Well. The final stage of the Chechnya Operation.
Intellectual property of myself, Jared G. Juckiewicz, Who also holds the copyright.
Conciousness returns again. Aided, no doubt, by the state of the road we are driving on. And also by Vixen shaking me, slightly. "Gorm. Wake Up." She bellows at me, shaking me again. Growling slightly. My eyes snap open. And my vision explodes in spots. And the pounding in my head intensifies. As does the ache all over my body. "Stand Up" She orders, helping me to do so. "We need to get these on you." She waves something vaguely fabricy looking in my direction. And slowly, stumblingly, with repeated instructions, gets the jeans she was waving on me. "Urgh.... Where ah..." more than that is too much. My stomach burns, with pain, with hunger, and with nausea. Not good. I think the last time I felt this dead was... Nope, not coming to me. She understood what I meant though. "We're coming up to the Georgian border. Now, they'll let us through armed, no problem. We still have enough money for bribes... But they may draw a line were you and Naked Girl unclothed." My mind ran in circles... Naked Girl? Who was Naked Girl? Vixen must have noticed my confusion, and pointed down. And there, lying curled up on the floor of the truck, was a naked girl.
And then I remember. She'd been part of the ambush. The bait if you will. They'd known no dominant Wolf, of which I am one, could tolerate the scent of a less dominant wolf under the knife. And you couldn't possibly find a less dominant wolf than the early teenaged girl whose wolf hadn't even manifested yet, who at this very minute is lying at my feet. But no, the scent of her fear and pain and humiliation had driven me into a killing rage. And it had got almost half of our force slain, and the rest shot to pieces. Which is about to make itself felt. As my legs give way. Vixen catches me, and eases me down onto the bench. And then sets me down so that I be lying on it. She and Tyrone rapidly put a set of clothes on the poor lass. Jeans and a loose shirt. As they do, Tyrone explains where we got them. "Och, no tae worry, lad." I tried to laugh at that. He can't be much older than I am, if at all. Of course, the laughter hurt, and segued into a coughing fit. Which hurt more. "Tey'res a passle o' Peasants be needing new trooser's. An' a new shirt. But tat's neit'er here nor tey're." His accent's not normally that thick. Indeed, more oft than not, you'd never ken he had one. But when he's trying to keep ones mind off things, he tends to thicken it, for comedic value. As soon as she be dressed, they lay her down, seated against the bench, her head next to my hand. Vixen settles down in the corner between Hugin and the bench, resting her head next to mine.
After a time, the truck slows, and stops. A few men in uniform come round the back, and have a look. They see nothing of interest, Tyrone having covered the Gryffons with the canvas tarp that normally covered the truck itself. And they had been paid off by the Sidhe who were driving it seemed. Their commander barks an order, and they wave us on through the checkpoint. Safe. At Last. We Hope. The drive to T'blisi is calmer, the roads getting better as we continue, and we get diverted to a Georgian Military base. A Valkyrien Personnel Transport is waiting to fly us back to the States, where HQ is. And, wonder of wonders, they have medical personnel. YAY!
Sadly, 'Tis to late to remove the bullets from my flesh without major surgery. They will need to fester out. On the other hand, We are all, those who survive, being giving medical leave to recuperate. I have those I consider to be close as kin. A boy called Michael, and his bride, Sara, Who dwell on a lake on a plateau in the mountains. Vixen promised to take me there as soon as we heard of our leave. If the Medic's grant her leave to come, it is likely that Naked Girl, who with any luck will regain conciousness so we can learn her name, will accompany us.
Saturday, 30 April 2011
Friday, 29 April 2011
An Ambush Related
Well. For those of you who wonder what happened atwixt Gorm kinda losing it. And Gorm getting lifted into the back of a truck filled with 'The Injured, The Crippled, The Maimed' This may help explain it. Thanks to Vixen for the coherent explanation. Intellectual property of myself, Jared G. Juckiewicz. Who also holds the copyright.
Vixen had dragged me into the truck we had appropriated, our injured leaning against the sides, those we had managed to get out. There were so few. Even as she held me straight, seated on the floor, for the benches were taken, I whispered to her. "How many?" I asked, my voice cracking, with pain and thirst. She had turned about, getting comfortable, and positioning me so that her body cushioned the shocks of the trucks motion. She knew as well as I did that only the Wolf Within, and my brief meal of flesh, were keeping me alive. "Too many." She told me. "You caught us by surprise." She said. "Custer and the Walkers thought you meant to break past. They followed you. A few seconds later, the Flight came in low, to cover you, most of them." We struck a pothole, and my groan could have been taken as one of pain. "When you vaulted into the truck, they couldn't keep the momentum. They were gunned down as dogs. The Buteo too, though they took a toll." She paused for a moment, to catch the little pouch Tyrone was lobbing at her from his pack. She opened it, and examined it's contents. The little flask of Usqueabagh, what the Normans had called Aqua Vitae, went down my throat. The Jerky on the other hand, would need softened before I could eat it. And there was no time for that. She continued her tale. "The Gryfalcon came in too low and too fast, and couldn't see to manouver in the smoke. They too payed their way, but fell, slamming into the side of a building dodging fire." I made no sound, the fire of the Usquebagh dulling my pain a bit. "By that point, Illus realised they must have got the Mortar teams, both on accounts of us being unable to raise them, and of their dropping our rounds on our very heads." my fingers traced a tear in her fatigues, where shrapnel had torn its way into the muscle of her leg. My eyes began to tear up. "We decided we'd try to break in close, and we did. They'll not soon forget that slaughter. They couldn't drop the mortars on us without doing our work for us. We lost three of the Sidhe there. A fourth when we siezed the truck. Their Cuain went mad. bought us time to get off. Twice they caught us. Our last rocket felled the first. The second would have had us, but one of the Gryffons had it off a cliff. Went down with it." A moan, and a whimper fled my lips. And not just from the pain. "Howsabout you?" She asked me, her voice stopped, and hushed me. Her finger to my lips. "No. No. Hush. Let me guess. You caught her scent, and despite us being in the middle of a battle, trapped in ambush, you just had to seek her out and ravish her..." I bolted upright. Or tried to. I think my head moved about an inch, before the strain was too much. She laughed. "Easy there. I jest. You know I jest." She settled me back down. "They were hurting her, weren't they? I know you well enough by now, Adal-Ulf, to know that none of your kind can tolerate that. A weaker wolf under the knife? A bitch and a pup, no less? Well. She's safe now. Safe as the rest of us. You rest now. Sleep. Heal." I shook my head weakly. Groaned out a few words. She leaned in close, so I repeated them. "Illus. Vaul. Elf. Lir." She hugged me close, bracing me. From that I knew it was bad. "They live. Illus will be fit for naught for months. possibly years. We've no been able to spare the blood for him. Vaul much the same, though with him, it's time he needs, not blood. As for the others, they be in hiding, here, till there wounds heal. We couldn't transport them safely after the second attack. There wounds were too great. Lir is in the care of the Undine, in a mountain tarn. Elf is safe in a Dryad's tree." Her voice had been soft. Now it was edged with command. "Sleep, Old One. You need it. I'll ward."
