VINLAND! OSTMAN! FLANDERS!

So. I've had rather a bad time of things lately, and a bit of a dry spell for writing. But things came to a bit of a head today, and I've found I write best when wavering betwixt fury and depression. Betwixt that and a combo of Amon Amarth, Turisas, Ensiferum, Metsatoll, Korpiklaani, and probably Tyr, this came into being. It's also up on my Deviantart under the name of Gorm-Ulfsbluut. No prize for recognising the source of that Moniker. Anyway. This has none of my regular characters in it, but is chock full of violence. Anyway. Let us begin....

As he stood, under a cold, clear winter sky, breath misting in the air before him, he grinned. He lived for moments like this. He could feel the weight of his maille, pressing down on his shoulders, through the thick padding of his gambie. He leaned forward, resting his weight on his broad kite, and looked up and down the line. He shook his head, the links of his coif jingling. Those they fought for clearly had no idea what they were doing. They had ordered the wall be formed, but rather than spreading the veterans evenly, or even, using them to bulk up the flanks, where the fight would be decided, they had using them for the center, the middle of the wall, where nothing would be accomplished

‘Twas for that reason that those holden to him, and to his companions, were all stationed on the left flank, where it was vital the line held. And why he, and those selfsame companions were on the right. Where the fight would be won. He straightened, sliding his left arm into the strap for his shield, a heavy kite of linden, canvassed in hunters green, with the wolf rampant in white on its front. The leather of his gauntlet rubbed against the rough wood, stained black with oil from his armour.  He ran his gaze across the enemy’s shield. There were fewer kites, there, relatively speaking. Not so many heads gleamed from helm, or coif.

But there were more of them. Far more. For every man who stood on his side, the Warrior saw four across the field. His grin broadened, as his eyes, the colour of blued steel, sparkled. He turned his head to the left, and examined his shieldmate. It was a boy, scrawny, in a crude gambie. His shield was a round, with a dented boss, canvassed in blue and yellow. “Easy, Lad.” The oldtimer drawled. “Battle goes to him what holds his nerve.” The boy turned his head, meeting that easy gaze, as the warrior drawled on. “You shield yersel’ from him in front of you. You shield me from him on your swordside. And should a line break, you stick with me.”

The sound of scores of booted feet striking ground snapped his gaze to the fore. The enemy had begun to advance. Their step was ragged, not quite in unison, and the Warrior half-turned to his left. There were two men, ‘twixt him and the far right flank. The position of honour, on the very end was held by an Ostman, from Eire. Though not much taller than our warrior himself, he was broader by far, with a shield to match, and a helm that covered his face. He too bore the white wolf on green, as did the man between them. That worthy was of Flemish origin, taller than the warrior who now fixed him with a gaze, and just as lanky. A spangenhelm graced his head, and his kite was on his arm.

“Ostman. Flanders.” The warrior addressed them with a nod, and they met it with nods of their own. “Vinland” they named him, and it was true, for he did indeed hail from that fabled land. “Shall We?” He asked, and their grins matched his. They knew the plan as well as he did, hold, and take the charge. And they knew it was suicide. Around midway across the field, the ground changed. Flattened, levelled. Up till that point, the enemy had rougher ground to traverse, rocky, pitted with divots and ruts. After? Flat, smooth. Perfect.

If they met the enemy there, where it changed, they had a chance. So, the Ostman called out. “ONE!” He bellowed, striding forward, and then, a moment later “Two!” bringing his over foot up to match. The line hesitated for a moment, and followed suit, as he called the numbers. Within a few strides, they were advancing in good order, much to the consternation of the knights who claimed to be in command. But they recognised that to call them back now would be even worse that what would happen if they advanced. If they were to have any chance of victory they would have to follow these… these… Mercenary upstarts.

As they advanced, the one they called Vinland began to slam the head of his axe against his shield, in time with his steps. Seconds later, a sharper sound joined it, as Flanders did the same with the trilobed pommel of his sword.  The next pace, Ostman joined in, along with those warriors on the left flank. Vinland’s expression took on a feral quantity, as he gloried in the noise, in the gleam, in the scents of oiled steel and stale sweat that surrounded him, that permeated the air. He knew well enough that they would soon be replaced with less wholesome smells.

With a great effort, he held his pace back to that off those who flanked him. It was all he wanted to be in the clash, to let everything come down to skill and speed and will and steel. Soon, he whispered to himself in the depths of his mind. Soon, you will be there. Soon nothing else will matter, nothing but the fray. He laughed then, laughed with glee, and with joy, and with the lust for battle singing in his veins. And then, as quickly as he had told himself it would come, it was time. His axe plunged forward, a twist of the wrist trapping the head inside a shield, and then he wrenched it back towards him.

