Of Man And Of Bat And Of Wolf

Well. I finally managed to write another Valkyrien story. I seem to recall promising some of the various backstories. Admittedly, I'm still trying to figure out how a Kitsune, which is a being from Japanese mythology, ends up in medieval Scandinavia. Or at least bearing Norse blood. On the other hand, this may help to explain where Illuss came from, and how he met Gorm. Intellectual property of myself, Jared Gamaliel Juckiewicz. There be reference to violence. As anything containing Gorm. And Illuss. And Vixen. And Tyrone. And Kaziklu Bey. Kinda has to.

Anyway, here you go...

Well, after we had landed on that border in Eastern Europe, and after we'd set up a base camp, Illuss decided to send us out on recces. Recconaisance missions. Yum. My Favourite. Honest. See, our mission is to cause as much havoc as we can. The area we've been dropped, well, its a favoured trafficking route for the Chechens. Women and Drugs go into eastern europe, money and guns come back. And a considerable chunk of both of those go to groups such as Al-Qaeda and the Taliban. Or whoever has got around to replacing them. Our orders are to put as much as a crimp into this traffick as possible. Luckily, if our brief is right, and if the area is like it was last time I was here, that will be... doable, at least. See there are (or were) very few roads. Which means plenty of choke points. Some of the stuff can be hauled my mule train, but we can cope with that.
Anyway, Illuss reasoned that we would to know the layout of the area. So he split us into fire-teams of three, and sent us off. Armed with naught but a blade and a sidearm. Which found us in our present situation. See, he paired Vixen and I off with Tyrone. Our orders were to infiltrate and investigate. Avoid contact. Determine location and strenght of enemy forces. Schedules of patrols. That sort of thing. Of course, what he neglects to take into account is that this particle trio in particular are made up of a Gall-Gaedhil Sidhe. An Elf. A Gaelic Elf no less, and thus originally less than peaceful. Who has since adopted the ways of the Norse overlords of the Hebrides, circa 1200 AD. At the latest. Oh. And A Norse Werewolf, who has been kicking about since a good two or three centuries before then. And a Kitsune who also bears Norse blood, and has been kicking around for almost as long. And, of course that neglects to mention the fact that Tyrone can summon a Cuain Sidhe, an Elfhound. Already has in fact. And I've seen Ponies that are smaller. And Wolverines that are less vicious and bloodthirsty.
However. That is besides the point. Won't become an issue until we actually come across something. Three days we've been roaming these heavily forested mountains. And not a sniff of a contact. Seriously, we have been using scent to try and locate our quarry. Thick as the forests are we can't see particularly far, and in the mountains, hearing is oft a shade less than useful. Anyway. Three days without a sniff. Darkness has already fallen, so we've settled in for the night. There be a fir tree we found when we decided to make camp. And there are these nice little gaps between the roots. So, whilst Tyrone and his hound, Cu-Tyr, kept watch, Vixen and I bedded down. We were on watch as of midnight, and thus sleep was what some would call marginally useful. So, as Tyrone and Cutyr went and concealed themselves, I curled up against the tree, dragging my Ghillie Cloak over me for warmth. Even as I did so, Vixen, little vixen that she is, wormed her way under the edge of my cloak, and snuggled up next to me. "Gorm." she whispered to me, once she was comfortable, nestled in the crook of my arm. "Why did you have them give Illuss the command?" 'Twas a reasonable question, for I had the seniority. I lay silently for a moment, considering how to explain. "I thought he'd do a better job of things." I answered softly. "I'd over-react to something. It'd end in atrocity. Illuss won't. He's always been more controlled." "Since when?" she asked, a grin spreading across her face. A grin spread across mine, as I remembered. "He and his master almost got me killed." I whispered, and she suddenly blurted a "HOW?", so I started in on the tale.
"It was the 14th century or so. Can't remember the exact year. I was a Janissary for the Turks. A slave soldier. On the other hand, 'Twas better than being in the Sultan's guard." I was getting into full story-teller mode, and this was one she'd not heard before. We'd not really discussed our pasts. At least not more than the century or so before we'd met. So, she snuggled in closer, against the mountains chill, and asked me "Why's that?". "Well. To be in the Sultans guard, you had to let his surgeons take your spleen. They didn't want to pay me in the appropriate coin for that." Although, to be fair twouldst be unlikely that they would want a Janissary as a Royal Bodyguard. "Anyway, so, here I was, Janissary for the Sultan. Now, me and my unit were drinking in a tavern, when a few guardsmen showed up. We Janissaries, and the Sultan's guard never really got along, and when someone threw a punch... Instant distraction." I could tell she was curious as to where this tale was going. "Which gave the Voivode. Well. He wasn't yet the Voivode. But, it gave him the chance he needed to kidnap one of Prince Mehmet's concubines. His shiny new concubine no less." Vixen giggled, quietly like. "So," I continued. "Here we are. Prince Mehmet is furious and announces that everyone in his service who was in the area will be executed." My grin went feral and vicious. Not many of us managed to cut our way free. Although those of who did, we remained friends until death parted us. I think I'm the last. "Those of us who managed to cut our way loose," I went on "Scattered to the winds. No one pays any attention to a mangy street cur. I tracked the girl by scent until she took to sea. That would have been the end of it, but I may have chanced across those who kidnapped her. They'd stayed in the Turkish lands." Vixen kept getting more and more curious as my tale went on. "I tailed them until they left the Turkish lands. When the young Lord claimed his title, I proffered him my service. He made me a personal bodyguard when I explained a slightly edited version of what had happened." "Edited?" Asked Vixen coyly, and my response took no thought. "I couldn't tell him I was a Wolf, now could I? And that is the tale of how I wound up in the service of Vlad Dracula, called Vlad Tepes. And by the Turks, Kaziklu Bey." She bolted upright at that. "You served Dracula?" She queried. "Aye. I did." was the response. "And was he?" was her next question, as she stared at me. "No." I responded. "No, he wasn't. Illuss was, by that point. It was that that did it. The myth came out of his only confidante being a Vampire. Oh. And his greatest bodyguard being a Werewolf." She settled back against me, curiosity almost satisfied. She had but one last question left. "So. How does that make you less controlled than Illuss?" "Simple" I answered. "Vlad relied a lot on his advisors. I'd have Impaled half the nobility as well as the rest of those he impaled at his wedding feast... Illuss had him hold off. Never known for a restrained response me." And on that note, I pulled her in close, and shut my eyes. Realizing just how much time we'd wasted on our tale, she too decided to sleep. Out of the darkness came a bemused snort. It seemed that Tyrone had been listening...

And a few notes on Historical Accuracy. Whilst there are few reports that are particularly accurate from that time and period, those Historians who study it have agreed on a few things. Vlad Dracula, son of Vlad Dracul, the Dragon, was tutored by the Turks, a hostage for his father's good behaviour. It is also widely believed that the tale of his kidnapping one of Mehmet's concubines is also accurate. Mehmets response is not recorded, but it is unlikely he took it well. I'd give you my sources, unfortunately my record of sources on Vlad Dracula, who was indeed known to the Turks as Kaziklu Bey, is in Scotland. And I am not. Coincidentally Kaziklu Bey translates roughly as Impaler Knight, or Impaler Lord.

The Guardian

Well, this be an idea I've been toying around with for a while. I figured, seeing as it had popped to the top of late, and as I seem to be lacking in... unable to... suffering from writers block where The Accidental Vikingr and Valkyrien are concerned, well, when it basically leapt onto Wordpad, I figured I may as well post it up.
Intellectual Property of myself, Jared G. Juckiewicz. Brief and mild violence.