Vixen had dragged me into the truck we had appropriated, our injured leaning against the sides, those we had managed to get out. There were so few. Even as she held me straight, seated on the floor, for the benches were taken, I whispered to her. "How many?" I asked, my voice cracking, with pain and thirst. She had turned about, getting comfortable, and positioning me so that her body cushioned the shocks of the trucks motion. She knew as well as I did that only the Wolf Within, and my brief meal of flesh, were keeping me alive. "Too many." She told me. "You caught us by surprise." She said. "Custer and the Walkers thought you meant to break past. They followed you. A few seconds later, the Flight came in low, to cover you, most of them." We struck a pothole, and my groan could have been taken as one of pain. "When you vaulted into the truck, they couldn't keep the momentum. They were gunned down as dogs. The Buteo too, though they took a toll." She paused for a moment, to catch the little pouch Tyrone was lobbing at her from his pack. She opened it, and examined it's contents. The little flask of Usqueabagh, what the Normans had called Aqua Vitae, went down my throat. The Jerky on the other hand, would need softened before I could eat it. And there was no time for that. She continued her tale. "The Gryfalcon came in too low and too fast, and couldn't see to manouver in the smoke. They too payed their way, but fell, slamming into the side of a building dodging fire." I made no sound, the fire of the Usquebagh dulling my pain a bit. "By that point, Illus realised they must have got the Mortar teams, both on accounts of us being unable to raise them, and of their dropping our rounds on our very heads." my fingers traced a tear in her fatigues, where shrapnel had torn its way into the muscle of her leg. My eyes began to tear up. "We decided we'd try to break in close, and we did. They'll not soon forget that slaughter. They couldn't drop the mortars on us without doing our work for us. We lost three of the Sidhe there. A fourth when we siezed the truck. Their Cuain went mad. bought us time to get off. Twice they caught us. Our last rocket felled the first. The second would have had us, but one of the Gryffons had it off a cliff. Went down with it." A moan, and a whimper fled my lips. And not just from the pain. "Howsabout you?" She asked me, her voice stopped, and hushed me. Her finger to my lips. "No. No. Hush. Let me guess. You caught her scent, and despite us being in the middle of a battle, trapped in ambush, you just had to seek her out and ravish her..." I bolted upright. Or tried to. I think my head moved about an inch, before the strain was too much. She laughed. "Easy there. I jest. You know I jest." She settled me back down. "They were hurting her, weren't they? I know you well enough by now, Adal-Ulf, to know that none of your kind can tolerate that. A weaker wolf under the knife? A bitch and a pup, no less? Well. She's safe now. Safe as the rest of us. You rest now. Sleep. Heal." I shook my head weakly. Groaned out a few words. She leaned in close, so I repeated them. "Illus. Vaul. Elf. Lir." She hugged me close, bracing me. From that I knew it was bad. "They live. Illus will be fit for naught for months. possibly years. We've no been able to spare the blood for him. Vaul much the same, though with him, it's time he needs, not blood. As for the others, they be in hiding, here, till there wounds heal. We couldn't transport them safely after the second attack. There wounds were too great. Lir is in the care of the Undine, in a mountain tarn. Elf is safe in a Dryad's tree." Her voice had been soft. Now it was edged with command. "Sleep, Old One. You need it. I'll ward."
Thursday, 28 April 2011
Exfiltration
Well. The blame for this one is quite clear. It was something of a collaboration atwixt me and Rauda Redjay. I was telling her of the idea for the tale, and she made a suggestion, and I proceeded to go 'YOINK! MINE!'... at which point she went 'H'okay.' And it kinda grew from there...
Anyway. This tale is mine. That means it belongs to me. Which in turn means that I hold the Copyrights. I, Jared Gamaliel Juckiewicz, BSc. Which I am reliably assured stands for Bloody Stupid critter. I would resent that remark, were it not for the evidence I was supplied with.
Anyway. Valkyrien. Wouldst probably be rated NR-17, for Nudity, Graphic Violence, and Mature Subject Matter, the latter referring to Cannibalism. And, Hel, all the violence is applied to those already dead.
One final note, Afore We Begin. When he mentions the Devourer, Gorm is talking about Fenris, the great wolf. And a deity/demigod/thing with which a Werewolf would likely feel at least some kinship. Especially a Norse Werewolf.
ANYWAY... I Digress...
And Now! Presenting. Gorm Ulfsbluut! Vixen Kitsune! Tyrone Ui Neall! Boruma Ui Neall! Hugin Ravenwing! Dead Chechen A! Dead Chechen B! And Naked Girl!
Roll Tape!
Well. That hurt. It's dark. But rapidly getting brighter. And it hurts. A lot. Flaming lances stuck in everywhere. I think. I may have been shot. A bit. Or possibly a lot. And stabbed. Repeatedly. Groan. Right. Take Stock. Still can't see. Hearing. Not much. Sounds of a forest. To be expected, seeing as I was in one. Smell. Forest. Funnily enough. Gasoline fumes. Truck. Dead bodies. Live Wolf. Female Wolf. Young Female Wolf. Not in season, Devourer be praised. That would end badly. Seems there's a weight on my chest. Ah, look. I can see again.
To the right. Forest. To the left. Forest. Dead Bodies, times two. Truck parts. On my chest. Female. Naked, Still breathing, Female. Human. Looking. Sniff. Sniff. Yup, Wolfsblooded. Shit. Vixen will not be happy. And I can't yet roll her off... Perhaps I should relate how I find myself in this situation. Well. We launched an attack on a Chechen staging point. It turned out to be an ambush. They were tormenting the lass who appears to be lying atop me. The scent of it was meant to drie me into a rage. It worked. From that point on, I remember a reddish blur. And then a thud on the back of my head. And then blackness. The truck she was in must have rolled... And speaking of trucks, I can hear one coming now. Glad I shifted back when I was knocked out. Now to lie like I'm dead. Not overly difficult that, especially seeing as I kinda wish I was...
And... It's stopping. Not good. There are people coming closer. Need to be loose. Gnnnrrgh...
There. Free at last sort of. Now to roll over... There. And to my knees...
And head up...
And... Shit... I'd ruther prefer the Chechens...
See, that redhead limping towards me? The hot one with her camo fatigues ripped and torn, and her arms and legs studded with bullet holes? The one growling and baring her teeth?
Well. That's Vixen. She's what you humans would call my girlfriend. Or possibly my betrothed. We wilder folk settle for the term 'Mate'. And it is definitely a Monogamous relationship...
But. Before I can consider how to respond to whatever she has to say to me, I need to do something about this pain and hunger. And Oh. Look. Dead Bodies... Drag. Crawl. Pain. Drag. Crawl. Pain. And. Problem...
See, I'm used to having claws for this bit. Fingernails won't cut it. And I won't be able to change in this state. So. Glance around. There. Knife in his boot sheath. Slide it out. I won't manage the ribs, so, there, bottom of the diaphragm. Knife in. Two-handed grip, slicing open the belly. Something that bleeds, to speed the healing. Arm in. Rummage. Spleen. That'll do. Wolf it down, grimacing against the taste. Different tastes when human than when wolf. More. A Kidney. Both. The Liver. I can almost think straight again. I can feel the pain easing away. Still there, still excruciating, but... of less import. I can hear her footsteps behind me. I have a few seconds yet. I rummage about, up under the ribs. My fist closes on what I am searching for. I tear it out, and turn, still on my knees. Staring up at Vixen's face, presenting her with the heart. "Hearts are romantic, No?" I hear myself ask. And then "I can explain. Everything." She grins, and drops to her knees as well. She leans in towards, me, pressing my hands, with their prize, to my mouth. We both bite in, tasting the raw flesh, the still warm blood. As she leans back and swallows, I stare at her, wondering how she will respond. This at least, is a good sign. She speaks. "I trust you. I will want an explanation. But it can wait." She drags me to my feet, throws my arm over her shoulder. "Lean on me." She half drags, half carries me to the back of the truck, and rolls me into the bed. I look at the others there, even as Tyrone and Boruma, themselves both heavily mangled, heave the lass into the back beside me. There are so few of them left. Vixen see's the question in my eyes, and nods.