He saw Flander’s blade lick out, the razored tip plunging deep, before it twisted and returned to a guard position. As the stricken foeman tumbled, Vinland disengaged his blade with a practiced flick, swinging it right and up, bringing the steel butt into an unarmoured shoulder with an audible crack. Even as the next warrior stepped up to take the gap, the second man Vinland had struck staggered, and Ostman was ready and waiting. He too wielded a sword, a shade long for a broadsword, almost a hand-and-a-half, and it struck with lethal precision.

For a moment, as the replacements tested the three warriors, there was room for naught but a defense. Twisting slightly, to take blows better on their shields, a pair of swords and an axe spun and twirled, left, right, now forward, now high, low, back, everywhere in between. The blades were of good steel, well-tempered, and high quality, and they had that look about them that marks a well-used weapon. No rust, but a sort of dullness, in their gleam, that belied the smooth, perfectly maintained edges, something that spoke of experience.

Then the left-most warrior made an error. Struck slightly too far. Ostman’s blade caught it expertly, trapped the blade against his guard, and threw it wide. Afore the warrior could recover, Ostman’s sword had cut back and down, slicing deep into the man’s calf. He stumbled to the side, and a roll of Ostman’s wrist impaled the man on his blade. The good news was that that stroke marked the beginning of the end, for it is a well known fact that when the left flank falls, the shield wall falls with it. The bad news was that, for the time being, that blade was irrecoverable.

Fortuneately, Ostman was experienced enough to know this. Even before the body had slid all the way down the sword, he had let it fall, his hand going for his dagger. His companions stepped up their efforts, to buy him the time. Flanders blade knocked a blow aside, but Vinland, he took things even further. As the warrior afore him stabbed for Flanders, he stepped forwards on his right foot, bracing the side of his shield against his opponents. At the same time, he shifted his grip on his axe, raised his arm, and straightened it. The flat top of the steel head impacted against Flander’s foe with the crunch of shattering bone.

Not finished yet, Vinland thrust his hip to the side, catching his foe’s blade on the flat, and throwing it wide, even as Flander’s foe fell. Not skipping a beat, he began to swing his axe back to the left. He loosened his grip again, the distance between hand and head lengthening, afore it buried itself in his foe’s skull. Within seconds of taking his step forward, he stepped back, letting the now useless axe drop with the man it was stuck in. By the time the latest to step forward had done so, Ostman had his foot-long dagger in hand, and Vinland had his Saex ready, almost a foot and a half of steel, razored on both sides.

As the new opponents made to strike, almost simultaneously, the three warriors who bore the Wolf on their shields reacted as one. Ostman stepped inside his foe’s strike, ramming the dagger to its hilt in the man’s armpit. Vinland dropped to a knee, letting one blow fly harmlessly over his head. As he dropped, he twisted to his left, and his blade snicked out, severing the tendons of both men he could reach. He rose as they toppled, his knife ending their suffering with deft strikes. Between them, Flanders had trapped his opponents knife twixt his shield and Ostmans, and it took but a little pressure to snap the steel, even as he struck above his shield. His blade came down in a flashing arc, cutting to the teeth.

He tore it free, and the warriors three realised that there were no more opponents facing them. The last three on their end of the line looked panicked, and were stumbling back. Vinland grinned. The flank had fallen. Vinland bared his teeth, and with a snarl, gave himself to the storm building in his soul. Pausing only to rip his axe from the ground, a firmly placed foot granting him the extra force he needed to tear it loose of the skull in which it was stuck, he slammed into the side of the line, and Flanders and Ostman joined him.

It was too much for their foes. Faced with an attack from the side, hemmed in by their fellows, and unable to properly defend, they were like sheep before the wolves, and like ravening wolves, the warriors three tore a swathe through them. The line shattered, and in the swirl of the grand melee, the better equipment told more than numbers. Before long, it was all over but the aftermath.

As the cold breeze scoured the field, the survivors stalked across it, taking what they could from the dead. Those wounded who had fought on the winning side, or at least, that portion of them that had a reasonable chance, were aided from the field by their comrades, to where the leeches were ready to alleviate their suffering. At one side of the field, a cluster of perhaps a score of warriors, all well-armed and armoured, and all bearing the heraldry of the rampant wolf, wandering seemingly aimlessly. Every so often one would drop to their knees, and say a few words, and then a blade would descend, and the moans and screams of the injured would get a little quieter.

Mercy, they called that bit, where those who would not survive were put out of their suffering. And, then, usually, relieved of any valuables. Coin. Fine arms or armour, jewelry. Later, those less well-off would slip unnoticed past the fat ravens, gorged on the flesh of the slain, to salvage clothing, belts and boots and hoods, and even the shattered remnants of broken blades, to be reforged, or sold in trade to the smiths. And it was amidst the stink of blood and flesh and less mentionable things that Vinland came across a familiar face. A scrawny boy sitting off to the side, barely a scratch on him. Tears dropped from his face, and he looked up as a strong hand clamped itself on his shoulder.

