Stories copyright Jared G. Juckiewicz.
And best of all, we get insights into the Character!
Finally, wishes to point out that the views of Gorm are not my own. And tend to change over the years.
01. Toast! shortly before 1066 A.D. Russia
It had been long, cold travels, north from Miklagaard. Up the Dneiper, to Holmgaard. I had fallen in with Harald Sigurdsson, who would one day be called Hadrada. We had stopped at the courts of Jarisleif, King of the Rus, to resupply before completing our travels to Norway. As his minstrels, hired from the court of the Basileus, played, and greek dancers writhed in the center of the floor, I stood, addressing those assembled. “ ‘Tis Time to raise a toast, to our generous host!” I roared, and said host’s guests roared their response.
02. Bread. shortly after 1066 A.D. Somewhere in Scotland
The Scot had been rather accommadating to the stranger who came north. Grey of hair and of eye, covered in scars, and clad in ragged remnants of a gambeson and tunic, the stranger had been armed only with a dirk. He had staggered north, openly admitting to having been with the Norsemen at Stamford, fighting against the Normans. The Scot had heard of the Normans, indeed, had clashed with them several times, and was more than willing to break bread, good, wheaten bread, with his uninvited guest. Bread, spread with honey and butter, washed down with a good heather ale.
03. Church. Post Verden. Before the Volga. Somewhere on the coast of the North Sea.
“SANCTUARY!” the monk cried, as I burst through the door to the chapel. “Sanctuary!” As though the rules of the White Christ would apply to a Vikingr. Much less one sworn to the Old Gods, and even less still a grandson of the trickster god. Good pickings in a church. Giltwork on the altar, wine for the communion. True they were sturdily built, and oft-times folk sought sanctuary in them. Then again, should they hold against us, barricades and such, we knew how to smoke them out. But a Pyre wouldn’t be necessary here. I grinned ferally, and stepped forward.
04. Belief. 30 Years War. After Rain. Before Lutzen.
I was sitting outside my tent, when I saw a stranger come into camp. She asked a hakkapell a question, and he simply nodded, and lobbed me a large hare. I nodded thanks, as the stranger wandered over. I looked her over, and grimaced. “I don’t associate with Catholics.” I told him, and he grinned. “I’m not Catholic” I was told. My response was snarled. “I don’t associate with Christsmen either.” A curious look at me, and the question. “Why do you fight for them?” I grinned. “I don’t. I fight for the Vasa, The Swede, the Aesir and Vanir.”
05. Eternal. Modern.
A wise man once told me a secret. ‘The worth of a man is judged by how he is remembered’ Is how I would translate it. And it is a valid method. Which explains why I am here, sitting on the bank of a babbling brook, in the pouring rain, not moving a muscle. For so long as I remember, those I loved have value. So long as I cling to the memory of our time together, those I loved do not die. And I am wolfsblood. Barring accident or design, I, and the memory and the dead, are Eternal
06. Soul Modern reflections.
‘Repent’ They told me. ‘Think of your eternal soul!’ Ha. I have heard their sermons. If they knew what I was, they would not speak thus. No, I have no fear for my eternal soul. The blood of Fenris flows through my veins. It will be many years yet afore I die, and when I do, is like to be in battle, with Valour. Wodin will take my soul, or Freya will. It is safe, not bound for Niflheim, nor the clutches of Hel. And should the priests of the White Christ be right, then I’ll be in good company.
07. Babble Modern, post Valkyrien
Why I let them convince me hosting a slumber party was a good idea, I will never know. True, we have a rather large home. And ‘tis true that younglings love our place, the fields, the trees, the ponies. But the Noise. Lord The Thunders, I’ve been on many a battlefield, and the racket there is soothing compared to the babbling of a score of human pups. Almost quieter, too! When Vixen gets back, I’m for a long run.
08. School Modern, post Valkyrien
An interesting telephone call was received. “Mr. Ulfsbluut Renard?” I was asked. “Yes? Who is this?” Turned out to be the local elementary school. I was required to pay a visit. As Stacia and Amalric had been sent to the principals office. Brawling. Their friends, Muirgen and Tyrone’s children, had been given hassle. And my Pups had intervened. True, there were a large number of bruises. And they weren’t entirely sure if they’d be able to save that boy’s ear. Ah well. What is school for, if not amusing scrapes like that.