It's all my fault, for my weakness, the weakness of the wolf within. She see's my pain and drags herself up beside me. Holding me tight. Tyrone too, drags himself in, to slump, his back against Hugin's side, as Boruma climbs into the truck and it starts up again.
"We're done here." He tells me. "We're pulling out, if we can."
Anyway. This tale is mine. That means it belongs to me. Which in turn means that I hold the Copyrights. I, Jared Gamaliel Juckiewicz, BSc. Which I am reliably assured stands for Bloody Stupid critter. I would resent that remark, were it not for the evidence I was supplied with.
Anyway. Valkyrien. Wouldst probably be rated NR-17, for Nudity, Graphic Violence, and Mature Subject Matter, the latter referring to Cannibalism. And, Hel, all the violence is applied to those already dead.
One final note, Afore We Begin. When he mentions the Devourer, Gorm is talking about Fenris, the great wolf. And a deity/demigod/thing with which a Werewolf would likely feel at least some kinship. Especially a Norse Werewolf.
ANYWAY... I Digress...
And Now! Presenting. Gorm Ulfsbluut! Vixen Kitsune! Tyrone Ui Neall! Boruma Ui Neall! Hugin Ravenwing! Dead Chechen A! Dead Chechen B! And Naked Girl!
Roll Tape!
Well. That hurt. It's dark. But rapidly getting brighter. And it hurts. A lot. Flaming lances stuck in everywhere. I think. I may have been shot. A bit. Or possibly a lot. And stabbed. Repeatedly. Groan. Right. Take Stock. Still can't see. Hearing. Not much. Sounds of a forest. To be expected, seeing as I was in one. Smell. Forest. Funnily enough. Gasoline fumes. Truck. Dead bodies. Live Wolf. Female Wolf. Young Female Wolf. Not in season, Devourer be praised. That would end badly. Seems there's a weight on my chest. Ah, look. I can see again.
To the right. Forest. To the left. Forest. Dead Bodies, times two. Truck parts. On my chest. Female. Naked, Still breathing, Female. Human. Looking. Sniff. Sniff. Yup, Wolfsblooded. Shit. Vixen will not be happy. And I can't yet roll her off... Perhaps I should relate how I find myself in this situation. Well. We launched an attack on a Chechen staging point. It turned out to be an ambush. They were tormenting the lass who appears to be lying atop me. The scent of it was meant to drie me into a rage. It worked. From that point on, I remember a reddish blur. And then a thud on the back of my head. And then blackness. The truck she was in must have rolled... And speaking of trucks, I can hear one coming now. Glad I shifted back when I was knocked out. Now to lie like I'm dead. Not overly difficult that, especially seeing as I kinda wish I was...
And... It's stopping. Not good. There are people coming closer. Need to be loose. Gnnnrrgh...
There. Free at last sort of. Now to roll over... There. And to my knees...
And head up...
And... Shit... I'd ruther prefer the Chechens...
See, that redhead limping towards me? The hot one with her camo fatigues ripped and torn, and her arms and legs studded with bullet holes? The one growling and baring her teeth?
Well. That's Vixen. She's what you humans would call my girlfriend. Or possibly my betrothed. We wilder folk settle for the term 'Mate'. And it is definitely a Monogamous relationship...
But. Before I can consider how to respond to whatever she has to say to me, I need to do something about this pain and hunger. And Oh. Look. Dead Bodies... Drag. Crawl. Pain. Drag. Crawl. Pain. And. Problem...
See, I'm used to having claws for this bit. Fingernails won't cut it. And I won't be able to change in this state. So. Glance around. There. Knife in his boot sheath. Slide it out. I won't manage the ribs, so, there, bottom of the diaphragm. Knife in. Two-handed grip, slicing open the belly. Something that bleeds, to speed the healing. Arm in. Rummage. Spleen. That'll do. Wolf it down, grimacing against the taste. Different tastes when human than when wolf. More. A Kidney. Both. The Liver. I can almost think straight again. I can feel the pain easing away. Still there, still excruciating, but... of less import. I can hear her footsteps behind me. I have a few seconds yet. I rummage about, up under the ribs. My fist closes on what I am searching for. I tear it out, and turn, still on my knees. Staring up at Vixen's face, presenting her with the heart. "Hearts are romantic, No?" I hear myself ask. And then "I can explain. Everything." She grins, and drops to her knees as well. She leans in towards, me, pressing my hands, with their prize, to my mouth. We both bite in, tasting the raw flesh, the still warm blood. As she leans back and swallows, I stare at her, wondering how she will respond. This at least, is a good sign. She speaks. "I trust you. I will want an explanation. But it can wait." She drags me to my feet, throws my arm over her shoulder. "Lean on me." She half drags, half carries me to the back of the truck, and rolls me into the bed. I look at the others there, even as Tyrone and Boruma, themselves both heavily mangled, heave the lass into the back beside me. There are so few of them left. Vixen see's the question in my eyes, and nods.
It's all my fault, for my weakness, the weakness of the wolf within. She see's my pain and drags herself up beside me. Holding me tight. Tyrone too, drags himself in, to slump, his back against Hugin's side, as Boruma climbs into the truck and it starts up again.
"We're done here." He tells me. "We're pulling out, if we can."
The Ambush
Well... Maybe the Chechens weren't as unprepared as all that...
More Valkyrien...
Intellectual Property and Copyright of Myself, Jared G. Juckiewicz,
And warnings of Blood, Violence, Death, Bad Language (I believe), and one or two vaguely sexual references towards the end...
And so, without further ado, let the fun begin...
The village was set in one of the many valleys, a choke point. It was obviously a staging point, but the garrison had seemed weak, and so we had decided to assault it. Everyone had been gathered. Our whole squad. Custer and his Walkers, Tyrone and his Sidhe. The Buteo, the Gryfalcons, the Gryffons, and Hugin Ravenwing. Even the three mortar teams, all had taken their positions. We had never suspected, never dreamed, that it could have been a trap.
Pits had been dug and hidden, filled with wood, doused with oil, dusted with gunpowder. Other things had been added, chemicals and the like. Now, they burned, filling the air with thick, noxious smoke. We were almost blind, our eyes stinging. The air stank such that our heightened senses of smell were no help, and indeed a hindrance, making us recoil at random as the smoke eddied and whirled. Noisemakers had been strewn throughout the village, and incendiaries, going off at random, drawing the attention. The smoke rounds our mortar's had dropped to cover our advance weren't helping. The mortars were quiet now, I don't know why. Could have been to avoid friendly fire, could be they had been ambushed. I'm not sure. Could certainly have been ambush. Every vehicle in the village, more than there should be, is running. The rumble of so many engines throws off our hearing even more, and the exhausts just adds to the miasma tainting the air.
But such considerations simply distract from what is needed. A shadow moves in smoke. I know not if it is foe, or friend, or civilian. I doubt it is friendly, for Vixen and I lead the assault, and she is a pace behind me, and to the left, moving in a low crouch. I can smell her scent, even through the smoke. It soothes my stinging nose, that familiar scent. Well, if it is non-combatant, it should have stayed hidden. My rifle, silenced as it is utters a set of quiet pops. Target down. I continue forward, crouched low. As I reach the body, I nudge it with my foot. My mistake. Stupid woman, running about in a combat zone, especially one as chaotic as this. Ah well. Can't be helped. I'd rather not kill those who mean me no harm, but such mistakes happen. Always have done. Always will. She died of wounds sustained in battle, so Hel will not have her. If I get out of this, I will gift to Freya for the keeping of her soul. For the present, there is simply the hunt. The time passes so slowly, and it seems the trickle of foemen is never ending. A part of my mind whispers that there is more than the garrison we had seen facing us. That just enough are being sent after us to hold us here.
