Just A Bit Of Fun

Some light-hearted Accidental Vikingr for folks...
Copyright Jared G. Juckiewicz

The Peacock was confused. Not that the Bear and the Redjay were in a Taberna. No, that was nothing new. Not that full tankards were sitting on the table in front of them. Well. Maybe the full bit. Their sitting together, that was rather usual as well. However. What was confusing was what they were doing. After all their assurances, everything they had told him. They were Kissing. He stood there, arms crossed, tapping his foot, just waiting. He had a reasonably long wait, too. Almost a full minute passed afore they broke apart. The Peacock cleared his throat. “Ahem. What is going on here?” He asked, and they glanced at him. “ ‘Tis just a bit of fun!” Exclaimed the Bear, and the Redjay giggled. Actually giggled. The Peacocks face began to turn red. Even under his deep Iberian tan.

“I have heard it called that, yes. I have also heard you assure me that you never engage in… Carn-“ Before he could finish his sentence, both of his intended lecturees were roaring in gales of laughter. “No! No! No!” The Redjay choked out, bringing herself back under control. She raised her tankard, taking a long draught to forestall the laughter. Hefting it, she explained. “A Drinking Game.” She turned to look at the Bear. “Your turn. Truth? Or Dare?” Without hesitation, the Bear answered. “Dare” The Redjay grinned from ear to ear. She jerked her thumb in the direction of the disoriented Templar Knight. “Excellent. Kiss The Peacock!”

The Guide

Wrote this some time ago...
Copyright belongs to me, Jared G. Juckiewicz.

Their guide was mad. Absolutely, completely, utterly, stark, raving, bonkers. Since hiring him to lead them on a tour of the Blackwoods, and the Shield Mountains, and the Wildder Plains, he'd done naught but prove this. Whilst they spent every night safely ensconced in their tents, he slept under the stars. Worse than that, he slept in a special hammock, dangling from a tree. Most uncomfortable, they all thought. Every morning, he was up before dawn, had a fire lit for their breakfast, although whilst they supped on things like porridge and toast, he settled for a few strips of Jerky, and perhaps a handful of dried fruit or nuts. He'd help them pack up their tents and such like, and then, taking a pack that was twice the size of any of theirs, even if he carried none of their gear, they would set off.

And despite the weight of his load, he would not tire, would not slow. Indeed he kept darting off ahead, and dropping back to help guide his puffing, panting, charges. Come lunch time, he would be willing to keep going, whilst his charges demanded a break. Whilst they fed on the rations they brought with him, he contented himself with a mouthful or two of water, before leading them on further. Twas with much argument they had convinced him to stop the trek for the day as the sun began to fell, rather than when the full dark hit. It was then that he finally began to show signs of being almost human. For even as his charges began to prepare their meal, he would do the same. A strange conical pot with a pair of loops sticking up out of it would be filled with water. He would throw in some of his jerky, and the fruit and nuts, and a handful of herbs. A dash from a hipflask, anything he'd picked up over the course of the day that he deemed edible, and a little scoop of a mix of grain, peas and beans, all dried, and he had the makings of a rather neat little stew. And whilst he had that cooking, he'd mix some grain with water and a little salt in a neat little leather bowl, add another dash from the flask, and then make little cakes to grill on a flat rock.  Between his stew and his cakes, he'd have himself quite a nice supper, whilst his companions contented themselves with that old lie of Meals Ready to Eat.

But that was enough to suggest to them that he was mad. And if that hadn't, the fact that he slipped off every night after supper without a word and returned without giving a clue as to what he had been doing. And then, to top it all off, when they had woke this morning, and looked out their tents, it was raining. Raining rather heavily, a sudden storm. And there he was, with a little fire going, sheltered under a large square of fabric propped up on a set of poles. "Morning. What are you doing hiding in there?" He gestured expansively at the pouring rain. "Tis good Wildder weather, the rain so thick you can almost swim through it." He sat there, clad as he always "Not get very far if you keep hiding in there." He turned back to the fire, where he was busy preparing a breakfast. "Breakfasts about ready. Tis not much, by your standards. But it'll do. We should have been on our way by now." He saw to it they were fed and breakfasted, and even packed up their gear, all the while keeping a steady eye out. In good weather, one could see many miles, but in this weather, visibility was rather poor.

