Garrow of Khan'Dayle

More Sci-Fi. Tales of the Clans. This one being of one Garrow of clan Khan'Dayle...
Copyright of me, Jared G. Juckiewicz

Garrow was beginning to get irritated. Oh, not at standing his post, no. He’d stood in parade for far longer, before, and it would be hours yet afore it began to bother him, and hours more afore he’d admit to it. Anyway, if there was anything a man of the Clans knew, beyond how to give, and take blows, it was patience. Especially the Khan’Dayle. His kind lacked the brute strength of the Ursk’Eyna, or Khar’Khar’Don, or the swift fury of the Fey’Liada or Udun’Khitai. Unlike any of the other clans, bar perhaps, in a way, the Akh’Pietr, the gift of the Khan’Dayle was in patience, in endurance.

No, it was not the formation he was forced to stand, to hold, that bothered him. It would end soon enough, and his unit was to be one of the first waves. The first wave, in fact, the Vanguard. His issue was with their allies, the Confederation troops. See, each and every one of the Clansfolk assigned to the drop had had their gear ready, perfect, immaculate, a full twenty-four hours afore the drop. And they had been standing, ready, in the drop bay, since before the notional dawn maintained on transports. They could have dropped, easily, hours earlier than planned, and such was always the way of the Clans.

The Confederation troops on the other hand… Oh, they had a few reasonable units, who had been ready beforehand, but most of them still had things to square together when the assembly signal was sounded. And so it was that they were filtering into the drop in dribs and drabs. Slow, disorganised, clumsy. When he thought on it, it almost brought a growl to his throat. Were it not that the drop pilots for the Clansfolk were all Akh’Pietr, he’d almost wish them the vanguard, the forlorn hope. For no matter how cold, how calculating and aloof the Akh’Pietr were, none could claim they were bad pilots.

At last, the Confeds were in their formations. And their leader was having an image of himself projected on the great bay doors, making a final speech. An exhortation to the troops. Garrow ignored it. He could say nothing that would induce a man of the Clans to fight any harder.  The Leaders of the Clans had declared that their Clans would stand beside the Confederation long ago. Back in the days when the six great Guard-Captains, the original Guard-Captains, held sway, ruling alongst those known as the Tormented, the first mothers of the Clans. The days when the broken bodies of those who had thought themselves masters dangled from the parapets of their own keeps, slain by those they had twisted and shaped to ward them and serve their unnatural lusts.

The speech ended, and Garrow finally heard the order he had been waiting for. True, the Akh’Pietr had beaten them with their cry of “LOOSE THE JESSES!” but old Cale Greyback had been barely a breath behind with the Khan’Dayle order, “OFF LEAD!” Without a thought, Garrow snatched up his kitbag, threw it over his shoulder, lifted his helmet from its rest by his feet, and rushed for his shuttle, his Clan-Kin, Brothers and Sisters both matching his pace. Boarding his shuttle, he found the hard, uncomfortable jumpseat assigned him, and sat, kitbag going between his legs. Locking the restraints about his shoulders and waist, he drew his personal weapon, a heavy Plasma Gun, from his kitbag and then stowed the bag under his seat. He rested the weapon on his knees, donned his helm, pulling it down tight against the gorget and twisting it until the seals caught and the nano-fibers locked.

He felt a familiar moments panic as the nanofibers extruded by the helmet lining connected to his neural cortex, but then relaxed as his senses widened. He could see the heat signatures of his Clankin, at least their heads, and until they donned their own helms, and into the ultraviolet. He could ‘hear’ and ‘speak’ radio signals and other more esoteric transmissions, could taste the most minute chemical signatures. It was a heady and addictive feeling. Suddenly there was a judder, and a feeling of lightness as the shuttle lifted from its cradle. A few moments later, there was a feeling of motion as it began to move stately forward. It moved slowly, behind the fighter screen, but the evasive actions that are standard procedure in such a drop ensured it was not a comfortable ride for any involved.

On the other hand, the Khan’Dayle are renowned, like most of the Clans, for stoicism, and so not a peep was uttered. At least, not until a sensation of falling and severe turbulence marked the entry into atmosphere. Then, then Garrow and his Clankin sounded off, howling their warlust into their helms. The shuttle corkscrewed down wildly, seemingly accelerating all the while, only to slow with bonejarring speed, and settle gently onto the ground. There was a hiss of equalising pressure, and then the restraints popped loose and the hatch popped open.

Garrow bolted to his feet, as around him his Clankin did likewise. His Force-Leader strode down the exit ramp, and immediately set off in the long, slow, ground eating lope that the Khan’Dayle were capable of maintaining almost indefinitely. With a howl, the rest of the squad followed. Theirs it would be to race ahead of the main force, striking at targets of opportunity, scouting in force. It was a task that the Khan’Dayle with their patience and endurance were well suited to. And one which they had done many a time before…

Gyre of The Akh'Pietr

Well. I decided to try my hand at something different of late. Science Fiction to be precise. So, let me introduce you to Flight-Captain Gyre, Sergeant-At-Arms (For his people a noble rank. Which makes things complicated in the military, I must say) of the Khor'Veed Sept of the Akh'Pietr Clan. And Kudos to anyone who can name the origin of the names of the 'Clans' presented here. Anyway, Copyright of myself, Jared G. Juckiewicz. And I don't believe there be any major warnings I need to make...

The landing had been planned for months. The details finalised, in as much as any battle plan could be, for weeks. And yet, when the time came for the troops to assemble for the drop, there was chaos. The different detachments rushed all across their transports, trying to get organised in their drop bays. Well. Most of them did.  Those forces known as the Clans, scattered across the fleet, were ready. And had been, for hours. Standing, fully equipped, gear stowed, in perfect formation in their bays. Not a sound did they utter from the moment other units began rushing in until all were assembled.

Every bay seemed to have representatives of all of the Clans present. The tall, slender Akh’Pietr, acquiline of feature, with their hair-like feathers, taloned nails, and creamy eyes.  The lithe, powerful Fey’Liada, with their shaggy manes, and almost furred skins patterned in yellows, and oranges and browns and blacks. Rank on rank of the lean and rangy Khan’Dayle, grey haired or red, yellow-eyed, with an almost feral look stood next to rows of the short, powerful Khar’Khar’Dun and the lighter, perpetually cheery Udun’Khitai , both hairless, with strange waxy skin, sunken ears, and the former with black, soulless eyes. Even full regiments of the stocky, massive Ursk’Eyna, lazy eyes peering through mats of unkempt brown hair.

To Flight-Captain Gyre, Sergeant-At-Arms of the Khor’Veed sept of Akh’Pietr, the other confederation troops were an undisciplined mob as they rushed into the bay. He had been standing in his rank, at the head of his flight, since an hour before the notional ‘dawn’ maintained on board the transport. An unruly lot, the Confederation forces, in his opinion. Take for example, this infantry squad rushing in. Their uniforms were a mess, rumpled, crumpled, seals undone. They had no semblance of a formation, their gear was all out of order. Every man and woman of the Clans had been in uniform and had all their gear packed, to the degree that only a Clan NCO would have found issue, afore they even thought of leaving their quarters.

And as for the accomadations. Absolutely disgraceful. Most Confederation troops were bunked not more than four to a room. And that same room on a Clan transport would house at least a dozen, with no furniture bar a footlocker for each warrior. But then again, Clansfolk were at once closer and far more distant than any pureblooded human, that was for certain. A consequence of how the Clans had come about. But there was no further time for his woolgathering. His head snapped back around as the Confederation commander appeared projected on the bay doors. He was making some sort of speech about the rightness of their cause, and how what they were doing was in the defence of Mankind. No Clanner would ever take anything like that at face value, not after what they had been put through in the name of ‘right’.

He knew why he was where he was, and it was nothing to do with causes or right.  No, he was Clansfolk. He fought for pay, and the joy in battle, and his sword-kin, both those sworn, and those unmet. And above all, he fought because he was a Clansman, born to battle, bred to the defence of the Clan. Finally, the speech was ending. The image of the Confederation officer faded, and immediately, orders sounded. From his commander, a roar of “SLIP THE JESSES” had every one of his warriors loosing raptorine shrieks of approval, as they swung their kitbags onto their shoulders and rushed to their positions. For Gyre, that was his beloved strikefighter, his key to the flight his blood forced him to lust for, but that his form denied him.

At the same moment, Fey’Liada commanders were crying “LOOSE COLLARS!” and Khan’Dayle officers were calling “OFF LEAD!” With much the same response. The Ursk’Eyna strike-leaders settled for bellowed “MOVE!”s, whilst those who lead the Khar’Khar’Dun and Udun’Khitai contingents settled for toothy grins, and beckoning their men forward. It was almost a full minute after the Clan forces were in motion that the rest of the Confederation officers belatedly gave the orders for their men to take their places, and by that point Gyre had already flung his bag in behind his chair and vaulted into his fighter. A toggle of a switch and the first layer of cockpit shielding dropped down, surrounding him in blackness. He could hear the next layer sliding in its rails, as his cockpit began to fill with the inertial gel that would help counter the gravitational stress he would undoubtedly be feeling shortly.

