A Proposal.

More Valkyrien, of a genre that my friend The Redjay and I, alongst with she who is the inspiration for Laure De Bruis, tend to term 'Squee'. The events chronicled here were a long time coming... and will lead to some... interesting... effects. Copyright belongs to myself, Jared G. Juckiewicz

I have been weeks in the planning. And weeks in the preparation. First my scouting as both man and wolf until I found an appropriate place. A grove of aspen on a hillside, next to a babbling brook, its banks littered with wildflowers. Then, digging a depression into the hillside, building a shelter over it of pine and cedar limbs, and lining the inside with soft moss. Concealing a small supply of food, table settings, blankets and firestarting gear next to the shelter, and gathering and covering some dry firewood. And doing it all without drawing attention to myself, or revealing what I was doing. Luckily, I'd been in the habit of long solo hikes and runs since I arrived here, so I was able to do much of the work when I was out, supposedly, on those. I had even set up a few snares alongst a game trail not far from my glade. Last night, I had finally rigged those snares such that they were active. Now, I am guiding Vixen through the forests to the place. She still doesn't know what I intend. Which is all to the good. Although it is difficult to ignore her questions, her entreaties. Wait and see, I tell her. All will be revealed. Patience is a virtue, that last earning a snort and a "Virtuous? Me?" We arrive at the glade, and I see to it that she is comfortable. We build a small fire, and I pile the firewood beside it. Wait here, I tell her, and shift, vanishing off in my Wereform to check my snares. As I check each one, I break it up, so it is no threat to anything. The last one has served its purpose, a large hare dangling from it. Excellent! Good eating, Hare. After disabling the snare, I shift the rest of the way to Wolf, carrying it back in my jaws. I drop it a few feet from Vixen when I return, nudging it towards her with my nose, and then hopping back to sit on my haunches. I look from her, to the hare and back, and she strips out of her hiking gear and shifts to join me. After a moment a female red fox is standing in front of me. She looks at me curiously, and then steps forward, sniffing at the hare and then digging in. She glances up after a moment, seeing that I haven't moved a muscle. Her gaze flits from me to the hare and back in invitation, but I shake my head, and lie down. Waiting for her to finish her meal. When she has, I wander over to where I left my clothes, and reaching into my trouser pocket, pull out a small box with my teeth. I walk back to where she is, and crouch low a few feet from her, letting the box drop onto the grass. My ears go flat back against my head, and my tail rests on the ground as I crawl forward, belly dragging on the grass, and push the box towards her. She steps forward, and hooks the claws on one of forepaws into the bottom of the box. Her fangs catch the top and tilt it open, and there, lying on a satin bed, is a ring of white gold, inlaid with patterns of red and yellow gold according to the mammen style, with a chain of titanium steel running through it. There is no stone, but the ring is beautiful without it. Engraved on the inside of the ring is the inscription w i k s e n  m e d  k a r l e k  g o r m.. Vixen, Med Karlek, Gorm. Vixen, With Love, Gorm.  She looks up at me, her eyes seeking mine, full of hope, questioning. I nod, and those deep yellow eyes glow with love and joy. She steps forward, crouches low, and nuzzles my nose. I stand back up, and rub my muzzle alongst hers, until we are rubbing necks, inhaling the scent of each others ruff. We spend some time trading those caresses that take the place of kisses and hugs amongst those lacking lips and arms, and then I hook the fangs of my lower jaw through the chain, lifting it over her neck. Tomorrow, we will begin planning for the wedding. Or at least, consider planning. For now, we have each other, and that is all that matters. I should, I think, have seen to this long, long ago.

Police!

Yet another Valkyrien tale. Seems someone found that mangled corpse Gorm left in an alley. And there are to be consequences. Warnings of reference to violence and death.