His charges hid under the cover he had set up, and when he had packed their gear, he took a peculiar device out of his ruck. A ring of black iron, slightly ajar, with a spike on a loop attached to it. He then took the fabric off of the poles, slid the poles into a special quiver in his pack, and then, donning his pack, he threw the square over his back and the ruck. He then locked it about his neck with the iron ring. And they set out, with the guide mantaining a far sharper watch than usual, not that his charges noticed. On the other hand, they did notice when their guide suddenly stopped. And dropped to his knees, swinging his pack off his back. He had shown no sign of weakness so far, and they could not think what it was would unnerve him. He slid a pair of the poles from the quiver, each of them three foot of wood black as night. Rummaging in his pack, he drew forth a pair of caps, one with iron filigree extending from one side, and one with it extending from both. Sliding the filigree onto the poles, he twisted them tight, giving him a six foot stave, shod with iron at one end. He then drew from the pack a wickedly hooked axehead, and slotted it onto the unshod end of the stave. A twist and he had a long two-handed axe, light and keen-edged.

He drew forth his leather bowl, sat it on his head, where it fitted as though it had been made to, covering the top of his head and reaching down the back. Over this he set his pot, the two loops suddenly making sense, the thing being, in fact, a spectacled helm put to other, less noble uses. A Mailled coat was next, followed by a belt on which he hung a longsword and a knife. The guide they had so long thought to be harmless and slightly odd now presented himself a rather martial figure, despite the rain bucketing down. He stood there, staring into the rain, his right holding the axe, his left digging under his tunic to draw forth a talisman. A pendant in the shape of a short hammer hung from his neck. All of a sudden, there was the sound of thunder, and the guide whispered. None were close enough to hear his whispers, until he reached the final phrase. As he bellowed the word 'ASATOR' Those he watched for arrived.  Sinuous shapes could be seen writhing and weaving in a ring around the group, but their guide stood there, doing nothing, an impassive look on his face.  All of a sudden, one of the shapes darted out of the driving rain, straight at him. He stood stock still, not even blinking, one hand on his axe, holding it erect, the other passively resting at his waist.

His charges watched in terrified fascination as the giant lizard, some twenty feet long from fang filled snout to armoured tailtip, charged straight at him hissing. It moved low to the ground, and at the last minute, the thing riding it yanked on the reins. It reared and spun, crashing down to a rest, not even a muscle twitching. "Sssstep Assside, Thunderborne" hissed the rider, hidden in the rain. The guide hadn't even flinched, and answered in a voice that, whilst calm, was also unyielding. "I Will Not." He said simply, and the rider hissed back at him. "Do not think to deny ussss of our prey, Longssstrider" it told him, and now he showed emotion. He laughed, and as it echoed away, he spoke again. "You think to challenge me, a child of the storm, on a day so clearly favoured by my father as this?" he asked, bringing his axe around to a guard position. As the long blackwood haft thudded into his hand, light as Ash, stronger than Oak, lightning struck nearby, the roll of thunder almost deafening. At that, the rider wheeled his mount away, and then a moment later, came charging back, hissing commands in a strange tongue to his fellows. "Down" Bellowed the guide, as he struck his first blow, dodging to the side of the first lizard to reach him, his axe swinging round, humming as it sliced the air.

The axehead clove straight through the riders skull, and the guide lept onto the lizards back, as its former riders corpse slid off. Unlike those who had been riding them, who knelt on the broad backs, he stood, bracing off the bony scutes on either side of the spine. Leaning down, he gathered the reins in one hand, wielding his axe deftly in the other, for all its great length. With an ease that spoke of long practice, he directed the lizard into battle. It seemed almost as though he had more practice than those who had attacked, for he had it fighting in a manner that none of the others managed. It used its fangs and its claws and its massive tail to equal and deadly effect, but always targeted at the riders, never the other beasts, and it was the same with the guide. He had only felled a few before on of the others hissed a command and they faded into the rain, the unridden serpents following. The guide dismounted, and his steed sped off into the storm, moving far more rapidly than something of its size should.

His guests reckoned they were owed explanations, but he proffered none. Instead he simply exhorted them to stand up, and continue the trek. He promised shelter by nightfall, claiming that by that point they would reach the Zigil village, and when queried on the nature of these Zigil, he simply gestured at the dead, and set off, in a direction not overly dissimilar to that taken by the retreating lizard riders. He was correct in that by dusk they had reached the outskirts of the Zigil village, having squashed their objections (Raised on the grounds that surely those who had attacked them would not grant them hospitality) with the simple statements that none would dare harm a Longstrider. And that to decline hospitality to those under the guard of the Thunderborne was an even greater taboo.

As they drew near the village, the guide could make out the forms of sentries, Zigil and their steeds laying motionless in the tall grasses. Before them was a palisade made of sheafs of those selfsame grasses, bound tightly and packed, raised to a height double that of a man. At its base, a ditch, some three foot deep, and half again as wide, lined with short stakes of the same dark wood the guides axe was hafted with. He had yet to remove his military gear, and had used his axe as a staff the whole way back. As he drew near to the opening in the palisade, he stopped, staring through the gap until a figure, indistinct from the rain and the distance appeared in it. When the figure had stopped, the guide removed the head from his axe with practiced ease, and lashed it to one of many ties hanging from his belt. Having thus demonstrated peaceful intentions, he strode forward, his charges following behind. As they drew closer to the gate, they were able to make out the figures of the Zigils for the first time.