It took a lot of getting used to, slowly being covered in the gel, having it seal up around your mouth, your eyes and your nose. Tiny tendrils of nano-machines fed themselves through his pores, linking to his nervous system, and suddenly, he was no longer surrounded by darkness. All around him he could see the bay, hear what was going on. His strike fighters sensors fed directly into his neural cortex. He could see to the far reaches of the spectrum, he heard each of the various com systems in common use. He could feel his surroundings, the pressure of the bays atmosphere, the slightest traces of motion in the air. He quivered with the urge to take wing, as it were, but forced himself to wait.

He ran a diagnostic on his weapons systems, the twin missile tubes, the lone energy torpedo launcher, the anti-fighter beam packs.  The Laser Anti-Missile System, Chaff launchers, decoys, ECM, everything. It was all in working order, as well it should be. Like every Clansman, he took extremely good care of his own gear. Contented that everything was in order, he checked on his flight. Everyone came back, informing him of their preparedness, their impatience to leave. Impatient Ack’Pietr pilots are bad, so he arranged a distraction. A thought triggered a brief scrambled transmission, which, when translated from digital code to thought wave to audio would appear  as little more than screeches and shrieks. The Akh’Pietr tongue. And on those orders his flight began plotting targeting solutions on every target in the bay.

Fortuneately, the bulk of the pilots were Akh’Pietr, who were busy doing the same thing. And the rest were Confederation pilots who were still coming online when the bay doors began to open, and every Akh’Pietr pilot found his attention riveted on the void, and the glowing orb silhouetted against the blackness. He measured the opening gap minutely, willing himself to lift from his cradle, anti-grav floating him high enough to be clear of it. As soon as his fighter was able to clear the slowly receding walls, he accelerated, his cry of pleasure resounding throughout the ether, answered by his flight. This was what they lived for, the Akh’Pietr.

Behind him, he could feel the emissions from the shuttles and dropships that would ferry the troops down to the surface. He oriented himself, tracking the center of the gravity well as down, and stooped towards the fighters rising to meet him from the surface. Scores of them rose, hundreds, and he grinned, wrenching around into wild, seemingly random corkscrews, as they began to throw fire at him. Missiles looped past him, erupting in his wake, and he activated his countermeasures. The LAMS began to spit back, invisible to the naked eye, but glowing rainbow flashes to his heightened senses. And then he was amongst them. He suddenly flipped all his thrusters in conflicting directions, and flipped a hundred-eighty degrees.

Skidding backwards, he was staring at the vulnerable drive-fields of his foes. The tiniest nudges of his manouevering  thrusters shifted his nose enough that the bolts of radiation from his beam cannon were able to shred multiple targets, afore he began to accelerate again, never holding the same course for more than milliseconds at a time. Behind him, his flight were doing much the same, and the expanding balls of radiant plasma that marked their successes were marked by high screechs of triumph. As suddenly as they had dove in, they leapt back towards their transports. As they did, each of them wobbled slightly, scattering a field of ions behind them, screening their movements. It seemed an eternity afore they whipped back around, and this time the broad heavy wedges of assault shuttles, and the great, blocky dropships accompanied them, the little knifelike fighters weaving around them in complicated patterns.

The last of the defending fighters scattered before this onslaught, and down below, on the planet, the defence centers began their final preparations. Cannons were readied. Not the huge anti-orbital cannons, that could crack a warship in two, were it in a close orbit, but the lighter anti-craft guns, restricted to targets in atmosphere, but capable of felling even the sturdiest of dropships. Troops that had spent weeks on high alert rushed to their weapons, and their posts. Prayers were uttered, charms grasped firmly, men gazed skywards with fearful eyes. Sensors scanned the heavens, selecting targets, locking them in, following them until they entered range.

And all of this had been expected. The attack plan had accounted for the casualties that would, inevitably be caused by the defenders, but Gyre had a plan. Every craft in the first wave had an Akh’Pietr pilot, and none but the Akh’Pietr could understand their tongue. His shrieking, screeching orders shrilled from craft to craft as they drew nigh to the atmosphere. Targets were locked. At the last moment, every fighter under his command let loose with everything they had. On a patch of empty space, right on the boundary of the atmosphere. As soon as the ordnance was away, they looped round, cutting out their sensor feeds, blinding themselves, and with good cause. For mere seconds a blaze lit the sky of their target like an artificial sun. Sensors were burned out, every system lost its target lock, and then, before anything could recover, the Ack’Pietr came diving through that blazing inferno like the birds of prey they resembled, like the hawks and falcons and eagles they purported to be born of.

Shimmering energy fields extended from the sides of the strikefighters, granting them the aerofoils they would require to manoeuver in air. The Assault Shuttles and Dropships had been designed with such activity in mind as a regular thing, and so had no need of such aids. They settled to the ground, and began to disgorge their loads of power armoured warriors and heavy vehicles, as the fighters streaked overhead, raining fiery death on fixed emplacements. Pulling up, his weapons spent, Gyre gazed down on the field below, marked by the flashes of heavy weapons, already cratered from the opening barrages. Today had been a good day, he thought, wheeling round. A good day indeed.

Come On Pup

Finally found it in me to write some more Vikingr. Even it is entirely action without the slightest hint of plot development....
Copyright of myself, Jared G. Juckiewicz, warnings of Blood and Death and Violence

(Note. Recent Events are leading to Retconning most of the Accidental Vikingr tales set AFTER Outremer. This falls amongst those. Furthermore, to move more into keeping with the setting, certain character names are being changed. Sir Jared shall be referred to as Jehan, and Sir Javier [Where he appears] as Iuliano. Sorry...)

“Come on Pup!” The man who answered to Bear said, his tone far cheerier than the one so addressed figured circumstances warranted. They had been travelling on foot, going to collect supplies, and as they approached the village they had planned on trading at, well, things looked to be getting complicated.

For one thing, half a dozen warriors were present. This was unusual. And from the state of their gear, they looked to be brigands. That wasn’t counting their leader, who was mounted, and his honour guard, a pair similarly mounted. Their gear was better, but not a match even for the Bear’s aged chain and antiquated helmet. None of them wore any heraldry, nor even anything that resembled Heraldry, and they were quite obviously far removed from any form of authority. The leader was speaking to the village headman, who was visibly cringing, even from as far away as the pair were.

“We have work to do!” The Bear exclaimed happily, and the one he spoke to shook his head. Robert, his name was, and until recently, he had been a courier. Not one for combat, tending to move fast enough that no one considered him a target. All that had changed when a strange man in Nottingham had hired him to deliver a message north, to Strathearne. The Old Man he had delivered that message too had made a seemingly miraculous transformation, from broken down elder, to steel-thewed veteran. And he had dragged poor Robert back south with him. It turned out, later, that this old man, answering to Bear had been an Outlaw, and a Knight. A Viking, a Crusader, and a Varangian. A Pagan, and a drinker and a brawler.  And now a free-lance bandit hunter.

As they approached, Bear gave instructions. “Leave the horse to me.” Was the first. Fighting cavalry from foot took care and skill. And experience. And Bear was capable of those in spades. “Don’t worry about kills. Keep yourself alive and them off-balance.” Lots of practice at fighting, Roberts newfound mentors had, even if there was but one present. “If you do have to face a horseman, go for the horse. Tis harsh, but…” And Bear trailed off. As they reached the edge of the village, he proffered one last bit of advice. “Keep behind me, Lad, least till it starts. And Dinnae be getting in my way after.” With that, he donned his helm, and strode forward, the steel-shod butt of his great, two-handed crescent axe sending up little puffs of dust from the dry wagon track.

“GENTLEMEN!” He bellowed, as he drew into the village square, slamming the axehaft into the ground. Every eye snapped to him. “Who’d I be speaking tae, were I wishing tae buy food?” He asked, and his hand plucked a weighty pouch of his thick leather belt. “I can pay.” He informed him, the corners of his lips twitching up, even as he bounced the pouch in his hand. The jingle of coins was clearly audible. As well wave a steak in the face of a wolf-pack. As the brigands on foot began to close, and those ahorse expertly wheeled their mounts, his grin spread. Without warning, he hurled the pouch at the face of one of the few brigands with a helm.

The impact stunned the warrior, and the pouch scattered, shimmering silver coins flying everywhere. Even as the brigands and his companion paused in shock, he struck. The broad blade of his axe whipped up and round as he lunged towards the horsemen, and there was sickening cracking and tearing noises. The horse screamed in agony as it dropped, forelimbs shattered, as the Bear spun off to its right. As soon as he was out of range of a sudden backkick, he stopped, returning to a rest, feet shoulderwidth apart, left arm tucked into his belt, right holding his axe vertical, the butt resting on the arch of his foot. “Weel Then?” He snarled at them, snapping them out of their shock. The surviving pair of horsemen wheeled again, and made to rush, and half the men on foot followed him. The other three moved on the Pup, who was busy sliding his shield, a broad round shield with a steel boss, off his back, and drawing his chosen weapon, a short broadsword of Norman make. For armour he wore but a gambeson and a steel spangenhelm, and the encroaching warriors in their ragged maille and leathers did little to engender confidence.