“So. You didn’t run.” A strong voice spoke to him, and he looked up, blinking tears from his eyes. “No shame in crying boy. My first fight, I left my lunch on the field. Aye, and my dinner from the night afore.” A self-deprecating chuckle shook the boy out of his reverie. “No shame in not being cut out for the fray.” Vinland gazed down at a face marked with confusion. “You live your life best you can, boy, and waste no time on might-have-beens. And leaving the killing to those of us as can cope.” With that, Vinland dragged the boy to his feet, and led him off the field.

Garrow of Khan'Dayle

More Sci-Fi. Tales of the Clans. This one being of one Garrow of clan Khan'Dayle...
Copyright of me, Jared G. Juckiewicz

Garrow was beginning to get irritated. Oh, not at standing his post, no. He’d stood in parade for far longer, before, and it would be hours yet afore it began to bother him, and hours more afore he’d admit to it. Anyway, if there was anything a man of the Clans knew, beyond how to give, and take blows, it was patience. Especially the Khan’Dayle. His kind lacked the brute strength of the Ursk’Eyna, or Khar’Khar’Don, or the swift fury of the Fey’Liada or Udun’Khitai. Unlike any of the other clans, bar perhaps, in a way, the Akh’Pietr, the gift of the Khan’Dayle was in patience, in endurance.

No, it was not the formation he was forced to stand, to hold, that bothered him. It would end soon enough, and his unit was to be one of the first waves. The first wave, in fact, the Vanguard. His issue was with their allies, the Confederation troops. See, each and every one of the Clansfolk assigned to the drop had had their gear ready, perfect, immaculate, a full twenty-four hours afore the drop. And they had been standing, ready, in the drop bay, since before the notional dawn maintained on transports. They could have dropped, easily, hours earlier than planned, and such was always the way of the Clans.

The Confederation troops on the other hand… Oh, they had a few reasonable units, who had been ready beforehand, but most of them still had things to square together when the assembly signal was sounded. And so it was that they were filtering into the drop in dribs and drabs. Slow, disorganised, clumsy. When he thought on it, it almost brought a growl to his throat. Were it not that the drop pilots for the Clansfolk were all Akh’Pietr, he’d almost wish them the vanguard, the forlorn hope. For no matter how cold, how calculating and aloof the Akh’Pietr were, none could claim they were bad pilots.

At last, the Confeds were in their formations. And their leader was having an image of himself projected on the great bay doors, making a final speech. An exhortation to the troops. Garrow ignored it. He could say nothing that would induce a man of the Clans to fight any harder.  The Leaders of the Clans had declared that their Clans would stand beside the Confederation long ago. Back in the days when the six great Guard-Captains, the original Guard-Captains, held sway, ruling alongst those known as the Tormented, the first mothers of the Clans. The days when the broken bodies of those who had thought themselves masters dangled from the parapets of their own keeps, slain by those they had twisted and shaped to ward them and serve their unnatural lusts.

The speech ended, and Garrow finally heard the order he had been waiting for. True, the Akh’Pietr had beaten them with their cry of “LOOSE THE JESSES!” but old Cale Greyback had been barely a breath behind with the Khan’Dayle order, “OFF LEAD!” Without a thought, Garrow snatched up his kitbag, threw it over his shoulder, lifted his helmet from its rest by his feet, and rushed for his shuttle, his Clan-Kin, Brothers and Sisters both matching his pace. Boarding his shuttle, he found the hard, uncomfortable jumpseat assigned him, and sat, kitbag going between his legs. Locking the restraints about his shoulders and waist, he drew his personal weapon, a heavy Plasma Gun, from his kitbag and then stowed the bag under his seat. He rested the weapon on his knees, donned his helm, pulling it down tight against the gorget and twisting it until the seals caught and the nano-fibers locked.

He felt a familiar moments panic as the nanofibers extruded by the helmet lining connected to his neural cortex, but then relaxed as his senses widened. He could see the heat signatures of his Clankin, at least their heads, and until they donned their own helms, and into the ultraviolet. He could ‘hear’ and ‘speak’ radio signals and other more esoteric transmissions, could taste the most minute chemical signatures. It was a heady and addictive feeling. Suddenly there was a judder, and a feeling of lightness as the shuttle lifted from its cradle. A few moments later, there was a feeling of motion as it began to move stately forward. It moved slowly, behind the fighter screen, but the evasive actions that are standard procedure in such a drop ensured it was not a comfortable ride for any involved.