They were humanoid, standing around five foot from taloned feet to the tip of their bony head-crests. They were scaled, and heavily built, with powerful legs, and strong arms, and reptilian heads that jutted forward from bodies always leaning to the fore. Long tails stretched out behind them to mantain their balance, and the colours of the scales varied, although whether this was natural, or due to paint, could not be told. They wore no clothing bar belts and harnesses, upon which they hung various implements according to their rank and duties. These were further demonstrated by many piercings, of bone and wood and metal, through the crests, and various jutting scales, and the nostrils. Jewellry was common, armbands and anklets and pendants being the most so. None of the softer metals humans tended to value for lustre and decoration were in evidence, only bronze and black iron and steel, each being accorded more worth than the last.

The leader, or at least, that was what they assumed the Zigil in the gateway was, bore no harness, and no belts. Indeed his only adornment was a simply helm of steel, the wave patterns of good steel clearly visible. This assumption was further borne out by the hissing challenge he issued to the guide, who responded in the same tongue. They made several exchanges in that language, before the guide turned to those he led. "Shelter, Meat, Beer, and Salt, under the bonds of hospitality, they will give us. As forfeit for their attack this morn, they proffer transport and safe passage to the shield. As mark of respect they gift me the Kee-rahk whose rider I slew, and who I rode into that battle." He said, and led them into the village. Shelter they were indeed given, in the largest of the huts made of bound sheaves inside the wall.

Most were small, barely large enough for a Kee-rahk to curl up inside, with its rider snuggled beside it. Some of those were indeed home to but a single rider, and its mount, but others it seemed housed only Zigil, a single young family. The rest, bar one were all several times that size, clearly home to larger, extended families. The last remaining was huge, with room for every Zigil in the village, some few hundred. That they had built it off no material bar bound grasses was amazing, and when this was pointed out by one of the ignorant strangers to this place, the guide simply saw fit to point out that Zigil were prized for the design of buildings in all parts of that world, regardless of their crude, savage appearance. It was in that great building they were giving shelter, whilst a feast was prepared. Translators were supplied, as the strangers guide was requested to take a private council with the Hearth-Keepers, and the Mount-Keepers, and the Lore-Keepers, and the Steel-Skull who headed them all.

From these translators, the tourists learned much. The Zigil tended to feed almost entirely on flesh, from the hunt and the herd, nigh always eaten raw. But, traffick with other peoples had taught them cooking, although such esoteric activities were reserved for special occasions. Youngsters roamed far and wide on the Kee-rahk, hunting, herding, rustling, and raiding. Those who had attained their peak held them in check, and those past it taught all and sundry the lore of the Zigil, the myths, the ways of the beasts and the plants, how to build, everything the Zigil knew and believed. The Zigil were, it turned out, semi-nomadic, and come time for them to move, all they had built would be left to house the spirits of those who had died whilst they had dwelt there. When they picked a place to build a new village, they lived rough for the first season, until the excretions of the Kee-rahk and of the Zigil themselves prompted the growth of the requisite grasses to the requisite state.

All this and more they were told, whilst Zigil of both genders prepared the feast, and hatchlings ran about under their feet, cadging the odd treat, and getting a swift, talon-checked kick or sharp tailswipe should they be too rambunctious. Meanwhile, the guide, and those he held council with spoke of recent events, for Longstriders were bearers of tidings ill and benign. They spoke of matters of Diplomacy, for Longstriders were often couriers or messengers, and their travels gave them experience much valued in council. They spoke of the weather, and of omens, and matters divine and arcane, for the Thunderborne were touched by the other, the fey and the aether. Lastly they spoke of the guides plans for his charges, their route first to the Shield, and then into its heights, before descending into the diggings of those who dwelt underground to avoid its harshest. They spoke of him and his coming out of those diggings far to the south, and their descent into the encircling Blackwoods, which they would cross before cutting across the lands beyond it to reach the head of the river, where the tourists people had their enclave.

And come the end of the learning and the council and the talk, they all gathered for the feast, the Guide sitting at the head of the table, with the Steel-Skull on his right and the eldest of the Lore-Keepers, by his choice, on his left. To the left of the Lore-Keeper sat the chiefest Hearth-Keeper, followed by three of the guides charges, and their translators. To the right of the Steel-Skull sat the most skilled of the Mount-Keepers, and besides him were the other three tourists and their charges. The rest of the village moved their accustomed places down to account for these additions. They sat crosslegged, tails extending out behind them, and the meal was set down on wattle dishes on the straw floor of the hall. It was very heavy on the flesh side of things, roasts and dishes of boiled and stewed meats. There were some loaves of bread, and bowls of coarse-ground salt and herbs were placed at intervals. To drink, beer, the only reason bar housing that the Zigil harvested the grasses that grew always around their dwellings.

