Silkie

Part Three of that tale for Lamia. See, it kinda took on a life of it's own. All the characters bar Muirgen, and of course, the story itself, are copyright Jared Juckiewicz. Muirgen belongs to Lamia Macdonald. Warnings of Blood and Violence, bad language, death, all that fun stuff.

So here we are. Swimming towards an undersea cave. I dislike this. Can't smell things underwater. My hearing is all screwy. And the colours are all wierd and distorted. There are four of us. A short, stocky human-looking person, with curly black hair. Tyrone of the Gall-Gaedhil Sidhe. Besides him swims a large Grey Seal, the Selchie Muirgen, for whom we are doing this. Besides me swims Vixen, in her were-form, an anthropogenic Fox, I believe is the term. And myself, dark grey Werewolf. Bar Muirgen we are all wearing SCUBA gear and carrying weapons. Spear guns, dive knifes, and larger blades. See, Muirgen has issue with a Sea Hag. And we are going to solve these issues. But we don't know what guardians the Sea Hag has, so 'tis best to be prepared. For now though, we swim, and watch the fish, kicking our fins lazily. They are brightly coloured, most of them, although we can pick out a few camoflaged so well as to be almost invisible.

Muirgen suddenly rolls into a school of little ones striped in blue and black and yellow, snapping at them, and catching a few. She swallows them down almost whole, and the rest of the school scatters. A few pass right in front of Vixen and I, and without thinking, instinct has us snatch them out of the water. They weren't bad, although, raw fish has never been my favourite of food. Not to bad with enough salt though, and seawater supplies that. We followed the reef up towards the island, as the water gradually shallowed out until we were in but a few meters. Before us was the Atoll, a ring of dead coral breaking the surface, surrounding a shallow lagoon, inside of which rose a small peak of black rock. It was towards that that Muirgen led us.

There was only one way through the outer reef, without climbing over the razor-edged corals, and as we drew near it, we found the guards. A pair of sharks, big ones, with black dead eyes, and row on row of long sharp teeth swum in lazy circles around the gap. Tyrone raised his speargun, but I pushed it back down. There was a better way to do this. One that wouldn't draw every shark within miles down on us. I'd even had cause to practice it before. I gestured at Vixen and she nodded, guessing what I had planned. We finned forward slowly, Vixen hanging behind a touch. And slightly above me. We continued slowly, tensed, until the Sharks went for me. A kick with a fin, and I spun up, bouncing off the back of the first shark, a hand snaking out to catch the dorsal of the second. Meanwhile, Vixen had dropped onto the back of the first, grabbing it's dorsal. Thus secured, we leaned to the sides of our respective sharks, and closed fists began slamming into the gill slits. Concentrating on our quarries, we didn't notice when the other guards, who had concealed themselves behind the barrier reef, came out. Nor did we notice when Tyrone shot the first with his speargun, and Muirgen battered the second into unconciousness with carefully calculated precision.

Slowly, so slowly, the two sharks ceased to struggle, their breathing disrupted by the many blows. Gasping heavily through our regulators, Vixen and I joined the others at the edge of the reef. We finned into the sheltered lagoon, keeping low to the bottom, Muirgen watching above and behind. To a watcher from above we would have stood out like sore thumbs against the shining white sand of the lagoon bottom. There before us, rising from the glimmering white was a pillar of pitted black stone, a small peak, mayhaps a hundred meters out of the water. It's sides were studded with gaping crevasses, many of them more than large enough to admit a man, or one of the sharks we had dispatched. Muirgen led us to one of these, and we popped to the surface above it. Tyrone was the first to speak, spitting out his regulator. "Ya ne'er told us we'd be caving!" He growled. I grinned. He glared at me. "An' whats so funny, Mutt?" I would have laughed, if I'd been able to. As it was, my tail wagged. 'Twas a funny feeling, it's forcing against the water. Had my body shifting slightly, left and right, from the water resistance. Tail that wags the dog indeed.

"Like Holiday in Old Country" I forced out past my fangs, and then dove back under, descending to the mouth of the cave. It'd be dark, but I'd fought in dark places before. Behind me followed the others. We moved with great care, feeling our way alongst the rough stone walls. We didn't wish to shed our own blood. See, Witches, or at least some of them, can draw their power from pain and suffering. And I've met few casters who don't know something about magic to do with blood. That and Sharks are drawn to the stuff. Less than useful. Suddenly, the walls cut to the side. And the ceiling rose. We surfaced, and as we did, the surface of the water suddenly began to shimmer and glow. We were in a large chamber, a bubble in the middle of the mountain. At the edge of the water,  on the far side, there was a shelf just above the surface, with another tunnel that led deeper into the heart of the mountain. That tunnel was lit with the same sort of glow now emanating from the surface of the pool where we were. We sculled over to the edge, and dragged ourselves out, shrugging out of our SCUBA gear. Finally able to use all my senses, I sniffed. There were all the smells associated with coasts and caves. Nothing really out of the ordinary. And the only sounds were of the lapping of the water against the walls.

We began to head up the tunnel, each step causing the light to flare, causing flickering shadows to form and flit about the wall. The tunnel seemed to be almost perfectly level, barely a few inches of slimy water in the bottom. We began to see other tunnels branching into and off of the one we were following, but Muirgen was leading us straight. The water began to deepen, leveling out again at waist height, and it was there that they struck. They hit us at an intersection, where the tunnels widened to fit some four abreast, and two others joined. We had no warning, none at all. My reflexes gave me a chance to grab the wickedly barbed trident heading for my chest, as I spun to the side, and tore it out of its wielders grasp. Completing my spin, I stabbed down, pinning the warrior to the tunnel bottom. Standing at the tunnel entrance, I leaned forward, spreading my arms wide, and roared a challenge. Behind me I could hear the sounds of battle, but I had no time for that. I barely had time to glance down and identify my assailant before the rest of them were upon me.

A fairly well-built young male human torso, one that would be deemed quite attractive by those who pay attention to such things. Of course, at the waist, where normally there would be hips and the beginnings of legs, there were scales, and a fishlike tail. Merfolk. Now merfolk are not the pretty, friendly sorts they tend to be portrayed as these days. Yes, most merfolk are good-looking, some would even say stunning, and yes, they can talk the sweetest things. But they are vicious and ill-natured. They take pleasure in pain and torment and death. The slower the better. They used to bait sailors off of passing ships, only to have them drown under the knife. No few of Vixen's crewmen fell prey to them over the years, my shipmates and my friends. Goes to show there's always a reckoning.

But enough reminiscing. Three Mer are coming down the tunnel towards me, one with a trident and the other two wielding pairs of three-pronged daggers. The trident thrusts towards my head, and I drop, ducking under the water. A leap slams me into it's wielder, knocking him to the tunnel bottom, and I stand up, raking clawed feet across his chest and neck, as he tries to switch back to breathing through his gills. I bat away the first pair of blades coming for me, palming aside the flats, At that moment, the Mer beneath my feet rolls, dropping me again into the water. A flailing forepaw catches in a dagger-wielder's throat, and I drag myself to my feet, in the doing ripping him open. As I spin back to face the foe, a dagger scores my arm, before it's wielder goes down under an avalanche of grey blubber. The Trident-mer, having recovered his weapon, goes to thrust at Muirgen, only to have me grab his locks of sea-green hair, woven through with seaweeds and shells. I pull him back, lock a hand under his chin. I twist his neck, Back, Forth. And then, as he slumps, a hindpaw braces off his back, my left forepaw off his shoulder, and my hand in his hair yanks. His head pops off his shoulder, showering me and Muirgen in blood.

A howl of victory reverbates through the tunnel, and I glance around. Vixen is standing there, uninjured, both her blades gory to the hilt. Tyrone, too, is uninjured, or appears to be, his broadsword red to the guards. It seems Muirgen and I were the only ones to take wounds, and that perhaps on accounts of our insistence on fighting unarmed. We examined the slain. A baker's dozen had attacked, four from the side tunnel on Tyrone's side. Four from the tunnel on my side. And five at Vixen, coming from the four. Almost half were male, just over half female. Tacked on to the two Muirgen and Tyrone had dispatched at the reef, that made fifteen. A normal sized Merfolk warclan. They didn't tend to get along well in large groups. Started preying on each other if they couldn't find other things to torment. And lo and behold, the tunnel continues to deepen, until there comes a point where it dissappears under the rock. Muirgen gestures to us to follow, and Tyrone translates her barks and coughs for us. "She says we can swim it, easy. Wi'out gear."

We opt to try. Diving under and dragging ourselves along the ceiling. Again, after a short span, perhaps some fifty meters, it opens up again, and we surface, gasping in air. We are in a large domelike cavern, some hundred meters around and half that high. The walls are lit with glowing orbs of witchfire, and in the center is a large island, five sided, with ramps leading up at each corner. We approach carefully. The edges of the island are ringed with chests and crates, and plastic and metal boxes. In the center of the island is a little living area. A bed under an awning. A very luxurious bed, the sort of thing one would expect to see in a high class hotel, or possibly, a luxury cruise liner. A firepit, with a pot hung over it. A beautiful young woman is standing by the pot, stirring it, humming to herself. She is clad in a dress of a dark grey, Low at the neck, but trailing on the ground behind her. The ground which is impeccably clean, and marked with a shimmering, silvery pentacle. Not a silvered pentacled, Wodin be praised. She looks up as we approach. "Ah, my dear Muirgen. And you have brought friends I see." Her voice is that of an old crone, and there is a smell of corruption about her.

I snarl, and she laughs. Cackles in fact. "The Wolf does not approve?" she asks, and grins, her mask dropping for a moment. her face flashes to that of an old woman, aged and worn, and then back to the beauty. "That's good! For neither do I!" She announces, and casts a final ingredient into the pot. There is a flash of green smoke, and she cackles again. Waving her hands she directs the smoke, even as we begin to rush for her. It wraps around us, binding us tighter than any chains could. Muirgen twists and writhes against the bindings, Vixen tries to cut it with her cutlass, but it is smoke. The cutlass slides through it without resistance, but it just closes back up afterwards. Only Tyrone and I don't struggle. He is chanting something in the old Irish Gael. I know the tongue, but cannot make out the words. As for me myself, I have a plan. 