On the other hand, the Khan’Dayle are renowned, like most of the Clans, for stoicism, and so not a peep was uttered. At least, not until a sensation of falling and severe turbulence marked the entry into atmosphere. Then, then Garrow and his Clankin sounded off, howling their warlust into their helms. The shuttle corkscrewed down wildly, seemingly accelerating all the while, only to slow with bonejarring speed, and settle gently onto the ground. There was a hiss of equalising pressure, and then the restraints popped loose and the hatch popped open.

Garrow bolted to his feet, as around him his Clankin did likewise. His Force-Leader strode down the exit ramp, and immediately set off in the long, slow, ground eating lope that the Khan’Dayle were capable of maintaining almost indefinitely. With a howl, the rest of the squad followed. Theirs it would be to race ahead of the main force, striking at targets of opportunity, scouting in force. It was a task that the Khan’Dayle with their patience and endurance were well suited to. And one which they had done many a time before…

Gyre of The Akh'Pietr

Well. I decided to try my hand at something different of late. Science Fiction to be precise. So, let me introduce you to Flight-Captain Gyre, Sergeant-At-Arms (For his people a noble rank. Which makes things complicated in the military, I must say) of the Khor'Veed Sept of the Akh'Pietr Clan. And Kudos to anyone who can name the origin of the names of the 'Clans' presented here. Anyway, Copyright of myself, Jared G. Juckiewicz. And I don't believe there be any major warnings I need to make...

The landing had been planned for months. The details finalised, in as much as any battle plan could be, for weeks. And yet, when the time came for the troops to assemble for the drop, there was chaos. The different detachments rushed all across their transports, trying to get organised in their drop bays. Well. Most of them did.  Those forces known as the Clans, scattered across the fleet, were ready. And had been, for hours. Standing, fully equipped, gear stowed, in perfect formation in their bays. Not a sound did they utter from the moment other units began rushing in until all were assembled.

Every bay seemed to have representatives of all of the Clans present. The tall, slender Akh’Pietr, acquiline of feature, with their hair-like feathers, taloned nails, and creamy eyes.  The lithe, powerful Fey’Liada, with their shaggy manes, and almost furred skins patterned in yellows, and oranges and browns and blacks. Rank on rank of the lean and rangy Khan’Dayle, grey haired or red, yellow-eyed, with an almost feral look stood next to rows of the short, powerful Khar’Khar’Dun and the lighter, perpetually cheery Udun’Khitai , both hairless, with strange waxy skin, sunken ears, and the former with black, soulless eyes. Even full regiments of the stocky, massive Ursk’Eyna, lazy eyes peering through mats of unkempt brown hair.

To Flight-Captain Gyre, Sergeant-At-Arms of the Khor’Veed sept of Akh’Pietr, the other confederation troops were an undisciplined mob as they rushed into the bay. He had been standing in his rank, at the head of his flight, since an hour before the notional ‘dawn’ maintained on board the transport. An unruly lot, the Confederation forces, in his opinion. Take for example, this infantry squad rushing in. Their uniforms were a mess, rumpled, crumpled, seals undone. They had no semblance of a formation, their gear was all out of order. Every man and woman of the Clans had been in uniform and had all their gear packed, to the degree that only a Clan NCO would have found issue, afore they even thought of leaving their quarters.

And as for the accomadations. Absolutely disgraceful. Most Confederation troops were bunked not more than four to a room. And that same room on a Clan transport would house at least a dozen, with no furniture bar a footlocker for each warrior. But then again, Clansfolk were at once closer and far more distant than any pureblooded human, that was for certain. A consequence of how the Clans had come about. But there was no further time for his woolgathering. His head snapped back around as the Confederation commander appeared projected on the bay doors. He was making some sort of speech about the rightness of their cause, and how what they were doing was in the defence of Mankind. No Clanner would ever take anything like that at face value, not after what they had been put through in the name of ‘right’.

He knew why he was where he was, and it was nothing to do with causes or right.  No, he was Clansfolk. He fought for pay, and the joy in battle, and his sword-kin, both those sworn, and those unmet. And above all, he fought because he was a Clansman, born to battle, bred to the defence of the Clan. Finally, the speech was ending. The image of the Confederation officer faded, and immediately, orders sounded. From his commander, a roar of “SLIP THE JESSES” had every one of his warriors loosing raptorine shrieks of approval, as they swung their kitbags onto their shoulders and rushed to their positions. For Gyre, that was his beloved strikefighter, his key to the flight his blood forced him to lust for, but that his form denied him.