After the feast, beds were prepared in the hall, bundles of straw loosed over the floor, and blankets of soft hide placed over them. Additional blankets were provided, although the weather on the plains was normally warm. This being an exceptionally good things, as people who live in straw houses should not light flame. And the tourists had, over the course of their visit, been forced to acknowledge the Zigil as people. Come dawn, they were woken, and fed on the remnants of the feast. The weather was bright and clear, taken as a good omen by all but their guide, who felt at home in the storm. They were given an escort of Kee-rahk riders, and each of them was also lent a Kee-rahk to be controlled by their translators. The guide needed none to control his Kee-rahk for him, and close inspection found it to be one of the largest in the village. It's loss would no doubt be a blow, but honour demanded it.

Van-driving Charactery Meme lifted off the Redjay

Well... It's about time someone successful lifted something from Rauda Redjay.
Heres the Deal.
You've somehow acquired a magical dimension-splicing conversion van and are planning an epic cross-country road trip for your roleplay characters. First, pick ten characters, then answer these questions to see how your adventure turns out to be. I intend to redo this in the next day or two with my fictional characters as well...
So

1. Wulf Wulffriend, (Homegrown Warhammer Fantasy, Half-Ogre Paladin)
2. Claudius Drakensblodet.  (Homegrown Warhammer Fantasy, Vampire Duellist)
3. Rathka Blood-Fanged (Homegrown Warhammer Fantasy, Dark Elf Beastmaster)
4. Crunk (Homegrown Warhammer Fantasy, Half-Ogre... Thug, I believe is simplest)
5. Vepky (Vampire The Masquerade, Gangrel Enforcer)
6. Halfdane Nibelungen (Deathwatch, Space Wolf Techmarine)
7. Roger (forgotten his list of last names now)  (Dark Heresy, Feral/Noble Assassin)
8. Harathoi (World of Warcraft, Blood Elf Paladin)
9. Swift (D&D 3.5, Human Barbarian)
10. Jack Denver (Homegrown Urban Fantasy System, Small Dragon)

(1) The GPS has an obnoxious voice. What does Swift name it, and is Roger bothered by it?
Well. Swift is a barbarian, one whose tribe names people after their defining features. I guarantee it would end up being referred to as either Guide or Voice. As for Roger, he grew up with Technology, and so would probably accept it without issue. And not be bothered by it.

(2) Harathoi, Claudius, Crunk, and Crunk, are all forced to share the cramped back seat. How do they arrange themselves?
Carefully. Wulf and Crunk are both half-ogres. Non-identical twins, actually, and moral opposites. They would likely end up on opposite sides of the vehicle. Claudius and Harathoi would squeeze into the middle. Seeing as how Claudius is a Vampire, he'd stay as far from Wulf as possible. So 'tis likely that the Vampire and the evil Half-Ogre in service to a demigod of death will take one side, and the two Paladins will take the other. 

(3) Vepky and Denver are sitting next to each other, Who gets the window seat.
Denver, for certain. Vepky will be trying to keep as far from the sun as possible.

(4) Rathka and Halfdane are invading each others personal space. Who gets annoyed first, and how do they deal with it.
I suspect it would never get resolved. Rathka comes from a society where being easily riled is a bad thing. As for Halfdane, If he gets annoyed, he would simply have his servo-arm hold Rathka at a distance of 1.75 meters away. Although that could end badly for all concerned if Rathka's pet Hydra is about...

(5) What habit does Harathoi have that could irritate Crunk.
Um... Does being a poncy elf count? And also the ability to be immune to cannonfire...

(6) Who is more likely to start a round of '99 bottles', Wulf or Roger.
The Song? Neither. Wulf might treat everyone to his own version, that being '99 Kegs'

(7) Would you trust Swift or Denver behind the wheel for a while?
Swift, not a chance. Chappy has seen ONE motorised vehicle. He was a passenger, and almost took out the engine by accident. Denver on the other hand is a skilled driver, a Helicopter Pilot, a Search and Rescue operator in the Rocky Mountains, and damn good at any such things, drunk or sober. He can take the wheel any day. In fact, it's liable to be either him or Halfdane driving the whole trip.

(8) You stop at a gas station and Vepky and Rathka make a snack run. What do they bring back?
OH GODS! Who sent a Vampire and a Druchii? Okay. Vodka. Random Passersby. Possibly Random Passerby marinated in Vodka.