Seeing the warriors closing on him, faces grim, the Bear threw his head forward and gave out a roar like his namesake, before rushing in himself. His axe flicked up, into a stave-grip, and he parried the first blow coming for him, a sturdy, iron-studded war club. He sidestepped, avoiding a clumsily swung hand-axe, and flicked the steel shod butt round. There was a crack, and the brigand fell, blood beginning to seep from his nose and mouth. Stepping back, the Bear finished him with a butt-strike to the same point, covering the bottom of his axehaft in blood and brains and shards of bone.

Approaching Thunder warned him of a charging horse, and he spun, dropping to his knees and taking a disembowling thrust on the heavy kite shield hanging on his back. He thrust with the point of his axe head, as though ‘twere a spear, and another horse shrieked in pain and terror, its breast punctured by the terrible blade. Meanwhilst the Pup was parrying desperately, his shielding shifting constantly to block blow after blow. He had no opportunity to land strikes of his own, but none of the three facing him were landing any. A mace swung towards his skull was parried with an upward sweep of his blade, even whilst a knife thrust was caught on the rim of his shield, and he twisted out of the way of a short spear.

As the stricken horse reared and fell, Bear tore the wicked hook of his axehead from its chest, and pivoted to the side, stepping back, and lashing out at the knifeman who’d been behind him. The steel socket of the head, caught the knife-arm at the wrist, and a strange popping signalled the breaking of the arm. He jerked the blade back, and then rammed it forward and up, the point sliding in under the chin, severing the mans chinstrap, and driving up into the brain. Rather than waste time trying to tear his axe free, Bear stepped back, his hands slidding his skeggox, a short handled bearded axe, from his belt, and his poniard from its sheath. Turning slowly, he took stock. One infantryman and a horse faced him, and the three warriors facing the Pup were completely concentrated on that fight.  

With a grin, Bear feinted for the surviving foot-soldier, and then twisted, hurling the axe with great accuracy to embed in the back of the skull of one the warriors facing the Pup. Said companion of his responded immediately, lunging into the offensive. His shield battered aside the mace, and the sword came round in an overhand blow, hacking into the mans neck. Stepping back, the Pup pulled the blade loose, avoiding the spurting blood, and turned to face the last, the spearman. Now man-at-arms against a spear, the man-at-arms has the advantage, and the brigand knew it. He turned to run, but wasn’t fast enough, and Roberts blade slid neatly into his back, a perfect killing strike.

As Robert in turn took stock of his surroundings, he noticed a few things. First that the Bear was slowly being circled by a man on foot, and a warrior ahorse. And second that the Bear for whatever reason, was wielding naught more than his dagger. True, as daggers go, it was a rather impressive one, the blade being as long as his forearm, with a crossguard, and a disk pommel, eighteen inches of razored steel. But even still. So, he charged, silently, towards the warrior whose back was to him. The Horseman saw this, and spurred his mount at the Bear, who simply grinned.

A broadsword swung down, but the Bear caught it on his dagger, and slid it aside, grabbing for the riders sword belt, and dragging himself up behind the saddle. As the rider, the bandit leader tried to turn, the Bear cuffed him upsides the head with his pommel. Once, twice, thrice, and then, as the rider wavered, the Bear shoved him off, and grabbed for the reins, pulling himself forward into the saddle. In the few seconds this had been going on, the last of the brigands had realised something was wrong, and turned. His broadsword whipped round to lash at the Pups skull, only to be parried easily. They sparred, forward and back, every blow parried, until the Pup stepped forward and punched with his shield hand. The brigand took a steel boss to the face, and staggered. It was all the opening the Pup needed. His form, again was almost perfect, and a third dead brigand joined his honour guard. He looked up to see the Bear sitting there, mounted on his stolen horse, just watching. “You done good, lad.” The Bear informed him, and then slid down. There were bodies to loot, and villagers to reassure, and supplies to purchase.   

Literary Challenge! 100 Ficlets!

Well. A friend of mine at one point sent me a list to a challenge. Which basically boiled down to 'select a setting. take these 100 prompts. write a short 100 word story based on each prompt.' She called them ficlets. I have started doing these with Gorm from my Valkyrien stories. Here be the first 25. And when I remember the link, I shall post it.
Stories copyright Jared G. Juckiewicz.

And best of all, we get insights into the Character!
Finally, wishes to point out that the views of Gorm are not my own. And tend to change over the years.

01.    Toast! shortly before 1066 A.D. Russia

It had been long, cold travels, north from Miklagaard. Up the Dneiper, to Holmgaard. I had fallen in with Harald Sigurdsson, who would one day be called Hadrada. We had stopped at the courts of Jarisleif, King of the Rus, to resupply before completing our travels to Norway. As his minstrels, hired from the court of the Basileus, played, and greek dancers writhed in the center of the floor, I stood, addressing those assembled. “ ‘Tis Time to raise a toast, to our generous host!” I roared, and said host’s guests roared their response. 

02.    Bread. shortly after 1066 A.D. Somewhere in Scotland

The Scot had been rather accommadating to the stranger who came north. Grey of hair and of eye, covered in scars, and clad in ragged remnants of a gambeson and tunic, the stranger had been armed only with a dirk. He had staggered north, openly admitting to having been with the Norsemen at Stamford, fighting against the Normans. The Scot had heard of the Normans, indeed, had clashed with them several times, and was more than willing to break bread, good, wheaten bread, with his uninvited guest. Bread, spread with honey and butter, washed down with a good heather ale. 

03.    Church. Post Verden. Before the Volga. Somewhere on the coast of the North Sea.

“SANCTUARY!” the monk cried, as I burst through the door to the chapel. “Sanctuary!” As though the rules of the White Christ would apply to a Vikingr. Much less one sworn to the Old Gods, and even less still a grandson of the trickster god. Good pickings in a church. Giltwork on the altar, wine for the communion. True they were sturdily built, and oft-times folk sought sanctuary in them. Then again, should they hold against us, barricades and such, we knew how to smoke them out.  But a Pyre wouldn’t be necessary here. I grinned ferally, and stepped forward.

04.    Belief. 30 Years War. After Rain. Before Lutzen.

I was sitting outside my tent, when I saw a stranger come into camp. She asked a hakkapell a question, and he simply nodded, and lobbed me a large hare. I nodded thanks, as the stranger wandered over. I looked her over, and grimaced. “I don’t associate with Catholics.” I told him, and he grinned. “I’m not Catholic” I was told. My response was snarled. “I don’t associate with Christsmen either.” A curious look at me, and the question.  “Why do you fight for them?” I grinned. “I don’t. I fight for the Vasa, The Swede, the Aesir and Vanir.”

05.    Eternal. Modern.

A wise man once told me a secret. ‘The worth of a man is judged by how he is remembered’ Is how I would translate it. And it is a valid method. Which explains why I am here, sitting on the bank of a babbling brook, in the pouring rain, not moving a muscle. For so long as I remember, those I loved have value. So long as I cling to the memory of our time together, those I loved do not die. And I am wolfsblood. Barring accident or design, I, and the memory and the dead, are Eternal

06.    Soul Modern reflections.

‘Repent’ They told me. ‘Think of your eternal soul!’ Ha. I have heard their sermons. If they knew what I was, they would not speak thus. No, I have no fear for my eternal soul. The blood of Fenris flows through my veins. It will be many years yet afore I die, and when I do, is like to be in battle, with Valour. Wodin will take my soul, or Freya will. It is safe, not bound for Niflheim, nor the clutches of Hel. And should the priests of the White Christ be right, then I’ll be in good company.

07.    Babble Modern, post Valkyrien

Why I let them convince me hosting a slumber party was a good idea, I will never know. True, we have a rather large home. And ‘tis true that younglings love our place, the fields, the trees, the ponies. But the Noise. Lord The Thunders, I’ve been on many a battlefield, and the racket there is soothing compared to the babbling of a score of human pups. Almost quieter, too! When Vixen gets back, I’m for a long run.

08.    School Modern, post Valkyrien

An interesting telephone call was received. “Mr. Ulfsbluut Renard?” I was asked. “Yes? Who is this?” Turned out to be the local elementary school. I was required to pay a visit. As Stacia and Amalric had been sent to the principals office. Brawling. Their friends, Muirgen and Tyrone’s children, had been given hassle. And my Pups had intervened. True, there were a large number of bruises. And they weren’t entirely sure if they’d be able to save that boy’s ear. Ah well. What is school for, if not amusing scrapes like that.