I hate that feeling. The feeling of a transfer always knocks the wind out of me. It hits everyone differently, and its something a Guardian has to get used to. As it happens, some Guardians actually enjoy it. Although there are a few drawbacks. Nothing that isn't alive can make a transit. Which means that generally following a transit one is naked. And unarmed. And if you be like me, one of those poor sods who take them badly, helpless for a few moments. On the other hand, after a few terms as a Guardian, and I've had more than a few, one picks up a few tricks. So, I dragged myself to my feet, forced down the nausea, and exerted my will. A brief sign sketched the air, a quick chant, and a twist of willpower, and I was no longer skyclad. A long tunic, sleeves to the wrist, hanging to just below my knees. Light and loose as silk, warm as the thickest wool. Unless I wanted it to be cooler, of course.
Such clothing, whilst strange, would not go particularly amiss anywhere. It was a fairly safe bet anywhere. Weapons and other gear on the other hand, those were more awkward. Looking around I seemed to be in a city. Industrialized, at least in part. But it was never good to make assumptions, and until I found out what was permitted to be carried openly, it made no sense to summon blades. Or guns. Anyway, just drawing such things into existence was less than useful anyway. Summoned weapons don't tend to function particularly well. Of course, there are ways around that, and around the impossibility of bringing any bar bioweapons through a transit. And I never could get the hang of them. On the other hand. I know more than a few tricks myself. I'm no rookie on my first term. I can survive just fine without steel. As soon as I figure just what I'm meant to do here. High Warden I wish they'd brief us properly for once.
First to finish getting my bearings. Dragging up the right codons is the work of a moment for one who knows what they're doing. And then it was but a minutes wait, whilst the changes took effect. Sharpened sight, sharpened hearing, sharpened sense of smell. The organs required to taste the air and detect heat signatures were a shade more complicated. So. My initial impressions were correct. I was in a city. Or on the outskirts of one. A residential area, it seemed. A back road, at night. From the smell of the pollutants it was an industrialized society, making heavy use of hydrocarbons. There are a lot of those about. The tastes in the air told me the same. A human society, but again those are common. No ones yet figured why almost every universe has Humans in it, but hey, what can you do. May help to explain my being assigned this term. I was born a son of man, and though it has been a long time since I was truly such, I can still look the part.
And of course, any longtime Guardian has a few other senses at their disposal. Like the ability to pick up any transits in the near vicinity. Like that one, maybe two or three streets across, and a turning or two up. Curious. Legally, only the Guardians are permitted to make transits, and it is damnably rare for more than one Guardian to be assigned to the same place or time for a given term. And if there are more than one assigned, it is ALWAYS mentioned in the briefs. And this wasn't. So. To investigate. Simple enough to clamber up the side of one of the residences. They only seemed to be a single level high, with peaked roofs, and broad gutters. Most of them had pebbled sides that would make for easy climbing to a Guardian. And although they were spaced many yards apart, set in the center of neat spaces of well trimmed grass, even a rookie could vault that by the end of their second term. And by keeping the crests of the roofs between me and the source of the transit, I could be reasonably certain of staying out of sight. Which as I approached began to seem like a better and better idea.
See, I could feel a tingling of power. The sort of tingling that suggests the presence of beings OF power, rather than beings WITH power. I'll tell you this much. I'm glad 'twas decent weather. See, some such folk are decent, but the bulk of them are, at the least, a tad on the shady side. And a good, harsh storm is one of the stronger sources of natural power out there. I could smell the transits now. It was a smell I was familiar with, tainted with the ozone of a recent transit. I had hoped it would have been something else, anything else. Another rooftop, and I could taste them. The harsh, acrid, bitter taste is unmistakeable. Another rooftop and I could see them. There were a dozen of them, circling a small cluster of three or four of the humans, who'd been walking down the street. Now, I don't know what the people of this place call them. I do however know what we Guardians call them. When we're not hunting them that is.
They stand almost 3 foot at the shoulder when on all fours, and almost treble that when they stand straight. They look like a cross between a wolf or a hound and a spiny lizard. Long spines cover their backs, and their sides. Their claws are long, and their fangs sharp. Long tails, ending in ridges of razor sharp bone help them stay balanced. They are vicious things, the Ki'Ar'Lang, one of the few peoples intrinsically capable of making a transit. 'Tis folk like that I was trained to hunt, where necessary. It's why the Guardians were formed, in ages past, to defend those who can't make transit, and whose leaders refuse to believe, from those who can. No one was speaking, but the Ki'Ar'Lang were growling and snarling as they circled. It wouldn't be long before one of them leapt. I marked their leader. He was easy to pick out, the raised crest along his spine marking him as dominant, as surely as the prevalence of the blood red sigils adorning his dark scales. I was also able to mark the one most likely to make the leap, a young buck, his scales dull and matte.
He'd be wanting the dominance of the first kill, and the extra power a first-feeding would grant. I on the other hand, wouldn't be having that. And twouldst be easy enough to prevent. I slid over the peak of the roof careful, slid down its side far enough to not silhouette myself against the skyline, such as it was. And then I went into a tensed crouch, ready to leap. And I watched the Ki'Ar like a hawk. I saw when the young one I'd marked tensed to spring, and actually leapt before he did. It ended with me knocking him out of the air. He hit the ground hard, and I landed little easier. My knees bent to take most of the strain though, and the Ki'Ar youngster gasped to catch his breath. As he did, he realised two things. First that I had one hand pinning his neck to the ground. Second, that my other hand was on his side, pinning his torso as well. His forelimbs were stuck between my legs, his tail wouldn't bend far enough to land a telling blow, and his hind legs could scrabble all they wanted, they were in the same boat as the tail.
I twisted my head about. The poor humans, all of them young, maybe twenty years old, or around there at least if I don't miss my guess, were staring in shock. And none of them were clad as I. I'll need to remember that. I took in the trews, some sort of heavy blueish fabric, and tight to the legs, and the short tunics, coming down not much further than the waist. They were black, those, in the main, with strange sigils, some of them definitely Arcane, and writing on them. I'd decipher that later, more pressing details to attend to for the moment. And head snapping the other way, quicker than a striking serpent. There the Ki'Ar'Lang still circled, all bar their leader. They looked shocked by something. Probably my intervention. The leader though, he just looked angry. In the harsh, snarling tongue of the Ki'Ar'Lang, he spoke. "Out of the way, Stranger. Our Prey." There could be but one response from a Guardian to that. "Not your land. You have no right to be here. Return to your homeland, or suffer the consequences." In the same harsh, snarling tongue, of course. He growled back, no meaning in it, bar simply malice. My lips began to stretch into a grin. "No?" I asked him. He snarled a command. My response was simple. As the warrior he'd ordered lept at me, my grip on the youngster shifted, and I swung him up. I parried with my foe, and then cast him aside. I drew myself up to my full height, all six foot of it.
I may have spoken in the tongue of the Ki'Ar'Lang, but the words were those of the Guardian Corps. "By The Authority Granted Me By The High Warden In My Role As A Guardian Of The Corp And Keeper Of The Peace, I Name You All In Breach Of That Peace. You Have Had The Opportunity To Desist. You Have Declined. The Consequences Are On Your Own Heads."
It was the traditional Guardian statement of intent. What it boiled down to was to formally recognise that they had broken the rules, and that having been given the opportunity to repent, and return whence they came unpenalized, they had refused. So, their fates were dependent entirely on my whim. And we Guardians are trained to show no ruth to those who breach the peace. Now, just because I had no weapons in this place did not mean I couldn't arm myself with ease, but I had to be quick. Every Guardian is given his own created world at the end of his first term. As a retreat, and as a haven, and as a storage cache. And every guardian can access them at will. It takes practice to learn to access specific parts of them, but I've had practice. The air shimmered in front of me, and a window opened. I drew from it a Quarterstave of Rowan, banded in steel and cold iron and silver, carved with arcane sigils and runes.
See, against the Ki'Ar'Lang, any weapon is effective, but they are beings of power, and can occasionally draw upon it to great effect. Rowan stills the power, as does Silver, and Cold Iron. And the sigils and runes can trap it and bind it for my use if need be. As the window snapped shut, they rushed me. I planted the stave to catch the first, flicking it at just the right moment to flip him over the humans. He whimpered as he struck the rock-hard ground. The stave snapped up, and swung, and the second was knocked out of the air midleap. There was an audible crack as the neck snapped. Stave whipped round, batting a swiping claw aside, and then the steel shod foot hopped up and shattered a knee. More whimpering as I spun and twirled, ever moving, the stave describing glowing patterns in the air, as it drew power from the strikes. Every blow struck harder than the last, and every time one land there was a flash. It only took the first few deflections before any strike would fell one of the Ki'Ar'Lang. Within moments, only their leader and I were left, circling carefully. It didn't take long for him to realise how little chance he had, and with a snarl he spun and leapt off into the darkness. Well enough. I could hunt him down later. A quick bow to those I had rescued, and I too vanished off into the night. I would need a base of operations whilst I figured out my true purpose here.