I struggle, twisting and writhing until the bonds tighten, and then wait, patiently. Those who do not die of age have lots of time to practice patience. And I know I will not be bound for long, unlike Grandfather Wolf. Vixen and Muirgen are still trying in vain to get loose. I wait until Tyrone's chanting reaches it's crescendo, and then, as an unearthly howl sounds, I shift fully to Human. The smoke suddenly has nothing to grip, and I vault forward as Cutyr, freshly summoned from the Faerie, leaps after me. A tie of smoke crosses in front of me,  and I leap back and to the side, shifting into the Wolf in  midair. I land hard, scrabbling on the rough rocky floor, twisting aside from another coil of smoke. Another leap lands me next to Muirgen, and my fangs sink into the smoky chains holding her tight. They bite deep, and a twist of my neck draws them wide enough that she can drop loose. As she lands on the ground and begins to fling herself forward, a tentacle of the smoke wraps round me, drawing me into the air. I see Cutyr loose Vixen in the same way, and leap for Tyrone, only to have another such tentacle grab him. Vixen rushes forward, Muirgen somehow keeping pace. A tentacle goes for Vixen, and Muirgen gathers herself up and leaps atop it, knocking it to the ground, even as Vixen vaults the pot to sink both her blades to the hilt in the woman's heart.

The Hag vanishes. But the smoke does not dissipate. With a snarl, Vixen kicks over the pot, and we drop to  the floor. There comes a cackling from above, And a dark shape drops from the roof. 'Tis a devilfish, what these days are called Octopi. A giant of a thing, with tentacles some two meters long. There's a darkness, an evil, in it's red eyes. It has the smell of the hag about it. We rush it, biting and tearing and rending. Cutyr, Muirgen and I go for the heart of the thing, as any sensible beast would, whilst Vixen with her cutlass and saex, and Tyrone with his broadsword and my boarding axe go after the twisting, writhing, tentacles. Where the tentacles strike us, they rip skin from flesh, and flesh from bone. The beasts beak snaps at us, but Cutyr and I dodge swiftly, and as for Muirgen, her tail, swung fast, has the force behind it to knock any blow aside.

Our jaws fill with thick, noxious blood, the flesh of our prey tasting harsh, bitter and oily. A lash with my claws took an eye, even as the beast responded in kind, a flailing tentacle stripping the hide from my face. I recoil back, snarling in pain, as Muirgen severs a tentacle at the base with her teeth, drawing back after, spitting to clear her mouth. As a tentacle swings at Cutyr, he leaps, landing on the Hag's back, digging his teeth in to the top of her mantle, claws scrabbling great dark trails in her back. She trys to grab him, to tear him loose. She's still trying as Vixen lunges forward, her blades striking straight and true, just above the beak, between the eyes. The Hag shrieks, the magic binding her to the form fading and dying as she does. Where had sat a giant eight-legged monster, now lies the corpse of a withered old woman, hate clear on her features. Vixen stands, drawing her blades free of the corpse, and I limp to her side, whining from the pain. There is hardly an inch of hide left on me, and in more than one place, one can see bone. Cutyr is similarly mangled. The other three all bear lacerations, but it was on Cutyr and I that the Hag had concentrated. Cutyr too has gone to Tyrone to seek comfort, and so none of us are watching as Muirgen sheds her skin. It isn't until we hear the crystal peals of laughter, and turn to look that we see her human form.

And it is then that we realise the flaw in our plan. For where, on the way in, we had been accompanied by a seal, on the way out, our companion was to be a beautiful woman. Naked as the day she was born, and carrying a sealskin. Which she can't even use to cover herself, on accounts of doing so would turn her back into a seal. And after centuries in a single form, one desires the change of pace. But, we ignore that, and make our return. We note on the way out that the corpses of the Merfolk are missing, but we make it back to the ship in no more pieces than we were in when we left the cavern. And when Tyrone comments that never again is he going on holiday without being armed to the teeth, we all agree.

Selkie

Well. Part two of the tale written for the Lady Redjay. I reckon there are no warnings bar bad language that I need to make, but if there are, my apologies. Tale and most characters belong to me, Jared G. Juckiewicz, and I own the copyright on them. Muirgen belongs to Lamia Macdonald, and is used with permission

We had all gathered round the Selchie, although I was still keeping my distance. Fenris Take It, my paw bloody hurt. And there would be naught with flesh on its bones for me to feed on bar fish. Tyrone was translating for us. "She says 'er name is Muirgen. An' She's been her since..., oh, She cannae remember how long." Nods from around the circle. I licked my paw. That bite had been uncalled for. I was only trying to eat the lass...
Vixen must have sensed my irritation, cause she began stroking my ruff. "Easy, Gorm" she muttered, and I relaxed a bit, resting my muzzle on her legs again. Tyrone was continuing with his tale. "She says she can't shed her skin. Turn back to Human. She's been trapped a seal for centuries, I reckon. She's not quite sure of the passage of time. She says the Wolf will know what she means." I nodded at that. When one spends any length of time longer than a few days as a beast, the days begin to meld into one another. Hard to keep much track of time. At least up north, you have the changing seasons to keep you straight. This far south , there's a lot less variability. "What could manage that?" Asked Vaul, and I growled slightly. I knew something that could do it. Illus too remembered. He knew that tale in full. He'd had a hand in it's ending too. "Magic." He said softly, and Tyrone nodded. "Aye, Lad. Black Magic. She says there be a Sea Hag lives in a cave on a key around here somewhere. Preys on ships and planes that come to close. Drains their crews to keep herself alive." My growl rose. Sounded like blood magic to me, and I'd had my share of run-ins with that.
Vixen scritched between my ears. "Seems my Wolf dislikes this tale. Perhaps he'd be willing to lend aid against the Hag." She said, grinning. I settled back down. She knows me so well. Illus spoke next. "I suppose, that under the circumstances, a gentlemen could have no alternative but to proffer aid. Milady, will slaying the hag end the spell?" Muirgen dipped her head, and Tyrone translated. "Aye, she says." Vaul stood up, and declared "weel, What be we waitin' fer? Where away?" Muirgen reared back, clapping her flippers. "ORNK! ORNK! ORNK!" She cried and then slid over the side. A moment later, her head popped up a hundred yards hence, and a flipper waved a 'come hither'. And like that, we spun about. I vanished off below, to rummage through the galley for something bloody to eat, and sulk about my foot. Illus, seeing the sun come up, had vanished below, for comforts sake. He can handle sunlight, but it's not exactly comfortable. More than perhaps ten or fifteen minutes and his skin starts peeling. Which left Vixen, Vaul, Elf and Tyrone to see to the sails, and the helm. Or at least it would have done had Vixen not come down to see to me.
Fortuneately Tyrone at least knows how to handle a ship at sea. Vixen caught me before I opened the door to the fridge with my teeth. We dragged out a couple of bags of mince. She tipped them into my bowl, and carried it through to the cabin for me. I wolfed it down and then curled up to sleep. Wakening was interesting. I almost panicked for a minute. There was something restraining my movements. I kicked and flailed for a moment, before realising it was a blanket. And that Vixen was lying behind me, her arms around my chest. My struggles must have woke her, cause she loosened her grip. "How's the paw?" She whispered softly, and I wriggled free, and hopped to my feet. It didn't take me too long to convince her my leg was fine. Acourse, my cheek still stung like buggery where the Selchie had belted me. After a moment to let Vixen stand, I trotted alongsides her, up onto the deck. Tyrone was still at the helm, and the sun was beginning to sink. Seeing us coming up he laughed. "'Bout time my relief showed up." He gestured at Elf and Vaul, "These landlubbers don't know the first thing about sailing the seas." We grinned. Have you ever seen a Wolf, or even a dog, grin? It bares more fangs than most people are comfortable seeing. Tyrone of course had no problem with this. He's been hanging out with us far too long. As for Muirgen, then dragging herself up from the dive platforms on the stern, she responded with a grin of her own.
He gestured at Vixen. "I'm going below. I need a bite an' a drink an' a nap. Muirgen will let you know if you be off course." Vixen took the helm, seated on the bench behind the great wheel. And I sat behind her, a big, fluffy, toothy pillow. Muirgen proceeded to direct us, flopping from side to side to signal which way to steer. After a short while, Elf and Vaul headed down below. Still no sight of our goal. Illus came up shortly after dark, to find Vixen and I sort of singing. Well. She was singing, and I was howling. Old sea songs, from our last time here. Rude ones mostly. The best sort. Shame we had no booze, but then again, we were headed into battle against the worst sort of witch. The wind turned, a scent caught my nose. I sniffed. Salt. and Rot. The smell of the coast. I looked at Muirgen and whined. She nodded. Vixen looked between us, and then spun the wheel, bringing us about till the wind locked us in irons. As the ship came to a stop, she gestured at me to hold the wheel, and she and Illus went to drop the sails. And weigh the anchor. We would wait. Attack at noon. Illus, weakest of us all at that time, would stay to watch the boat. Elf and Vaul would stay with him.
We slept till the dawn, and then made our preparations. We had little in the way of firearms with us. But even if we had, the entrance, according to Muirgen was underwater. Our standard firearms wouldn't fire underwater. On the other hand, blades would work fine, as would fang and claw. We had SCUBA gear designed for werefolk. The regulator straps over the top of the muzzle, and covers the nostrils. You breath through your nose, and it leaves your mouth free to fight. The hoses and tanks are armoured, and we even have fins designed for canine feet. The masks are more like goggles, but the BCD is standard, and in the warm Carribean seas, we wouldn't even need wetsuits. Tyrone too, had SCUBA gear, although his was closer to a standard set. Dive knives we each carried, and a few spear-guns for fishing. And we all carried better blades for surface fighting. In Tyrone's case, he had a Norse style broadsword, a one-handed job, and his Shillelagh. Vixen had a cutlass, along with one of her favoured Saex. And I carried a short-handled, wide-bladed boarding axe. I would need no other weapons. I probably wouldn't even need that. I began to shift back towards Human, stopping when I was half and half. Vixen did the reverse, shifting towards her fox, till she too was half and half. We donned our gear, and as the sun neared it's zenith, slid into the water, joining the Sidhe and the Silkie.