At the same moment, Fey’Liada commanders were crying “LOOSE COLLARS!” and Khan’Dayle officers were calling “OFF LEAD!” With much the same response. The Ursk’Eyna strike-leaders settled for bellowed “MOVE!”s, whilst those who lead the Khar’Khar’Dun and Udun’Khitai contingents settled for toothy grins, and beckoning their men forward. It was almost a full minute after the Clan forces were in motion that the rest of the Confederation officers belatedly gave the orders for their men to take their places, and by that point Gyre had already flung his bag in behind his chair and vaulted into his fighter. A toggle of a switch and the first layer of cockpit shielding dropped down, surrounding him in blackness. He could hear the next layer sliding in its rails, as his cockpit began to fill with the inertial gel that would help counter the gravitational stress he would undoubtedly be feeling shortly.

It took a lot of getting used to, slowly being covered in the gel, having it seal up around your mouth, your eyes and your nose. Tiny tendrils of nano-machines fed themselves through his pores, linking to his nervous system, and suddenly, he was no longer surrounded by darkness. All around him he could see the bay, hear what was going on. His strike fighters sensors fed directly into his neural cortex. He could see to the far reaches of the spectrum, he heard each of the various com systems in common use. He could feel his surroundings, the pressure of the bays atmosphere, the slightest traces of motion in the air. He quivered with the urge to take wing, as it were, but forced himself to wait.

He ran a diagnostic on his weapons systems, the twin missile tubes, the lone energy torpedo launcher, the anti-fighter beam packs.  The Laser Anti-Missile System, Chaff launchers, decoys, ECM, everything. It was all in working order, as well it should be. Like every Clansman, he took extremely good care of his own gear. Contented that everything was in order, he checked on his flight. Everyone came back, informing him of their preparedness, their impatience to leave. Impatient Ack’Pietr pilots are bad, so he arranged a distraction. A thought triggered a brief scrambled transmission, which, when translated from digital code to thought wave to audio would appear  as little more than screeches and shrieks. The Akh’Pietr tongue. And on those orders his flight began plotting targeting solutions on every target in the bay.

Fortuneately, the bulk of the pilots were Akh’Pietr, who were busy doing the same thing. And the rest were Confederation pilots who were still coming online when the bay doors began to open, and every Akh’Pietr pilot found his attention riveted on the void, and the glowing orb silhouetted against the blackness. He measured the opening gap minutely, willing himself to lift from his cradle, anti-grav floating him high enough to be clear of it. As soon as his fighter was able to clear the slowly receding walls, he accelerated, his cry of pleasure resounding throughout the ether, answered by his flight. This was what they lived for, the Akh’Pietr.

Behind him, he could feel the emissions from the shuttles and dropships that would ferry the troops down to the surface. He oriented himself, tracking the center of the gravity well as down, and stooped towards the fighters rising to meet him from the surface. Scores of them rose, hundreds, and he grinned, wrenching around into wild, seemingly random corkscrews, as they began to throw fire at him. Missiles looped past him, erupting in his wake, and he activated his countermeasures. The LAMS began to spit back, invisible to the naked eye, but glowing rainbow flashes to his heightened senses. And then he was amongst them. He suddenly flipped all his thrusters in conflicting directions, and flipped a hundred-eighty degrees.

Skidding backwards, he was staring at the vulnerable drive-fields of his foes. The tiniest nudges of his manouevering  thrusters shifted his nose enough that the bolts of radiation from his beam cannon were able to shred multiple targets, afore he began to accelerate again, never holding the same course for more than milliseconds at a time. Behind him, his flight were doing much the same, and the expanding balls of radiant plasma that marked their successes were marked by high screechs of triumph. As suddenly as they had dove in, they leapt back towards their transports. As they did, each of them wobbled slightly, scattering a field of ions behind them, screening their movements. It seemed an eternity afore they whipped back around, and this time the broad heavy wedges of assault shuttles, and the great, blocky dropships accompanied them, the little knifelike fighters weaving around them in complicated patterns.

The last of the defending fighters scattered before this onslaught, and down below, on the planet, the defence centers began their final preparations. Cannons were readied. Not the huge anti-orbital cannons, that could crack a warship in two, were it in a close orbit, but the lighter anti-craft guns, restricted to targets in atmosphere, but capable of felling even the sturdiest of dropships. Troops that had spent weeks on high alert rushed to their weapons, and their posts. Prayers were uttered, charms grasped firmly, men gazed skywards with fearful eyes. Sensors scanned the heavens, selecting targets, locking them in, following them until they entered range.