The Book Of Cake

Some Time Ago, I got slightly bored. And was planning to make a cake. So in the time between deciding to do so, and gathering the ingredients, and making the thing, and waiting for it to bake, and then cool, and then doing the icing, et cetera, et cetera, I wrote this.

Enjoy

The Book Of Cake
1)And The Jared Said Let There Be Cake, And, Lo,
   There Was Cake, And The Cake Was Good,
   And The Cake Was Not A Lie,
   And The Cake Did Not Kill The Jared...
   And All Was Well With The World.
2)And The Jared Looked Upon His Cake And Saw That It Was Good,
   And So He Said Unto The Cake.
   And The Cake Grew Proud And Rose Up Against The Jared,
   And This Grieved The Jared And Drove The Jared Into A Rage,
   And In His Fury, The Jared Took Up The Knife Of His Kinsfolk,
   And Smote The Cake With Many Blows,
   Such That It Fell Into Slices...
3)And When The Jared Looked, And Saw What He Had Done, He Thought.
   And He Came To The Belief That It Would Be Wrong To Permit The Cake To Go To Waste,
   And So, He Took A Slice Of The Cake, And He Put It On A Plate.
   And Then He Took A Spoon, And Having Done All This,
   He Ate The First Slice Of The Cake, And He Knew That It Was Good.
4)Having Eaten The First Slice Of The Cake, The Jared Came To A Decision.
   He Took Those Slices Of The Cake That Remained, And He Went Out Into The World With Them.
   The Jared Sought Out His Kinsfolk, And Those Of His Companions Who He Could Find,
   And To Them He Distributed The Slices Of The Cake,Saying,
   'Here, Eat, And Know The Joy That Comes From The Devouring Of The Cake'
5)And The Kinsfolk Of The Jared, And The Companions Of The Jared, Did Eat Of The Cake,
   And They Agreed That It Was Good.
   And The Work Of The Jared Was Done,
   And He Did Return To His Rest.
   But So Good Had Been The Cake To Eat, That He Soon Made Another,
   And Commanded Those Who Were Willing To Listen To Do Likewise,
   That The Goodness That Is Cake Could Spread To All The Earth.

Fury's Fall

Well, it looks like I've gone through my backlog, and my muse appears to be sleeping off the exhaustion...

This one be a stand-alone I wrote ages back. Don't expect any recurring characters. Or even a return to the setting...

Anyway, Intellectual property of myself, Jared G. Juckiewicz

Warnings of Graphic Violence from the very start. Don't ask how I was feeling when I wrote this. Really don't...

Why he had done what he had was a mystery. He had strode into the fort through the open gates, and as the sentry's at the gate asked his business, he slid a long knife from under his cloak. As he stepped forward, he rammed up under the chin of the one on his right, then tore it forward and out of the front of the skull, a show of prodigious strength. He stepped with his right foot, pivoting round to the left, angling the dagger to punch its tip right between the other sentry's eyes. As he withdrew his dagger, a flick of the wrist sent it flying into the throat of one the men lounging in the courtyard, only now beginning to respond. Even as they rushed to fetch weapons from the racks lining the courtyard, or began to draw blades from scabbards, he was moving. He strode forward, right handing gripping the sword hilt at his belt, and as he drew the blade, three feet of bevelled steel with a hand-and-a-half grip, he swung it right, holding it two handed, and twisting his torso to put his whole weight behind the blow, he lopped of the head of a guard. The backswing batted a blade aside, and the sword came up again, cleaving the luckless soldier from groin to navel. A spin, the blade held steady, punched the pommel into a third mans face, staggering, and the stranger moved again, twisting aside and parrying where he had to, until he had room to manouver.
A soldier swung a longsword overhand towards his head, and he caught the blow on his blade, right hand on the hilt, left now bracing the blade. A swift kick to the midsection knocked him back, and as the pressure eased on his blade, his left moved to the cross-guard, gripping it tight, and ramming the blade into the chest of his next assailant. There was a crack most would considering sickening as the ribs broke, the blade slicing effortlessly through the vitals beneath. Unfortuneatly, for the stranger, his blade stuck, and rather than waste time pulling it out, he let go, ducking back to dodge the axe clumsily swinging in his direction. As he straightened again, he twisted to avoid a spear, and grabbing the haft with both hands, he wrenched it from its owners grip, embedding the point as far as the wings in the poor axe-wielders gut. As soon as it was torn free, it was twirling with him, over his head, striking everywhere at once it seemed. The first of the forts defenders to think to time a lunge for just after the spear had passed took its butt to his chest with enough force to send him flying back to slam against the fortress wall.
By this point, any other man would have at least been scratched, especially unarmoured as the stranger was. They certainly would have had a worried look in their eyes, what with a dozen warriors in the courtyard itself, and a score charging onto the ramparts with bows and crossbows, but he did not. He had yet to even make a sound, every blow struck in complete silence, disconcerting for his foes to say the least. And a single glance at his face, the lips curled back, baring the teeth in a feral grin, eyes glinting with a predators yellow. As his foes stepped back a space, to avoid the twirling spear, he reset his grip, and with two strides, flung it, not even watching its flight, instead stooping to lift a pair of hand axes from the slain on the ground. The spear flew straight and true, impaling one of the archers and pinning him to the wooden palisade. Meanwhile the axe in the left rose and fell, hooking a warclub wide and into the ground, whilst the right-handed blade rose in a backhanded swing, severing the wrists holding the weapon. Continuing the upward swing the axe in his right buried itself in the armpit of a warrior beginning his strike, whilst the left fell to sever a leg just above the ankle.
Sadly, the blade in the soldiers armpit didn't throw his aim off enough, and his sword glanced of the strangers arm, laying the flesh bare. Now he made noise. A roar of fury answered the blow, as he spun, blood flying from his wound, his left axe hooking the back of a neck, driving its owner to the ground, even as the right cut deep into a mans side, mangling the kidney. As those foes fell, the one simply dragged to the ground treated to neck-snapping stomp, he readied to face the next. The next didn't arrive. His foes in the courtyard were drawing back, as the warriors on the walltops took aim. The stranger didn't even blink, rushing straight at his remaining foes, even as the archers loosed. Arrows and Quarrels pierced him in many places, the force of the blows knocking him to his knees, from whence he rolled onto his back. The commander of the fort approached him, as blood poured from the many wounds, and his grip tightened on his stolen blades. Crouching beside him the commander asked "Why." The stranger gasped out five words. "I Die A Warriors Death." And as the last word left his mouth, he died, taking the secret of why to his death.
He was buried without ceremony, unshriven, in unconsecrated ground and an unmarked grave, but the memory of his final actions, seemingly senseless as they were, would last. And in time, perhaps they did some good. For when foes appeared again on the border, and the forts of the watch fell on accounts of negligience, the fort at Fury's Fall held, it's forces mantained in constant readiness, in memory of the attack of the one they had came to call simply Fury.