The wind gusts, clearing the smoke for a second before it drifts back to smother us again. And in that moment of clear, clean air, I catch a scent. It has a familiar essence to it, though the details are new. I have known that underlying scent for every day of my life. 'Ulfsbluut' I whisper, and freeze. Letting my mind examine the scent. First, it is a bitch, a female. Born bearing the wolf within. And young. Very young. The Wolf has not yet presented itself. And lastly, there is the acrid tang of fear, but that was to be expected. I restrain the urge to send a reassuring howl. I'm an elder, and decidedly dominant. Were it not for my unwillingness to do so, I would be a pack Alpha. As such, it is almost a compulsion for me to defend those Wolves weaker than me. Movement. I spin around, and then relax, returning to face forward. It's just Illus and Elf. As soon as he is fully visible, he begins making hand gestures.
Foe. Reinforcements. Surrounded. Wait. Rally. Elf is busy sending this message to the others. To Tyrone and his men, it is easy, for they and Elf are Fae, and thus can communicate mind-to-mind. For the Walkers, marginally different. More signals. A point at me. Call. Allies. Form on Me. I nod, and then make a number of high-pitched yips. To those who can assume a canine form, they will have meaning. And to anyone else, it'll just seem like another dog, barking. Slowly, they begin to trickle in, as the net draws ever tighter. Can't hear the silenced pops of their gunfire, but the odd scream is audible, even through the cacaphony surrounding us. So is enemy gunfire, and the sound of our mortars has picked up again. They seem to be dropping smoke rounds. All around our position. The tramp of booted feet begins to sound closer, as the wind gusts again. They are coming now, more than we thought they had to hand. Lots more. Survival begins to look less and less likely. As the wind shifts, the scent of that wolf returns again. Now it is thick with fear, and with pain, and humiliation. Enough that even in the smoke, I can pinpoint it, and the stink is driving me into a rage. My rifle is cast aside, and clothes begin to tear as I shift. The rising fury gives me strength, and mass. As the change continues, torn clothes dropping off my frame, I throw my head back, and roar my rage to the sky. The pain of joints popping and shifting, the red taste as fangs rip their way out of my gums, all simply increases the elemental resolve that has taken me.
They will not put my Kin under the knife. Not whilst I still draw breath. At last the change finishes, and I loose a long, drawn out howl as I leap forward. There is death in that cry, death, and blood, and slaughter. But there is also reassurance, and promise, and hope. My senses sharpen further, cutting through everything meant to break them. I can hear, and smell, and feel those coming behind me, at my back. From above , the harsh caw of the Ravenwing, followed by the screeching crys of broadwing and falcon-formed. As I draw near the approaching mob, red spurts blossom amongst the front lines, as my allies use their weapons. The rapid tattoo of Gryffon-borne miniguns, the crack of the .50 caliber rifle, even the whoosh of the rockets they bear, all music to my ears. I reach the line of those facing me, my fur already dotted with red. Claws rend and tear, my great paws throwing my foes far, to land slumped against whatever they hit. My neck twists and turns, fanged maw snapping here, there, and everywhere.
The smell is stronger now, and I can smell more details. Shed blood. Metal and Canvas. Gunmetal and oil and cordite. She is in the back of a truck. Even as one paw rips a head off it's neck, and the other punches through a rib cage, to draw forth a still-beating heart, I glance about, seeking my quarry. Bullets thud into my flesh, but I am to far gone to feel it. A warrior runs at me screaming, bayonet levelled. I lob the heart into the air, catch it in my mouth, teeth closing with a 'CLOP!'. My fist lashes out, snapping his neck back, even as his blade scores red fire along my chest. There. That's where they are. Another howl, and I lower my head, bracing my neck and begin to run. More fire spreads along my side, and down my back. I care naught for it, throwing and ramming soldiers out of my path. More scents become clear, and my rage redoubles. Pain fades. Fatigue, what little I suffer from, fades. The driver of the truck sees me coming, and begins to accelerate, trying to drive away. A flying leap lands me inside the tailgate, and I drag the first of her tormentors off her. I cast him off the back of the truck, and am rewarded with the sight of the Ravenwing catching him before he hits the ground, spinning in mid-air to cast him aside. Blood streaming from where Hugin's talons gripped, he twirls through the air to crash through the side of a burning building. I turn back. The girl's wolf snarls at me, too far lost to pain to recognise aid.
My fist goes through a neck, and on the backswing knocks a second off the truck. Two bursts of bullets strike me, red-hot spikes stabbing me in the stomach and gut. Before the recoil stitches me up, I've lept for the first, savaging his front with my claws. I leave him moaning and shrieking in pain and turn to the last. He is pointing his gun low, aiming at her face. Seems her jaws, human though they are, are clamped round his heel. Not on my watch. I tear his gun from his grasp, taking his trigger finger with it. Blood spurts to land on her face, and the Wolf in her eagerly turns to drink it. My head lashes forward, and the heavy bone of my skull slams into his. He drops like a rock. I have one last task to do. My hands dip, tearing chains from manacles that loop round wrists and ankles. As the last comes free, the truck lurches. The lass, dragging herself to her feet, staggers. And then the truck jerks sideways. She slams hard against me, and my head slams against the iron bar that held the canvas cover, and then all is blackness.
More Valkyrien...
Intellectual Property and Copyright of Myself, Jared G. Juckiewicz,
And warnings of Blood, Violence, Death, Bad Language (I believe), and one or two vaguely sexual references towards the end...
And so, without further ado, let the fun begin...
The village was set in one of the many valleys, a choke point. It was obviously a staging point, but the garrison had seemed weak, and so we had decided to assault it. Everyone had been gathered. Our whole squad. Custer and his Walkers, Tyrone and his Sidhe. The Buteo, the Gryfalcons, the Gryffons, and Hugin Ravenwing. Even the three mortar teams, all had taken their positions. We had never suspected, never dreamed, that it could have been a trap.
Pits had been dug and hidden, filled with wood, doused with oil, dusted with gunpowder. Other things had been added, chemicals and the like. Now, they burned, filling the air with thick, noxious smoke. We were almost blind, our eyes stinging. The air stank such that our heightened senses of smell were no help, and indeed a hindrance, making us recoil at random as the smoke eddied and whirled. Noisemakers had been strewn throughout the village, and incendiaries, going off at random, drawing the attention. The smoke rounds our mortar's had dropped to cover our advance weren't helping. The mortars were quiet now, I don't know why. Could have been to avoid friendly fire, could be they had been ambushed. I'm not sure. Could certainly have been ambush. Every vehicle in the village, more than there should be, is running. The rumble of so many engines throws off our hearing even more, and the exhausts just adds to the miasma tainting the air.