I could tell something was up as I returned to the house. There was a car I didn't recognise sitting in the gravel car. A grey sedan. Couldn't tell much of it or its owners from the smell. It smelled like a car. Asphalt, exhaust fumes, rubber, metal, plastic. Nothing to distinguish it from any other car in a major way. Oh, there were subtle differences, if I needed to follow it close, but nothing to let me name its purpose. So, I wandered on into the house, kicking off my boots in the entry hall. I proceeded to walk through the living room on the way to the kitchen. Michael and Sara were sitting in there, with a pair of official looking, and official smelling men. They looked up when I walked in. And one of the strangers spoke. "Mister..." He checked a sheet of notes, and then continued "Ulfsblutt, I presume?" He asked. "It's Ulfsbluut, actually," I replied, "And aye." My voice stayed level. The man spoke again, "We would like to ask you a few questions, if you've the time." I hefted the string of trout in my hand. "Can it wait until after I've put these away? Afore they drip all over the carpet?" Without waiting for a response, I went through and put them in the fridge, grabbing myself a glass of water before I headed back through. "I'm guessing you be cops, aye?" I asked, voice still level. "Indeed." Came the swift response. So far only one of them had spoken. If they planned on playing good cop, bad cop, they'd be getting short shrift from me. "Well. Ask Your Questions." I instructed them. And they did.

"Is one Miss Lydia Czernobaj your ward?"

"Aye, by the grace of the federal government, I am her Guardian." I stressed that last word. Not only am I Wolfsblooded, I am dominant amongst those who are. To defend those I hold to be mine, and to avenge where necessary, is at once right, duty, and compulsion for me.

"Are you aware of her recent ordeal?" Now, hiding knowledge of it could be useful. But then again, tis easily checked.

"I am. She informed me as we waited for the police to arrive."

"Then you are aware of the investigation into the incident."  I nodded. 'Twas a sore topic that.

"And would you be sorry to hear that one of the prime suspects is dead?"

My response here would be truthful in part...

"Not a whit. Reckon someone shoulda blood-eagled the ones what did it. I'da done it myself if I thought I could get away with it."

That interested them. The one who hadn't spoken yet asked his first question.

"Blood-Eagled?" I shifted into lecture mode. Perhaps when I retire, I can take up a position as a history lecturer. I mean, I saw much of it take place.

"An old Norse means of execution. The one so sentenced would be bound on his belly, and then the skin and muscle would be flayed away from his spine and the backs of his ribs. The ribs would be cracked, probably with a hatchet." Actually, I'd done it myself with my claws, more than once. Many's the Grendel who died with the Blood-Eagle carved on his back. "The lungs would then be pulled out and draped over the back, leaving the victim to suffocate slowly. A gruesome, slow, and painful death." Apparently something of my memories had sunk into my voice, for the quiet one recoiled.

"Enough." His partner instructed. "Where were you last night, between the hours of midnight and two in the morning?" I was asked.

"Here. Asleep." Was my answer. Actually, I'd snuck out the window and legged it into town. I'd got the scent of her assailants off of Lydia, and whilst most of them had managed to remain hidden so far, one of them had not.

"Can anyone vouch for you?"

"Well. Michael here, and Sara, can tell you when I went to bed, and when I got up. I'd like to be able to tell you Vixen could do so, but she took Lydia camping to help get her over the trauma. Girl time, you know?"

Talkative guy nodded. "Vixen?" He asked. And I answered him. "Miss... Kasey... Renard. I just always call her Vixen. A sort of nickname, ya ken?"

Another nod. "And what is your relationship with Miss Renard?" He asked. "Complicated." was my answer."Interesting family you have. Three seperate people, three seperate last names. Why is that?" He asked, although I got the feeling he was just curious. "Well. Vixen... Um... Kasey and I have never married. Never saw the need. And really, all Lydia has of her home is her name. I wouldn't take that from her." Truth, all of it. Especially the last. When Lydia entered this country, she didn't even own the clothes on her back. "If that is everything gentlemen? It's just I could really do with cleaning those fish." I asked politely, and was promptly told that for now, it was. But that they would be back if they had any questions, and not to leave town. Fair enough, I'd planned on staying the rest of the summer anyway. If they wanted me to stay longer than that, they could take it up with Valkyrien.  For now, I had fish to clean. Rather glad they didn't stay to see my prowess with a knife...

Axe-Play

Well. More amusing fun-times from Summer Vacation... have managed to get my Valkyrien tales all sorted out into order... Or at least, the rest of the summer ones, bar one or two I have yet to write.
I don't think there are any warnings, and it belongeth to me, Jared G. Juckiewicz.