Ulfrik

My Friend The Peacock asked me to write this for him. Introducing a certain villain for his future use...
Also look at Drakarson by the Dame Rauda Redjay, at the following web-address... http://rothas-writing.livejournal.com/14046.html#cutid1

Anyway, this be the intellectual property of myself, Jared G. Juckiewicz.
And warnings of Graphic Violence, bad language, sexual references and Alcohol...


(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...)




The clip-clop of hooves seemed loud in his ears, and the tramp of leather-shod feet. The smell of charred pork was heavy in the air, as was the harsh, acrid taint of smoke. Not the clean scent of woodsmoke, but the tainted stench of the fire out of control, the fire the devoured all that would burn. They had come for the tax, the Norman Knight, and his escort from the local garrison, but the village would pay no tax this year. Indeed, from the look of the thing the village would pay no tax again, ever. The sound of retching came from some of his companions, but somehow, the warrior called Jehan, son of a Serjeant and a Dane, and Grandson of a Scot, held his gorge.
His shield was heavy on his arm, and his heart heavy in his chest. But his axe was light in his hand, and silently he thanked the old gods for his stout gambeson. Though he had yet to be properly blooded, he was the match of any of his fellows on the practice field, and yearned to wreak vengeance on those who had wrought this. The Knight called an order "Fan out. Search for survivors. Have Care, they might still be near.", and the half-dozen garrison troopers with him did so. As they did, those who had the stomach for it examined the scene. It was a fishing village, but a small one, without even a dock, the boats simply being hauled up the strand. But there, was a mark in the sand, not yet washed away by the tide, of a shallow keel. As they searched the village, being careful of the piles of still smoldering thatch and half charred beams, they saw bodies, many bodies. Men, women, and children, even livestock, the reavers had made no distinction. Many of the bodies had been mutilated, and few of the female corpses were clothed.
Worse was to come. As they drew near to the Church, a stout building of dressed stone, they found two men staked to the ground before it, lying on their stomachs. Their backs had been split open, the ribs cracked on either side of the spine, and the lungs pulled out and draped to the sides. The tattered remnants of clothing, and the crucifix on one of them, marked them as the Village Headman, and the Priest. Men whispered 'Mother of God' and 'Jesu Christo' and 'God in Heaven'. The knight, and the young trooper, Jehan, simply looked over the bodies, the words Blood-Eagle running through their heads. That nigh clinched it. Vikingr. But, there was something strange about the dead, and when the young trooper investigated closer, he found, in the bloody cavity that had once held each man's lungs, a wooden disc, larger than a silver coin, carved with a rampant wolf on one side, and a swooping dragon on the other.
Leaving the dead, they went to investigate the church. Its doors of heavy, iron banded oak hung ajar, battered open with a makeshift ram. Why the Vikingr had done that, rather than simply build pyres under the eaves, as they tended to was a mystery. It would not remain so for long. As the knight and his men entered the building, they saw, hanging from the rafters, nine men. Each had been hanged, and impaled in the side with a spear. Whilst most of the garrison troopers, and even the Knight thought it a crude insult to the Christ, Jehan knew the truth. His Danish mother had taught him the old ways. He knew it was a sacrifice to Wodin, King of the Gods. But, he kept his mouth shut.
Hope fleeing, they continued their search. There were no survivors, and none of the enemy slain. Either the villagers had made no defense, or the reavers had carried off their dead. But, a glint of metal attracted the eye of the young trooper. There, one of the corpses, pinned to the ground by a spear, gripped something in her hand. Closer examination proved it to be a necklace or pendant. Examining it, he could make out the plain, Iron hammer, Mjollnir, emblem of Thor. Common enough. But on either side of it were discs of antler carved with runes. Futhark runes. He could read Futhark. Both meanings of Futhark. Beyond those, the leather thong was ringed with fangs from a wolf. But he ignored those, concentrating on the Runes. Uruz for strength, Laguz for energy, Fehu for success. Or Ulf, the Norse for Wolf. And then, on the other disk, Raidho for travel, Isuz for concentration, and Kenaz, the Torch. or Rik. Prince. UlfRik. The Wolfprince. He knew who was responsible now, but it was a secret he would keep. He would not always be a lowly garrison trooper. Already, his name was being bandied about for Serjeant rank, and it was not impossible for him to rise even higher. He would remember what he had seen here, as the troop moved on. He would remember, and one day, he would avenge the brutality.
As time passed, the young warrior grew in skill and ability. He was blooded against brigands, and the welsh, and against the occasional norse raid. Several more times, he, in the course of his duties, came across the work of this Ulfrik, but never once came to grips with him. He would examine the corpses of the slain, mutilated, tortured, raped. He would study the ruins Ulfrik tended to leave in his wake, imprinting everything in his mind. And at nights, when none would watch, he would burn the tokens that Ulfrik left on his kills, with prayers and offerings to the gods that one day, he could have a hand in the reckoning. And then came the day that he, now leading a small patrol, trusted, a man of rank, albeit low, came across another such raided village. But this one was different. It seemed that although the bodies of Ulfrik's men had never been found, they had been taking a toll. For he had but two men left. And three men, skilled as they are, cannot slaughter an entire village. There were survivors.
And bodies of Ulfrik's men. They had come in peace, they had said, to trade, they had claimed. And so they had drawn near. And as soon as they were in the village square, they had struck. None of the few survivors were uninjured, but they had taken their toll. Ulfrik was alone now, his last two followers slain. One, the Smith had slain with a sledgehammer to the side of the head, even as his kill felled him with a sword to the gut. The other had died at the hands of a farmer, who had struck him down with a pitchfork. And through it all, Ulfrik had done naught but laugh. There was no foaming at the mouth, his speech, even in the battle, had been clear and concise. He was no berserker, not given to battle fury. He just lusted after causing pain as some do after ale, or gold, or a beautiful woman. But in the end, that lust for pain had let those who tried to escape do so. For he had contented himself with those who could not flee. The not-so-young-now trooper found another token, left in a young woman's slit throat, and took an oath, again, to avenge the fallen. And he swore the oath by, silently, by Draugadrottin, Lord of the Dead, and by Odr the Frenzy, and by Tyr, One-Handed God of Bravery, and by Thor, Lord of Thunders and Master of War.
But, alas, twas not to be, for upon returning to the keep, when he argued to be sent right back out after Ulfrik, he was denied. When, some few weeks later, word came that a notorious outlaw had been sighted nearby, the young Serjeant made certain to draw the short straw, for operating alone, beyond the reach of authority, perhaps he could come across the one he sought, and fulfill his oath. Of course, things were to happen differently to what he expected.