(9) Claudius and Halfdane brought their CD collections. What is liable to be on the playlists.
Well. Claudius tends to listen to classical music, particularly stuff by people who have been forgetten for many, many a year. Halfdane favours Norse Folk Music and Folk Metal. Cue Turisas, Amon Amarth, Ensiferum, Tyr. Certain Led Zep (Immigrant Song) And of course, The Imperial March.

(10) Who is the more notorious backseat driver, Harathoi or Denver.
Oh, Denver, certainly. He has an almost eidetic memory. And a head full of aerial photographs... which he thinks he can translate into directions effortlessly. Lies.

Betrothed

Well. A Direct Sequel to Proposal. Is strange. I have been writing lots of Squee of late... Not like me at all...
I suspect my subconcious is subtly trying to tell me something. I think it should lose the subtlety. Anyway...
Intellectual property of me, Jared G. Juckiewicz. Meaning, I hold the copyright.
Not really any warnings to be made.

As I wake, I realise there is something different. Something new. Nothing has changed from when I went to sleep. The glade is the same, the soft moss beneath me, the woolen blanket above. Vixen is still beside me, curled up against me. That hasn't changed. Such a pleasure to awaken besides my betrothed. That. That is the difference. See, I proposed last night, over a dinner of fresh hare. And mine lady accepted. Carefully, I roll back, away from her, and prop myself up against a tree, sitting and watching her sleep. She looks so peaceful. It makes a pleasant change. She begins to stir, rolling over and feeling for me.

When she doesn't find me, she bolts up to one knee, instantly awake, glancing about. Her gaze settles on me, and she relaxes. She gives me a look so full of love and affection it makes me melt. It is several minutes before either of us is willing to speak. "Breakfast, My love?" I ask her, and she nods. I hadn't brought food for breakfast, but the brook is full of trout. We shift, and a moment later a large wolf stands aside a large red fox on the banks of the stream. Our paws keep touching as we strike for fish, and after the a half a dozen such flawed strikes, she pounces at me. We tussle, rolling over and over, before landing heavily in the water. So much for fish for breakfast. Ah well, we could skip breakfast. We'd done it before. And our play in the stream has directed our interests in other directions. W'll be far later in starting back this day than we had originally intended.

As we return, we can see Lydia and Sara plittering about in the garden. They must have realised something was up. It couldn't have anything to do the silly grins that are plastered on our faces. Or the tight grip our hands hold on each others. And certainly not the way we periodically glance at each other. And smile, and giggle. And get lost in looking and lose our footing. Whatever the cause, as soon as we draw near the garden, we are accosted. "What's with you two?" Sara asks. And we glance at each other, and giggle again. Have you ever heard a werewolf giggle? It is one of the most disconcerting sounds in the world. Probably cause you say the wrong thing and one of the wolfsblooded can shift from giggling to tearing out your throat with his teeth in about a second and a half. Vixen recovers first, looks at Lydia and Sara, and explains. "This big lout proposed to me. We are to be married." By this point, I am able to begin speaking again, and confirm. "Aye. We just need to set a date. I'm thinking Imbolc. Or Beltane." Vixen nodded. There were cries of "Thats Wonderful" And, "Oh! I'm so happy for you!" As soon as we told Michael, he insisted on us doing naught bar celebrate for the rest of the day.

Stamford Brig

Congratulations! Today there be a double posting. Intellectual property of myself, Jared G. Juckiewicz, copyright held by the same. Gorm, at Stamford. Don't seem to be up to writing modern stuff at the minute. Nor Accidental Viking. So I be fleshing out his backstory.

Warnings of Violence and Language.

The day was warm, for ‘twas still summer. We had brought the fleet, 300 ships strong, up the river Ouse. The only resistance had been the slaughter at Fulford Ditch. And that had been over quickly. They should have payed us off. Like we told them to. Angevin fools. Now the fleet was at harbour, beached on the banks of the Ouse. A third of the army had been left to watch them, whilst the rest of us took tribute of Yorvik at Stamford Brig.

Twas warm, unseasonably so, especially for this part of Angleland, warm and dry and sunny. Most of the men refused to wear their armour. A few like me ignored the ‘sage advice’ of those who let comfort outweigh common sense. We stood asides Hadrada as the Angevin brought their tribute. Horses, cattle, sheep. Many weights of silver and gold. Fine steel and ironwork. After the slaughter at Furford, they even brought their children for tribute as thralls. Worthless wretches. I would die in battle afore I’d give so much as a fingerswidth of hacksilver. Let alone my own flesh and blood.

So it was that I was stood with Hadrada and the Jarl Tostig when Harold called Godwinson arrived. Tribute was demanded. And Godwinsons response made me laugh. “I’ll gie ye tribute, lad,” He said, even though Harald Hadrada was almost as old as he was. “I’ll gie ye se’en foot o’good Angevin earth. Tae be yours in perpetuity. Ore as much longer as ye be taller than other man!”  I had to laugh. The man had guts. I grinned, baring teeth that were almost fangs, behind the coif that covered my face. Godwinson turned to Tostig next, and spoke again. “Tae ye, I’ve another offer. I’ll gie ye an earldom, should ye turn on Hadrada here…” Tostig shook his head. He would not betray Hadrada. Not after he had been the one to recruit Hadrada for this venture.