09. Education Sixth Century. Somewhere on the Swedish-Finnish Border
I was a boy, knowing perhaps thirteen summers when the Wolf first claimed me. I was lucky, in that the Saami had yet to bring the tribute, when it happened. I had but a few weeks of being chained outside, in the warm spring, afore they came, and took me away. I can still remember the first words their shaman had said to me. “So, Poika. You be the little Wolf-lad, then. Come, Poika! This should be an education for you.” And then he took me with him, to teach the control I would need, were I to live.
10. Fireflies Modern, post Valkyrien
We were sitting on the porch, Vixen and Muirgen and Tyrone and I, after the barbecue. Watching the little ones playing in the yard. They had managed to lay hands on a jar and some nets, and were chasing insects. They came rushing up, yelling a barrage of ‘Look! Look! We Caught Faeries!’ And the four of us started. It took us a minute to realise that their jar was in fact full of Fireflies. For which we were sincerely grateful. The fey are not things to imprison or joke about. Not even Tyrone, despite his being a friend.
11. Bodies Modern, Valkyrien-era
Well. This could be awkward. No one is going to believe me. ‘Incapacitate the sentries’ They told me, ‘But leave them alive.’ How was I to know they were that skittish? Now I am left with a pair of bullet-studded corpses. Neither of which I attacked in any way, shape, or form. They managed to get me in a crossfire, until I moved. “Ulfsbluut!” I swear softly, and begin to drag them out of sight. It’s only a few minutes until my comrades arrive, to see me standing there, pockets full of brass and a sheepish grin on my face.
12. Nature Modern, post Valkyrien
The scents surround me. Clean water. Pine woods. The perfume of wildflowers fills the air, criss-crossed with the traces of small animals. Birdsong sounds, broken occasionally by the harsh cry of a hunting hawk, or the howl of the wolf echoing through the woods. There is no sign of another person for miles around. I love moments like this. The occasional moments of peace that can penetrate even the black, blood-stained soul of a Werewolf. I bow my head, in mute homage to nature. Long may it last, never changing, never dying, always there when it is needed.
13. Hero Medieval Period somewhere. Probably in the run up to the thirty years war
I came into the village staggering and wounded, my armour rent and torn. My blade was black with dried blood, the edge nicked and battered. I had a price on my head that many an outlaw would envy, but still they accepted me. And when the bandits came, I repaid that acceptance. I stood my ground, alone and unaided. I could do naught else. It wasn’t in me to run, and I lacked the strength for a charge. And so, they call me hero. For stupidity and weakness. And what else is a hero, when all is said and done?
14. Complications Modern, Valkyrien-era
Well, I’ve just been told that pending medical assessments, my squad can go back on active duty. Illus and Vaul are fine. Elf still has a sore leg, but she knows she can get through the exam, at least, on willpower and determination. Lir has chosen to return home for a time, but Tyrone is replacing him. My summer got me all healed up, back to fighting form. And as for Vixen, well, here she is now. So, I ask her. “How are you doing, Love?”. “Gorm,” She answers, softly, sweetly. “I’m pregnant.”
15. Decisions Ottoman Empire, Fourteenth Century
Well. I have been offered a rare chance. A promotion as it were. From Janissary Slave Soldier, to a member of the Sultan’s bodyguard. The poncy gits. So. I have a decision to make it seems. See, the life of a Janissary isn’t bad, not even that of a mage-bound one like me. The life of a Bodyguard, whilst it is easier, for the most part, and more privileged has its drawbacks. Like the conversion requirement. I like my alcohol. And the removal of the spleen. Something to do with reducing temper. In a Wolfsblood? HAH!
16. Choice Ottoman Empire, Fourteenth Century
It was, perhaps, the first time my fury had broken through my bonds. “You can have my spleen when you tear it from my cold dead corpse!” I snarled at them, seeking a weapon. Sooth be told, I didn’t really need one, but I’ve always used steel as a comfort. My choice had been made. I would stay a Janissary, for now. The breaking of my bindings had given me hope of escape, hope that could be dashed by getting closer to the Sultan. So, I turned them down, and when they objected, I stood my ground.