Selchie

Time for a break from Recuperative Valkyrien. You have the Lady Redjay to blame for this one again. She had a dream in which a few of my characters met one of hers. She told me of this dream, and it led to this tale. Well. Indirectly. I was wanting a drawing of Gorm and Vixen. She wanted a story to match the dream. We did a trade, this was the result. Well this, and a Chibi of the two in there Samhain outfits (which are written and just not posted). Chronologically this probably happens a year or so, maybe two after the events I be currently chronicling. Tale and most of the characters Copyright Jared G. Juckiewicz. Muirgen belongs to Lamia Macdonald, used with permission. I shouldn't need to give warnings for Valkyrien tales by this point, however, violence is about the only needing voiced for this tale. Oh, and this is chapter one of three.
Translationny things: - Boucaneer is french, the origin of the word bucanneer. Has something to do with smoking beef (Don't ask. Long and complicated) Basically refers to pirates, especially these days.
Siochain is Irish Gaelic, means Peace.


Leave again. And after the debacle that was the Philipines, we decided to go somewhere a little closer to home. It had been a long time since I'd done any proper sailing, especially blue-water stuff. And longer still since I'd last been in the Carribean. Sailing with the notorious Captain Renard as a Boucaneer. It had taken a lot of convincing for some of the others. Vixen was easy. And Lydia. Tyrone was fairly easy, being as he was Gall-Gaedhil, and Lir of course was always fond of travelling at sea. Even Elf was fairly easy to recruit. Illus on the other hand, not so much... Not fond of Running Water, the Wampyrri. But, we figured, we line the bottom of the boat with earth, and he'd be fine. Turned out we were right.
So there we were, with a fair sized yacht. A thirty meter ketch, three cabins. Vixen and I had the smallest. Elf and Lydia had one that was barely any bigger, and Illus, Tyrone and Lir shared the largest. It was good weather, had been the entire trip. Lir had abandoned us to go and tread the Bimini Road. The rest of sailed, from Florida to Bermuda. From there we thought to sail around Vixen and my old haunts. Port Royal. Tortuga. San Eustatius. Ports once English and French and Dutch. But not Spanish. The Spaniards, they were less than fond of us. At present, it was almost dawn. We were just about to take over from Illus who had held the helm all night long. Vixen and I were at the bow, preparing to rig the foresail, when we heard a splash and a thud. Possibly just a fish jumping onto the diving platforms at the stern, but I figured best safe than sorry. Wasn't unheard of for ships to go missing where we were. An area known for dissappearances. The Bermuda Triangle. So's I shift into my Wolf form. I shake myself, and begin to creep round the cabin. Sniffing as I go. There is a strange scent that I don't recognise. It smells of humans, but not. And of the Sea, but not the sea of these parts. The northern oceans. And... an old Norse Kitbag? No, a sealskin, with the seal still attached. Good eating Seals, especially a big grey seal, like this one seems to be.
So naturally, I go to eat it. Stalking forwards, towards the beast, a low growl in my throat. It's a clumsy looking beast, but they move bloody quick when they wish to. Which is why my first lunge is met by the thing spinning about and belting me in the nose with it's tail. I hop back with a snarl, and swipe at the seals muzzle with a paw. Only to have said muzzle yank back and clamp on the limb. I could feel a crack as the bones in the paw fractured, but I ignored the pain, swiping again with the other paw. My claws tear bloody rivulets along the side of the Seal's muzzle, and it releases its grip. I limp back a pace, looking for a place to strike, as it rears back on its haunches and hisses at me. I draw back, ready to pounce, only to feel hands twining in my fur. "Gorm," Vixen's voice is hard, and worried. "That's no seal, Gorm." I keep growling, hackles raised, as Illus and Tyrone come up from below decks. Tyrone gasps, and rushes between us. "Calm, Gorm." he tells me, and then turns to face the Seal. "siochán, selchie!" He commanded, and the Seal wormed her way back, to the edge of the boat. Tyrone turned his attention back to me. "She is Selchie, Sealfolk. Could you not scent the Fae about her?" He asked and I shook my head. I dropped to my belly, and flattened my ears back, a gesture of submission to be taken as apology. The seal mirrored my movements, and then we rose to a comfortable position. Vixen looked at Tyrone. "What does she want?" She asked, and Tyrone shook his head. "Havnae a clue. I'll ask her shall I?"

Protector

Well. A pretty little birdie recently decided to draw Gorm and Vixen, and Muirgen (who has yet to appear... be patient). Of course, she started by doing a Chibi. And then did one of them in their Pirate Days that was also shockingly cute. Shortly after that, my friend the Colourful Avian Of The Iberian Persuasion (The Peacock, he who does 'Writing Escritura') wrote a tale depicting the Bear of De Bruis as cute... This led to bellows and roars and cursing and crying, and to make it up to me, Lady Redjay drew this...
http://my.deviantart.com/messages/#/d3gg60i
This made me happy, and in response, I wrote this. And the moral of the story is, DO NOT PISS OF THE WOLFSBLOOD! Copyright and Intellectual property of Jared G. Juckiewicz. And the Lady Redjay if she so desires. Warnings of blood, death, graphic violence, and other charming things we tend to associate with Gorm called Grim and Grendel. Oh, chronologically, this happens at some point early on in the summer Gorm and Vixen spend outside Wapiti Bends.

When I looked up, there was an animal in my eyes, not a man. I stepped forward, hand raised to my face. Rather than wipe away the blood on my palms, I tasted it, sweet and tangy, and then wiped my hand under my eyes, fixing the screaming man at my feet with a deathly glare.

"Do not harm what is mine to protect." I snarled at him as he lay there, twisting and writhing in pain. I had no compassion for him, not after what he had done. What little compassion left within me by the rising beast was for poor Lydia, She who had become almost a daughter to me. I was growling low in my throat, as I contemplated the one squirming away, terror in his eyes. The acrid smell of urine filled the air, my prey soiling itself in terror. "You threatened my pikkutyttö. You terrified her. You hurt her. She felt then as you felt now." With each phrase my voice deepened, growing harsher and harsher. My fangs grew, cutting through my bottom lip, and carving sheaths in my chin. "And That! Is! UNFORGIVABLE!" I roared at him, lifting him off the ground by his neck, ramming his back against the wall. He screamed and I put my face close to his, stared straight into his eyes, and let the beast flash into my gaze. That shut him up. Into the silence, I whispered at him, "Give me. One. Good. Reason. Not to tear out your throat and feast on your flesh." I told him. "I-I-I-" He stammered, and I let go and hopped back. "NOT GOOD ENOUGH!" I snarled, and raised a hand before his face. As he watched, my fingers elongated, fur sprouting along the back of the hand, the palms toughening to almost leather. I twirled the hand slowly, as the nails lengthened into claws. He stared in rapt fascination. He was still staring as they raked across his throat, stilling whatever screams he had yet to make, forever.
I did something then, something I rarely do. I broke my word. I did not feed from his corpse. I settled for taking tokens. His heart, as a gift to my beloved. And lower things, for the one he had thought to harm. Bar that, I left him, left him to bleed dry and gasp out the last of his breath. The kill, at least, had been clean, even if the hunt had not been.

From Russia, With... A Desire For Vengeance?

More Valkyrien. Starting to get to the point where I can begin posting my backlog of tales from the summer following Chechnya. And soon, Samhain! Anyway, intellectual property of myself, Jared G. Juckiewicz. Warnings of blood and violence and death. Gorm reminiscing again, triggered by something no one would expect...