It was still light out when Michael and I returned from our expedition. Indeed, the sun had barely begun to descend, marking it as just a little after noon. Sara was plittering about in her garden, and Vixen and Lydia were helping her. Contrary to most expectations, Wolfsblood and Kitsune make good gardeners. Both kindreds have the strength and the dexterity it requires. And rare is the animal that will trespass where our sorts frequent. They looked up as our pickup pulled into the drive, and as we exited we were asked what had happened. See we had given the impression that we meant to spend the entire day, in town, shopping for tools. And knives. Possibly a new rifle for Michael. Fishing gear. You know. Manly things. Well. That plan went awry at our first stop. Which I promptly explained with much chagrin.

See, we’d started at the DIY shop. Just wandering up and down the aisles, at first, looking at tools. Making the odd comment. It wasn’t until we reached the aisle home to such things as hammers, picks, and most importantly, axes, that the trouble began. See, Michael chose that moment to announce that, actually, he was needing a new axe. So we began discussing the various merits of the various sorts. Double-bitted heads, daggered heads, heavy splitting heads, thinner cutting heads. Fiberglass handles as opposed to wood hafts or plastic ones. I personally favour wood myself. A hardwood, for preference. Oak or Ash. Hickory or possibly Maple. Possibly Alder or Poplar, under the right circumstances. I have a lot of experience with axes. We then wound up debating haft length, and materials for the head, and balance. It got a shade on the heated side.

Michael, being as he is, decidedly young, not more than a few decades, was quite taken with the idea of one of the newer axe styles going about. Call it a hand-and-a-half, haft-length wise. Too long to be easily swung one-handed, but not long enough to be worth wielding as a proper two-hander.  With a modern fiberglass haft. The head, with broad, sweeping flanges jutting out just behind the blade (useful for splitting wood, less so for other things), manufactured out of some sort of hardened composite. Well, I took issue with this preference. Perfectly reasonably, too. The weight in that design is off, to my experienced mind. And I demonstrated this. Slipping the cover off the head, and then putting it through a set or practice swings. Twirling it over my wrist, hooking it round over my head, switching it from hand to hand, and from a forehand to a backhanded grip. Spinning and tossing and juggling it. And then I did the same thing with a more traditional sort. And just about decapitated a manager. Had I been less skilled, I’d never have managed to stop the swing before it had sunk into his neck.

We may have been asked to leave after that. And it had kind of put a damper on our shopping day. I reckon, we go back in a few days with an apology, and a promise to never do it again, and things will be fine, after the manager has had a chance to cool down. But Michael was a shade on the embarrassed side. And didn’t take kindly to me growling the whole way out of the store. No one had been in any danger. I don’t kill unless I intend to. I don’t maim unless I intend to. But no one listened, and so we returned. Poor Lydia. Sara abandoned her to calm Michael down. And Vixen abandoned her to hear my side of the story. And to laugh at me. To top it all off, I didn’t even manage to prove my point. I had the skill necessary to compensate for the altered balance and heft.  

Horse Play

Well, for Valkyrien, if not yet for me, It's effectively summer vacation time... and what better time for a little bit of, well, Horse Play...

Intellectual Property of Myself, Jared G. Juckiewicz.

Warnings of Violence and Language. And I wish to point out that neither Vixen nor Gorm mean any of the insults they are lobbing about, and that I, personally, take no issue with the followers of any religion.