And all of this had been expected. The attack plan had accounted for the casualties that would, inevitably be caused by the defenders, but Gyre had a plan. Every craft in the first wave had an Akh’Pietr pilot, and none but the Akh’Pietr could understand their tongue. His shrieking, screeching orders shrilled from craft to craft as they drew nigh to the atmosphere. Targets were locked. At the last moment, every fighter under his command let loose with everything they had. On a patch of empty space, right on the boundary of the atmosphere. As soon as the ordnance was away, they looped round, cutting out their sensor feeds, blinding themselves, and with good cause. For mere seconds a blaze lit the sky of their target like an artificial sun. Sensors were burned out, every system lost its target lock, and then, before anything could recover, the Ack’Pietr came diving through that blazing inferno like the birds of prey they resembled, like the hawks and falcons and eagles they purported to be born of.

Shimmering energy fields extended from the sides of the strikefighters, granting them the aerofoils they would require to manoeuver in air. The Assault Shuttles and Dropships had been designed with such activity in mind as a regular thing, and so had no need of such aids. They settled to the ground, and began to disgorge their loads of power armoured warriors and heavy vehicles, as the fighters streaked overhead, raining fiery death on fixed emplacements. Pulling up, his weapons spent, Gyre gazed down on the field below, marked by the flashes of heavy weapons, already cratered from the opening barrages. Today had been a good day, he thought, wheeling round. A good day indeed.

Come On Pup

Finally found it in me to write some more Vikingr. Even it is entirely action without the slightest hint of plot development....
Copyright of myself, Jared G. Juckiewicz, warnings of Blood and Death and Violence

(Note. Recent Events are leading to Retconning most of the Accidental Vikingr tales set AFTER Outremer. This falls amongst those. Furthermore, to move more into keeping with the setting, certain character names are being changed. Sir Jared shall be referred to as Jehan, and Sir Javier [Where he appears] as Iuliano. Sorry...)

“Come on Pup!” The man who answered to Bear said, his tone far cheerier than the one so addressed figured circumstances warranted. They had been travelling on foot, going to collect supplies, and as they approached the village they had planned on trading at, well, things looked to be getting complicated.

For one thing, half a dozen warriors were present. This was unusual. And from the state of their gear, they looked to be brigands. That wasn’t counting their leader, who was mounted, and his honour guard, a pair similarly mounted. Their gear was better, but not a match even for the Bear’s aged chain and antiquated helmet. None of them wore any heraldry, nor even anything that resembled Heraldry, and they were quite obviously far removed from any form of authority. The leader was speaking to the village headman, who was visibly cringing, even from as far away as the pair were.

“We have work to do!” The Bear exclaimed happily, and the one he spoke to shook his head. Robert, his name was, and until recently, he had been a courier. Not one for combat, tending to move fast enough that no one considered him a target. All that had changed when a strange man in Nottingham had hired him to deliver a message north, to Strathearne. The Old Man he had delivered that message too had made a seemingly miraculous transformation, from broken down elder, to steel-thewed veteran. And he had dragged poor Robert back south with him. It turned out, later, that this old man, answering to Bear had been an Outlaw, and a Knight. A Viking, a Crusader, and a Varangian. A Pagan, and a drinker and a brawler.  And now a free-lance bandit hunter.

As they approached, Bear gave instructions. “Leave the horse to me.” Was the first. Fighting cavalry from foot took care and skill. And experience. And Bear was capable of those in spades. “Don’t worry about kills. Keep yourself alive and them off-balance.” Lots of practice at fighting, Roberts newfound mentors had, even if there was but one present. “If you do have to face a horseman, go for the horse. Tis harsh, but…” And Bear trailed off. As they reached the edge of the village, he proffered one last bit of advice. “Keep behind me, Lad, least till it starts. And Dinnae be getting in my way after.” With that, he donned his helm, and strode forward, the steel-shod butt of his great, two-handed crescent axe sending up little puffs of dust from the dry wagon track.

“GENTLEMEN!” He bellowed, as he drew into the village square, slamming the axehaft into the ground. Every eye snapped to him. “Who’d I be speaking tae, were I wishing tae buy food?” He asked, and his hand plucked a weighty pouch of his thick leather belt. “I can pay.” He informed him, the corners of his lips twitching up, even as he bounced the pouch in his hand. The jingle of coins was clearly audible. As well wave a steak in the face of a wolf-pack. As the brigands on foot began to close, and those ahorse expertly wheeled their mounts, his grin spread. Without warning, he hurled the pouch at the face of one of the few brigands with a helm.

The impact stunned the warrior, and the pouch scattered, shimmering silver coins flying everywhere. Even as the brigands and his companion paused in shock, he struck. The broad blade of his axe whipped up and round as he lunged towards the horsemen, and there was sickening cracking and tearing noises. The horse screamed in agony as it dropped, forelimbs shattered, as the Bear spun off to its right. As soon as he was out of range of a sudden backkick, he stopped, returning to a rest, feet shoulderwidth apart, left arm tucked into his belt, right holding his axe vertical, the butt resting on the arch of his foot. “Weel Then?” He snarled at them, snapping them out of their shock. The surviving pair of horsemen wheeled again, and made to rush, and half the men on foot followed him. The other three moved on the Pup, who was busy sliding his shield, a broad round shield with a steel boss, off his back, and drawing his chosen weapon, a short broadsword of Norman make. For armour he wore but a gambeson and a steel spangenhelm, and the encroaching warriors in their ragged maille and leathers did little to engender confidence.