We have finally arrived at Michael and Sara's house outside of the town of Wapiti Bend. It has taken us a week of travel, five days in the car and two days of rest. We arrived just in time for dinner, and having eaten, and eaten well on good home cooking, venison steaks only barely seared, potatoes roasted in the droppings with herbs, onions and mushrooms sauteed on the side with carrots and corn. And if Vixen, Michael and I opted to go a little heavy on the meat side of the diet, well, who's counting. Anyway, it ensured that his little ones had to eat their vegetables. 'Cause there wasn't enough meat to satisfy everyone. To top it all off, he had a good, strong stout to wash it all down with, although, again the children had to settle for a lesser alternative.
After the meal, we settled down in the living room to watch a film. One selected by his eldest daughter, a girl of perhaps ten or eleven. Now, I'd expected to have something soppy and unwatchable. I'd even planned on a counter, falling asleep on Vixen's shoulder. On the other hand, as the film began, it showed a party, in the great Romanov Palace in Saint Petersburg. Cartoon though it may have been, it was well drawn. I recognised it, for I knew that hall well. I even knew which Ball it was meant to be. I had attended, a personal retainer of the Tsar, trusted by the Romanov family. Whilst I had seen better likeness of the Romanovs, possibly on accounts of having known them, the ones they had were not bad. Vixen must have noticed the change in my mood, asking me 'What is it? Gorm?' But I just shook of the question, shaking my head. Until Rasputin appeared. The likeness was terrible, but it was obvious who it was meant to be. I leapt to my feet, straight into a combat crouch, claws forming at my fingertips, canines cutting through my lower lip. My eyes flamed yellow as I snarled at the screen.
Everyone was staring at me. Vixen grabbed my arm, and pulled me back, and down. Michael was the first to recover. "I take it you knew them, then?" He asked, and I answered softly. "Aye. Nicholas the Second was a good friend of mine. His children too. The Tsaritsa, she had no time for me, though. I gestured towards the screen with my chin, two lines of blood trickling down it, from where my fangs had pierced my lip. "Rasputin's work that. That man was no monk. That monk was no man." I shuddered. He'd actually scared me, that man. Part of the reason I had been so glad when Nicholas went for the front. Naturally I went with him." I settled back down, and the film resumed. Vixen and I spoke softly all throughout. I told her of my arrival in Russia, in 1866, attached to the Entourage of Dagmar of Denmark, bride of Alexander III. I told her of how I had lived in the palace as a guardsman, until Nicholas II came to power. Of how I caught his eye at the coronation, and earned my elevation to his personal guard soon thereafter.
Those had been good days. Nicholas gave me rank and position and wealth, in exchange for naught but my loyalty and service, which I was happy to give. As a Princess who knew not who she was found herself on a train to Paris, I told her of my run-ins with Rasputin. That man had oozed charisma. He was almost irrestistable to women, and few men were willing to stand against him. I could smell a darkness about him though, and we hated each other. I tried so hard to get him killed. We had him stabbed. And poisoned. Shot. Mutilated. None of it worked. In the end, we gave him to the Neva, and offered up prayers that he would stay there. Those who stood beside me as we rolled his bound and wrapped body, still squirming, through the ice asked the White Christ to intercede on our behalf, to banish the evil being from this earth. I invoked older gods. Darker gods. Wotan and Loki. Fenris and my namesake, Gorm. The half-dead goddess Hel. And others, the Finnish death-gods Turisas and Ikku-Turso, who are one and the same, and yet not. Their bride, and kinsfolk, and the Morrigan of the Celts. Something must have worked, for Rasputin rose not again from the icy waters. Not alive at least.
And as a Princess began to remember I related the tale of how I had stood by my Tsar, and his wife who had reviled me, and his son, and his daughters, who had thought me their friend and protector. How I had gone with them into captivity. And how, when it came time for them to die, how I met that death with them, and helped them to face it. They did not die easy, I told her. The seventeenth day of July, in the year Nineteen Eighteen. I died with them at Yekaterinburg. I was buried alongsides them, but dug myself free as my wounds closed up. I fled to Finland, only to get caught up in the civil war there. I always meant to return, and avenge those I had failed to defend, but it was impossible to track those responsible. I was forced to settle for standing against the Bolsheviks who had had them murdered come the Winter War in 'Thirty-Nine. As the film, and my quiet tale finish, I have to laugh. Look at me. A warrior, a werewolf. A hardened killer, who has known some fourteen centuries of war and more, reduced to tears by a children's film, and the memories it draws forth.

As far as historical notes, I have tried to get the history of the events as accurate as possible, accounting for the presence of a bloodthirsty werewolf. I suggest anyone who reads this looks up the song Rasputin. I prefer the Turisas cover, but the Boney M version isn't bad. He was not a nice man... And yes, the Romanov family were, it is now believed, all executed on July 17th, 1918. According to the chappy who actually did the deed, they were told they were being moved to keep them from being rescued by the white army, placed in a small room, and then slain in a most incompetent manner. Most of them, and the few servants accompanying died slowly, of numerous bullet wounds. A few had to be bayoneted, and bludgeoned in addition to being shot, before they actually succumbed. Guess which group Gorm fell into...

The Dog Days Of... Still Spring, I think

Welp. More Valkyrien for your edimification. And would you believe, no warnings at all, well bar one for brief use of Language...
Intellectual Property of me, Jared G. Juckiewicz. Copyright held by the same...

Wakefulness returns. My nose is the first part of me to waken. Such smells as one finds in a motel. Young wolf. Elder Kitsune. Then sight. A bog standard design. A Motel Six, or one of their competitors. A double room. Lydia has a bed to herself. Vixen and I share one. Neither of them are awake yet, and Vixen is lying on the far side of the bed from me. Close enough to lend comfort, far enough to not hinder my healing or cause me discomfort. I slip out of bed and to my feet. And, wonder of wonders, I feel no aches or pains. Six days I've been travelling, and another four or five since I took my wounds, and finally, I appear to be healed. We are still a full days drive from where we plan on spending our leave. But that'll happen tomorrow. Digging deep, I find the spark of the Wolf. And change. For the first time in almost a fortnight I can take my other forms. True, the shifting is longer, and less comfortable than usual, but in the end, I stand there, a large, dark grey wolf. Well. As my license says, a Suomi Bearhound. Pedigree. By the name of Paskiainen. Which means "SON OF A BITCH!" in Suomi. And of course, now I have to earn that title. So. Back over to the bed. Vixen's side this time. Lick my nose, making sure that it is nice and cold and wet. Nudge it under the covers. And proceed to stick in somewhere where cold, wet noses should never go. And cue shriek. And a bellow of "SON OF A BITCH!" as she bolts upright. And then looks down, and pushes my snout away from her midriff. I drag myself onto the bed and rest my head on her lap. She glares for a minute, and then relents. "So. All better now?" she asks, scratching between my ears. I lift my head and nod, and then settle it back down. "Good" She laughs, as she rolls me off the bed. Of course all this racket has Lydia awake. She vanishes off to the Bathroom to get herself dressed, and Vixen changes in the main room. As soon as Lydia is dressed she is sent out to the truck to fetch my collar and lead, whilst Vixen readies them breakfast. When Lydia returns, Vixen fills my bowl with beef broth, and I lap it up whilst they have their breakfast. Of course, then I have that damned pink collar tied round my neck. I knew having someone else accesorize for me was a mistake. And to it gets attached a lead. And we set out for a walk. The town we are in is in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains, so there are plenty of trails. We wander alongst a creek for a time. I amuse myself pouncing at squirrels. No rabbits here, such a shame. We get Lydia used to the place, and then return to the Motel for lunch. Afterwards, we decide tis time to go to the park, and play for a bit. Vixen shifts to, leaving Lydia to wander with a bright red-orange, fox-looking dog, and a big gray wolf-like one. Good thing her english has improved a lot. And Vixen and I are no slouches when it comes to defending ourselves, or others, in our beastforms. So. To the park. And thence, to Frisbee. Chasing after the spinning disc is shockingly fun. Especially when you have the opportunity to do such things as vault six or seven feet in the air to catch it. Almost like hunting Pheasant or Grouse. And of course, one can't just let the other catch it. So if they get to it first, you need to knock them out of the air, with a flying tackle perhaps. Or wait till they have it and then wrestle it out of their fangs. And then after that, Tig. Better with more than three participants, but still fun even so. We'd chase the squirrels here, and even the occasional marmot that shows its head, but the signs say we're not allowed to. So we settle for chasing each other all over the field, whilst Lydia sits and watches and laughs. See, she knows us as vicious, bloodthirsty mercenaries. This is the first time she's really seen us playing. We need to do it more often...

PIRATES!

Travelling. Day... 5 I believe. The lyrics are taken from the Finnish Band 'Turisas', specifically the song 'Hunting Pirates' off of their new album, 'Stand Up And Fight'. I in no way shape or form own rights to the song, and it is used without permission. On the other hand, I advise anyone fond of the Norse, or Metal, particularly Folk Metal, to check them out. As for the rest of the tale, copyright held by and intellectual property of myself, Jared G. Juckiewicz
Warnings of Blood Violence and Death. It's Valkyrien, whaddaya expect?

So, there we were, driving along. Day five of out travels. Listening quietly to music, and watching the scenery change from the rolling prairies to the foothills of the rockies. Well. I say quietly. At present a bunch of Finns are roaring out their lyrics. "Full Sails Ahead! Oceans Painted Red! When The Soldiers Of Fortune Hunt For Pirates!" They sing, and I laugh. Vixen and Lydia look at me quizzically, and I grin. "Mind Bermuda, Milady?" Vixen turns her attention back to the road, laughing and grinning. It had been just after the Thirty Years War, and wandering through the ruin of the Germanies had led us to decide that perhaps, just perhaps, it was time to take a break from the constant warfare. So we booked ship. To the New World. Figuring to make a living as hunters and trackers. True, at the time, we had seperated again, and made these decisions independently. Sheer coincidence had us sailing on the same ship. A Dutch vessel, hauling supplies and colonists to Dutch possessions in the West Indies. There were a number of former mercenaries aboard. Most of them bore some form of weapon, mostly matchlocks and daggers, but a few had proper swords with them. I myself was travelling in my Hakkapell gear, or at least most of it. I'd discarded the rough wooden greaves and pauldrons, but kept the thick leather jerkin. I showed up at the pier, spoke to the ship's purser, and was shown aboard. I, personally, had opted to take one of the few cabins available, spending a small fortune for the increased privacy of sharing with but a single individual. True, I had no clue who said individual would be, but easier to convince one to keep as many secrets as I might need to, as opposed to many. Of course, some time later, after seeing my few possessions stowed away appropriately (in a sealskin kitbag of the old norse style.) I heard raised voices coming down the corridor. One belonged to the Purser. The other belonged to a woman. She seemed furious, something about being forced to share a room with a man, and how that would reflect on her virtue. I lay back in my hammock, closed my eyes, and resolved to ignore it. Of course, then the door to the cabin opened. I cracked an eyelid open, and a smile spread across my features. Of course, as soon as Vixen saw me, and recognised me, she changed her mind. "This man is known to me as honourable. I will accept your arrangements." She too arranged her possessions appropriately and strung up her hammock. We spent the time until the ship was due to sail discussing what each of us had been doing since the war ended, and we were released from the service of the Swedish army. We sailed with the Tide, and both of us were on deck. True, Vixen's clothing was like to be considered most improper. She was wearing a man's clothing, and at the time that was a major no-no. On the other hand, the way she walked suggested that she knew how to wield that sabre strapped to her belt. And I knew she had a small dagger slipped in the side of her boot. And another up her sleeve. The delicate-looking oriental fan in her belt was in fact reinforced with razor-edged steel spines. And the fact that the first man to try to take issue had a broken nose afore he could blink probably helped. Now Vixen wasn't as inured to sea-travel as I was, and I hadn't been to sea in ages. So we both had a lot to learn, but we learned it swiftly, and were always willing to lend a hand. We got roped into helping on a gun crew, on the grounds that we had been cross-trained as artillerymen in the Swedish army. We busied ourselves in making ourselves as useful as we could, rather than huddling in our berths like the rest of the crew. And then we entered Carribean waters. And the crew began to keep a far more careful eye out. Their worry and concern spread to the passengers, and it wasn't long before only the Mercenaries, Vixen, and I were the only ones who remained mostly unconcerned. Even if we did pay far more attention to keeping our blades sharp and our powder dry, and everything to hand. We noticed the crewmen did the same.
We learned why when we saw the sloop bearing down on us. It bore no nations colours, flying a simple black pennant. Cries of "Pirates" and "Buccaneers" raced through the ships complement, and black despair descended on most of the passengers. The Mercenaries loaded their guns, simple Arquebus, most of them. Vixen and I hastened to our assigned cannon, loading and preparing to run it in. The pirate vessel pursued us, and we had naught to but wait, till the Gun-deck officer bellowed the order to fire. So we settled for waiting. We did what we could with the guns, but the vessel pursuing us had done this before. They racked the deck with grapeshot, and then closed to board. As soon as we heard them coming over, Vixen and I rushed to the deck, cutting our way through any we didn't recognise. Our mercenaries were formed up on the deck, holding off the attackers, but the pirates had men in their rigging, sniping down. The Mercs wouldn't be able to hold. My cutlass slid into it's scabbard, and with a howl I leapt into the ratlines, Vixen following a hairsbreadth behind. Against warriors as strong as we were, and as used to moving on all fours, they stood no chance. Of course, while we were seeing to that, another group of pirates had managed to turn a swivel gun on the Mercs. They also had no chance, against that opposition. Seeing the carnage we chose to avenge them, dropping to the pirate's deck, and laying about us with our blades. Until there were no foes within reach, just a circle of musket barrels and bayonets. Through the circle stepped the captain of the Pirate vessel. "Well..." He drawled "What have we here? Looks to me to be a Woman." He leered at Vixen. "Live or Die, Lady?" Vixen mulled over this for a moment. "Hmm..." I felt her back tence against mine, slightly, imperceptibly, and then she snarled an answer. "DEATH AND GLORY" as she spun, her blade batting the bayonets in her way aside, the fan coming out of her belt, flipping open, and severing the jugular. As she came to a crouch, sabre held in a mid-guard, fan held demurely before her face, she growled a challenge. "Who's next" I stayed silent, bar a grin, as the buccaneers muttered amongst themselves. A few minutes later, one of them stepped forward. "I guess you are, Ma'am" He said. And just like that, we found ourselves pirates.