But such considerations simply distract from what is needed. A shadow moves in smoke. I know not if it is foe, or friend, or civilian. I doubt it is friendly, for Vixen and I lead the assault, and she is a pace behind me, and to the left, moving in a low crouch. I can smell her scent, even through the smoke. It soothes my stinging nose, that familiar scent. Well, if it is non-combatant, it should have stayed hidden. My rifle, silenced as it is utters a set of quiet pops. Target down. I continue forward, crouched low. As I reach the body, I nudge it with my foot. My mistake. Stupid woman, running about in a combat zone, especially one as chaotic as this. Ah well. Can't be helped. I'd rather not kill those who mean me no harm, but such mistakes happen. Always have done. Always will. She died of wounds sustained in battle, so Hel will not have her. If I get out of this, I will gift to Freya for the keeping of her soul. For the present, there is simply the hunt. The time passes so slowly, and it seems the trickle of foemen is never ending. A part of my mind whispers that there is more than the garrison we had seen facing us. That just enough are being sent after us to hold us here.
The wind gusts, clearing the smoke for a second before it drifts back to smother us again. And in that moment of clear, clean air, I catch a scent. It has a familiar essence to it, though the details are new. I have known that underlying scent for every day of my life. 'Ulfsbluut' I whisper, and freeze. Letting my mind examine the scent. First, it is a bitch, a female. Born bearing the wolf within. And young. Very young. The Wolf has not yet presented itself. And lastly, there is the acrid tang of fear, but that was to be expected. I restrain the urge to send a reassuring howl. I'm an elder, and decidedly dominant. Were it not for my unwillingness to do so, I would be a pack Alpha. As such, it is almost a compulsion for me to defend those Wolves weaker than me. Movement. I spin around, and then relax, returning to face forward. It's just Illus and Elf. As soon as he is fully visible, he begins making hand gestures.
Foe. Reinforcements. Surrounded. Wait. Rally. Elf is busy sending this message to the others. To Tyrone and his men, it is easy, for they and Elf are Fae, and thus can communicate mind-to-mind. For the Walkers, marginally different. More signals. A point at me. Call. Allies. Form on Me. I nod, and then make a number of high-pitched yips. To those who can assume a canine form, they will have meaning. And to anyone else, it'll just seem like another dog, barking. Slowly, they begin to trickle in, as the net draws ever tighter. Can't hear the silenced pops of their gunfire, but the odd scream is audible, even through the cacaphony surrounding us. So is enemy gunfire, and the sound of our mortars has picked up again. They seem to be dropping smoke rounds. All around our position. The tramp of booted feet begins to sound closer, as the wind gusts again. They are coming now, more than we thought they had to hand. Lots more. Survival begins to look less and less likely. As the wind shifts, the scent of that wolf returns again. Now it is thick with fear, and with pain, and humiliation. Enough that even in the smoke, I can pinpoint it, and the stink is driving me into a rage. My rifle is cast aside, and clothes begin to tear as I shift. The rising fury gives me strength, and mass. As the change continues, torn clothes dropping off my frame, I throw my head back, and roar my rage to the sky. The pain of joints popping and shifting, the red taste as fangs rip their way out of my gums, all simply increases the elemental resolve that has taken me.
They will not put my Kin under the knife. Not whilst I still draw breath. At last the change finishes, and I loose a long, drawn out howl as I leap forward. There is death in that cry, death, and blood, and slaughter. But there is also reassurance, and promise, and hope. My senses sharpen further, cutting through everything meant to break them. I can hear, and smell, and feel those coming behind me, at my back. From above , the harsh caw of the Ravenwing, followed by the screeching crys of broadwing and falcon-formed. As I draw near the approaching mob, red spurts blossom amongst the front lines, as my allies use their weapons. The rapid tattoo of Gryffon-borne miniguns, the crack of the .50 caliber rifle, even the whoosh of the rockets they bear, all music to my ears. I reach the line of those facing me, my fur already dotted with red. Claws rend and tear, my great paws throwing my foes far, to land slumped against whatever they hit. My neck twists and turns, fanged maw snapping here, there, and everywhere.
The smell is stronger now, and I can smell more details. Shed blood. Metal and Canvas. Gunmetal and oil and cordite. She is in the back of a truck. Even as one paw rips a head off it's neck, and the other punches through a rib cage, to draw forth a still-beating heart, I glance about, seeking my quarry. Bullets thud into my flesh, but I am to far gone to feel it. A warrior runs at me screaming, bayonet levelled. I lob the heart into the air, catch it in my mouth, teeth closing with a 'CLOP!'. My fist lashes out, snapping his neck back, even as his blade scores red fire along my chest. There. That's where they are. Another howl, and I lower my head, bracing my neck and begin to run. More fire spreads along my side, and down my back. I care naught for it, throwing and ramming soldiers out of my path. More scents become clear, and my rage redoubles. Pain fades. Fatigue, what little I suffer from, fades. The driver of the truck sees me coming, and begins to accelerate, trying to drive away. A flying leap lands me inside the tailgate, and I drag the first of her tormentors off her. I cast him off the back of the truck, and am rewarded with the sight of the Ravenwing catching him before he hits the ground, spinning in mid-air to cast him aside. Blood streaming from where Hugin's talons gripped, he twirls through the air to crash through the side of a burning building. I turn back. The girl's wolf snarls at me, too far lost to pain to recognise aid.
My fist goes through a neck, and on the backswing knocks a second off the truck. Two bursts of bullets strike me, red-hot spikes stabbing me in the stomach and gut. Before the recoil stitches me up, I've lept for the first, savaging his front with my claws. I leave him moaning and shrieking in pain and turn to the last. He is pointing his gun low, aiming at her face. Seems her jaws, human though they are, are clamped round his heel. Not on my watch. I tear his gun from his grasp, taking his trigger finger with it. Blood spurts to land on her face, and the Wolf in her eagerly turns to drink it. My head lashes forward, and the heavy bone of my skull slams into his. He drops like a rock. I have one last task to do. My hands dip, tearing chains from manacles that loop round wrists and ankles. As the last comes free, the truck lurches. The lass, dragging herself to her feet, staggers. And then the truck jerks sideways. She slams hard against me, and my head slams against the iron bar that held the canvas cover, and then all is blackness.
Wednesday, 27 April 2011
Another Raid
Back on track now. Well. It looks like it another convoy may have been spotted...
Intellectual property of myself, Jared G. Juckiewicz, and Copyright to the same.
Warnings of Blood and Violence, and Death, but hey, what do you expect, it's Valkyrien...
'Ulfsbluut' I swear quietly, a bullet cracking through the air near my head. They'd made us in our approach. I worm lower, deeper into the leaf litter, and glance up. Above my head, high, high above, a Raven circles. Sensing my gaze, it drops a few hundred feet, then recovers. Check one. I glance to my left. Though I can't see them, I can scent my companions. The dank, earthy smell of the Irish Sidhe, and the Cuain, his hound. From that I can pinpoint my gaze on where they have to be. Not a visible sign. They'll be ready. My gaze shifts to the right. Things have returned to being peaceful. From below I can hear one of the Chechens we tail berating the one who fired. My noze picks up the sharp musky scent of Vixen. I pinpoint her position. Again, no sign. She too will be ready.
We'd zeroed our rifles earlier. Mine had been set to be accurate at a longer range than the others. The Chechens turned to continue moving, and as the last of them turn away, I rise to my knees, fitting the stock against my shoulder. I line the sights up on the man who berated he who fired in my direction. I control my breathing, pulling back on the trigger, applying pressure deliberately. The carved wooden stock slams against my shoulder. It'll bruise, but not for long. The man drops, red blossoming on his camo. I shift the sights to the next warrior to appear to be taking control. Even as I do, I know Vixen and Tyrone and Cutyr will be starting down the hill towards the Chechen flanks. A loud, harsh cry sounds from above me. Seems to be Hugin is on his way as well. A second later a loud crump sounds. Ah, the joys of drop mortars. They're lethal in the trained talons of a Gryffon. Who tend to use them as direct fire weapons. Dive bombing like.