17. Heartache Eight Century, maybe Ninth? Somewhere on the Danevirke...
I stand in the ruins of what was once my home. A trader I had been, and a husband, but no longer. Now I stand, the broken body of my wife held in my arms. And if she looked more like my mother than my lover, well, ‘Tis the price paid by immortal who loves one who isn’t. I had expected that price. I hadn’t expected to return from my hunt to find my people slain. An ache settles in my heart, and I whisper a prayer to the Goddess of the Celts, in her aspect as the Crone.
18. Space See above
The ruins of our little village aside the danevirke stand empty around me. I remember but yesterday it was bustling, busy. The craftsmen, the traders, our wives and children, all gone. All dead. The space surrounds me, the silence stifling. There is nothing left here. Nothing for anyone. And least of all for me. All there is now is the space in my heart and soul, the space where my life once was. The scales will be balanced, the weregild paid. I will fill the space with the blood of the guilty, however long it takes, whatever the price.
19. Empty As above
I have found the warband that slew my bride. That slaughtered my people, that torched my village, that took everything of value and left me broken and shattered in mind and heart and soul. And I have slain them. And yet still there is an emptiness deep within, where once there was love. And then word reached me. Of a king who sought warriors to campaign against the Saxons, from whence that warband had come. Perhaps fealty could fill that hole. And if not, then taking my vengeance on the people who slew mine, might.
20. Promise Modern, Valkyrien-era
I have sworn oaths before. Rarely, but it has been done, and I am rarely forsworn. This one, I will keep, or die trying. Staring deep into the almond eyes of my love, I utter the words chosen. ‘I, Gorm Ulfsbluut, take this oath, before the gods and my peers. To take this woman, Vixen, to love only her, to stand at her side, to stay my hand at her will, as long as she will have me. This I swear, before the gods of the Aesir and the Vanir, and the spawn of Laufi.’ ‘Twill do for a start.
21. Candles somewhere in Alba. Thirteenth century
‘GORM! NOT AGAIN!’ Apparently, I’m in trouble again. Not sure why. And then I find out. The matriarch of the Clan MacEwan comes storming through waving the stub of a candle at me. “Have you been at my good tallow candles again?” She asks, and I make a little innocent smile. “No?” Says I and she points. “You have Wick stuck in your teeth.” Innocent smile becomes wicked grin. “Well. They’re delicious. And I was peckish. What can I say?” My amusement cut no ice. “You can buy me some new bloody candles, you can!” was the only response.
22. Incense Modern, post Valkyrien
A familiar scent from my past filled the air. The smell of spices diffused in smoke. It was a smell I knew well from my time amongst the Turks. Not my fondest memories, sooth be told, but the scent is nice. On the other hand, Vixen seems to be attempting to give it better mental associations. A task that seems determined to succeed. Although it means I’ll have to stop snacking on the mice, cause they’ll all bugger off. Ah well. Given the choice between feeding off our rodent infestation, and spending time with my bride…
23. Magick Ottoman Empire VERY LATE fourteenth century
It is time. By blood I was bound, and blood will make my freedom complete. It took me so long to find a way to break the spells that held me, but now, my rebellion is almost ready. Taloned paws delve deep, digging into the earth. They grasp the lines of power twisting below the surface, drawing strength from the leylines, strength to break the bonds that have held me fast. The power twists in my grasps, and my head pounds. And then there is peace, and my compulsions are gone. Well, bar those I choose to place myself under.
24. Witch As above
Ah, the look on his face. He who bound me by blood spilt. His shock at realising his bindings had failed. His fear at realising his whipped cur was no longer chained. No longer whipped. And never a cur. Oh, I’d been ready for some time, awaiting merely a match. And now I had that. A warrior to serve. With that thought in mind, I leapt at him, roaring in fury and wrath and vengeance. By the time I landed, I was no longer human. Teeth to rend and claws to tear, and a witch on which to feast.
25. Teacher Wallachia. Early Fifteenth
“So.” Says I. “The pair of you think you know Warfare?” and the two young noblemen I stared at nodded. I grinned, showing fangs yellowed with use. The Wolf flashed in my eyes and they started. “I have forgotten more about war than the pair of you will know, should you live a hundred years.” My grin went, if anything, more feral. “You fight the Turks. I fight the Turks. Wish you a tutor in the ways of death?” They nodded, and I howled. “THEN LET US DANCE!” As I whirled back into the fray, a whirling dervish of death.
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