Grim Thorsson

Ladies and Gentlemen, An Old Friend! Gorm Ulfsbluut, Vixen... lets go with Renard for a last name, and Lydia Czernobaj, on day four of the journey. Stopping for a rest, now that Gorm can walk so long as he has a walking stick. And remembering the Old Days. Intellectual Property of Myself. Jared G. Juckiewicz. Copyright held by the same. Warnings of Blood and Violence, Death, Nazis, and Magic...

My steak is delicious. Possibly because it's the first solid food I've had in about a week. Last I ate was some offal back in Chechnya. In more ways than one. On the plane flight back, I was on an IV. Glucose drip and whole blood. They kept me on it for two days after we got back, too. Then they released me on my medical leave, into the care of Vixen and the girl, Lydia Czernobaj, formerly known as Naked Girl. For the last four days, I've been being bottle fed cold beef broth. And whilst there are worse fates than being bottle-fed by Vixen, it tends to wear on one of the Wolfblooded. Especially when I spent five or so days of that week bed-ridden. And the fifth and sixth requiring crutches. True, for the past three days I've more been chair-ridden, as we drive to some old friends of mine, to spend the summer recuperating. On the other hand, now that I am able to walk again, even if it is just with a stick, I insisted on doing so. Glad I did. Ran into a very old friend of mine. Who insisted on treating us to lunch. Which is why we are at present seated in this here fancy restuarant. Devouring a delicious, if, sadly, cooked, Steak, whilst I listen to him recount the tale of our meeting. "So, there we were, the Germans, they were coming along the road, through the pass, despite the raging storm." He started. "They had us outnumbered, probably, ten or fifteen to one. Anyway, They make their advance, thankfully only infantry. And we have cover, but nothing more than hunting rifles. No way we'll stop them." My companions assume my grin is from the steak, but I like this tale. Fond memories. "When all of a sudden", and here the old man, Egil, waves at me. "He comes leaping down into the road. Thunder cracks behind, lightning flashes. The wind gusts, buffeting us, and the driving rain is like knife blades for a moment. He lands, clad in goatskins, wearing a Vikingr helm, wielding a smith's hammer, roaring at the top of his lungs" Here I cut in "Aye. Slay my people will you? I roared at them, and Take my homeland?" Egil nods. "rightly so." He continues. "And without waiting for an answer, he rushes in amongst them, that hammer cracking left and right. I don't think any of ours fired a shot, and not more than a double handful of them got away. He comes back towards us, and a few of us, those who still know the old gods are whispering 'Thor. Asator, come to aid' Things like that. He looks at us and goes 'Not Thor. But just mayhap he lends me his strength.' Grimmest tone I ever heard. Never gave us his name, so we called him after that. Grim. Grim Thorsson, First, and Leader of the Wolves." After that, the discussion turned to other topics. What had brought Egil to the states, what he'd been doing with himself. He is apparently a registered practitioner of Homeopathic Medicine. Or at least was, until age caused his retirement. Now he lives in what they call an 'Assisted Living Complex' Where he can live almost independently, but help is always available when it be needed. Whilst the Ladies chatted with him, my mind drifted a bit. It had been a shock, walking down the road, when I had heard a low "Can't be...", followed by a yelled "Grim! Grim Thorsson, That you?" It had taken me a few minutes to recognise the old man, Egil Seidrmannr. He had been one of my closer companions during the Norwegian Resistance. I'd reckoned he'd met his death in the last days of the fighting, after I'd moved my attentions to France and Germany. He must have recognized the look on my face. "What're ye thinking, ye old wardog?" he asked, his voice creaking and breaking. "Remembering, ye young pup. How'd ye survive the end of the resistance? We must hae pulled ye out o' the hands of the Death's Heads nigh on half a dozen times afore I left." Vixen and Lydia looked curious at this. Egil was Norse, through and through, and the Nazi's had tried to court the Norse, rather than conquer them. Egil grinned. "Even in my youth, I was Seidrmannr. Properly Seidrmannr. In the old way." I explained. "Egil here, he has never been given to enjoying.... Female Companionship..." Lydia still looked confused, but Vixen was nodding. It would be explained later if necessary. In fact my pack and I once let the Einsatzgruppen take us in order to rescue them. The looks on their faces when our 'corpses' came howling out of the flames and the ditch to tear them apart. Priceless. After that, after we had seen what they did to their prisoners, we favoured hunting those ones. And letting them know we were doing so.
We had but a few simple rules. If it wore the uniform of the Third Reich, it died, assuming circumstances warranted. Cleanly, if at all possible. If it bore the Sigrunen, Paired Sowilo, it died regardless. Again cleanly, but they would not be permitted to profane the Futhark if we could help it. On the other hand. If it was Einsatzgruppen, or bore the Death's Head on the lapel, it died. And slowly. My Wolves were young. And Hungry. We fed well those years. Beyond that, no Wolf would harm another. No Wolf would cause harm to anyone not in an enemy uniform without my say-so. And finally, my word was law. Poor Egil though. He kept getting himself caught. Got to the point that when he was brought in, word got round the garrison and they went to ground. Didn't help them much. Within a week, and normally the next morn, Egil would be nowhere to be found, alongsides as many as we could take out alongstsides him. And nine of the guards would be found strung up from a tree, or the closest equivalent, with gaping holes in their sides, and a bloodied spear lying on the ground before them. And Ansuz, Thurisas, Teiwaz and the Wolfsangel scrawled everywhere. In the blood of the slain. Ansuz to invoke the Hanged God, Wanderer, Masked One, Lord Of The Dead. Thurisas to invoke Asator, Lord Of The Thunders, Bringer of Strength. Teiwaz to invoke Tyr, One-Handed Aesir and the one who gives warriors Courage. And the Wolfsangel, our own personal emblem. Even if they tried to take it for their own. Runes drawn in Blood and Malice by those who had power and knew how to wield it. By Blood and Claw and Steel and by the power of the Runes, we wrought terror. So much so that when the Allied Special Operations Executive, the SOE, heard of it, they made me an offer I could not refuse. The chance to strike at the Serpent's head. Well, we finished our meal, and spent the afternoon with Egil, remembering the old days. Sitting in the park, feeding the ducks. And the geese. Watching rabbits frolic on the grass. And if Vixen and my mouths watered a little, and if we tensed slightly when such a thing came near, well... We restrained ourselves admirably.

The Volga and Grendel's Bane

Well. Here be the tale of what Gorm did on the Volga, and what immediately followed it. I am well aware of the fact that it contains rather heavy influences from Beowulf, and from Michael Crichton's Eaters of the Dead. Both of which I am rather fond off. Anyway, This adaptation is my Intellectual property, that of Jared G. Juckiewicz. And all of the traditional warnings and this tale does reference to Slavery, and (admittedly generally obliquely) Sex.