Of HALO leaps and Cuan Sidhe

To the east part two... Intellectual property of me. Jared G. Juckiewicz. Copyright goes to the same... by this point, you all should know the drill... I don't think I need to make any warnings, but this is, well, written by me, and featuring the Valkyrien cast so if I've missed anything, you could probably see it coming. More terminology notes. Cuan, or Cuain, or Cuaine, is again Gaellic. It means Hound or Dog.

Anyway. Have Fun...
And don't do anything Gorm wouldn't. Not that that narrows down the list of acceptable behaviours much...

I hate drops. Particularly I hate HALO drops. As if jumping out of a plane isn't bad enough, I had to vault out of one at the upper limit of my ability. And then to hold off opening my chute till the latest possible moment. Oh, and to make matters worse, we were dropping into mountains. DZ's the size of a postage stamp. A small postage stamp. I reckon our flights were the lucky ones. They could pull out if they saw themselves coming in too tight. Hell, they did. We had to land, and land hard. Illuss and our squad landed first, and shortly after it, Custer and his men landed too. They were shorter, swarthy types, with the look of one of the native tribes from the Rockies. And each of them had a certain... wilder... cast about them. Next to land were Tyrone Ui Neill and his Sidhe. They too were swarthy and dark, with the look of the native Eire, differing only from the norm in the pointy ears. Following them were the trio of Ogres and the half dozen Goblins bearing our artillery element, three mortars, 120mm tubes. The two Buteo birdmen, Hawk Bloody-Feathers, and his mate Aquila wheeled back to settle in the trees, followed closely by the three Gryffons, two of them broadwinged eagle types, Golden by the look of them, with Lion hindquarters, whose names none of us could pronounce. They settled for Birdie and Budgie with the strange whistling coughs that were Gryffon laughter. The third was black from his beak to his tail, Raven at the fore, and Black Panther behind. He was called Hugin, or Ravenwing. Next to them settled the pair of Gryfalcon we had been assigned, Pip and Baran, both with the colouration of Peregrines on their feathered torsos, but with hindparts like the cougar or the puma.
First task was to set up a base camp. The flyers sought a suitable location, and then led us to it. Setting camp was easy. The Sidhe and Elf would sleep happily in the trees, and the rest of us could shelter under them. They were thick conifers, with branches hanging to the ground. A few hours work with hatchets, of which we had plenty, and we had shelter for everyone. Each squad had three Firs, and each of the mortars its own. The winged ones would sleep perched in the trees. Come dawn we would begin our hunt. As dusk fell, we all began our preparations. Some sharpened blades. Others loaded magazines. The winged ones checked harnesses and ammo-feeds, and sharpened clawed gauntlets that fitted over their hindquarters. And I'll tell you, its not often you find a belt-fed rocket launcher with a bayonet. And almost as uncommon are bayoneted miniguns. None but a Gryffon could wield one. Even the Gyrfalcon settle for simple SAW's, or possibly something alongst the lines of an M-60. We have the E2 variant of those, where most of the problems with overheating and jamming have been solved. Hugin, Vixen and I simply sat and discussed things, sharing our meal of MRE's and promising ourselves better come the morrow. Manflesh likely. Tyrone and his Sidhe left just before dark, slipping out of camp unnoticed.
Sometime after dark, we heard chanting, strange chanting. I could recognise some of it as the Gael, and Elf, who speaks that tongue shivered, as a chill walked down her spine. At midnight, howls rang out from the same direction as the chanting. Those howls came from throats similar to human, and they were answered by Vixen and myself, and those of Custer's warriors who were Canid shifters. About half of those, so the six howls we heard were answered by five of our own. And those in turn were answered by another six. But it was no earthly hound or wolf that had loosed these cries. Uncanny was the song, and fey, and terrible, and it sent even a shiver down my spine. Not long after, Tyrone and the Sidhe returned, being greeted by the barrels of almost a score and a half of weapons. Those howls had us all a little twitchy. Turns out, we need not have been, for beside each of his Gall-Gaelidh strode a great hound, with the look of an Irish Wolfhound. Their fur was twined and twisted with leaves and vines, and hung long off their lithe, lean frames. Their eyes burned with green fire, and Elf whispered reverently "Cuan Sidhe" Elfhounds, summoned from the far realms by the magic of the Black Tyrone. If it was havoc our employers wanted, it would be had, for the Cuan Sidhe could track anything, was devilishly hard to kill, and fast, and full of fury. And strong. and Smart. This looked to be a good mission, a good mission indeed.

To The East.

Well, I definitely seem to be on a Valkyrien kick. This one, and the one that will follow it are mostly set-up for a prolonged story arc I be working on. Be warned of Bad Language, and reference to Violence. It even mentions some of Gorm's history, something I intend to flesh out over time. And When I figure out how to get away with having a Norse Kitsune, I'll explain Vixen's to boot. In fact, give me time, and I intend to have a backstory for each of Gorm's main companions. Anyway, Intellectual property of myself, Jared G. Juckiewicz. And some terminology. Gall-Gaedhill is a corruption of old Gaelic, referring to those Scots and Irish, and particularly Hebrideans, who adopted Norse ways
. Sidhe is also old Gael and depending on who you ask can refer either to an Elf, or a Faerie, the one common trait being they lived underground. Oh, and kudos to any man, woman, or being who can ID the head-tilt to one of my favourite authors...

Anyway, here be the tale...