09.    Education Sixth Century. Somewhere on the Swedish-Finnish Border

I was a boy, knowing perhaps thirteen summers when the Wolf first claimed me. I was lucky, in that the Saami had yet to bring the tribute, when it happened. I had but a few weeks of being chained outside, in the warm spring, afore they came, and took me away. I can still remember the first words their shaman had said to me. “So, Poika. You be the little Wolf-lad, then. Come, Poika! This should be an education for you.” And then he took me with him, to teach the control I would need, were I to live.

10.    Fireflies  Modern, post Valkyrien

We were sitting on the porch, Vixen and Muirgen and Tyrone and I, after the barbecue. Watching the little ones playing in the yard. They had managed to lay hands on a jar and some nets, and were chasing insects. They came rushing up, yelling a barrage of ‘Look! Look! We Caught Faeries!’ And the four of us started. It took us a minute to realise that their jar was in fact full of Fireflies. For which we were sincerely grateful. The fey are not things to imprison or joke about. Not even Tyrone, despite his being a friend.

11.    Bodies Modern, Valkyrien-era

Well. This could be awkward. No one is going to believe me. ‘Incapacitate the sentries’ They told me, ‘But leave them alive.’ How was I to know they were that skittish? Now I am left with a pair of bullet-studded corpses. Neither of which I attacked in any way, shape, or form. They managed to get me in a crossfire, until I moved. “Ulfsbluut!” I swear softly, and begin to drag them out of sight. It’s only a few minutes until my comrades arrive, to see me standing there, pockets full of brass and a sheepish grin on my face.

12.    Nature Modern, post Valkyrien

The scents surround me. Clean water. Pine woods. The perfume of wildflowers fills the air, criss-crossed with the traces of small animals. Birdsong sounds, broken occasionally by the harsh cry of a hunting hawk, or the howl of the wolf echoing through the woods. There is no sign of another person for miles around. I love moments like this. The occasional moments of peace that can penetrate even the black, blood-stained soul of a Werewolf. I bow my head, in mute homage to nature. Long may it last, never changing, never dying, always there when it is needed.

13.    Hero Medieval Period somewhere. Probably in the run up to the thirty years war

I came into the village staggering and wounded, my armour rent and torn. My blade was black with dried blood, the edge nicked and battered. I had a price on my head that many an outlaw would envy, but still they accepted me. And when the bandits came, I repaid that acceptance. I stood my ground, alone and unaided. I could do naught else. It wasn’t in me to run, and I lacked the strength for a charge. And so, they call me hero. For stupidity and weakness. And what else is a hero, when all is said and done?

14.    Complications Modern, Valkyrien-era

Well, I’ve just been told that pending medical assessments, my squad can go back on active duty. Illus and Vaul are fine. Elf still has a sore leg, but she knows she can get through the exam, at least, on willpower and determination. Lir has chosen to return home for a time, but Tyrone is replacing him. My summer got me all healed up, back to fighting form. And as for Vixen, well, here she is now. So, I ask her. “How are you doing, Love?”.  “Gorm,” She answers, softly, sweetly. “I’m pregnant.”

15.    Decisions Ottoman Empire, Fourteenth Century

Well. I have been offered a rare chance. A promotion as it were. From Janissary Slave Soldier, to a member of the Sultan’s bodyguard. The poncy gits. So. I have a decision to make it seems. See, the life of a Janissary isn’t bad, not even that of a mage-bound one like me. The life of a Bodyguard, whilst it is easier, for the most part, and more privileged has its drawbacks. Like the conversion requirement. I like my alcohol. And the removal of the spleen. Something to do with reducing temper. In a Wolfsblood? HAH!

16.    Choice Ottoman Empire, Fourteenth Century

It was, perhaps, the first time my fury had broken through my bonds. “You can have my spleen when you tear it from my cold dead corpse!” I snarled at them, seeking a weapon. Sooth be told, I didn’t really need one, but I’ve always used steel as a comfort. My choice had been made. I would stay a Janissary, for now. The breaking of my bindings had given me hope of escape, hope that could be dashed by getting closer to the Sultan. So, I turned them down, and when they objected, I stood my ground.

17.    Heartache Eight Century, maybe Ninth? Somewhere on the Danevirke...

I stand in the ruins of what was once my home. A trader I had been, and a husband, but no longer. Now I stand, the broken body of my wife held in my arms. And if she looked more like my mother than my lover, well, ‘Tis the price paid by immortal who loves one who isn’t. I had expected that price. I hadn’t expected to return from my hunt to find my people slain. An ache settles in my heart, and I whisper a prayer to the Goddess of the Celts, in her aspect as the Crone. 

18.    Space See above

The ruins of our little village aside the danevirke stand empty around me. I remember but yesterday it was bustling, busy. The craftsmen, the traders, our wives and children, all gone. All dead. The space surrounds me, the silence stifling. There is nothing left here. Nothing for anyone. And least of all for me. All there is now is the space in my heart and soul, the space where my life once was. The scales will be balanced, the weregild paid. I will fill the space with the blood of the guilty, however long it takes, whatever the price.

19.    Empty As above

I have found the warband that slew my bride. That slaughtered my people, that torched my village, that took everything of value and left me broken and shattered in mind and heart and soul. And I have slain them. And yet still there is an emptiness deep within, where once there was love. And then word reached me. Of a king who sought warriors to campaign against the Saxons, from whence that warband had come. Perhaps fealty could fill that hole. And if not, then taking my vengeance on the people who slew mine, might.

20.    Promise Modern, Valkyrien-era

I have sworn oaths before. Rarely, but it has been done, and I am rarely forsworn. This one, I will keep, or die trying. Staring deep into the almond eyes of my love, I utter the words chosen. ‘I, Gorm Ulfsbluut, take this oath, before the gods and my peers. To take this woman, Vixen, to love only her, to stand at her side, to stay my hand at her will, as long as she will have me. This I swear, before the gods of the Aesir and the Vanir, and the spawn of Laufi.’ ‘Twill do for a start.

21.    Candles somewhere in Alba. Thirteenth century

‘GORM! NOT AGAIN!’ Apparently, I’m in trouble again. Not sure why. And then I find out. The matriarch of the Clan MacEwan comes storming through waving the stub of a candle at me. “Have you been at my good tallow candles again?” She asks, and I make a little innocent smile. “No?” Says I and she points. “You have Wick stuck in your teeth.” Innocent smile becomes wicked grin. “Well. They’re delicious. And I was peckish. What can I say?” My amusement cut no ice. “You can buy me some new bloody candles, you can!” was the only response.

22.    Incense Modern, post Valkyrien

A familiar scent from my past filled the air. The smell of spices diffused in smoke. It was a smell I knew well from my time amongst the Turks. Not my fondest memories, sooth be told, but the scent is nice. On the other hand, Vixen seems to be attempting to give it better mental associations. A task that seems determined to succeed. Although it means I’ll have to stop snacking on the mice, cause they’ll all bugger off. Ah well. Given the choice between feeding off our rodent infestation, and spending time with my bride…

23.    Magick Ottoman Empire VERY LATE fourteenth century

It is time. By blood I was bound, and blood will make my freedom complete. It took me so long to find a way to break the spells that held me, but now, my rebellion is almost ready. Taloned paws delve deep, digging into the earth. They grasp the lines of power twisting below the surface, drawing strength from the leylines, strength to break the bonds that have held me fast. The power twists in my grasps, and my head pounds. And then there is peace, and my compulsions are gone. Well, bar those I choose to place myself under.

24.    Witch As above

Ah, the look on his face. He who bound me by blood spilt. His shock at realising his bindings had failed. His fear at realising his whipped cur was no longer chained. No longer whipped. And never a cur. Oh, I’d been ready for some time, awaiting merely a match. And now I had that. A warrior to serve. With that thought in mind, I leapt at him, roaring in fury and wrath and vengeance. By the time I landed, I was no longer human. Teeth to rend and claws to tear, and a witch on which to feast.

25.    Teacher Wallachia. Early Fifteenth

“So.” Says I. “The pair of you think you know Warfare?” and the two young noblemen I stared at nodded. I grinned, showing fangs yellowed with use. The Wolf flashed in my eyes and they started. “I have forgotten more about war than the pair of you will know, should you live a hundred years.” My grin went, if anything, more feral. “You fight the Turks. I fight the Turks. Wish you a tutor in the ways of death?” They nodded, and I howled. “THEN LET US DANCE!” As I whirled back into the fray, a whirling dervish of death.

Foxhunting...

Well... I got bored during one of my many layovers... So I wrote this. An Idea I have had for a wee while, finally made form...

Copyright belongs to myself, Jared G. Juciewicz. Warnings of blood, violence, death, and bad language. But then again, is old-school Valkyrien, what do you expect?

Somewhere in Northern England, out on the heath, the stillness of the summer morn was broken by the baying of hounds and the calling of horns. Cries of “View ‘Alloo!” shattered the silence, as a great red fox, a Vixen by the look of it, burst from the brush. Within moments, the men, the hounds, and the horses were in hot pursuit. The Vixen ran, staying just far enough ahead of the pack to hold their interest, but not close enough to give them any chance of catching her. She cut and dove, ducking through patches of gorse, worming her way through rabbit warrens, following the babbling brooks that cut all across the marshy heath. Anything to give her an advantage.