The scent of Horse, and of Leather, and of Steel fills my nostrils. Hoofbeats sound beneath me, and behind and slightly aside. There is a slight swish from that same direction, and I lean forward, hugging myself to the neck of my small horse, barely larger than a pony, as a sabre goes whistling overhead. The great, black, almost destrier, gallops ahead, its plate armoured rider bringing the blade back into a guard. I dig my knees into my mounts side, roaring my warcry. "HAAKA PAALE" I roar, my cutlass sliding out of its sheath. "HAAKA PAALE POHJAN POIKA!" Hack On, Hack Them Down, Northern Boy. The rider on the black wheels, coming back at me, and I wait till we draw close. At the last moment, I kneel my steed to the right, cutting across the front of the black. I toss my cutlass from my left to my right, and lash out with a vicious cut at the riders leg. It is parried, but barely, and met by a growled "Damned Haccapaelitorum". We trade blows, wheeling our mounts, and in frustration I snarl at the Cuirassier. "Fucking Papists!" I snarl, for the rider bears the colours of Pappenheims Black Cuirassiers, some of the more vicious Catholic cavalry. The cuirassier pulls away, making use of the black warhorses longer legs. As the distance opens I here the parting comment. "You Wish!" she laughs at me, and I laugh back. "You Wait, Milady!" I yell back at here, wheeling my mount. Why I am doing this when I am meant to be resting and recuperating may take some explaining. See, after the last op, everyone involved was given the summer off, Medical Leave, officially. Vixen and I came to stay with Michael and Sara, old friends of mine. They own a ranch. Michael is a Historian, and a Reenactor. Sara is also a reenactor, and a Vet by trade. They breed horses back, trying to recover historic breeds. Michael has managed to produce something similar to a Destrier. Sara favours Hobby Horses, Finnhorses, and their antecedents. War ponies, effectively. Well, right after we showed up, a few weeks before the end of the school year, Michaels eldest boy mentioned his project for show and tell in his history class had gotten damaged. They were studying Medieval Europe. Late medieval, specifically, or early post medieval. Whichever period the Seventeenth century fell into. The Thirty Years War, to be precise. And it just happens that I trained as the Hakkapell I am pretending to be. And that Vixen served as one of Pappenheims Black Cuirassiers, under Johann Tserclaes, Count Tilly. So we obtained replicas of the gear we used to wear, most of it sent up from Valkyrien HQ by next-day courier service. And young Johnnie got to show his class Cavalrymen from two of the factions involved. Of course, after that, we got to reliving the old days for fun. But I digress. Milady is wheeling her horse, and I knee mine forward. Her arm crooks, her wrist twisting and backhanding her sabre, resting it along the length of her forearm. Her elbow flashes, blossoming fire, and there sounds a loud CRACK!. Fire blossoms in my shoulder. I glance down at it, and see the hole in my leather jerkin, blood seeping from the edges. As she wheels away, I reach up with my free hand and feel into the hole. I draw forth a large lump of bload-coated lead. "BITCH SHOT ME!" I yell. Accurate. Not exactly polite. She wheels back towards me. "Not Bitch!" She yells back. "Vixen!". I laugh. "Fair enough" I retort, spurring into a charge (without spurs, I wish to point out), my blade swinging complicated figures in the air. We clash, blades slamming into each other. I strike and parry, making fancy flourishes. Keeping her attention on the cutlass in my hand. My free hand creeps down to my waist, wrapping round the head of the axe hanging there. It draws the axe free enough to get the hand wrapped round the haft, and then I make my move. Hooking her blade betwixt mine and it's guard, I shift my balance, and the pressure on my legs. My mount rears, and I lean forward to keep my balance. On its two hind legs, it pivots, bringing me around. My sword hand twists over my head, keeping her blade locked, don't ask me how. The axe comes out, extends in my grip, and the flat of the head, punches into Vixen's midriff, just below her cuirass. As she gasps, and doubles over, I slide my feet out of my stirrups, and throw myself at her. My weight, coming when she is already off-balance from the axe blow, knocks her off her horse, and I land atop her on the ground. I flip up the visor of her bascinet and stare into her eyes. Just for a second like. Right before I steal a kiss, hop back to my feet, and lope over to my horse. "Well, come on then" I call back. "What are you waiting for?" As she picks herself up. She begins to run in my direction, but I've already caught up to my little pony. I grab it's mane, and hop back into the saddle, whistling it into a run. As she turns to head over to where her horse, reasonably trained beast that it is, is standing, I come up behind her, and smack her rump with the flat of my sword. A little pressure from my knee, and my little Finnhorse sidesteps out of the way of her grab for me. "Now, Now, not my fault you were lying down on the job." I tell her, laughing and wheeling off. She mounts off, and with a determined grin, sets off after me.