"You want me to WHAT?" I snarled, glaring at my boss, and those with her. Not an unreasonable response, I reckon, considering what they wanted. I mean, yeah, I could do with the excitement. Ever since that damned trial, I've been held in the warm. Hel, my whole squad has been. And that, sure as Fenrir will escape, did not endear our highers-up to us. Now, they offer us a chance for another op. Put like that... It might be worth considering. They still haven't responded. I betcha they planned this. But, oh well. Right, how to go on. A review, that'll be the thing. "Okay. Let me get this straight." Calmer now, at least in speech. "You want me to take... Five warriors. Without support. Into eastern Georgia. The Georgian-Chechen-Russian border to be precise." A nod from the Valkyrie. "And you want SIX of us to put a serious crimp in terrorist trafficking operations?" Another Nod. "Six of us. Can't be done. Unsupported. Can't be done." The Valkyrie grinned. A feral look. I liked that look, and matched it myself. "What would you need?" she asked, sweetly, syrupy, her voice... like mead actually, more than anything. Sweet and slightly intoxicating. My response was delayed a moment as I looked at the map on the wall, and thought of what I knew of that area. Heavily mountainous and thickly forested. Not many roads weren't dirt. Most of the trafficking they wanted me to go after was by mule. On the roads, windowless work vans. "My squad for one." The Valkyrie nodded. "Already agreed" she answered in that syrupy voice. Now to start pushing. "Two Flights. Draktari and Gryffon." My next demand, obviously unreasonable. Draktari are young dragons. Hideously powerful, Valkyrien only employs one flight, and they spend their time scattered around the globe. As for the Gryffons, well, they be more common, easier to keep hidden, and Valkyrien employs a fair deal, but again, a whole flight is more than we've supplied to any op since the War. Second World, to be precise, back when they recruited me. Not long after Illuss, Vixen and I had deserted after coming across the first of the Camps. But thats another story... But such pleasant reminiscinces are distracting me. I come back to that too-sweet voice going "Not a chance. One flight. Buteo." 'Tis viable, but not what I want. Buteo are manoueverable enough, swift and with plenty of endurance, but they can't cope with heavier weapons in flight. "One Flight. Third Buteo. Third Gryffon. Third Gryfalcon." The last being a peculiar breed of Gryffon. Lighter, faster, they seem to be more like, well, falcons, than the broadwinged eagles and hawks most falcons are braced off. "Done." and a nod. Time to push my like. "We'll want the Ravenwing." Most Gryffons seem to be raptor based, raptor and either lion or tiger for the Gryffon and Cougar or Jaguar for the Gryfalcon. Ravenwing is a rarity. His foreparts are a Raven. His hindquarters a Black Panther. And he's cunning. We'll have need of that. I'd expected argument. I got a nod. Now for the easy stuff. "Mortars. One Detachment. And two more normal squads." That too got a nod. "Minimum" I continued, and then "And I'll be wanting Illuss in overall command." A surprised nod, showing that my bosses don't know me as well as they might, and then the Valkyrie turned to speak to the others present, apparently those employing us. As soon as they got on to discussing how the changes in what was being deployed would affect the price, I took myself to be dismissed. And went to pack. within three days, the assignments went out. Deployed to Eastern Europe: Overall Command: Illuss and his squad
In Support. Custer's Coyotes. And yes, their commander is a descendant. On the other hand, he is also competent. The entire squad was drawn from a single tribe of Native Americans. Not sure which tribe... And how they wound up serving under a half-native descendant of G.A. Custer, I will never know. Expert skirmishers though. Young, most of them. I mean, I remember Custer, but none of them are old enough to have met him. Our other support squad is Black Tyrones. They be another rarity in Valkyrien, where mixed squads is the norm. No, every member of the Black Tyrones is one of the Sidhe. A bit like a cross between an Elf and a Faerie. An Irish Faerie. Tall, fair, fey, and normally haughty. Off course, these ones differ a shade from your normal Sidhe. They be Gall-Gaelidh. Seems this lot had found themselves bound to a small group of Irishmen back in the Tenth. Or maybe the Ninth. Anyway, those Irishmen wound up siding with the Norse, and taking on Norse habits and culture, and bound up to them, the Sidhe had no choice but to do the same.
We got our mortars. Now, a Valkyrien Mortar detachment is three mortars with their crews. And each crew consists of a bearer and two other crewfolk. The bearer tends to be a big burly sort. An ogre for instance, like these were. And the crewfolk turned out to be Goblins. Not so fond of Goblins, on the grounds to one like me they smell funny, but they be clever with mechanical devices, and with disguise and the like. They tend to look like street urchins. As for Ogres, they file down their fangs, and they look like very big, very ugly humans. Oh, it takes a shade more than that, but most of them pull it off. And they be a hell of a lot more clever than most folk give them credit for.
And we got our flight. Two Buteo, who look a bit like angels to anyone who hasn't actually seen an Angel. Birdmen, these two be snipers by trade. They wield the same sort of Recoilless .50 Cal that Elf loves. And a pair of Gryffons, and a pair of Gryfalcons, one in each pair favouring the minigun, and the other being decidedly fond of the auto-loading rocket launcher. And we got Hugin Ravenwing. So we were all set. The next dawn found us seated in a transport plane going over the basic plan. Which basically boiled down to we switch planes in europe to one crossing over our destination, do a HALO jump (High Altitude, Low Opening) and then wreak as much havoc as we can. Additional Ammo would be dropped in by request, and Exfiltration upon request would be through either Russia or Georgia, but not unless we could break contact. Bar that, we had as long as we willed, or at least till we were required elsewhere to do as much damage and have as much fun as we liked. Looked to be a better stint then the last time I'd been here, Taking Tolls from the caravan route at a place called Allerso for the Emperor.

On Trial...

Well, this be another Valkyrien story... I seem to be doing a lot of them lately. Mostly cause Gorm and Vixen and Illuss are awesome... Anyway, Intellectual property of me. Warnings of graphic violence, bad language, Gorm being a very bad person (again)...