She wasn’t worried about the pack following her, in fact, she was viewing their attempts at catching her as a bit of fun. Death was not something that had worried her for a long time. And she had a surprise for the poncy gits on their well-bred hunters. The corners of her lips turned up in a very un-foxlike grin, as she thought of what was to come. Now… Where had she left him… She scanned the hills, looking for landmarks, and veered again. Showing herself for a moment, she heard the renewed cries as the baffled hounds turned back to the chase. Ah, by the gods, this was fun.

Not too far away, another awoke. He awoke to find his mate gone, vanished, and the sun high in the sky. Ah well. He had fed well the night before, and wasn’t particularly hungry. He wandered down to the brook, to rinse himself off, wake himself up, and maybe catch a nice fish for his breakfast. He was lying on the grass, staring intently at the calm, tranquil water, waiting for the big brown trout to come just a hair closer, just enough that the readied paw could strike with ease, when the water splashed into his face. Spinning with a snarl, he spotted his mate, the, to him, little Vixen he had taken up with. Then he heard the hounds. He spun back the direction he had come and snarled at them.

The hounds froze. The horses froze. The hunters sat in shock. One minute, they had been chasing a fox. The next, the red fox was sitting on the other side of a brook, grinning at them, shaking with mirth, and making peculiar coughing noises. In front of it stood a great dark gray wolf-thing, larger by far than any wolf they had seen. It was almost the size of a small bear, with great dark claws, and yellowed fangs more than an inch and a half long. Yellow eyes gleamed with barely suppressed fury, and no one was particularly surprised when it threw its head forward and roared a challenge.

Gorm was pissed. Try hunting his woman, would they? Chase her down with dogs, from horseback? With the intent of cutting her down as vermin? Not while he was about. He stood there for a moment, just watching, as his Vixen’s pursuit froze, quaking in their boots. He took a savage pleasure from the knocking of knees, the shaking, the cold chills he knew were running down every spine bar his and his lady’s. He threw his head forward and roared, filling the sound with all his fury, and all his rage, and all the hatred born of his incredibly long life. And then he leapt. He slammed into the pack of hounds like the daemon of the north he was named after. Bowing his head as he hit, he threw it back, hounds flying with it, and he flipped up on onto his feet, and around, catching one in those powerful jaws. The jaws crunched, and a spine severed.

He finished his spin, the broken corpse flying from his maw to knock a group of hounds to their knees. Their planned rush collapsed as they did a second later, when he hit them with all the fury of a blizzard. Claws raked and tore, his fanged maw ripped and shredded and crushed. The hounds began to attack back, climbing on his back to try and get grips with their own teeth and claws. Feeling the hot pain of their blows, Gorm began to twist and buck, like one of the wild stallions he had watched fight, long ago and far away, in another life. Snapping at his assailants he caught one, and flung it at the first of the hunters to recover her wits. The flying dog knocked her off her horse, which panicked, and ran. Woman and dog both landed badly with sickening cracks and meaty thuds, and the great grey beast howled in triumph.

His spins gave him a glimpse of the other hunters, readying rifles and sabers and aiming in his direction. As the first of the hunters spurred his mount forward, Gorm charged. He bodyslammed the horse as he went past, knocking it off-balance. It toppled, landing on its riders leg, and bone shattered under the weight of horseflesh. The saber stroke went wide, and Gorm ran on, pouncing into the midst of the now worried horses. He lashed out, as he ran, striking from side to side, and the searing pain, the scent of blood, and the fear of their companions were too much. The horses broke and scattered, too far gone in terror to care for rein or spur. The great wolf did not bother to pursue. He watched as the hounds fled, and then turned towards the man with the shattered leg. He stalked up, keeping within sight of the stricken huntsman, and when he had drawn nigh, he struck.

His great yellowed fangs shut with a ‘clop’ mere millimetres from the poor man’s face, and Gorm made a sound that was almost human, almost a laugh, and he spun, and loped off across the moor. Vixen followed behind. She had some explaining to do.

Just A Bit Of Fun

Some light-hearted Accidental Vikingr for folks...
Copyright Jared G. Juckiewicz

The Peacock was confused. Not that the Bear and the Redjay were in a Taberna. No, that was nothing new. Not that full tankards were sitting on the table in front of them. Well. Maybe the full bit. Their sitting together, that was rather usual as well. However. What was confusing was what they were doing. After all their assurances, everything they had told him. They were Kissing. He stood there, arms crossed, tapping his foot, just waiting. He had a reasonably long wait, too. Almost a full minute passed afore they broke apart. The Peacock cleared his throat. “Ahem. What is going on here?” He asked, and they glanced at him. “ ‘Tis just a bit of fun!” Exclaimed the Bear, and the Redjay giggled. Actually giggled. The Peacocks face began to turn red. Even under his deep Iberian tan.

“I have heard it called that, yes. I have also heard you assure me that you never engage in… Carn-“ Before he could finish his sentence, both of his intended lecturees were roaring in gales of laughter. “No! No! No!” The Redjay choked out, bringing herself back under control. She raised her tankard, taking a long draught to forestall the laughter. Hefting it, she explained. “A Drinking Game.” She turned to look at the Bear. “Your turn. Truth? Or Dare?” Without hesitation, the Bear answered. “Dare” The Redjay grinned from ear to ear. She jerked her thumb in the direction of the disoriented Templar Knight. “Excellent. Kiss The Peacock!”

The Guide

Wrote this some time ago...
Copyright belongs to me, Jared G. Juckiewicz.

Their guide was mad. Absolutely, completely, utterly, stark, raving, bonkers. Since hiring him to lead them on a tour of the Blackwoods, and the Shield Mountains, and the Wildder Plains, he'd done naught but prove this. Whilst they spent every night safely ensconced in their tents, he slept under the stars. Worse than that, he slept in a special hammock, dangling from a tree. Most uncomfortable, they all thought. Every morning, he was up before dawn, had a fire lit for their breakfast, although whilst they supped on things like porridge and toast, he settled for a few strips of Jerky, and perhaps a handful of dried fruit or nuts. He'd help them pack up their tents and such like, and then, taking a pack that was twice the size of any of theirs, even if he carried none of their gear, they would set off.

And despite the weight of his load, he would not tire, would not slow. Indeed he kept darting off ahead, and dropping back to help guide his puffing, panting, charges. Come lunch time, he would be willing to keep going, whilst his charges demanded a break. Whilst they fed on the rations they brought with him, he contented himself with a mouthful or two of water, before leading them on further. Twas with much argument they had convinced him to stop the trek for the day as the sun began to fell, rather than when the full dark hit. It was then that he finally began to show signs of being almost human. For even as his charges began to prepare their meal, he would do the same. A strange conical pot with a pair of loops sticking up out of it would be filled with water. He would throw in some of his jerky, and the fruit and nuts, and a handful of herbs. A dash from a hipflask, anything he'd picked up over the course of the day that he deemed edible, and a little scoop of a mix of grain, peas and beans, all dried, and he had the makings of a rather neat little stew. And whilst he had that cooking, he'd mix some grain with water and a little salt in a neat little leather bowl, add another dash from the flask, and then make little cakes to grill on a flat rock.  Between his stew and his cakes, he'd have himself quite a nice supper, whilst his companions contented themselves with that old lie of Meals Ready to Eat.

But that was enough to suggest to them that he was mad. And if that hadn't, the fact that he slipped off every night after supper without a word and returned without giving a clue as to what he had been doing. And then, to top it all off, when they had woke this morning, and looked out their tents, it was raining. Raining rather heavily, a sudden storm. And there he was, with a little fire going, sheltered under a large square of fabric propped up on a set of poles. "Morning. What are you doing hiding in there?" He gestured expansively at the pouring rain. "Tis good Wildder weather, the rain so thick you can almost swim through it." He sat there, clad as he always "Not get very far if you keep hiding in there." He turned back to the fire, where he was busy preparing a breakfast. "Breakfasts about ready. Tis not much, by your standards. But it'll do. We should have been on our way by now." He saw to it they were fed and breakfasted, and even packed up their gear, all the while keeping a steady eye out. In good weather, one could see many miles, but in this weather, visibility was rather poor.

His charges hid under the cover he had set up, and when he had packed their gear, he took a peculiar device out of his ruck. A ring of black iron, slightly ajar, with a spike on a loop attached to it. He then took the fabric off of the poles, slid the poles into a special quiver in his pack, and then, donning his pack, he threw the square over his back and the ruck. He then locked it about his neck with the iron ring. And they set out, with the guide mantaining a far sharper watch than usual, not that his charges noticed. On the other hand, they did notice when their guide suddenly stopped. And dropped to his knees, swinging his pack off his back. He had shown no sign of weakness so far, and they could not think what it was would unnerve him. He slid a pair of the poles from the quiver, each of them three foot of wood black as night. Rummaging in his pack, he drew forth a pair of caps, one with iron filigree extending from one side, and one with it extending from both. Sliding the filigree onto the poles, he twisted them tight, giving him a six foot stave, shod with iron at one end. He then drew from the pack a wickedly hooked axehead, and slotted it onto the unshod end of the stave. A twist and he had a long two-handed axe, light and keen-edged.