Day Three of travelling. Feeling much better today, and have declared that on the morrow, we shall be spending our day wandering the streets of wherever we stop for the night tonight. However, till then, Lydia continues to demand the tale of my life. It's a good help for her learning English, as I speak in that tongue, explaining the words she doesn't understand. As a wolf, she is very good at determining context, being able to tell from my scent those feelings each part of the tale brings. Vixen helps with the translation, even if her Russian and Georgian is not as good, and certainly not as modern, as mine. It helps that Immortals tend to naturally be good at languages, even from an early age. Decidedly useful, considering how widely travelled any immortal is liable to be.
Anyway. The first day I was questioned about my time in the Thirty Years war. That topic was started when Lydia asked how I met Vixen. A chance comment from that led to a brief overview of my time at the Danevirke, and my tale of Verden. Today, apparently, I am to go over the time following that, when I left the service of the Carolingians. Well. After Verden, I spent the next three years, up until Seven Eighty Five, fighting for Charlemagne against Widukind's Saxons. Saxony and Frisia were crippled as autonomous regions, And Charlemagne's peace was enforced. After that year, he moved us into Iberia, which is now called Spain, against the Moors. But it was work that wore on my soul. Oh, not the fighting, and certainly not the killing. But Verden had changed my veiw of Charlemagne, And after a time, working for a man who, to me, seemed to have more concern for the souls of his foes than his sworn men, it got too much for me. I left his service, and headed north. And north. Into Norway. As my money ran dry, I began to look for work, and realised I knew little. I could hunt. I could keep herds, but that is seasonal work, and not something itenerant, transients labourers are often hired for. Livestock is expensive. I knew the merchants trade, but without funds, had nothing to trade. So, once again, I fell back on combat. I took to sea with a company of reavers, Vykingr, they called themselves. All up and down the coast of Angle-land and Alba, we raided, and for a time, I was as close to happy as I had been since Frisa died. We would spend the spring, after the planting, and the fall, before the harvest, at sea, harrying Alba, now Scotland, and the Angevin lands, know known as England. We would raid Eirin's Isle, now called Ireland, and the coastlines of Frisa and the Low Countries, and even what would become Normandy and Brittany. True, raids on the mainland were rarer, and more dangerous, for Charlemagne kept his lands well defended, but they also paid well, and Frankish steel was amongst the best forged. Of course, that changed in Eight Hundred and Fourteen when Carolus Augustus Magnus, Emperor Charlemagne, Died. Then, his empire began to tear itself apart, and we had rich pickings on the Frankish coasts. Sixteen more years, I spent with the Vykingr. I learned to sail, I learned to row. I learned to navigate by the Sun, and by the Stars, and by the other signs. I learned what the presence of seabirds meant about the proximity of land, and which Whales and Dolphins could be seen inshore, and which only far out to sea. I learned what lands were where, throught the Northern Oceans. I learned how to keep prisoners, how to stay healthy on the limited provender at sea. I fought, I feasted, I drank. In between the raiding seasons, I was hosted by the Jarls who sought my service, treated as a man of position. It was a new feeling for me. And then, around Eight Hundred and Thirty, getting bored of the western coasts, after a full forty years travelling them, I word of an expedition heading east. To Aideigju to trade. I went with as a hired bodyguard, for it was unknown for Vykingr to stay in close to the Scandinavian shores and pray on returning ships. From Aideigju, I took ship east and south alongst the Neva, to Lake Ladoga and thence onwards to Holmgaard. I was given the offer of a position in Holmgaard, but I turned it down. Instead, I again took ship as a bodyguard, down the Dneipr river. It was towards the southern reaches of the Deipnr, where one makes the transfer to the Volga, when the ship was attacked. I saw it coming, smellt it rather, the scent of fellow wolves, the first I had met since my time with the Suomi. They lept aboard, Eleven of them. Four were fully wolf-shaped, and another four were in the half-wolf form most folk associate with Werewolves. The other four were human, laying around themselves with broadswords, parrying deftly with large round shields. I immediately shifted part way, but did not discard my shield or broadsword. I had made alterations to my maille and gambeson that permitted me to wear both in either form, although the effectiveness was slightly less than in a normal coat. Fighting with a blade, and the claws on my shield arm, and my shield, and my fangs, and even the claws on my feet where a lower limb was left exposed, I was able to prove my mettle to the assailants. To the degree that when everyone else aboard the ship was dead or taken, they settled for wearing me down. For three days and three nights, the combat raged, always two on one. The newcomers would switch out when one got tired, and had time to eat, and to drink, and to rest. I had none. By the fourth dawn, I could barely lift my blade. I was forced to yield. I heard, even as I bared my throat in expentance of naught but a swift death, one of those I had been hired to defend mutter quietly that, though I had failed in my task, by my efforts I had earned my keep.
To my shock, and amazement, the other Wolves did not slay me. Instead they adopted me, and so began my first, and only stint in a pack of Werewolves. It turned out, rather swiftly, that I was one of the more dominant wolves in the pack, and I swiftly wound up second only to the Alpha, Buliwyf, who these days is known by the name of Beowulf. The others claimed names that matched their skills. There was Skald, as skilled with the kenning as with Wodin's Claw or as Wodin's Bane. Their was Ragnarok, the Berserker who in a fight would lose control. He was death to all who crossed him. Or the names of Wolves of myth. There was a Freki, and a Geri, and a Fenris. And I made a Gorm. We had a Haakon, for what Norse crew is complete without one. There was one called Ulfric who was the son of a Jarl, although a less dominant Wolf was hard to find. Always upset him, poor man. We had an Eirik, called Rauda, which means the Red, although he was not the one of fame. No, he earned that name for the colour of his hair and his fondness for blood. The last two in our happy little pack were one who called himself Gall, a word from the Gaedhill of Eirin's Isle, meaning Foreigner, and a man who called himself Thorgrimst, and he looked the part. We based ourselves out of what would one day be called a Longphort in a different place, a fortified camp on the banks of the Volga. We raided anywhere we could take a ship. We took gold, silver dirhams, and gemstones, trinkets, anything we could sell to those merchants and caravans who stopped by the longphort. But the most valuable of our trade was in Manflesh. Men for ransoms, and for the fields, and the mines, and the Caliph's armies. Manflesh for the Wolves and for the Gods. And Girls. They were the most common of the trade goods we had to barter. And, to my shame, I was as willing to deal in human lives as any on the Volga. Yet more evidence for my being damned.
Sixty years me and my pack lived on the Volga, raiding and trading. It was a good life, for us. There was abundant food for those with money, and drink. And of course, when you consider what our merchandise was, we were rarely without... companionship. There was game, even if the local wildlife tended to be a shade on the scraggly side, and if one wanted a more challenging hunt, well, the occasional warrior would be taken prisoner. And any of us could afford to 'release' one of our thralls. And then a number of things happened at once. In Eight Hundred and Ninety Two, the King of the Longphort died. His heir had not been named, but their were two candidates. Buliwyf was one, although it was only really our dozen who supported him, and the other was a man named Tyrkyl. Now Tyrkyl had more who supported him, but few of them were willing to do it openly. And it was into this tense situation that their stepped a man by the name of Ibn Fadhlan. He was an Arab, from Baghdad. Sent as an ambassador by the Caliph to the lands of the Tsop Vlad, who ruled the Volga Bulgars, some journey north even of where we were. Almost as far again as we were from Baghdad. Now, he needed an offer of free passage from the king of the Longphort, or odds were he would be slain or enthralled in a raid. Unfortuneately, we had yet to name a king. We hadn't even held the funeral of our old king. We couldn't, until a new king was named. Ibn Fadhlan, and his chief of staff, an old man named Melchisedek, and his servant boy, Achmed, learned of this quandary when dealing with some of the lower ranked traders present, to replenish supplies. They tried to offer gifts to both heirs, to get rights of passage from both. Tyrkyl refused, saying it wouldn't be proper. Buliwyf granted him them, after some consideration. This led Tyrkyl to think that Buliwyf was plotting to steal the throne, and led him to some rash behaviour. At a feast, they tried to assassinate him. First with poison, and when that failed on accounts of him smelling it, and spurning the dish, with steel. He slew Tyrkyl and his men with his bare hands.
Now that we had a new king, we were able to properly bury our old King. His longship was prepared, his body laid out in state upon it, his weapons at his side. One of his slave girls volunteered to travel with him. She was fed Liquor, and each of the old Kings Huscarls slept with her. Then, when she was drunk out of her wits, and almost unconcious from exertion and pleasure, Buliwyf and Tyrkyl's lieutenant strangled her, whilst the Old King's Soothsayer, the Angel of Death, smothered her. She was laid beside him, and the ship was burned with all in it. Ibn Fadhlan and his companions watched, and it fell to me to explain everything, for I was most travelled of all the Pack. I even knew some Arabic, off men who had fought with the Moors I had faced in Iberia.
Off course, this meant that Ibn Fadhlan had to negotiate new Safe Passages. His previous ones had been given by Buliwyf the mercenary leader on behalf of the Pack. Not by King Buliwyf of the Volga Longphort. This did not make him happy, but a distraction appeared. A messenger arrived from a King Hrothgar, a minor king in northern Sweden. He had Buliwyf's oath of aid, from long ago, and was calling it in. His people were being harried by a militant tribe of Suomi, the Grendel. They wore bearskins, and wielded clawed clubs, attacking at night, or in the mists and fog. And Hrothgar and his men could do nothing to halt them. Buliwyf in turn consulted with the Angel of Death, who said that for success, thirteen must go, and that the Thirteenth must be no Norseman. Brief consultation produced a solution. Melchisedek was too old. Ibn Fadhlan would not be dissauded from his task. But his servant boy was young, and strong and fast. If he would come with us, Ibn Fadhlan could have his safe passage. It was agreed. Both parties left on the same day, the Longphort being given to Tyrkyl's former Chief Lieutenant. Travelling north was awkward and complicated, but it was easily done, and we crossed the Baltic just after the ice left it.
We arrived on the coast of Sweden, near where Buliwyf believed Hrothgar to hold his court. And Buliwyf was right in his belief. Within a day, we had been challenged by a scout. Buliwyf's response was simple. "I am the son to Hygiliac. Called Buliwyf. We have come at the Behest of Hrothgar, to serve him in an errand". We were then led to Hrothgar's keep, the great mead hall of Hurot. It was set on a hill, surrounded by smaller Longhouses. There were signs of other habitation, further afield, as we ascended that hill, but wide and scattered, and signs that some of it had been abandoned. Around the village itself, there was no wall, no ditch or bank, no moat. Not even a fence. And hardly a man betwixt fifteen and fifty. We had an audience with the King, where he told us tales most would deem fanciful. Of beasts that walk as men, and men with the look of, and who move like, beasts. Had he not just recruited a dozen such beings, we would have scoffed. We could learn nothing concrete, so we thought to bait them into battle. We took an empty longhouse, and all feigned sleep that night. And attack they did. When the battle ended, we discovered to our dismay that they surely had greater strength than normal man. Each of us had slain at least two, and even the Arab, Achmed, had managed to maim one. But there were no bodies left lying, and Freki and Geri had been slain, their heads taken. Well, that settled things for us. Their blood on our blades seemed really enough, but tasted strange, not wholly human. They had a tint of the Bear about them, not as much as a shapeshifter would have, but more than a man should. We decided to arrange defenses. The outer settlements would be abandoned, as well as some of the Longhouses on the outside of the village. Those we collapsed as best we could, dropping the supporting pillars, and leaving ship-shaped mounds. A ditch was dug aroundst the remainder, and wooden spikes were planted. An opening was left, and a gate was fashioned from a cart. The people were quiet. Some investigation discovered that they thought our efforts would case the Grendel to rouse a Dragon, a fire-serpent the locals knew by the name of Korgon, and that evening, in the twilight, through the mists, we saw a long serpent of fire writhing it's way towards us. As it closed it became clear that it was but Cavalry, with torches. We fought off the attack, but Gall and Eirik, Fenris and Ragnarok, also fell in battle, their heads taken. This time there were bodies left, caught on the spikes, or unhorsed in the ditch. From the taste of the dead, taken in secret, in our lodgings, they were men who had fed on slain Bear-sarks, Werebears, and on Trollsblodet, Trollsblood. In doing they had gained strength, and resilience beyond the scope of mortal men. We were faster, but they matched us in might and in difficulty to kill. And we could not hope to defend the village. So we set out on their trail. We trailed them to a camp, which we looted and burned, but it could not have held all who had attacked us.
So we sought out a seer. She told us to slay the priestess, the Mother of the Grendel. And the leader of their warriors, the Bjorning. And she told us to seek both where the Hammerborn and the Sealord meet the Mother. Well, Skald puzzled through that. The Hammerborn would be Thor, born to wield the hammer Mjollnir. The Lord of Thunder. The Sealord referred to the ocean god Njord, and to his realm. As for the mother, that would be Sif, the goddess of the Earth. The locals told us that meant the caves below the Thunder Cliffs, where they claimed Dragons laired. Turned out later that they were wrong, but that be another tale. So, we travelled to the top of the Thunder Cliffs, and we descended. We struck into the caves, and Buliwyf slew their Mother, taking a mortal blow. We cut our way clear of that dark place, losing Thorgrimst in the process, and were forced to flee, abandoning our gear in favour of haste. We fortified Hurot as best we could, whilst Buliwyf sat waiting on his doom meeting him. The wound had been poisoned, the blade silvered, and the tip had shattered in the wound. None of us would be able to remove all the shards, not without tearing him up beyond all hope of recovery. So we sat, and regretted his fate. He was saddened by the fact that he would die as a pauper, with naught but his hands. For our services, Hrothgar promised him a kings burial. They attacked again in the early twilight. We fought like the wolves that we are. Buliwyf met the Bjorning in single combat. Wolf fought Bear, and both fell, joined together in death. The Bjorning's death broke their will, and we drove them back into the hills. Buliwyf was indeed buried as a king, in the same manner as his predecessor on the Volga, and the pack broke up. Skald went travelling as his name-sake, and Haakon took it upon himself to return Achmed to Baghdad with a king's ransom in silver. Ulfric followed him as far as Holmgaard. I stayed. I owed no fealty to Hrothgar, but I would avenge my brethren on the Grendel. I would even meet a Dragon, the one the locals called Korgon. But that is a story for another day.