Here I am, sitting before a court of the law. Or at least, what folk these days call a court of law. Spineless wretches. In my day, the judging of the law was an act for any mans council, and every man was expected to give it. These days, one must study years, and work more years, till the fire in ones veins is gone, before they will let one pass judgement on another. Those who administer the law know little of the lives of those it is their duty to sentence, even when such are normal folk with a normal span. I, who have lived for many such spans should be judged only by those who have seen my days, and know my past, but alas it is not to be.
To my eyes, and those of Illuss and of Vixen, my 'crime' was no such thing. Vaul and Elf and Lir too, understand, knowing why what I did was done. They may even know some of why it was me that did it, and why I chose to. But those who sit on that high bench, well, they reek of disdain, and of disgust, and not a little fear. And they don't even know what I am yet. All they know is the merest fraction of what I have done. But perhaps I am fortunate. Valkyrien has stood beside me, for I have long been of value to them. And they know that if they let a warrior of the redder kindreds be brought low unaided, none of the bloodied ones will stand by them. So there is a contingent of the top brass present. I know a few of them by sight. There is of course, a Valkyrie. And one of the Nephilim, that rarest of breeds. The third they sent was an indian looking chappy, a Kalkin, that peculiar form of demigod and defender. They sat at the back, on the left hand side of the court. Just behind me, seperated by a low wall that would not give them a seconds pause, are my sworn blood-kin, Lir, Vaul, Elf, Illuss, and Vixen. Illuss suits the suit he wears as though he was born to it. Damned aristocrat. You don't find any of my sort like that. If we be born with a silver spoon in our mouth, we spit it out bloody quick. Damn stuff burns. But I ramble. The others, to be fair, don't sit particularly uncomfortably. And Vixen looks rather cute in hers. If I get out of this intact, I may need to inform her of this fact. None of my relatives are present, but then, that was expected. I don't even know where most of them are. And many of them are too feral to sit kindly amongst men anyway.
Arrayed against me, seated on the other side of the courtroom are a veritable horde of people. The Humans Rights groups are well represented. If only we dared to reveal ourselves and demand rights suited to us. So also are various groups promoting 'equality' for minoritys. Apparently, killing everyone equally is discrimination or something. No feminists, for which I am grateful. That sort tend to make Vixen fly off the handle. And then someone says something I take as threatening to her, and I fly off the handle. And then blood begins to flow and Illuss flies off the handle. Things tend to degenerate after that. Ah, finally we be starting. Apparently I'm supposed to stand or something, as the judges come in. Hel with that. I'll no give respect to a pack of pups who haven't seen my seasons between them, and who think to bind me for doing what I will to those its my part to slay anyway. And, naturally, their lapdogs think to take issue. Twill take more than orders, and now cuffs to move me. I've known worse. Hel, back in India, where I first met the Kalkin behind me, I took a flogging nigh on every week. Not a model soldier back then, me...
And now, apparently I can sit back down. Handy that, seeing as I never stood. Well, it seems the proceedings start with the prosecution making a speech. In my day, those who had been wronged, or their next of kin had to stand against the accuser. Anyway, they be prattling on about crimes against humanity. As if humanity were an entity to be sinned against. And then they mention Brutality. I'm a soldier, a warrior. I have been for over a thousand years. Brutality is steeped into my bone, as deep as the violence. Now they go on about how I butchered my foes. Of course I did. They stood against me, and the Norseman knows full well just how fear can fight for a man, if it hovers at his back. Correction. They go on about how those assembled will see all this. The two score of guests on my right cheer, whilst the eight behind me sit quiet. Eight and I. I claim no counsel, though I am told it be my right. Eight and I, Nine, a holy number. My turn to speak. I stand. "There was a time, when those who judged a man where those who had shared his bread and his salt, who had gone through what he had. There was a time, when a man faced those he had wronged in the Thing, not those who felt he had wronged others. Very well. Let those with no connection to those who it is claimed I have wronged stand in their place. I have done naught wrong." I sit. They ask my plea. "I Plight My Troth But Before The Althing." I state simply. They don't seem to understand. A request is made for a translation. Speaking loudly and slowly, enunciating each word carefully, as to the stupid, or the child, "I make no plea as to the truth of the matter bar before the Thing." a seconds pause, and then I continue. "This is no Thing."
It seems tis for those who prosecute me to call their witnesses first. Fair enough, they have none. I know they approached my Sword-Siblings, my Jomsvikin, but they had no luck. And every other at the scene was slain. I have the opportunity to call character witnesses. Folk to talk of my peacefulness, and my kindness, and my being of a good person. I have none. I am a mercenary. I have been since the brother of the Bloodaxe came to Norway and began to drive out the Elder Gods. My soul is death, and misery, my joy the blood and the slaying. Well. In the main, at least. I daresay there are those, who for the sake of oath to me would give glowing recommendations. I'll not make them forswear themselves. Evidence next. Pictures taken after the battle. The bodies I left lying, missing their shield hands, or with their hearts torn from their chests. The foes dangling from the meathooks and the chains and the ropes already dangling from the rafters. Never mind that those same things had been used on those they deemed foes. Or wished to make an example of. Or even simply desired to toy with. I'm not the only one able to take pleasure in pain. Never mind that they had tormented scores of the locals over the years they had been there, to the death often enough. To the crippling for life, more often than not. Never mind that I had only strung up nine, and that I hastened their passing. True, that hastening had been required of me, but later for that. I can smell the approval from Vixen. The acceptance from the rest of those who have fought beside me, bar from Lir. From him I smell but puzzlement. As for the leaders seated at the back, they have long since learned to hide their feelings in smell, but I know, know for a fact that Gunnhild will approve. She is Valkyrie enough for that. I hear the doors open as she steps outside, claiming a need to consult with her superiors. Help may come, even if it is decided that I am guilty as sin. Which, to be fair, they will probably reckon I am. I remain silent as their experts drone on about what they can tell from the pictures. I snort a bit when they claim that the hands were crudely hacked off with a combat knife. Hel no. I used my teeth. It seemed appropriate. Nine Hands, and Nine Hearts, and Nine Hanged, I tally as they count my slain. Three full Aett.
And then comes the kicker. Video from the battle. From a helmet cam, on one of the support troopers. It witnesses me stringing up my first victim. His resistance as I rush him, driving him back, in full fury. His attempt to shoot me, missing as he jerks the trigger too hastily. His pleas as I tear the rifle from his hands. And through it all, my low chanting, the many names of the Allfather. The noose slides over his neck, and I yank down on the other end of the rope, drawing him up off the ground. My clipping the carabiner attached to the rope for that very purpose to the floor, holding him suspended. My reaching up to take his left eye. Fortuneatly the claw remained hidden, by the angle. My thrust of a bayonet into his side, and my roar of "Wodin" before I move on to the next room. The film stops. Now the Nephilim leaves to consult. We have a traitor amongst us somewhere. "What do you say to that?" I am asked. My response is simple. "It was too long in coming." They stare at me in horror. "What? Do you when last the Aldafader had a proper sacrifice? Haakon Haraldson, Fairhair, not Hadrada, outlawed it in Norway not long after taking the throne. Shortly after the death of Bloodaxe. Those who still followed the old ways in sooth had to make their gifts in secret. My last was..." A pause as I think "Vietnam I think. Some two score years ago." They stare at me, everyone, bar those who came to stand by me. "Human Sacrifice?" Many of them gasp. Again I am questioned. "Twenty Seven dead, as sacrifices to your god? Slain slowly and in pain?" I laugh. Its a terrible sound to those who oppose me. "Lord Of Lies, No. Nine Hanged, for the Hanged God, one for each day he hung on the tree. Nine Hands for the One-Handed One, To acknowledge his willing gift. And Nine Hearts delivered up to the board of Ymir, that he be sated and hold off his onslaught for somewhat longer. " They gape. I know Vixen is grinning behind me, grinning like a mad thing. Blind Hod, my lips curve up in a grin. It had been too long since I last gave those gifts I owed.
Those chosen to sit in judgement remove themselves to consider a verdict. It isn't long before they come forth with a decision. I just know they are going to find against me, and I tense to take as many of them with me as I can, when a messenger runs in. He hands an envelope to the first amongst those who judge me. He opens it, and reads, and passes it along his colleagues. Then, his voice quaking in anger and a lack of understanding, speaks. "It is the finding, of the International Criminal Court, and this council, that the Accused, called Gorm, is found NOT guilty of all charges. By the authority of the Chairman thereof. This court is adjourned." See, it seems that Gunnhild was taken by my proferring sacrifices to the old gods, and the Nephilim, Mikayl, was incensed by treachery. They made a few calls. Called in favours. And got my arse out of a sling. And lo and behold, me and mine have been tasked with locating our traitor. And have further been ordered to interrogate and dissappear him.

On Leave

Well, this is a sequel to Valkyrien. It be the intellectual property of me. Jared G. Juckiewicz
And well, I wish to warn you of Graphic Violence, Bad Language, and Gorm being a cold, hard, vicious bastard. Much like Illuss and Vixen.