He drew forth his leather bowl, sat it on his head, where it fitted as though it had been made to, covering the top of his head and reaching down the back. Over this he set his pot, the two loops suddenly making sense, the thing being, in fact, a spectacled helm put to other, less noble uses. A Mailled coat was next, followed by a belt on which he hung a longsword and a knife. The guide they had so long thought to be harmless and slightly odd now presented himself a rather martial figure, despite the rain bucketing down. He stood there, staring into the rain, his right holding the axe, his left digging under his tunic to draw forth a talisman. A pendant in the shape of a short hammer hung from his neck. All of a sudden, there was the sound of thunder, and the guide whispered. None were close enough to hear his whispers, until he reached the final phrase. As he bellowed the word 'ASATOR' Those he watched for arrived.  Sinuous shapes could be seen writhing and weaving in a ring around the group, but their guide stood there, doing nothing, an impassive look on his face.  All of a sudden, one of the shapes darted out of the driving rain, straight at him. He stood stock still, not even blinking, one hand on his axe, holding it erect, the other passively resting at his waist.

His charges watched in terrified fascination as the giant lizard, some twenty feet long from fang filled snout to armoured tailtip, charged straight at him hissing. It moved low to the ground, and at the last minute, the thing riding it yanked on the reins. It reared and spun, crashing down to a rest, not even a muscle twitching. "Sssstep Assside, Thunderborne" hissed the rider, hidden in the rain. The guide hadn't even flinched, and answered in a voice that, whilst calm, was also unyielding. "I Will Not." He said simply, and the rider hissed back at him. "Do not think to deny ussss of our prey, Longssstrider" it told him, and now he showed emotion. He laughed, and as it echoed away, he spoke again. "You think to challenge me, a child of the storm, on a day so clearly favoured by my father as this?" he asked, bringing his axe around to a guard position. As the long blackwood haft thudded into his hand, light as Ash, stronger than Oak, lightning struck nearby, the roll of thunder almost deafening. At that, the rider wheeled his mount away, and then a moment later, came charging back, hissing commands in a strange tongue to his fellows. "Down" Bellowed the guide, as he struck his first blow, dodging to the side of the first lizard to reach him, his axe swinging round, humming as it sliced the air.

The axehead clove straight through the riders skull, and the guide lept onto the lizards back, as its former riders corpse slid off. Unlike those who had been riding them, who knelt on the broad backs, he stood, bracing off the bony scutes on either side of the spine. Leaning down, he gathered the reins in one hand, wielding his axe deftly in the other, for all its great length. With an ease that spoke of long practice, he directed the lizard into battle. It seemed almost as though he had more practice than those who had attacked, for he had it fighting in a manner that none of the others managed. It used its fangs and its claws and its massive tail to equal and deadly effect, but always targeted at the riders, never the other beasts, and it was the same with the guide. He had only felled a few before on of the others hissed a command and they faded into the rain, the unridden serpents following. The guide dismounted, and his steed sped off into the storm, moving far more rapidly than something of its size should.

His guests reckoned they were owed explanations, but he proffered none. Instead he simply exhorted them to stand up, and continue the trek. He promised shelter by nightfall, claiming that by that point they would reach the Zigil village, and when queried on the nature of these Zigil, he simply gestured at the dead, and set off, in a direction not overly dissimilar to that taken by the retreating lizard riders. He was correct in that by dusk they had reached the outskirts of the Zigil village, having squashed their objections (Raised on the grounds that surely those who had attacked them would not grant them hospitality) with the simple statements that none would dare harm a Longstrider. And that to decline hospitality to those under the guard of the Thunderborne was an even greater taboo.

As they drew near the village, the guide could make out the forms of sentries, Zigil and their steeds laying motionless in the tall grasses. Before them was a palisade made of sheafs of those selfsame grasses, bound tightly and packed, raised to a height double that of a man. At its base, a ditch, some three foot deep, and half again as wide, lined with short stakes of the same dark wood the guides axe was hafted with. He had yet to remove his military gear, and had used his axe as a staff the whole way back. As he drew near to the opening in the palisade, he stopped, staring through the gap until a figure, indistinct from the rain and the distance appeared in it. When the figure had stopped, the guide removed the head from his axe with practiced ease, and lashed it to one of many ties hanging from his belt. Having thus demonstrated peaceful intentions, he strode forward, his charges following behind. As they drew closer to the gate, they were able to make out the figures of the Zigils for the first time.

They were humanoid, standing around five foot from taloned feet to the tip of their bony head-crests. They were scaled, and heavily built, with powerful legs, and strong arms, and reptilian heads that jutted forward from bodies always leaning to the fore. Long tails stretched out behind them to mantain their balance, and the colours of the scales varied, although whether this was natural, or due to paint, could not be told. They wore no clothing bar belts and harnesses, upon which they hung various implements according to their rank and duties. These were further demonstrated by many piercings, of bone and wood and metal, through the crests, and various jutting scales, and the nostrils. Jewellry was common, armbands and anklets and pendants being the most so. None of the softer metals humans tended to value for lustre and decoration were in evidence, only bronze and black iron and steel, each being accorded more worth than the last.

The leader, or at least, that was what they assumed the Zigil in the gateway was, bore no harness, and no belts. Indeed his only adornment was a simply helm of steel, the wave patterns of good steel clearly visible. This assumption was further borne out by the hissing challenge he issued to the guide, who responded in the same tongue. They made several exchanges in that language, before the guide turned to those he led. "Shelter, Meat, Beer, and Salt, under the bonds of hospitality, they will give us. As forfeit for their attack this morn, they proffer transport and safe passage to the shield. As mark of respect they gift me the Kee-rahk whose rider I slew, and who I rode into that battle." He said, and led them into the village. Shelter they were indeed given, in the largest of the huts made of bound sheaves inside the wall.

Most were small, barely large enough for a Kee-rahk to curl up inside, with its rider snuggled beside it. Some of those were indeed home to but a single rider, and its mount, but others it seemed housed only Zigil, a single young family. The rest, bar one were all several times that size, clearly home to larger, extended families. The last remaining was huge, with room for every Zigil in the village, some few hundred. That they had built it off no material bar bound grasses was amazing, and when this was pointed out by one of the ignorant strangers to this place, the guide simply saw fit to point out that Zigil were prized for the design of buildings in all parts of that world, regardless of their crude, savage appearance. It was in that great building they were giving shelter, whilst a feast was prepared. Translators were supplied, as the strangers guide was requested to take a private council with the Hearth-Keepers, and the Mount-Keepers, and the Lore-Keepers, and the Steel-Skull who headed them all.

From these translators, the tourists learned much. The Zigil tended to feed almost entirely on flesh, from the hunt and the herd, nigh always eaten raw. But, traffick with other peoples had taught them cooking, although such esoteric activities were reserved for special occasions. Youngsters roamed far and wide on the Kee-rahk, hunting, herding, rustling, and raiding. Those who had attained their peak held them in check, and those past it taught all and sundry the lore of the Zigil, the myths, the ways of the beasts and the plants, how to build, everything the Zigil knew and believed. The Zigil were, it turned out, semi-nomadic, and come time for them to move, all they had built would be left to house the spirits of those who had died whilst they had dwelt there. When they picked a place to build a new village, they lived rough for the first season, until the excretions of the Kee-rahk and of the Zigil themselves prompted the growth of the requisite grasses to the requisite state.

All this and more they were told, whilst Zigil of both genders prepared the feast, and hatchlings ran about under their feet, cadging the odd treat, and getting a swift, talon-checked kick or sharp tailswipe should they be too rambunctious. Meanwhile, the guide, and those he held council with spoke of recent events, for Longstriders were bearers of tidings ill and benign. They spoke of matters of Diplomacy, for Longstriders were often couriers or messengers, and their travels gave them experience much valued in council. They spoke of the weather, and of omens, and matters divine and arcane, for the Thunderborne were touched by the other, the fey and the aether. Lastly they spoke of the guides plans for his charges, their route first to the Shield, and then into its heights, before descending into the diggings of those who dwelt underground to avoid its harshest. They spoke of him and his coming out of those diggings far to the south, and their descent into the encircling Blackwoods, which they would cross before cutting across the lands beyond it to reach the head of the river, where the tourists people had their enclave.

