hakon smiled, displaying a perfect row of straight, white teeth. He feigned a bored expression. “Your savage pantomime is incapable of causing even a child from my homeland to frighten.”

 

Without another word, Kalfdan released the mag lock on his frost axe and swung it in a swift arc at the enemy Hakon’s head. He stopped it at the very last second, the razor sharp edge of the axe a mere millimetre from Hakon’s skin. Hakon, for his part, neither flinched nor stopped smiling.

 

“That is a fast draw.” Hakon commented, as if only out of politeness. In a flash his plasma pistol was in his hand. Two bolts of white hot plasma streaked through the air, one on either side of Kalfdan’s bare head. The heat from the plasma bolts was enough to singe several stray hairs, curling the burnt ends back toward the unruly mass of hair on Kalfdan’s head, but neither came close to harming him. The two shots perfectly framed his head, each passing level to Kalfdan’s eyes but just far enough to either side.

 

Hakon reholstered the plasma pistol and gave Kalfdan a lopsided grin.

 

“Remarkable.” Kalfdan said dryly. “It must take a lot of practice to miss a target with that much style. I hope you’re half as good with that pretty sword.”

 

“Do you like it?” Hakon held it out for Kalfdan to see. It was indeed a well wrought weapon, with silver and gold knotwork decorating the hardware, with similar etching running down the length of the blade’s fuller. Kalfdan pretended to appraise the weapon and remain disinterested, but Hakon saw the avarice in his eye.

 

“Your eyes betray your heart.” Hakon turned the sword and held it out handle first to Kalfdan. “It is yours, freely given. Let it not be said that the Iron Hounds are misers, even by their enemies.”

 

“Iron Hounds.” Kalfdan said the name slowly, turning it over in his mind. Like everything else about their appearance and demeanor it seemed “off” to him. It was a bothersome feeling. Kalfdan then looked down and realized that he had accepted the gift of Hakon of the Iron Hounds, and he heard the disapproving tooth-hiss of Caerl from behind him, and heard the agitated shifting of his squad behind him.

 

Kalfdan held the master-crafted power sword before him, then hefted his own frost axe next it.

 

“Kalfdan, no...” Hakon of the Space Wolves protested.

 

“What?” Kalfdan turned sideways and looked at his oldest friend with exaggerated protest. “Do you think anyone else in my own squad could loot it off his body before I could? These two weapons will make a fine pair at the end of the day.”

 

With no further protest from his squad, Kalfdan held out his sacred frost axe, determined not to be outdone in hostile magnanimity.

 

Hakon of the Iron Hounds laughed a little too loud, and took the haft of the frost axe in one hand. In a sudden move, Hakon pulled Kalfdan close so that their chest plates bumped, and with his other hand slapped Kalfdan upon the shoulder pad as if the two were old, close friends.

 

“I like this one, Geirvaldr!” Hakon of the Iron Hounds called back to the nearest member of his squad. “He understands a thing or two!”

 

Kalfdan forced a smile upon his face, and used his free hand to slap the shoulder pad of Hakon of the Iron Hounds. The first slap was as one friend to another, but each successive slap came harder and swifter, and Hakon of the Iron Hounds was surprised and nearly stumbled.

 

The two caught one another as the one’s misstep threatened to take the other down with him. The grips became fierce, and the expressions on their faces hardened. Though they embraced as if brothers, their bodies were suddenly tense and an electric emotion of impending violence caused their respective squads to shift with agitated restraint, each side yearning for the moment when blood began to spill, but still hanging on by a thread to the will of their respective alphas.

 

Finally, the tense silence was broken.

 

“Sergeant Hakon,” The Iron Hound called Geirvaldr cocked his head to the side and held up a hand. Everyone present recognized the sign of vox communications, and even the Space Wolves were curious at the sudden interjection of the world outside their unfolding drama.

 

“What is it?” Hakon of the Iron Hounds asked, fierce eyes still locked with the hateful eyes of Kalfdan of the Space Wolves.

 

“The time table, sergeant.” Geirvaldr said, an edge of urgency apparent in his voice. “Phase 2 is commencing.”

 

“Phase 2?” Kalfdan bared his teeth and snarled his derision. “What is Phase 2?”

 

“Nothing important.” Hakon of the Iron Hounds said dismissively. “We are not afraid to die, you and I. Or isn’t that so, my brave friend?”

 

“Me?” Kalfdan said mockingly. Both sergeants had righted themselves, but maintained their angry grip on one another. “Of course. Cowardice makes one a traitor to oneself, and the loyal sons of Russ know nothing of betrayal. Let death come, and I will laugh in its face.”

 

“That is good to know,” Hakon of the Iron Hounds said. “I was afraid you wouldn’t stay. It will do you good to witness the iron will of the loyal sons of Perturabo.”