Historical facts... I have manufactured the Grendel out of almost whole cloth. Most of the tale is a variation on the Anglo-Saxon Saga, Beowulf, drawing inspiration heavily from Michael Crichton's book, Eaters of the Dead, and the film adaptation of that, The 13th Warrior. As for the behaviour of the Norse on the Volga, it is drawn almost directly from the manuscripts of Ibn Fadhlan, who did in fact exist. He was a ninth century Arab, who was named ambassador to the king of the Volga Bulgars, supposed to convert them to Islam. And like a large number of Islamic travellers at the time, he wrote a record of his journey. Which could almost be an anthropological text. Whilst such manuscripts do of course show the prejudices of the Islamic peoples at the time, they are fairly dispassionate.

The Damned

Well. Today and Tomorrow, we find out just what Gorm did at Verden and on the Volga that lead him to consider himself well and truly damned. Thursday, MAYBE, (Assuming I finish rewriting the thing) We will be hearing a bit about his marginally more recent history, and then at some point after that it's back to the ancient stuff... As soon as I get it sorted. And then I have a new Story Arc to start work on, the rest of his tales while they are on the journey, and some of the stuff he does over the summer... my Valkyrien muse appears to be rather active at the moment...

Anyway, Intellectual property of myself, Jared G. Juckiewicz, copyright held by the same.  All the traditional Valkyrien warnings, language, blood, death, violence, et cetera...

Without further ado, The Damned!
The travels Day Two. We reckon its going to take us about a week to get where we be going, and by that, we mean Five days on the road. I personnally be tacking an extra two days onto that, on the grounds that I'll be damned if I'm spending five straight days cooped up in the cab of a pickup. No, as soon as I'm healthy enough to walk, we're stopping and spending a day doing that. And as soon as I'm healthy enough to change, we're stopping and spending a day with me as a wolf. Well. Dog. Officially. There's even a... collar. and lead. and bowl. In the trunk. Required licenses and everything. For one Paskiainen, Pedigree Suomi Bearhound. Honest. But for now we are driving. To be fair, I'm in a better mood than I was yesterday. The day of rest helped, as did Vixen feeding me bottles of beef broth. Good for feverish, festering Werewolves, that. The bed was even fairly comfortable in the motel we spent the night at, even if I did need to be carried into and out of it. Now if only I had the strength to stand. But I'm still festering out the poisons from my wounds in Chechnya. I had enough lead in me to start a mine. Couple that with over-exertion, and a delayed start to the healing process triggered by not feeding properly till about three days after I took the wounds, and you begin to understand why even I am a shade under the weather.
Fortunately, Lydia Czernobaj, the young Wolfborn girl we rescued in that op has been keeping my mind off it. Yesterday, any time I was awake she drilled me on how I met Vixen at the battle of Breiteinfield. Now, she wants clarification on something I said then. "Gorm," She asks sweetly, "Yesterday, when you apologised for being a bad patient," I nodded, "You said you hadn't been called Virtuous since before Verden. What happened?" Well. That tale is complicated, but I would tell it. See, in truth it starts around the very end of the 7th century. I had decided to take up mercenary work, and got hired by the Danes. I helped build the first stage of the Danevirke, and then helped to defend it. I was still there in the middle of the Eighth century, when Merchants first began to come through and settle in a place that would come to be known as Hedeby. One such merchant had a daughter named Frisa. A gorgeous woman she was, shapely, graceful, cultured. The Merchant desired a warrior, to protect his interests. I desired his daughter. A marriage was arranged. I gave up a mercenary life to serve him as a courier, and as a bodyguard, and in exchange, I married his daughter, who was as taken with me as I with her. I struck a rather dashing figure back in those days. We had a good life together, and when her father died, a decade or so after I married her, he left his business to me. I had learned something of running such a thing, and Frisa had learned more, and between us, it prospered. Seven Hundred and Eighty, Anno Domini. After some twenty years of marriage. Frisa was becoming what in those days was considered to be an old woman. Through care in dress and deportment, and the use of certain paints and dyes, I looked to have matched her aging. The Saxons made a raid. Most of the merchants where Frisa and I lived were slain, as was she. I survived only because I was Wolfsblood. When I recovered, which didn't take long, as I had plenty of corpses on which to feed, I again took up the sword. I had heard that the King of the Franks, Charlemagne, Who we called Carl Magnus, was engaged in war with the Saxons. I took service with him. For two years, I fought where and whom he said. And then came Verden. The Saxons had again broken their oaths of conversion to the White Christ, broken faith, and rebelled against the King.
Charlemagne led his armies back into Saxony, against the Saxon Chief, Vidukind. The campaign ended at Verden in Seven Eighty Two. Four Thousand men and more we had taken prisoner in the battles leading up to it. They were offered the chance to repent, to return to Christ, and when it was not accepted, Charlemagne declared their deaths, by Beheading. And I, with my great, two-handed sword, Kuolema, was first in line to volunteer as an executioner. I remember few of the kills I made that day. I remember being told afterwards that I had taken a hundred head. It was simply done. A half pivot, Kuolema swinging up into a high guard, and then, as I completed the pivot, she would come crashing down and another head would roll from it's trunk. And then my two 'assistants' would drag up the next, and force him to his knees. Until they brought up a warrior, barely more than a boy. As he approached, I saw no fear in his eyes, simply acceptance. He did not struggle, but walked proudly, head held high. As they bade him kneel, I signaled them to stop. I could speak a bit of the Saxon tongue, I had learned it as a merchant. "You. Boy. Would you meet death as a man?" I asked him, and he answered with a simple "Aye." His voice held no fear, no hatred. Simply acceptance, and honour. As though he knew that his fate could not be changed, and chose not to struggle against it. "Then cry your god, Boy." Says I, and swung. He roared the name of Baldr, the god slain by treachery. It was then that I knew I was damned.
I fought for Charlemagne for a while longer, but I knew in my heart I could not do it much more. I could not fight for one who thought to save souls, but led his men into Hel's embrace. Even if he did it unwittingly. I am told Verden tormented him, the rest of his days, and that on his deathbed, he asked his god to show him the face of every man he had slain there. I left his service, and went Aviking. The raids on Britain were just beginning, and it distracted me for a time. Never mind that I was doing the same thing I had just taken vengeance on the Saxons for. Never mind that I had little need or desire for the money it brought. No, my heart and my soul were black, hard, cold. My heart has since healed. My soul remains as it was, Black, Hard, Twisted and Gnarled. Cold and pitted, without a trace of mercy or compassion for any bar my own.

The Journey, Day 1.