As Godwinson and his escort left, I tilted my head towards them, but with a shake of his head, Hadrada, my liege lord, denied me the pursuit. Things could have been different had he done otherwise. It was a few hours later that I tilted my head to the air, sniffing the air. As my nostrils filled with the scent of the approaching army, I turned to Hadrada. “They Come.” I growled, and he turned to me. “What?” He demanded, and I sniffed again, assuring myself of the foes soon to arrive. “Godwinson. Many warriors. They come. And soon.”   As Hadrada and Tostig shook their heads in stunned disbelief, I realised that they didn’t belief Godwinson could have mobilised so soon.

So, I responded in the manner of one who had been a leader of warriors amongst the Varangians. “WITHDRAW!” I roared. “HOLD THE BRIDGE!” As the warriors looked stunned, I tore the Raven banner from the ground, and passed it to a young Huscarl. “TAKE IT!” I snarled at him, and then roared again, “CROSS THE BRIDGE! TO THE RAVEN!”, as I shoved him towards the wooden bridge we were camped at. I glanced around, looking for a specific face. There, one of the few warriors in Maille. I grabbed his shoulder, and growled commands. “Shuck your armour. Get to the boats. Go, Tell Our Warriors, Son Of The North, That Gorm Grendelsbane Holds The Brig At Stamford! FETCH THEM!” As he bent double, his armour rolling of his shoulders, I got to the center of the bridge, and their I stood.

My Mailled Hauberk was stifling, but I was glad of it. The Gambie was already sodden with sweat, but I knew that soon it would be soaked through with other fluids. A feral grin lit my face, not that any could see it. My helm was an antique, steel loops descending from the angled spangenhelm to ward my eyes. Below that a chain coif and ventail protected my neck, and hampered my breathing. Mailled chausses warded my legs, and a great kite shield of linden, with the rampant wolf I held as my heraldry emblazoned on it, warded my back. At my belt hung sword and knife and axe, as they had since the Volga, and a great two-handed crescent axe, the blade almost a foot of curved death, was held loosely in my left. It’s steel-shod end slammed into the oaken boards rhythmically as those warriors I served aside flowed around me.

As the runner set off at the fastest pace he could maintain, for fifteen miles is no sprint, the bulk of the Vikingr present hastened to our camp, to arm and armour as best they could in the few minutes they would have. And whilst they did that, I summoned forth as much of the wolf as I dared. I growled low and deep in my throat. My eyes, hidden by the spectacles on my helm, yellowed. Fangs lengthened, cutting through my lower lip. I could scent my enemy coming, smell my allies forming up behind me. The wood under my feet. I could feel the bridge vibrate with the torrent of water below, and with the steady thudding of my axe-haft upon it.

As the first of the Angevin forces filtered out of the woods, my left foot came forward. I leaned forward and roared in challenge and defiance, my head twisting like that of the bear in a fury.  Godwinson trotted his horse to the foot of the bridge, and addressed me. “Stand Aside Warrior. Or Stand With Your Fellows.” My response was simple. “Here I stand. Naught shall pass.” He wheeled his horse aside, and signalled his champion forward. I stood, moving not a muscle, as the man approached me. He was almost my match in height, truly a giant for the Angevin folk, and close, but not quite as broad. He was armoured as well as I and armed almost the same. As he drew nigh, slowly and carefully, his daneaxe held in a guard, I continued to stand motionless, right up to the point where he began his first swing.

He flipped his axe up, and twirled, swinging it around at head height. As I ducked, he began to drop it, but the haft of mine met his in midair, as the head of mine dropped to the ground. I hooked my head behind his legs, and let the force of his swing add force to my sweep, dropping him to the hard oaken planks. A flip of my axe brought the steel-shod butt into his face, with enough force to shatter bone. I withdrew it, and returned to my original pose, standing straight, the axe held loosely at my side, butt standing on the bridge.

They tried to pepper me with arrows then, but I smelt the glue and the fletchings as they drew, and when they loosed I was ready. My crescent axe spun patterns in the air afore me, faster than the eye could see, catching broadheaded mankillers on the blade, or on the steel ferrules at the ends of the haft. More arrows were batted aside by the solid length of ashwood, or simply avoided by shifts in balance. Their first volley was useless, and I threw my laughter into their faces. With the second volley, those who had missed in the first were able to fix their aim, and I felt the hammerblows as arrows hit my maille, albeit at angles that simply bounced off. Come the third volley, my blood was actually spilt, not fewer than three shafts piercing maille and gambeson and hide. As my blood began to trickle, I readied to charge, only to hear Godwinson order the archers off. Apparently they had too few arrows to waste entire volleys on a single man.