I continue to fire, my rifle cracking out shots steady. Four more rounds before the first scattered fire. It's unaimed, going everywhere bar near me. Or even my companions. I ignore those shots, and continue firing. Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack! Another five, although not every shot is lethal. AK's are not precision weapons, but I fell a couple before the first of them spot me. Sloppy. I've not exactly been concealed since I took my first shot. On the other hand, I knew this was coming. My thumb flicks the AK to safe, even as I swing it round, slinging it on my back. As soon at it be out the way, I dive down the hill. True, it silhouettes me against the hill. But maybe ten, fifteen feet down the hill, there is a thick tangle of brambles. And I am a Wolf. We have no trouble worming through such places. There is a way, a trick and an art to it. Even as I'm worming my way down, with a haste born of danger, I know my companions, my Sword-Brothers and Sister, are making there assault as well. I can hear their fire, echoing out throughout the valley. The harsh crack of the Rifles, firing rapidly and controlled. The dull crump of the Mortar firing, and then the sound of the exploding shells. The screams and cries of the wounded, the bellowed orders of the Chechen commanders.
I reach a hollow in the brambles, and carefully drag my rifle around. I fire off half a dozen aimed rounds, and then begin to worm my forward again. As the brambles begin to open out, I swing round, descending feet first. As soon as my head is clear, I begin to slide down the hill, firing away. The dust I kick up on my way down obscures my vision, so I begin to concentrate on other senses. My hearing as a man is not good enough to pick rifle targets with, nor is my sense of smell. But taken together, I can attain something resembling accuracy. My nostrils flare, taking in the scents of the battlefield. The pine smell of the forests, the acrid scent of smoke. Both woodsmoke from where the exploding shells have lit up deadfall, and powdersmoke. Cordite and hot lead. The ferric tang of blood, the stink of urine and shit. Each and every man alive smells slightly different. In a mob like they are, it becomes a shade harder to pick out individuals, but it can be done. On the other hand, it's easier to aim for the sudden cracks and flare of cordite that follows a shot. So far I've dropped half a dozen. Vixen and Tyrone have managed to drop as many apiece, and whilst Hugin may not have outright slain as many, he's kept them off balance, dispersed. Those that draw near to the fringe on the left flank fall to Cutyr's fangs.
It's enough. They break. The score, perhaps that are left. Cutyr bounds after in pursuit. Hugin dives low, dropping his Mortar as he gets close enough to the ground not to damage it. He then wings off after the foe. Tyrone is running as fast as his stocky legs can carry him, but he's slow. Vixen and I set off at the hunter's lope. Long, swinging strides, that eat up the miles, and that even a normal can mantain for hours. Our steel slides loose from our belts, so very light in our hands, and then we are amongst them. Swinging axe severs flesh from bone. Vixen's knives, sharp as flencing knives, nick and sever vital arteries. With snarls, Cutyr bounds from corpse to corpse, savaging necks and faces with his powerful maw. The harsh cry of a Raven sounds, as Hugin drops on one man, his heavy, broad-bladed beak decapitating his chosen prey. Before the corpse falls, he's on his next. Taloned forepaws tear a man from neck to navel. Within a few short minutes we find ourselves short of nothing bar enemy. No longer in combat. Such a shame. We didn't even take a wound. After the first ambush we made, it's been like this a lot.
At least a dozen small patrols we have ambushed, felling almost every man in each one. Some have been bearing Arms coming back from europe, or in from Russia. A few, bearing drugs headed the other way. One was carrying Women. Farmers daughters, mostly, kidnapped, or even, in a few cases outright bought from their kin. They all survived, and Illus had them Evaced a few days later. They could not be returned home, but Valkyrien will find a place for them. Working directly for us, if need be. We figured that the Chechens would be getting worried, but it hasn't happened yet. Or at least there has been no sign. If they have noticed something going awry, and by this point they have to have, they seem to have done nothing about it.
Ulfsbluut is a favoured curse of Gorm's. means Wolfsblood, basically. Suitable, no?
Intellectual property of myself, Jared G. Juckiewicz, and Copyright to the same.
Warnings of Blood and Violence, and Death, but hey, what do you expect, it's Valkyrien...
'Ulfsbluut' I swear quietly, a bullet cracking through the air near my head. They'd made us in our approach. I worm lower, deeper into the leaf litter, and glance up. Above my head, high, high above, a Raven circles. Sensing my gaze, it drops a few hundred feet, then recovers. Check one. I glance to my left. Though I can't see them, I can scent my companions. The dank, earthy smell of the Irish Sidhe, and the Cuain, his hound. From that I can pinpoint my gaze on where they have to be. Not a visible sign. They'll be ready. My gaze shifts to the right. Things have returned to being peaceful. From below I can hear one of the Chechens we tail berating the one who fired. My noze picks up the sharp musky scent of Vixen. I pinpoint her position. Again, no sign. She too will be ready.
We'd zeroed our rifles earlier. Mine had been set to be accurate at a longer range than the others. The Chechens turned to continue moving, and as the last of them turn away, I rise to my knees, fitting the stock against my shoulder. I line the sights up on the man who berated he who fired in my direction. I control my breathing, pulling back on the trigger, applying pressure deliberately. The carved wooden stock slams against my shoulder. It'll bruise, but not for long. The man drops, red blossoming on his camo. I shift the sights to the next warrior to appear to be taking control. Even as I do, I know Vixen and Tyrone and Cutyr will be starting down the hill towards the Chechen flanks. A loud, harsh cry sounds from above me. Seems to be Hugin is on his way as well. A second later a loud crump sounds. Ah, the joys of drop mortars. They're lethal in the trained talons of a Gryffon. Who tend to use them as direct fire weapons. Dive bombing like.
I continue to fire, my rifle cracking out shots steady. Four more rounds before the first scattered fire. It's unaimed, going everywhere bar near me. Or even my companions. I ignore those shots, and continue firing. Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack! Another five, although not every shot is lethal. AK's are not precision weapons, but I fell a couple before the first of them spot me. Sloppy. I've not exactly been concealed since I took my first shot. On the other hand, I knew this was coming. My thumb flicks the AK to safe, even as I swing it round, slinging it on my back. As soon at it be out the way, I dive down the hill. True, it silhouettes me against the hill. But maybe ten, fifteen feet down the hill, there is a thick tangle of brambles. And I am a Wolf. We have no trouble worming through such places. There is a way, a trick and an art to it. Even as I'm worming my way down, with a haste born of danger, I know my companions, my Sword-Brothers and Sister, are making there assault as well. I can hear their fire, echoing out throughout the valley. The harsh crack of the Rifles, firing rapidly and controlled. The dull crump of the Mortar firing, and then the sound of the exploding shells. The screams and cries of the wounded, the bellowed orders of the Chechen commanders.
I reach a hollow in the brambles, and carefully drag my rifle around. I fire off half a dozen aimed rounds, and then begin to worm my forward again. As the brambles begin to open out, I swing round, descending feet first. As soon as my head is clear, I begin to slide down the hill, firing away. The dust I kick up on my way down obscures my vision, so I begin to concentrate on other senses. My hearing as a man is not good enough to pick rifle targets with, nor is my sense of smell. But taken together, I can attain something resembling accuracy. My nostrils flare, taking in the scents of the battlefield. The pine smell of the forests, the acrid scent of smoke. Both woodsmoke from where the exploding shells have lit up deadfall, and powdersmoke. Cordite and hot lead. The ferric tang of blood, the stink of urine and shit. Each and every man alive smells slightly different. In a mob like they are, it becomes a shade harder to pick out individuals, but it can be done. On the other hand, it's easier to aim for the sudden cracks and flare of cordite that follows a shot. So far I've dropped half a dozen. Vixen and Tyrone have managed to drop as many apiece, and whilst Hugin may not have outright slain as many, he's kept them off balance, dispersed. Those that draw near to the fringe on the left flank fall to Cutyr's fangs.
