Oops... Red Rock and The Howl.

Well. After I finished posting up 'On The Trail' I decided to sort my Valkyrien stories into something resembling Chronological order. And discovered that these two were meant to preceed it. They be set immediately following medicine...
Intellectual property of myself, Jared G. Juckiewicz.
And they be Valkyrien tales, so by now you should know what to expect...

Dusk. Awareness returning. The dull flame of wounds closing. The rustle of leaves outside the cave. Breath, drawing in and out. The feel of Vixen nestled into my side, waking as well. A measure of our injuries that we did not snap instantly aware. Easy enough to pack up, the little camp stove, the tiny tin pot, the bag of herbs and spirits. And then, to catch up to our companions, unwounded as they are. But first, to feed. Healing is hungry work. I send Vixen on ahead, I to follow after. A beast's habit that. A group never leaves hiding all at once. Normally, I would lead, but there be business I need to see to first, before I leave the little cave.
You see, I bear the blood of the Wolf In Ribbon Twined. An old Kenning for Fenrir or Fenris. The Bound Wolf, Suneater, Trickster's Spawn, Wristbiter, Handtaker, Alfadr's Bane. All the Wolfen folk of the North are his children, those few of us that are left. And that blood, it is not wholly of this realm. The Earth, it will not embrace it, and it is left to pool on the surface. There are those beasts that sup on it, when they find it. Ravens and Wolves in the main, the servants of the Masked One-Eye. But, where we can, there is another way. Soft, low, I whisper some ancient words, drawing a circle of runes in the ground. The meaning of both is long since forgot, the ways to put the will needed behind known to but a few. I am one of those few. I watch as the crimson drops roll into the circle, gathering in its midst. An orb of deepest red rises, floating just above the ground, and as the last of my shed blood joins it, it flashes, and there, hovering, is a stone, rough, dark, irregular. But pretty enough, for all that.
There are Wizards, Mages, and Sorcerors, who even in these fallen days would pay king's ransoms for that pebble. There is power in that pebble, the heart and soul of the Wolf. I grip it tightly, as I set out after Vixen, to feed on the slain, and then set out after those who went on ahead.

The moon is full and bright. The night air is crisp and bracing. The ground, soft and springy as my four padded feet strike the ground. I move swiftly, a grey streak, nary more than a shadow, racing through the moons glow. Beside me, a red blur keeps pace. The musky smell of fox is thick in my nostrils, mingling with the clean scent of the pine woods around us, and the odour of deep earth that marks the Irish Sidhe. We run as beasts, following the trail of our friends, those who have stood asides us in the fray. We bear no burdens, bar a single reddish pebble, tucked beneath my tongue. The trees flash by, and from where we are, we can see the track, running along under the clear sky. Not for us the straight, flat ground. We vault roots, dodge trees, wriggle through and over and under bushes. 'Tis invigorating. It almost makes us forget our wounds, the rips in flesh and muscle where soft lead rent and tore, not so long ago, already sealing up.
My sides bell out, lungs filling, and I spin, settling to my haunches. My gaze flits to the great silvered orb, hovering so high above. I cannot help it, none of my kindred could. A long, drawn-out howl flees my throat, the happy sound of the Wolf on the hunt. A thought strikes me, and a second howl is drawn forth, a melancholy sounding thing. Ah, Mighty Grandfather, One day you will know the joy of the hunt again. One day, and soon as we immortals judge such things. I spin back onto my path, and set off again at the lope, the little red fox running at my side gazing at me inquisitively. The first howl, she would surely understand, for she too knows the joy of the hunt, of the chase. The pleasure of the swift running, that comes with knowing the quarry draws nigh. The glory of that final moment when the prey is brought to bay, when the whole world boils down to ones skill, the fang and the claw, the horn and the hoof. When everything is that one singular point in time, where everything hinges solely on speed and strength, agility and grace. Where nothing else matters, win or lose, live or die.
But the second, oh, the second. Only one born to the bloodline of the Trickster's spawn can know. Only one who in the past has been bound, helpless, and had a hand in his own binding, no less, can feel it sooth. The pain of he who was tied, with his own acceptance, only to find he could not break free. The sorrow of the one tricked into bondage, by those with whom his only quarrel had been forced upon him. A snarl leaves my lips, as I think on the betrayal, so long ago. I do not lay the blame on those who made the deal, and nor does old grandfather Wolf. We lay the blame at the feet of he who gave grandfather his nature. One day there'll be a reckoning, and The Brother's Bane will meet his own. For now though, I have the forest trail beneath my feet, and the wind ruffles my fur. One I trust, closer than any kin, strides beside me, and the trail stretches before us, a trail poor blind Hlod could follow. Life, for now, is good.