More Valkyrien. Day 1 of the Travels... Lydia asks Gorm how he met Vixen. 'Tis a brief tale, cause Gorm is not exactly capable of remaining awake for any length of time yet. Warning of violence. And bad language.

Intellectual property of myself, Jared G. Juckiewicz. Copyright held by the same

We were travelling. By Pickup Truck. Just the three of us, Lydia, Vixen and I. Did I mention I was... not so much wounded anymore, but the scars were healing and I was busy festering out copious quantities of lead. Whilst human. It was sore. It was uncomfortable. It resulted in me being covered almost constantly in oily, black, tainted sweat that smelled bad even to a normal human. Hence, why every window in the truck was open. Despite us driving at some hundred kilometers every hour on the freeway.
And I am a bad patient at the best of times. It has been said that Patience is a virtue. The last time I could honestly be described as virtuous was ages past. Before Verden. Before the Volga. Before the Grendel and The Swede. But those, well, some of those, are tales for another time. At that time, I was a shade on the grumpy side, snapping at everyone, till even Vixen was getting fed up of me. And then it was the Lydia Czernobaj, Georgian mountain peasant, found a means of distracting me. "You two," She said. "You sound like an old married couple." We glanced at each other. We have been seeing each other for some time now, as Immortals judge these things, on and off. We have never considered marriage. It never struck us as necessary. "How did you meet?" She asked, derailing my train of thought, and my latest rant at my discomfort. Vixen turned the music down, so low it was barely audible, and I began to tell the tale, drifting back into the memory of happier times.
It was the Seventeenth Century. Early to mid Seventeenth Century. Europe was in the grip of the Thirty Years war. I was a Captain of The Swede's Light Cavalry. Those recruited from the Suomi peoples of Finland. They called me Grendel, a name I had taken because, well, I was the end of those who bore it before. I rode under the command of Field Marshal Horn, and Johan Baner. Milady Vixen on the other hand served under Johann Tserclaes, Count Tilly, specifically under Pappenheim, as one of his Black Cuirrasiers. We first met at Breitenfield, on what is now This Seventeenth Day Of The Month Of September, The Year Of Our Lord Sixteen Hundred And Thirty One. Me and mine were drawn up on the right flank of Gustav Adolphus Magnus' battle line, Baner with his heavy horse drawn from Smaland, and the east of Gotland, and me amongst the light cavalry. Some of them were drawn from West Gotland, but I was amongst the Finns, the Suomi riders called Hakkapelites.
Here, Vixens voice draws me back. She speaks softly, almost whispers. "A Horribile Haccapaelitorum Agmine Libera Nos, Domine" She utters, and Lydia leans into the front, a confused look on her face. I translate for her. "Oh Lord, Deliver us from this terrible army of Hakkapells." "Hakkapells?" She asked, and Vixen explained, "Finnish riders were known for their war cry. It meant Hack On, or Hack Them Down." I filled in the rest, roaring out a deafening "HAAKA PAALE!" and drifted back.
The Hakkapells had known, of course, what I was. My kind had always been welcomed amongst the Suomi, when we did come to bring death. They did their best to help me hide it from the Swedes, stout Christians all. They paid attention to what I had to say. So when I said that amongst the foe, I could scent one who was both less and more than Human, they believed me. That one, they said, they would leave to me, if I would but point it out. Well, the Papists threw themselves at our lines, the Black Cuirrasiers leading the way. Well, they smashed into our lines, our would have done, but we Hakkapellites knew our stuff. We swirled away from the charge and cut back in as it slowed. True, the Cuirrasiers were better armed. And had larger horses. And they had pistols. Few of the Hakkapells were as well armoured as I, and I had but a leather jerkin. None of us had more than a sword, or perhaps an axe or knife. Or some combination of the three. I had all three. Never went anywhere without them. Our Heavy Cavalry, and the West Gotlanders were better equipped, but we didn't concern ourselves with them. We were too busy charging into the fray, screaming our pagan warcrys, for most finns were little more than Nominally christian at that point, and wreaking as much havoc as we could.
And it was there that I ran into that other. I could tell from her scent, that close, that she was, well, a she. And that she had something Canid about her, but not the Wolf. Not that I cared. She fought under an enemy banner. So I lashed out at her, and she parried, and we swirled and dueled. She fought with grace despite her heavy plate-armour. I fought with fury and force. Neither of us could make an inroad on the others defenses. Then Pappenheim called a retreat and she swirled away. Six more times, he and his charged us. Six more times, The Lady on the Black Horse sought me out, and we fought each other to a standstill. And then we launched our charge, and the same happened again, until she was forced to withdraw.
The Lady and I next met at the battle of Rain, where Tilly met his death. She tried to stop us from fortifying our bridgehead. It came to naught. Wasn't long after that, with Tilly's army crumbling, that she signed on with the Swede as a Mercenary. We became friends, served together the rest of the war. Of course, it wasn't till much later that we became more than that, but that is a story for another day. For now. Sleep calls. I've been doing a lot of that lately. Eating and Sleeping, to speed my healing.

Anyway, History notes.
Yes, Pappenheim did decide to send his Cuirassiers against the Hakapells and the Gotlanders some seven times. It was a major factor in Tilly's defeat. The Cuirassiers were driven off by the lighter Swedish cavalry who were then able to flank Tilly's battle line, and sieze much of his artillery. And as the bulk of Swedish troops (not the Hakkapells, sadly) Were cross-trained in multiple areas, they were able to turn that artillery on Tilly's forces. As for the battle of Rain, Swedish engineers laid a temporary bridge, pontoons I believe, and the Hakkapells proceeded to cross the river under fire, and form a bridgehead. Another victory for the Swede. Tilly died shortly after Rain, from wounds recieved in that battle. The quote "A Horribile Haccapaelitorum Agmine Libera Nos, Domine" is one of a number similar inscriptions recovered from the margins of religous manuscripts dated to that period. And it was not uncommon for mercenary's to serve on every side of a conflict in the single conflict at that time. Desertion rates have been claimed to have reached some 300% in some forces, with troops often re-enlisting with the same army a short time later...

The Plan

Well, apologies for the recent lack of Valkyrien tales. Have been attempting to work out how to do the next story arc. As a brief recap, Everyone has been shot to shit. Valkyrien has thus given everyone the summer off as medical leave. So, here be Gorm's plan for the summer...

Intellectual property of, and copyright held by Jared G. Juckiewicz.

Lydia. Lydia Czernobaj (pronounced Sher-no-bye), Daughter of the wolf. That, it turned out, was the name of the Werewolf girl I rescued. She recovered conciousness on the flight, and after we explained things, and after it was made clear that she wasn't going to end up sold into slavery, she even managed to be calm. Higher up's in Valkyrien have called in a few favours, such that she actually has a recorded identity, and as she has been officially decreed my ward, being not long turned thirteen, she even has my citizenship rights. Which means, Norwegian, Swedish, British, Canadian, and American. A deal I negotiated after my work for the Allied SOE at the end of WW II.
Anyway, Valkyrien is moving me into larger quarters. They'll be ready by the time I return from Medical leave, sometime in September. Till then, Lydia, Vixen, and I are staying with an old friend of mine. No, not that old. He lives in the mountains, up north. On a plateau. Semi arid land, I'm told. Cattle country. Pine forests, rolling hills, and sagebrush prairie. I haven't told him I used to be a rustler. Long, long, ago. Lovely lad, Michael. Him and his mate... Wife. Sara her name is. How I met, and how we became friends is a long tale, and not one for here. For now, tis enough to know that it be almost a weeks worth of driving from Valkyrien HQ. And I'm still barely able to move. We've requisitioned a pickup, and drawn enough pay to do us the summer, even if we splurge large and often. A beneficial side-effect of the nigh Immortality Vixen and I have. It puts a whole new spin on the phrase Long-Term investment. Now, we won't be making the Fortune 500 any time soon. But should Valkyrien for some reason cashier us, it'll be a long time afore we feel any sort of bite.
So, here we are. In a big, dark red, extended bed, Ford crew-cab. One of their biggest models. The bed, with it's matching canopy, is loaded with camping gear, medical equipment, clothes, some costume stuff (Some replica Varangian gear I occasionally fancy wearing, some replicas of the sort of stuff Vixen wore in her Ronin days.) There's some hunting gear, some steel, all with the proper permits sitting in the cab with us. A couple of rucks sharing the back seats of the cab with Lydia carry other essentials. Laptop computers, satellite phones, a radio transmitter. And copious quantities of vacum-packed beef broth. And baby bottles. On the grounds that the fever that accompanies the festering out of the copious quantities of lead in me has set in. And I'm so weak I can barely chew, let alone swallow. Let alone walk. Not that I'll admit this to anyone. It took Me, an old crescent axe of mine (see; makeshift crutch), Vixen, Lydia, AND Tyrone to get me in the truck, and belted in, and the seat reclined. Mostly a'cause I insisted on trying to do it myself. Big mistake. Again, not that I'll admit that. On the other hand. I will now admit that the crutches I'm certain are in the baggage will be helpful.
So, the plan is, we, or rather, Vixen drives. We stay in motels. The sort of place where every room is accessed from the parking lot. Without requiring stairs. All the way north to Wapiti Bends, and then from there to the little lake where Michael and Sara live. And we pray for good roads. And I settle for being molly-coddled, bottle-fed, and carried everywhere. I see this going badly. On the other hand, we have a good supply of reasonable music. There's Jap-Pop, and Scandinavian Metal, about the only vestiges of patriotic spirit Vixen and I show, bar her fondness for certain Anime's. A fondness I share. Especially those that have Norse influences, and there are a shocking number of those. There's some classical stuff, Wagner mostly, and some film soundtracks. Surprising number of Disney. soothing, in theory. And Folk music. Lots of Folk music. Should be enough variety to see me through a week of such confinement without attempting to kill anyone. And if it isn't, hidden amongst the hunting gear is a tranquilizer rifle and enough barbituates to drop a herd of elephants for the requisite week, let alone a single, hideously mangled, feverish, Werewolf.
Wish Us Luck!