It's enough. They break. The score, perhaps that are left. Cutyr bounds after in pursuit. Hugin dives low, dropping his Mortar as he gets close enough to the ground not to damage it. He then wings off after the foe. Tyrone is running as fast as his stocky legs can carry him, but he's slow. Vixen and I set off at the hunter's lope. Long, swinging strides, that eat up the miles, and that even a normal can mantain for hours. Our steel slides loose from our belts, so very light in our hands, and then we are amongst them. Swinging axe severs flesh from bone. Vixen's knives, sharp as flencing knives, nick and sever vital arteries. With snarls, Cutyr bounds from corpse to corpse, savaging necks and faces with his powerful maw. The harsh cry of a Raven sounds, as Hugin drops on one man, his heavy, broad-bladed beak decapitating his chosen prey. Before the corpse falls, he's on his next. Taloned forepaws tear a man from neck to navel. Within a few short minutes we find ourselves short of nothing bar enemy. No longer in combat. Such a shame. We didn't even take a wound. After the first ambush we made, it's been like this a lot.
At least a dozen small patrols we have ambushed, felling almost every man in each one. Some have been bearing Arms coming back from europe, or in from Russia. A few, bearing drugs headed the other way. One was carrying Women. Farmers daughters, mostly, kidnapped, or even, in a few cases outright bought from their kin. They all survived, and Illus had them Evaced a few days later. They could not be returned home, but Valkyrien will find a place for them. Working directly for us, if need be. We figured that the Chechens would be getting worried, but it hasn't happened yet. Or at least there has been no sign. If they have noticed something going awry, and by this point they have to have, they seem to have done nothing about it.
Ulfsbluut is a favoured curse of Gorm's. means Wolfsblood, basically. Suitable, no?
Tuesday, 26 April 2011
Oops... Red Rock and The Howl.
Well. After I finished posting up 'On The Trail' I decided to sort my Valkyrien stories into something resembling Chronological order. And discovered that these two were meant to preceed it. They be set immediately following medicine...
Intellectual property of myself, Jared G. Juckiewicz.
And they be Valkyrien tales, so by now you should know what to expect...
Dusk. Awareness returning. The dull flame of wounds closing. The rustle of leaves outside the cave. Breath, drawing in and out. The feel of Vixen nestled into my side, waking as well. A measure of our injuries that we did not snap instantly aware. Easy enough to pack up, the little camp stove, the tiny tin pot, the bag of herbs and spirits. And then, to catch up to our companions, unwounded as they are. But first, to feed. Healing is hungry work. I send Vixen on ahead, I to follow after. A beast's habit that. A group never leaves hiding all at once. Normally, I would lead, but there be business I need to see to first, before I leave the little cave.
You see, I bear the blood of the Wolf In Ribbon Twined. An old Kenning for Fenrir or Fenris. The Bound Wolf, Suneater, Trickster's Spawn, Wristbiter, Handtaker, Alfadr's Bane. All the Wolfen folk of the North are his children, those few of us that are left. And that blood, it is not wholly of this realm. The Earth, it will not embrace it, and it is left to pool on the surface. There are those beasts that sup on it, when they find it. Ravens and Wolves in the main, the servants of the Masked One-Eye. But, where we can, there is another way. Soft, low, I whisper some ancient words, drawing a circle of runes in the ground. The meaning of both is long since forgot, the ways to put the will needed behind known to but a few. I am one of those few. I watch as the crimson drops roll into the circle, gathering in its midst. An orb of deepest red rises, floating just above the ground, and as the last of my shed blood joins it, it flashes, and there, hovering, is a stone, rough, dark, irregular. But pretty enough, for all that.
There are Wizards, Mages, and Sorcerors, who even in these fallen days would pay king's ransoms for that pebble. There is power in that pebble, the heart and soul of the Wolf. I grip it tightly, as I set out after Vixen, to feed on the slain, and then set out after those who went on ahead.
The moon is full and bright. The night air is crisp and bracing. The ground, soft and springy as my four padded feet strike the ground. I move swiftly, a grey streak, nary more than a shadow, racing through the moons glow. Beside me, a red blur keeps pace. The musky smell of fox is thick in my nostrils, mingling with the clean scent of the pine woods around us, and the odour of deep earth that marks the Irish Sidhe. We run as beasts, following the trail of our friends, those who have stood asides us in the fray. We bear no burdens, bar a single reddish pebble, tucked beneath my tongue. The trees flash by, and from where we are, we can see the track, running along under the clear sky. Not for us the straight, flat ground. We vault roots, dodge trees, wriggle through and over and under bushes. 'Tis invigorating. It almost makes us forget our wounds, the rips in flesh and muscle where soft lead rent and tore, not so long ago, already sealing up.
My sides bell out, lungs filling, and I spin, settling to my haunches. My gaze flits to the great silvered orb, hovering so high above. I cannot help it, none of my kindred could. A long, drawn-out howl flees my throat, the happy sound of the Wolf on the hunt. A thought strikes me, and a second howl is drawn forth, a melancholy sounding thing. Ah, Mighty Grandfather, One day you will know the joy of the hunt again. One day, and soon as we immortals judge such things. I spin back onto my path, and set off again at the lope, the little red fox running at my side gazing at me inquisitively. The first howl, she would surely understand, for she too knows the joy of the hunt, of the chase. The pleasure of the swift running, that comes with knowing the quarry draws nigh. The glory of that final moment when the prey is brought to bay, when the whole world boils down to ones skill, the fang and the claw, the horn and the hoof. When everything is that one singular point in time, where everything hinges solely on speed and strength, agility and grace. Where nothing else matters, win or lose, live or die.
But the second, oh, the second. Only one born to the bloodline of the Trickster's spawn can know. Only one who in the past has been bound, helpless, and had a hand in his own binding, no less, can feel it sooth. The pain of he who was tied, with his own acceptance, only to find he could not break free. The sorrow of the one tricked into bondage, by those with whom his only quarrel had been forced upon him. A snarl leaves my lips, as I think on the betrayal, so long ago. I do not lay the blame on those who made the deal, and nor does old grandfather Wolf. We lay the blame at the feet of he who gave grandfather his nature. One day there'll be a reckoning, and The Brother's Bane will meet his own. For now though, I have the forest trail beneath my feet, and the wind ruffles my fur. One I trust, closer than any kin, strides beside me, and the trail stretches before us, a trail poor blind Hlod could follow. Life, for now, is good.
Intellectual property of myself, Jared G. Juckiewicz.
And they be Valkyrien tales, so by now you should know what to expect...
Dusk. Awareness returning. The dull flame of wounds closing. The rustle of leaves outside the cave. Breath, drawing in and out. The feel of Vixen nestled into my side, waking as well. A measure of our injuries that we did not snap instantly aware. Easy enough to pack up, the little camp stove, the tiny tin pot, the bag of herbs and spirits. And then, to catch up to our companions, unwounded as they are. But first, to feed. Healing is hungry work. I send Vixen on ahead, I to follow after. A beast's habit that. A group never leaves hiding all at once. Normally, I would lead, but there be business I need to see to first, before I leave the little cave.