Seeing the warriors closing on him, faces grim, the Bear threw his head forward and gave out a roar like his namesake, before rushing in himself. His axe flicked up, into a stave-grip, and he parried the first blow coming for him, a sturdy, iron-studded war club. He sidestepped, avoiding a clumsily swung hand-axe, and flicked the steel shod butt round. There was a crack, and the brigand fell, blood beginning to seep from his nose and mouth. Stepping back, the Bear finished him with a butt-strike to the same point, covering the bottom of his axehaft in blood and brains and shards of bone.

Approaching Thunder warned him of a charging horse, and he spun, dropping to his knees and taking a disembowling thrust on the heavy kite shield hanging on his back. He thrust with the point of his axe head, as though ‘twere a spear, and another horse shrieked in pain and terror, its breast punctured by the terrible blade. Meanwhilst the Pup was parrying desperately, his shielding shifting constantly to block blow after blow. He had no opportunity to land strikes of his own, but none of the three facing him were landing any. A mace swung towards his skull was parried with an upward sweep of his blade, even whilst a knife thrust was caught on the rim of his shield, and he twisted out of the way of a short spear.

As the stricken horse reared and fell, Bear tore the wicked hook of his axehead from its chest, and pivoted to the side, stepping back, and lashing out at the knifeman who’d been behind him. The steel socket of the head, caught the knife-arm at the wrist, and a strange popping signalled the breaking of the arm. He jerked the blade back, and then rammed it forward and up, the point sliding in under the chin, severing the mans chinstrap, and driving up into the brain. Rather than waste time trying to tear his axe free, Bear stepped back, his hands slidding his skeggox, a short handled bearded axe, from his belt, and his poniard from its sheath. Turning slowly, he took stock. One infantryman and a horse faced him, and the three warriors facing the Pup were completely concentrated on that fight.  

With a grin, Bear feinted for the surviving foot-soldier, and then twisted, hurling the axe with great accuracy to embed in the back of the skull of one the warriors facing the Pup. Said companion of his responded immediately, lunging into the offensive. His shield battered aside the mace, and the sword came round in an overhand blow, hacking into the mans neck. Stepping back, the Pup pulled the blade loose, avoiding the spurting blood, and turned to face the last, the spearman. Now man-at-arms against a spear, the man-at-arms has the advantage, and the brigand knew it. He turned to run, but wasn’t fast enough, and Roberts blade slid neatly into his back, a perfect killing strike.

As Robert in turn took stock of his surroundings, he noticed a few things. First that the Bear was slowly being circled by a man on foot, and a warrior ahorse. And second that the Bear for whatever reason, was wielding naught more than his dagger. True, as daggers go, it was a rather impressive one, the blade being as long as his forearm, with a crossguard, and a disk pommel, eighteen inches of razored steel. But even still. So, he charged, silently, towards the warrior whose back was to him. The Horseman saw this, and spurred his mount at the Bear, who simply grinned.

A broadsword swung down, but the Bear caught it on his dagger, and slid it aside, grabbing for the riders sword belt, and dragging himself up behind the saddle. As the rider, the bandit leader tried to turn, the Bear cuffed him upsides the head with his pommel. Once, twice, thrice, and then, as the rider wavered, the Bear shoved him off, and grabbed for the reins, pulling himself forward into the saddle. In the few seconds this had been going on, the last of the brigands had realised something was wrong, and turned. His broadsword whipped round to lash at the Pups skull, only to be parried easily. They sparred, forward and back, every blow parried, until the Pup stepped forward and punched with his shield hand. The brigand took a steel boss to the face, and staggered. It was all the opening the Pup needed. His form, again was almost perfect, and a third dead brigand joined his honour guard. He looked up to see the Bear sitting there, mounted on his stolen horse, just watching. “You done good, lad.” The Bear informed him, and then slid down. There were bodies to loot, and villagers to reassure, and supplies to purchase.   

Literary Challenge! 100 Ficlets!

Well. A friend of mine at one point sent me a list to a challenge. Which basically boiled down to 'select a setting. take these 100 prompts. write a short 100 word story based on each prompt.' She called them ficlets. I have started doing these with Gorm from my Valkyrien stories. Here be the first 25. And when I remember the link, I shall post it.
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.

Foxhunting...

Well... I got bored during one of my many layovers... So I wrote this. An Idea I have had for a wee while, finally made form...

