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.