 

The answer to what Phase 2 was came to them all a few seconds after that. The distant sound of heavy artillery thudded from the direction of the arch-enemies battle lines. A few seconds after that and the sound of artillery shells impacting several hundred metres away from the two squads shook the ground and forest.

 

“A lovely day for it.” Hakon of the Iron Hounds smiled at Kalfdan and finally broke their death grip on one another, pushing Kalfdan a step backward. “Though I’ll understand if you have other things to do.”

 

“Oh, there’s no place I’d rather be.” Kalfdan squared up to Hakon and thrust his chin out. He gave Hakon’s power sword a few test swings and then rested the blade across the palm of his off hand.

 

The two sergeants calmly faced one another, never breaking eye contact as the sound of the walking artillery barrage came closer by fifty metres with every interval. The two squads shifted back and forth, fighting the urge to either take cover or open fire on their opposites.

 

“A bit of a breeze today.” Hakon of the Iron Hounds looked around at the sky as the hot wind of bursting shells blew through the forest. He had to yell to be heard over the sound of approaching doom.

 

“I think it might be starting to rain.” Kalfdan of the Space Wolves held out a bleeding hand to show Hakon, a jagged piece of shrapnel embedded deeply into the side of his thumb dripping thick red blood.

 

Kalfdan watched Hakon’s lips move again, but could not hear what was said over the terrible din of the artillery barrage as it was imminently upon them. He was trying to think of something to say himself, when the trees immediately behind the enemy squad burst into splinters. The very next second the world went white hot but curiously silent.

 

+++++++++

 

Kalfdan’s ears were ringing. His head hurt. His everything hurt. After a long while the ringing in his ears began to subside a little, and he heard a strange whoomp whoomp whooping. It was as if he were underwater and listening to the sounds of someone talking from above the surface. He drew in a hot breath and tried to sit up.

 

Fighting down a rising panic, Kalfdan tried to come to terms with the discovery that he no longer had any arms as quickly as possible. With some difficulty he managed to force himself into an upright sitting position by shifting side to side while he pushed off with his feet. Breathing heavily he looked around and tried to make sense of his new situation.

 

There was no more forest around him. There was the remains of forest everywhere, with splintered and felled coniferous trees scattered absolutely all about. Nearby was a power armoured figure, and after a second of staring at it he realized that the stranging whoomp whoomping sound was the laughter of the dying man.

 

“That,” Sergeant Hakon of the Iron Hounds paused his deep belly laughing when he saw that Kalfdan was looking at him. “That was the dumbest thing I think I’ve ever done.”

 

Kalfdan stared at Hakon, unable to process what those distant sounding words might mean. Hakon was missing both of his legs and one of his arms, and was grinning like an idiot, covered in dirt and blood. A moment later Kalfdan watched Hakon’s slackening grin and fading eyes turn into the neutral, half lidded expression of the deceased.

 

“This, I think, is mine.” The Iron Hound called Geirvaldr picked up Kalfdan’s frost axe and prised it from the dead hand of Hakon’s severed arm. The helmeted space marine turned to look at Hakon, and after a while simply turned and walked away from him.

 

+++++++++

 

Kalfdan did not remember how he had got there, but he was staring at the inside of the top hatches of a rhino from the position of the deck. He felt there were others piled on the floor next to him, and he knew more were sitting along the troop benches.

 

Caerl was staring at him, his face a blank expression. Kalfdan could not read that face; it was a different one than he had ever seen Caerl wear before, but it did not give him a good feeling.

 

A bump in the road caused an object on his chest to shift, and turning his face down Kalfdan saw that someone had placed Hakon of the Iron Hounds fancy power sword upon his grievously injured body. He remembered then the image of Hakon’s second walking away with his frost axe, and he felt a creeping shame coming over him.

 

He was happy when he felt the dark edges of consciousness slipping away from him.

 

+++++++++

 

Kalfdan loped across the tundra, stripped to the waist, wearing only breaches and boots and carrying only the gold and silver sword in his rough, cybernetic arms.

 

Hakon of the Space Wolves was no more. He had died in the same barrage that had killed Hakon of the Iron Hounds. Caerl was squad leader now, those few that remained chose only to follow the dour, quiet warrior instead of Kalfdan.

 

Kalfdan tracked a Fenrisian beast, and tracked it alone. He would return to the Fang, draped in the pelt of the beast, and he would be among the others again at the end of his self imposed exile, but he would forever be alone.

 

He was not afraid of death, but life had become a burden. All that kept him moving, driving him forward, was the thought of one day finding Geirvaldr of the Iron Hounds, and using Hakon’s sword to sever the hands that wielded the frost axe he had so pridefully given away.

 

Kalfdan the Lone Wolf threw back his head and howled at the indifferent sky.

 

I hope you like it.

Definitely not what I would have expected out of a "vs" story.