And come the end of the learning and the council and the talk, they all gathered for the feast, the Guide sitting at the head of the table, with the Steel-Skull on his right and the eldest of the Lore-Keepers, by his choice, on his left. To the left of the Lore-Keeper sat the chiefest Hearth-Keeper, followed by three of the guides charges, and their translators. To the right of the Steel-Skull sat the most skilled of the Mount-Keepers, and besides him were the other three tourists and their charges. The rest of the village moved their accustomed places down to account for these additions. They sat crosslegged, tails extending out behind them, and the meal was set down on wattle dishes on the straw floor of the hall. It was very heavy on the flesh side of things, roasts and dishes of boiled and stewed meats. There were some loaves of bread, and bowls of coarse-ground salt and herbs were placed at intervals. To drink, beer, the only reason bar housing that the Zigil harvested the grasses that grew always around their dwellings.

After the feast, beds were prepared in the hall, bundles of straw loosed over the floor, and blankets of soft hide placed over them. Additional blankets were provided, although the weather on the plains was normally warm. This being an exceptionally good things, as people who live in straw houses should not light flame. And the tourists had, over the course of their visit, been forced to acknowledge the Zigil as people. Come dawn, they were woken, and fed on the remnants of the feast. The weather was bright and clear, taken as a good omen by all but their guide, who felt at home in the storm. They were given an escort of Kee-rahk riders, and each of them was also lent a Kee-rahk to be controlled by their translators. The guide needed none to control his Kee-rahk for him, and close inspection found it to be one of the largest in the village. It's loss would no doubt be a blow, but honour demanded it.

Van-driving Charactery Meme lifted off the Redjay

Well... It's about time someone successful lifted something from Rauda Redjay.
Heres the Deal.
You've somehow acquired a magical dimension-splicing conversion van and are planning an epic cross-country road trip for your roleplay characters. First, pick ten characters, then answer these questions to see how your adventure turns out to be. I intend to redo this in the next day or two with my fictional characters as well...
So

1. Wulf Wulffriend, (Homegrown Warhammer Fantasy, Half-Ogre Paladin)
2. Claudius Drakensblodet.  (Homegrown Warhammer Fantasy, Vampire Duellist)
3. Rathka Blood-Fanged (Homegrown Warhammer Fantasy, Dark Elf Beastmaster)
4. Crunk (Homegrown Warhammer Fantasy, Half-Ogre... Thug, I believe is simplest)
5. Vepky (Vampire The Masquerade, Gangrel Enforcer)
6. Halfdane Nibelungen (Deathwatch, Space Wolf Techmarine)
7. Roger (forgotten his list of last names now)  (Dark Heresy, Feral/Noble Assassin)
8. Harathoi (World of Warcraft, Blood Elf Paladin)
9. Swift (D&D 3.5, Human Barbarian)
10. Jack Denver (Homegrown Urban Fantasy System, Small Dragon)

(1) The GPS has an obnoxious voice. What does Swift name it, and is Roger bothered by it?
Well. Swift is a barbarian, one whose tribe names people after their defining features. I guarantee it would end up being referred to as either Guide or Voice. As for Roger, he grew up with Technology, and so would probably accept it without issue. And not be bothered by it.

(2) Harathoi, Claudius, Crunk, and Crunk, are all forced to share the cramped back seat. How do they arrange themselves?
Carefully. Wulf and Crunk are both half-ogres. Non-identical twins, actually, and moral opposites. They would likely end up on opposite sides of the vehicle. Claudius and Harathoi would squeeze into the middle. Seeing as how Claudius is a Vampire, he'd stay as far from Wulf as possible. So 'tis likely that the Vampire and the evil Half-Ogre in service to a demigod of death will take one side, and the two Paladins will take the other. 

(3) Vepky and Denver are sitting next to each other, Who gets the window seat.
Denver, for certain. Vepky will be trying to keep as far from the sun as possible.

(4) Rathka and Halfdane are invading each others personal space. Who gets annoyed first, and how do they deal with it.
I suspect it would never get resolved. Rathka comes from a society where being easily riled is a bad thing. As for Halfdane, If he gets annoyed, he would simply have his servo-arm hold Rathka at a distance of 1.75 meters away. Although that could end badly for all concerned if Rathka's pet Hydra is about...

(5) What habit does Harathoi have that could irritate Crunk.
Um... Does being a poncy elf count? And also the ability to be immune to cannonfire...

(6) Who is more likely to start a round of '99 bottles', Wulf or Roger.
The Song? Neither. Wulf might treat everyone to his own version, that being '99 Kegs'

(7) Would you trust Swift or Denver behind the wheel for a while?
Swift, not a chance. Chappy has seen ONE motorised vehicle. He was a passenger, and almost took out the engine by accident. Denver on the other hand is a skilled driver, a Helicopter Pilot, a Search and Rescue operator in the Rocky Mountains, and damn good at any such things, drunk or sober. He can take the wheel any day. In fact, it's liable to be either him or Halfdane driving the whole trip.

(8) You stop at a gas station and Vepky and Rathka make a snack run. What do they bring back?
OH GODS! Who sent a Vampire and a Druchii? Okay. Vodka. Random Passersby. Possibly Random Passerby marinated in Vodka.

(9) Claudius and Halfdane brought their CD collections. What is liable to be on the playlists.
Well. Claudius tends to listen to classical music, particularly stuff by people who have been forgetten for many, many a year. Halfdane favours Norse Folk Music and Folk Metal. Cue Turisas, Amon Amarth, Ensiferum, Tyr. Certain Led Zep (Immigrant Song) And of course, The Imperial March.

(10) Who is the more notorious backseat driver, Harathoi or Denver.
Oh, Denver, certainly. He has an almost eidetic memory. And a head full of aerial photographs... which he thinks he can translate into directions effortlessly. Lies.

Betrothed

Well. A Direct Sequel to Proposal. Is strange. I have been writing lots of Squee of late... Not like me at all...
I suspect my subconcious is subtly trying to tell me something. I think it should lose the subtlety. Anyway...
Intellectual property of me, Jared G. Juckiewicz. Meaning, I hold the copyright.
Not really any warnings to be made.

As I wake, I realise there is something different. Something new. Nothing has changed from when I went to sleep. The glade is the same, the soft moss beneath me, the woolen blanket above. Vixen is still beside me, curled up against me. That hasn't changed. Such a pleasure to awaken besides my betrothed. That. That is the difference. See, I proposed last night, over a dinner of fresh hare. And mine lady accepted. Carefully, I roll back, away from her, and prop myself up against a tree, sitting and watching her sleep. She looks so peaceful. It makes a pleasant change. She begins to stir, rolling over and feeling for me.

When she doesn't find me, she bolts up to one knee, instantly awake, glancing about. Her gaze settles on me, and she relaxes. She gives me a look so full of love and affection it makes me melt. It is several minutes before either of us is willing to speak. "Breakfast, My love?" I ask her, and she nods. I hadn't brought food for breakfast, but the brook is full of trout. We shift, and a moment later a large wolf stands aside a large red fox on the banks of the stream. Our paws keep touching as we strike for fish, and after the a half a dozen such flawed strikes, she pounces at me. We tussle, rolling over and over, before landing heavily in the water. So much for fish for breakfast. Ah well, we could skip breakfast. We'd done it before. And our play in the stream has directed our interests in other directions. W'll be far later in starting back this day than we had originally intended.

As we return, we can see Lydia and Sara plittering about in the garden. They must have realised something was up. It couldn't have anything to do the silly grins that are plastered on our faces. Or the tight grip our hands hold on each others. And certainly not the way we periodically glance at each other. And smile, and giggle. And get lost in looking and lose our footing. Whatever the cause, as soon as we draw near the garden, we are accosted. "What's with you two?" Sara asks. And we glance at each other, and giggle again. Have you ever heard a werewolf giggle? It is one of the most disconcerting sounds in the world. Probably cause you say the wrong thing and one of the wolfsblooded can shift from giggling to tearing out your throat with his teeth in about a second and a half. Vixen recovers first, looks at Lydia and Sara, and explains. "This big lout proposed to me. We are to be married." By this point, I am able to begin speaking again, and confirm. "Aye. We just need to set a date. I'm thinking Imbolc. Or Beltane." Vixen nodded. There were cries of "Thats Wonderful" And, "Oh! I'm so happy for you!" As soon as we told Michael, he insisted on us doing naught bar celebrate for the rest of the day.

Stamford Brig

Congratulations! Today there be a double posting. Intellectual property of myself, Jared G. Juckiewicz, copyright held by the same. Gorm, at Stamford. Don't seem to be up to writing modern stuff at the minute. Nor Accidental Viking. So I be fleshing out his backstory.

Warnings of Violence and Language.

The day was warm, for ‘twas still summer. We had brought the fleet, 300 ships strong, up the river Ouse. The only resistance had been the slaughter at Fulford Ditch. And that had been over quickly. They should have payed us off. Like we told them to. Angevin fools. Now the fleet was at harbour, beached on the banks of the Ouse. A third of the army had been left to watch them, whilst the rest of us took tribute of Yorvik at Stamford Brig.