Instead another champion started towards me, twirling paired axes over his wrists. I grinned behind my aventail, and as he rushed forward, howling a warcry, I met him with one of my own. “FENRIR!” I roared at him, spinning my axe up to trap both of his where hafts met heads. As he stopped, his momentum checked, I slammed my head forward, the steel of my helm smashing into his unarmoured brow. As he staggered back, stunned by the blow, I disengaged, and with an underhand swing, split him from groin to navel. The third and fourth warriors to come at me posed barely any greater challenge, and I growled my disappointment at my foes. And they began to come at me in groups.

The first pair came in to close together. Their shields got in each others way, and whilst they were trying to straighten themselves out, my axe licked out, slicing ones skull in half. As the top half of his head slid away, I spun the axe on the backswing. The hook caught around his hapless companions neck, and with the force of the wolfsblooded behind it, dropped him over the side of the bridge. Warrior after warrior came against me. A score fell, skulls staved in, guts spilled out, limbs lopped off. Their sundered corpses were left lying upon the bridge, or thrown over the side, gifts to the river. My axehaft had sundered, and so I had shifted to wielding axe and dagger. Then my other Axe had lost its head.

Finally, the blade on my sword had shivered and shattered, broken to slivers, and so I had been reduced to fighting with dagger and kite shield. Blood streamed from many wounds, leaking from rents in my maille and tears in my gambeson, but I barely felt it. My blood was up, my fury ready. I roared and snarled as more warriors rushed towards me. Knife licked in and out, shield parried wildly, and mind was lost. I knew not but the joy of battle. Not but the glory of shedding blood, of rending and tearing and maiming and slaying. And then suddenly, there were no foes before me. I roared again, challenging, demanding that one step forward to face me.

But none were to come. I began to drift down from my bloodied nirvana, returning to myself. “STEP FORWARD!” I bellowed at them, but there was no response. “WHO WILL FACE ME!” I demanded, but no one stepped forth. Finally I gave up. “ARE THERE NO MEN AMONGST YOU!” I asked of them at the bellow. Still no response. I took a step forward, and felt something cold slide up the inside of my thigh. It was almost a comfort, taken against the burning pain of my wounds, and the broiling heat of the battle and the armour. But only for a second, afore the flaming lance drove up into my flesh beneath the corselet.

Oh, how I howled as that length of steel tore and rent and split inside, and as it ripped out in a gush of bloodied effluvia I staggered, gasping silently for breath. As those warriors I had fought to hold safe till our army was rejoined stared on in horror, I slammed against the side of the bridge. As strength left me, I toppled over, the air whistling past my head, until with a splash, I sank into the river, and in the sudden chill, blackness took me. It was much time afore I knew of the slaughter that met my men. I know not how long the river rolled me down the rock-studded bank, afore I came back to myself, washed up next to the corpse of a slain man. I know not to whom he owed fealty, nor even whom or what had slain him. All I knew was that his flesh was enough to keep me alive, and heal me enough that I was able to move.

I learned later that the Vikingr had been slaughtered almost to a man. Hadrada had been shot down with many arrows, as one slays a boar or a bear brought to bay. The few survivors fell in with Godwinson to fall at Hastings, a battle I was sorry to miss. I myself found my way north, so slowly and painfully, to settle in alongsides a family of Scots. And there I stayed for many a year, until my standing with Andrew Moray and William Wallace led me to have cause to leave great Alba.

Lieutenant Kull Sahib

Ah, for the good old days... A common statement from Gorm I reckon. In this case, the Indian Mutiny, (I think thats what it  be called anyway) back afore Assaye...
Intellectual copyright of myself, Jared G. Juckiewicz. Warnings of Violence and the odd sexual theme. And Bad Language. We are talking Ulfsbluut here after all.

India. Don’t ask me the year, I don’t remember it. I’d been given a command by Arthur Wellesley, who would one day become the Iron Duke of Wellington. A contingent of native cavalry, Marathi hillmen on shaggy little ponies, sturdy, mountainbred beasts, man and horse. Our meeting had been amusing, them and I. I slipped past their sentries, though ‘twas difficult doing. They were alert, watched like hawks. Listened carefully, stayed hidden, bone-still and silent, even in the midst of the army encampment. I had slipped into the tent used by their commander, their Subadar, as a command post. I had not been announced, my presence was unexpected, for whilst they had been informed that a British Officer would be arriving soon, they had not been told who. Or even, when.