Copyright belongs to myself, Jared G. Juciewicz. Warnings of blood, violence, death, and bad language. But then again, is old-school Valkyrien, what do you expect?

Somewhere in Northern England, out on the heath, the stillness of the summer morn was broken by the baying of hounds and the calling of horns. Cries of “View ‘Alloo!” shattered the silence, as a great red fox, a Vixen by the look of it, burst from the brush. Within moments, the men, the hounds, and the horses were in hot pursuit. The Vixen ran, staying just far enough ahead of the pack to hold their interest, but not close enough to give them any chance of catching her. She cut and dove, ducking through patches of gorse, worming her way through rabbit warrens, following the babbling brooks that cut all across the marshy heath. Anything to give her an advantage.

She wasn’t worried about the pack following her, in fact, she was viewing their attempts at catching her as a bit of fun. Death was not something that had worried her for a long time. And she had a surprise for the poncy gits on their well-bred hunters. The corners of her lips turned up in a very un-foxlike grin, as she thought of what was to come. Now… Where had she left him… She scanned the hills, looking for landmarks, and veered again. Showing herself for a moment, she heard the renewed cries as the baffled hounds turned back to the chase. Ah, by the gods, this was fun.

Not too far away, another awoke. He awoke to find his mate gone, vanished, and the sun high in the sky. Ah well. He had fed well the night before, and wasn’t particularly hungry. He wandered down to the brook, to rinse himself off, wake himself up, and maybe catch a nice fish for his breakfast. He was lying on the grass, staring intently at the calm, tranquil water, waiting for the big brown trout to come just a hair closer, just enough that the readied paw could strike with ease, when the water splashed into his face. Spinning with a snarl, he spotted his mate, the, to him, little Vixen he had taken up with. Then he heard the hounds. He spun back the direction he had come and snarled at them.

The hounds froze. The horses froze. The hunters sat in shock. One minute, they had been chasing a fox. The next, the red fox was sitting on the other side of a brook, grinning at them, shaking with mirth, and making peculiar coughing noises. In front of it stood a great dark gray wolf-thing, larger by far than any wolf they had seen. It was almost the size of a small bear, with great dark claws, and yellowed fangs more than an inch and a half long. Yellow eyes gleamed with barely suppressed fury, and no one was particularly surprised when it threw its head forward and roared a challenge.

Gorm was pissed. Try hunting his woman, would they? Chase her down with dogs, from horseback? With the intent of cutting her down as vermin? Not while he was about. He stood there for a moment, just watching, as his Vixen’s pursuit froze, quaking in their boots. He took a savage pleasure from the knocking of knees, the shaking, the cold chills he knew were running down every spine bar his and his lady’s. He threw his head forward and roared, filling the sound with all his fury, and all his rage, and all the hatred born of his incredibly long life. And then he leapt. He slammed into the pack of hounds like the daemon of the north he was named after. Bowing his head as he hit, he threw it back, hounds flying with it, and he flipped up on onto his feet, and around, catching one in those powerful jaws. The jaws crunched, and a spine severed.

He finished his spin, the broken corpse flying from his maw to knock a group of hounds to their knees. Their planned rush collapsed as they did a second later, when he hit them with all the fury of a blizzard. Claws raked and tore, his fanged maw ripped and shredded and crushed. The hounds began to attack back, climbing on his back to try and get grips with their own teeth and claws. Feeling the hot pain of their blows, Gorm began to twist and buck, like one of the wild stallions he had watched fight, long ago and far away, in another life. Snapping at his assailants he caught one, and flung it at the first of the hunters to recover her wits. The flying dog knocked her off her horse, which panicked, and ran. Woman and dog both landed badly with sickening cracks and meaty thuds, and the great grey beast howled in triumph.

His spins gave him a glimpse of the other hunters, readying rifles and sabers and aiming in his direction. As the first of the hunters spurred his mount forward, Gorm charged. He bodyslammed the horse as he went past, knocking it off-balance. It toppled, landing on its riders leg, and bone shattered under the weight of horseflesh. The saber stroke went wide, and Gorm ran on, pouncing into the midst of the now worried horses. He lashed out, as he ran, striking from side to side, and the searing pain, the scent of blood, and the fear of their companions were too much. The horses broke and scattered, too far gone in terror to care for rein or spur. The great wolf did not bother to pursue. He watched as the hounds fled, and then turned towards the man with the shattered leg. He stalked up, keeping within sight of the stricken huntsman, and when he had drawn nigh, he struck.

His great yellowed fangs shut with a ‘clop’ mere millimetres from the poor man’s face, and Gorm made a sound that was almost human, almost a laugh, and he spun, and loped off across the moor. Vixen followed behind. She had some explaining to do.

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!”