Twas warm, unseasonably so, especially for this part of Angleland, warm and dry and sunny. Most of the men refused to wear their armour. A few like me ignored the ‘sage advice’ of those who let comfort outweigh common sense. We stood asides Hadrada as the Angevin brought their tribute. Horses, cattle, sheep. Many weights of silver and gold. Fine steel and ironwork. After the slaughter at Furford, they even brought their children for tribute as thralls. Worthless wretches. I would die in battle afore I’d give so much as a fingerswidth of hacksilver. Let alone my own flesh and blood.

So it was that I was stood with Hadrada and the Jarl Tostig when Harold called Godwinson arrived. Tribute was demanded. And Godwinsons response made me laugh. “I’ll gie ye tribute, lad,” He said, even though Harald Hadrada was almost as old as he was. “I’ll gie ye se’en foot o’good Angevin earth. Tae be yours in perpetuity. Ore as much longer as ye be taller than other man!”  I had to laugh. The man had guts. I grinned, baring teeth that were almost fangs, behind the coif that covered my face. Godwinson turned to Tostig next, and spoke again. “Tae ye, I’ve another offer. I’ll gie ye an earldom, should ye turn on Hadrada here…” Tostig shook his head. He would not betray Hadrada. Not after he had been the one to recruit Hadrada for this venture.

As Godwinson and his escort left, I tilted my head towards them, but with a shake of his head, Hadrada, my liege lord, denied me the pursuit. Things could have been different had he done otherwise. It was a few hours later that I tilted my head to the air, sniffing the air. As my nostrils filled with the scent of the approaching army, I turned to Hadrada. “They Come.” I growled, and he turned to me. “What?” He demanded, and I sniffed again, assuring myself of the foes soon to arrive. “Godwinson. Many warriors. They come. And soon.”   As Hadrada and Tostig shook their heads in stunned disbelief, I realised that they didn’t belief Godwinson could have mobilised so soon.

So, I responded in the manner of one who had been a leader of warriors amongst the Varangians. “WITHDRAW!” I roared. “HOLD THE BRIDGE!” As the warriors looked stunned, I tore the Raven banner from the ground, and passed it to a young Huscarl. “TAKE IT!” I snarled at him, and then roared again, “CROSS THE BRIDGE! TO THE RAVEN!”, as I shoved him towards the wooden bridge we were camped at. I glanced around, looking for a specific face. There, one of the few warriors in Maille. I grabbed his shoulder, and growled commands. “Shuck your armour. Get to the boats. Go, Tell Our Warriors, Son Of The North, That Gorm Grendelsbane Holds The Brig At Stamford! FETCH THEM!” As he bent double, his armour rolling of his shoulders, I got to the center of the bridge, and their I stood.

My Mailled Hauberk was stifling, but I was glad of it. The Gambie was already sodden with sweat, but I knew that soon it would be soaked through with other fluids. A feral grin lit my face, not that any could see it. My helm was an antique, steel loops descending from the angled spangenhelm to ward my eyes. Below that a chain coif and ventail protected my neck, and hampered my breathing. Mailled chausses warded my legs, and a great kite shield of linden, with the rampant wolf I held as my heraldry emblazoned on it, warded my back. At my belt hung sword and knife and axe, as they had since the Volga, and a great two-handed crescent axe, the blade almost a foot of curved death, was held loosely in my left. It’s steel-shod end slammed into the oaken boards rhythmically as those warriors I served aside flowed around me.

As the runner set off at the fastest pace he could maintain, for fifteen miles is no sprint, the bulk of the Vikingr present hastened to our camp, to arm and armour as best they could in the few minutes they would have. And whilst they did that, I summoned forth as much of the wolf as I dared. I growled low and deep in my throat. My eyes, hidden by the spectacles on my helm, yellowed. Fangs lengthened, cutting through my lower lip. I could scent my enemy coming, smell my allies forming up behind me. The wood under my feet. I could feel the bridge vibrate with the torrent of water below, and with the steady thudding of my axe-haft upon it.

As the first of the Angevin forces filtered out of the woods, my left foot came forward. I leaned forward and roared in challenge and defiance, my head twisting like that of the bear in a fury.  Godwinson trotted his horse to the foot of the bridge, and addressed me. “Stand Aside Warrior. Or Stand With Your Fellows.” My response was simple. “Here I stand. Naught shall pass.” He wheeled his horse aside, and signalled his champion forward. I stood, moving not a muscle, as the man approached me. He was almost my match in height, truly a giant for the Angevin folk, and close, but not quite as broad. He was armoured as well as I and armed almost the same. As he drew nigh, slowly and carefully, his daneaxe held in a guard, I continued to stand motionless, right up to the point where he began his first swing.

He flipped his axe up, and twirled, swinging it around at head height. As I ducked, he began to drop it, but the haft of mine met his in midair, as the head of mine dropped to the ground. I hooked my head behind his legs, and let the force of his swing add force to my sweep, dropping him to the hard oaken planks. A flip of my axe brought the steel-shod butt into his face, with enough force to shatter bone. I withdrew it, and returned to my original pose, standing straight, the axe held loosely at my side, butt standing on the bridge.

They tried to pepper me with arrows then, but I smelt the glue and the fletchings as they drew, and when they loosed I was ready. My crescent axe spun patterns in the air afore me, faster than the eye could see, catching broadheaded mankillers on the blade, or on the steel ferrules at the ends of the haft. More arrows were batted aside by the solid length of ashwood, or simply avoided by shifts in balance. Their first volley was useless, and I threw my laughter into their faces. With the second volley, those who had missed in the first were able to fix their aim, and I felt the hammerblows as arrows hit my maille, albeit at angles that simply bounced off. Come the third volley, my blood was actually spilt, not fewer than three shafts piercing maille and gambeson and hide. As my blood began to trickle, I readied to charge, only to hear Godwinson order the archers off. Apparently they had too few arrows to waste entire volleys on a single man.

Instead another champion started towards me, twirling paired axes over his wrists. I grinned behind my aventail, and as he rushed forward, howling a warcry, I met him with one of my own. “FENRIR!” I roared at him, spinning my axe up to trap both of his where hafts met heads. As he stopped, his momentum checked, I slammed my head forward, the steel of my helm smashing into his unarmoured brow. As he staggered back, stunned by the blow, I disengaged, and with an underhand swing, split him from groin to navel. The third and fourth warriors to come at me posed barely any greater challenge, and I growled my disappointment at my foes. And they began to come at me in groups.

The first pair came in to close together. Their shields got in each others way, and whilst they were trying to straighten themselves out, my axe licked out, slicing ones skull in half. As the top half of his head slid away, I spun the axe on the backswing. The hook caught around his hapless companions neck, and with the force of the wolfsblooded behind it, dropped him over the side of the bridge. Warrior after warrior came against me. A score fell, skulls staved in, guts spilled out, limbs lopped off. Their sundered corpses were left lying upon the bridge, or thrown over the side, gifts to the river. My axehaft had sundered, and so I had shifted to wielding axe and dagger. Then my other Axe had lost its head.

Finally, the blade on my sword had shivered and shattered, broken to slivers, and so I had been reduced to fighting with dagger and kite shield. Blood streamed from many wounds, leaking from rents in my maille and tears in my gambeson, but I barely felt it. My blood was up, my fury ready. I roared and snarled as more warriors rushed towards me. Knife licked in and out, shield parried wildly, and mind was lost. I knew not but the joy of battle. Not but the glory of shedding blood, of rending and tearing and maiming and slaying. And then suddenly, there were no foes before me. I roared again, challenging, demanding that one step forward to face me.

But none were to come. I began to drift down from my bloodied nirvana, returning to myself. “STEP FORWARD!” I bellowed at them, but there was no response. “WHO WILL FACE ME!” I demanded, but no one stepped forth. Finally I gave up. “ARE THERE NO MEN AMONGST YOU!” I asked of them at the bellow. Still no response. I took a step forward, and felt something cold slide up the inside of my thigh. It was almost a comfort, taken against the burning pain of my wounds, and the broiling heat of the battle and the armour. But only for a second, afore the flaming lance drove up into my flesh beneath the corselet.

Oh, how I howled as that length of steel tore and rent and split inside, and as it ripped out in a gush of bloodied effluvia I staggered, gasping silently for breath. As those warriors I had fought to hold safe till our army was rejoined stared on in horror, I slammed against the side of the bridge. As strength left me, I toppled over, the air whistling past my head, until with a splash, I sank into the river, and in the sudden chill, blackness took me. It was much time afore I knew of the slaughter that met my men. I know not how long the river rolled me down the rock-studded bank, afore I came back to myself, washed up next to the corpse of a slain man. I know not to whom he owed fealty, nor even whom or what had slain him. All I knew was that his flesh was enough to keep me alive, and heal me enough that I was able to move.

I learned later that the Vikingr had been slaughtered almost to a man. Hadrada had been shot down with many arrows, as one slays a boar or a bear brought to bay. The few survivors fell in with Godwinson to fall at Hastings, a battle I was sorry to miss. I myself found my way north, so slowly and painfully, to settle in alongsides a family of Scots. And there I stayed for many a year, until my standing with Andrew Moray and William Wallace led me to have cause to leave great Alba.