So my arrival was greeted by a swing from a cavalry saber. I parried it with my palm, and laughed. “Easy Subadar. I am Lieutenant Coll. I’m told you would be expecting me.” He stepped back, lowering his blade slightly. “I was told to expect a British officer, Sahib. You have orders, Sahib?” he asked, and I grinned. “I do indeed.” I handed him the sheaf of papers, and was surprised to see he was able to read them  himself. Whilst he glanced over them, I spoke. “Your sentries are good. Not as good as I am, but they come damn close. “ He nodded, even as I went on. “You have an emblem?”  I asked, and he paused in the reading, looking up at me to say simply “The Wolf, Sahib.” I laughed again, a hearty sound. “A good omen that. The Wolf is my emblem as well!”

Truth be told, ‘twas a bit more than that. I bore the blood of the Wolf in my veins. I settled in, got introduced to the men, and we set off on a long-range patrol the very next dawn. ‘Twas a style of fighting I was used to, that off the light cavalry. I’d trained in Cavalry operations often in the past. Riding against the Finns, and then again with them as a Hakkapell. I knew what to do, and how to do it. Something that made me a far better commander for the Marathi horsemen than any previous British officers had been. They all thought of all cavalry as one style of troops, and wielded even light horse like the heavy cavalry of northern Europe.

Under me Coll’s Wolves ranged the countryside, harrying rebel troops, raiding what little they had in the way of supply lines. We harried them when they held their ground, pursued them when they fled, cut them down when we caught up to them. Despite orders to the contrary, we lived off the land, returning to Wellesley’s camp but rarely. When we did, we spent much of our time in the recently taken city of Seringapatam. We stuck together, for I had swiftly become favoured by those I commanded. I had taken the time to learn their language, and we ate together, drank together, camped under the same conditions. I even rode the same sort of horse as they did, after our first battle against rebel cavalry.

Then, one day, we were wandering through Seringapatam, the whole troop, a score strong. We were seeking out a certain house, of ill repute but flawless reputation. We had recently come into some prized loot, see, and I had intended to treat my warriors to what could be described as ‘A Good Time’. As such, I was less than pleased when I felt a hand on my belt, at my money pouch. The reflexes of the wolfborn had my hand clamped round a wrist so skinny as to be almost naught bar bone. I dragged the culprit round to where I could see him, and almost had to laugh. ‘Twas a boy of perhaps twelve, but so ill-fed he looked but ten. There was hardly a bone in his body I could not see.

Now, of course, Marathi are not known for the being of sympathetic or compassionate. At least not with those not their own. So it came as no surprise when my warriors started suggesting such things as  taking his hand or his head, or simply throwing him to the dogs. I decided to do things differently, especially when he pleaded to me to let him go. Something about him needing to tend to his sister, to maintain her honour and virtue. Well, I could tolerate that reasoning. “Your name lad.” I growled at him, and he whimpered back “Rao” “Well, Rao.” I said, my voice softening. “Supposing I were to offer you work. Fetching and carrying. And your sister work.” I raised my free handing, stilling his protests even before he voiced it. “As cook. And cleaner. And Laundry Girl. No More.” He nodded, and I bade him take us to her. She was in somewhat better condition than he was, as they had apparently figured their best chance was to have her looking pretty enough for someone to take her as a bride. It hadn’t been working. Well, we set to negotiating. And in the end came to a sum that my warriors thought to be far too high, and I thought to be barely acceptable.

We fed them up, and kept them safe. They stayed at the camp whilst we patrolled, under the protection of various officers who either owed me, or were scared shitless of me. They seemed to enjoy their work, Khladivya and Rao, and certainly enjoyed the security. The one attempt to treat Khladivya’s virtue as negotiable ended in the individuals involved being out of action for weeks, beaten to a pulp by me and my men. Until things came to a head. I know not how long she had been considering it, or why.

But one night, whilst we were in camp, I was unable to sleep. I lay there, in my bedroll in my tent, my mind simple drifting. I was aware of my surroundings, but only lightly, at the edge of my consciousness. So it was that when someone entered my tent, my subconscious decided they were no threat, and left me drifting. It wasn’t until I felt a soft, warm, naked body slide in next to me that I recalled to myself. I sniffed to work out who it was, and as soon as I realised, I moved back, opening some space between us. “You don’t need to do this,” I told her in her own tongue, and she shook her head.

“I want to.” She told me softly, reaching for me, and I nodded, enfolding her in my arms. “Thank you” I whispered to her. We remained bedmates, and happy ones, until shortly before Assaye. She and Rao simply left one day with nary a word. We tried to seek them out, but were recalled to the army before we had a chance to find them, to find out why they left. And after the battle, well, we had been assigned to the same flank as the 74^th Highlanders. After, I was the only of us left, and I was folded into a line regiment, that selfsame 74^th. It wasn’t long before I was ordered out of India, after that.