Well, it turned out that our success in that kidnapping op bought us all some leave. Now, we be fairly close, and so it was that we decided to take our leaves together. Of course that gave us the problem of where to go. Vixen and I wanted Scandinavia. Elf favoured northern Scotland, possibly Orkney or the Islands. Vaul fancied somewhere where he could look at modern mining, Wales perhaps, or Virginia. As for Iluss, he wished to go home to Wallachia for a bit. And of course, Lir didn't care so long as it was on the coast. Putting all this together, the sensible thing would probably have been the Northwest Coast of Canada. It'd have the cold, norse climate to suit Vixen and I, the thick forests that would keep Elf happy. There was some mining up that way, and many caves, which would please Vaul. Right on the pacific coast would cheer Lir up, and Illuss would just have to suffer.
Anyway, taking all that into account, just how we wound up spending our months leave on a deserted island somewhere in the south pacific is a mystery. The place has been abandoned since World War II, when it used first by the Americans and then by the Japanese as a military base. So, we have an airstrip, a harbour, a little yacht, a bunker complex, and all the other assorted military installations that one finds in such a place, entrenchments, pillboxes, tanktraps, old supply caches (mostly empty or rotted away), all that sort of thing. So, naturally, we landed. We flew commercial to Manila, and then took a connecting flight out to a little island in the middle of nowhere. And then we got our boat, and sailed (well, motored mostly) out to the island we were holidaying on. Illuss didn't like that bit. He spent the entire boat-trip in a hastily prepared box, filled with earth, with runes of warding carved on the side, or painted with blood. We drew the yacht, a neat little 25 meter job into the protected harbour, past the decaying sea walls. We had to be careful, cause tank traps had been placed alongst all the other beaches to prevent landings, and we could, as we approached see where naval guns had once been emplaced warding the harbour.
So we put in to the harbour, and we laid anchor. We tied the yacht up to the old mooring posts, and made to disembark. Each us of us vaulted off the ship amidships, covering the meter or so between the side of the ship and the dock with ease, despite our heavy duffels. Then we headed into the shore complex of bunkers to find sleeping space. Now, each of us favoured a different form of bivouac. Lir bedded down in the harbour itself, claiming an old ammo-room to store his gear. Elf did similar, but instead found a tree to string up a flet in. Twas easily done, she had in her gear a number of camo nets that she strung up to give her a floor and walls and a ceiling. Her duffel was lashed to a stout limb, a hammock was set up, and a knotted rope was lowered for those of us who couldn't go up the side of a tree like it was a ladder. Of course, Vixen and I would have no issue, as claws are rather useful for that sort of thing, but Lir and Vaul and Illuss would have had difficulty. Illuss himself found an old command center, deep underground, which he hung with some faux tapestries, and put a few comforts (like a folding table and chairs, with posh looking covers) in. Vaul stashed himself in an old ammo dump, with naught but a bedroll on the floor and a lamp.
Meanwhile, Vixen and I found ourselves another such chamber. We piled a duffel's worth of old blankets in the middle of the floor, to make us a nest. Or, more accurately. And if there was any issue with a Red Fox denning with a Timber Wolf, well, we never noticed. Anyway, after everyone was settled, it was time to begin enjoying ourselves. Fortuneatly, we be easily amused. You ever played Hide-and-go-seek with someone who can locate you by your beating heart, or someone who could put an arrow through your chest at a hundred yards by the sound of your breathing? Howsabout a person who sees in the infrared, or locates his position in relation to others by minute changes in air pressure? Or one who has all the sense of the Wolf or the Fox? It adds a whole new depth to the game, believe me. When hiding from Elf or Illuss you seek background noise, and when hiding from Lir you want an area where pressure differentials are constantly changing. Waterfalls or streams are good places. They work well when hiding from Vaul as well, the water dropping your heat signature. Sea Caves. We like sea caves. Lirs good at those. As for hiding from Vixen and I, well, you need to start by making us loose your scent. Climbing trees or using streams are good for that.
Well, we spent that day playing that, not stopping till well into the night, and then we returned to camp to settle down to sleep. We feasted before bed (if the word is applicable) on MRE's (Illuss had blood packs). And we slept. The next dawn found us all gamboling about in our own preferred manner. Illuss was sleeping late. Vaul was fishing. Lir was swimming. Elf lost herself in the treetop canopy, and Vixen and I went hunting. For the next week, we spent our time in similar pursuits, never pressing to deep into the wilderness. I don't know how they managed to evade us that whole time. Perhaps they just camped further into the island than we had pushed.
So it was, that whilst Illuss, Vixen and I were on a late night hike, exploring into the hills at the center of the island, we heard the crack of a rifle. A lead slug slammed into a tree not far from Vixen's head. Now, whoever was doing the shooting had just made a few, major, errors. First, They had shot at Vixen. That was garaunteed to set me off, and would definitely annoy both Illuss and Vixen. Second, they had missed, which meant they were facing three foes as opposed to two. And finally, they had attacked the three of us when we were not accompanied by any of the others. See, the Elves and Dwarves had always been, if not outright protectors and allies of Humanity, at least neutral. As for the Atlanteans, they were once human, and still held no grudge against their former kin. Vampires, Werewolves, and Kitsune, on the other hand, had never looked at humans as anything other than prey. I once asked if people realised why so many of the non-humans wound up in military careers, and thats basically the answer. Those like the Elves and the Dwarves see it as a way to protect their weaker cousins. We of the redder kindreds on the other hand do so as it be about the only way we can enjoy the... privileges we used to.
So here we were, taking cover, Vixen and I shifting to were-forms. More rifles cracked, hot lead filled the air. We sniffed, picking out targets by their scent, and then we moved. Running low to the ground, we cut out of the thick growth into a clearing topped by a rise. There at the top, half a dozen men, Japanese by the look of them, aiming rifles down at us. They were wearing what remained of uniforms that had gone out of style not long after Hiroshima and Nagasaki, wielding old rifles. Well, we rocketed up that rise with unnatural speed. Unsurprising really, seeing as we be unnatural beasts. Not a round hit home before we reached the top, but by that time, their officer had drawn his sword. Bad move. The three blows that connected with him sent him flying a dozen feet, to land a broken wreck. As for his men, well, Vixen felled two, pouncing on one, claws shredding his chest as she lept away to tear the throat out of another. Meanwhile, Illuss smote on upsides the head, dropping him unconcious, before siezing the throat of another with his fangs, his eyes showing a terrible joy. I wasn't concerned. My prey was before me, and I stalked up to him, giving him time to reload his rifle, savouring the fear in his eyes. As he raised it to his shoulder, I leapt, slamming him to the ground. And then my jaws descended as I began to feed.
The taste of the flesh, and the hot blood spraying, the crunching of bone, all of it brought back memories of better times. Next to me, Vixen too, tore and rended the corpses, devouring the flesh, whilst Illuss drained both his foes, and then those of ours who hadn't bled dry. No mere Human can know the pleasure of the vicious kill we of the Red Kindreds hold so dear. The power and the fury is almost a drug, and these days, is one we can partake of but rarely. Dawn found us returning to our camp, a furious and terrible euphoria plain on our faces. Our clothes, what was left of them, and our hides, were matted with blood and gore, except, strangely, within a few inches of our mouths and muzzles. Or perhaps not so strangely, as I licked my lips, trying to catch a taste of the sweet, coppery blood on the edge of my tongue. We had left the bodies, and their possessions where they had fallen, what was left of them. A pile of broken and cracked bone and scraps of torn flesh and skin, soon to be picked clean by the carrion eaters, rifles and blades left to rust. All bar the leaders Katana. That Illuss had laid claim to, and he was welcome to it. The blade was fine, and well cared for, the hilt of carved ivory, wrapped with brown thread for a better grip. As for the scabbard, once it was cleaned up, it would be a pleasant sky blue, rather than the dirty reddish brown it was now.
Well, we faced recriminations from our companions, but we all knew their hearts weren't in it. Had they been there, the only difference would have been cleaner kills, and like as not we'd have gifted the dead to the earth. After the brief, stilted lectures which we promptly ignored and forgot, well, we kind of had to go and investigate. Unfortuneatly, being on leave, we lacked weapons. Oh well, we didn't really need them. Illuss had his fangs and a katana, Vixen and I our claws. It took Vaul ten minutes to find a suitable Shillelagh, hacking a branch off a tree with a bush knife. Elf rummaged in her luggage and drew forth an oddly shaped piece of leather, that turned out to be a simple sling. A few minutes by a stream, and she had as much ammo as she could easily carry. As for Lir, well, he bore the bush knife.
We headed first for our killing field, and there, those who desired to armed themselves. Vaul, Lir, and Elf each took a rifle. Illuss, Vixen, and I declined. We began to trail the scent. In the rapidly rising sun, the thermal trace of the footprints was invisible, and they had moved with shocking stealth. On the other hand, their scent was strong enough that a pair of Were-things could follow their trail without effort. Sadly, we found only an empty camp. It seemed there had been but the six of them, abandoned and forgotten when the war ended. Their Radio had broken, and so they had no way of knowing the war was over. We had been the first visitors in decades, and so, recognising us as not Japanese, they thought to follow their orders to hold the island. Even mistaken, such dedication, and determination were things even, or perhaps especially, the red kindreds can respect.
So we granted them honour. Ignoring our companions protestations, we assembled their remains, and carried them to their camp. Piling the remains in their homes, we raised their camp as a pyre to send them on their way, accompanied by the howls and roars we use to signify respect and honour for the dead. It wasn't long after that we had to return to the world. But it had been one of the best leaves I'd had. It had been like it was in the old days, the slaying of the foes, the blood and slaughter, and the honouring of those, regardless of allegiance, who held to their oaths to the end. Needless to say, there were more lectures when we told our superiors what had happened to us on leave, but we ignored those too...