You see, I bear the blood of the Wolf In Ribbon Twined. An old Kenning for Fenrir or Fenris. The Bound Wolf, Suneater, Trickster's Spawn, Wristbiter, Handtaker, Alfadr's Bane. All the Wolfen folk of the North are his children, those few of us that are left. And that blood, it is not wholly of this realm. The Earth, it will not embrace it, and it is left to pool on the surface. There are those beasts that sup on it, when they find it. Ravens and Wolves in the main, the servants of the Masked One-Eye. But, where we can, there is another way. Soft, low, I whisper some ancient words, drawing a circle of runes in the ground. The meaning of both is long since forgot, the ways to put the will needed behind known to but a few. I am one of those few. I watch as the crimson drops roll into the circle, gathering in its midst. An orb of deepest red rises, floating just above the ground, and as the last of my shed blood joins it, it flashes, and there, hovering, is a stone, rough, dark, irregular. But pretty enough, for all that.
There are Wizards, Mages, and Sorcerors, who even in these fallen days would pay king's ransoms for that pebble. There is power in that pebble, the heart and soul of the Wolf. I grip it tightly, as I set out after Vixen, to feed on the slain, and then set out after those who went on ahead.
The moon is full and bright. The night air is crisp and bracing. The ground, soft and springy as my four padded feet strike the ground. I move swiftly, a grey streak, nary more than a shadow, racing through the moons glow. Beside me, a red blur keeps pace. The musky smell of fox is thick in my nostrils, mingling with the clean scent of the pine woods around us, and the odour of deep earth that marks the Irish Sidhe. We run as beasts, following the trail of our friends, those who have stood asides us in the fray. We bear no burdens, bar a single reddish pebble, tucked beneath my tongue. The trees flash by, and from where we are, we can see the track, running along under the clear sky. Not for us the straight, flat ground. We vault roots, dodge trees, wriggle through and over and under bushes. 'Tis invigorating. It almost makes us forget our wounds, the rips in flesh and muscle where soft lead rent and tore, not so long ago, already sealing up.
My sides bell out, lungs filling, and I spin, settling to my haunches. My gaze flits to the great silvered orb, hovering so high above. I cannot help it, none of my kindred could. A long, drawn-out howl flees my throat, the happy sound of the Wolf on the hunt. A thought strikes me, and a second howl is drawn forth, a melancholy sounding thing. Ah, Mighty Grandfather, One day you will know the joy of the hunt again. One day, and soon as we immortals judge such things. I spin back onto my path, and set off again at the lope, the little red fox running at my side gazing at me inquisitively. The first howl, she would surely understand, for she too knows the joy of the hunt, of the chase. The pleasure of the swift running, that comes with knowing the quarry draws nigh. The glory of that final moment when the prey is brought to bay, when the whole world boils down to ones skill, the fang and the claw, the horn and the hoof. When everything is that one singular point in time, where everything hinges solely on speed and strength, agility and grace. Where nothing else matters, win or lose, live or die.
But the second, oh, the second. Only one born to the bloodline of the Trickster's spawn can know. Only one who in the past has been bound, helpless, and had a hand in his own binding, no less, can feel it sooth. The pain of he who was tied, with his own acceptance, only to find he could not break free. The sorrow of the one tricked into bondage, by those with whom his only quarrel had been forced upon him. A snarl leaves my lips, as I think on the betrayal, so long ago. I do not lay the blame on those who made the deal, and nor does old grandfather Wolf. We lay the blame at the feet of he who gave grandfather his nature. One day there'll be a reckoning, and The Brother's Bane will meet his own. For now though, I have the forest trail beneath my feet, and the wind ruffles my fur. One I trust, closer than any kin, strides beside me, and the trail stretches before us, a trail poor blind Hlod could follow. Life, for now, is good.
Monday, 25 April 2011
On The Trail.
I know it's been a while since I last put a story up, but time has come to remedy this. I've been writing a reasonable amount lately, but it's all been set after the present interlude... This has now been remedied...
Anyway, Intellectual property of myself, Jared G. Juckiewicz... Not much violence, mostly just setting the stage for the next one...
The fires of the wounds I had taken has dimmed now. Only a dull throb remains. What little lead had been left within me festered out by the following dawn. By now, the dusk after, I feel fine, more or less. As does Vixen. Better than fine, in fact. We have caught up with our companions, Tyrone and Cutyr, and the black Gryffon, Hugin Ravenwing. We are all properly armed now. Admittedly,'tis with AK's, which are not the most modern of weapons, but effective enough. The best of it is, Hugin managed to track down the mules we'd stampeded. Some had carried drugs to be shipped west, now destroyed. And money, claimed for our own. A tip, a gratuity if you will. And the other two had carried a small mortar and many, many rounds of ammo.
We no longer cared what Illus' orders had been. To be perfectly fair, we hadn't in the first. Send a wolf, especially one named after the Devourer of Souls, Hel's own Hound, alongside a Kitsune with the blood of the Wykingr and Samurai, and a Fae Sidhe of Irish heritage, Gall-Gaelidh no less, out to scout, there is no way you'll keep them from the shedding of blood. We'd figured it was open season from the time we'd left camp. And now the hunters were armed. To the teeth, as it were. Which in the case of three of the five of us, were weapons as well, seeing as Cutyr is Cuain Sidhe. Oh. And Hugin's beak is nasty. It might not be curved and razored like those of most of the broadwinged Gryffons, or even the faster, lighter Gryfalcon. No, his is the heavy, blade-like beak of a Raven, a carrion-eater. Built for ripping through flesh toughened by age and rigor mortis, for cracking bone and tearing drying hide. All told, we should be more than a match for the two score left of the party we took these weapons from.
We were on their trail the now. They'd left one poor blind Hlod could have followed, afore Bragi slew him. It was good. It meant Vixen and I could follow it without changing. Which meant we could use such things as firearms. Which meant we might actually manage to take them without getting shot to pieces. And it gets better. I'd been out this way before. Spent a decade or so up here with a Varangian garrison. We were getting into the lands I'd patrolled. Lands where we Varyaags had hidden caches. The food would be gone, rotted and useless. But the steel should still be good. It had been good steel, and had been stored safely, wrapped in oiled cloth and oiled canvas and oiled leather, to keep out water, and then packed tight in peat to keep out air and rust. A few light spells tacked on, for no few of the Varyaags were not exactly human, and they should be easily obtainable. Armour too, and even the odd uniform. Perhaps we could present our foes with the appearance of ghosts from the past, put the fear of the King of the Greek in him.
Anyway. Some explanations.
Gorm is the name of the Wolf that guards the bridge that leads to Niflheim, the halls of the dishonoured dead. He is the devourer of those souls that try to escape, or that displease Hel in some way.
Wykingr is an Archaic form of the word Viking.
Fae Sidhe means Faerie Elf in Irish Gaelic.
Cuain Sidhe is a mishmash of Irish Gael and Scots Gael, which I believe means Elf Hound, Or rather Hound of Elves.
Hlod was one of the Norse gods. He was blind, and that disability made it possible for Loki to trick him into killing his brother, a deed for which Bragi killed him. Hence the poor blind Hlod statement...
Varyaags is one of the many names for the members of the Varangian Guard, short for Varyaags of Miklagaard. Don't ask for a translation, I don't have one...
The King of the Greek refers to the emperor of the Eastern Roman Empire/Byzantine Empire. Which was effectively greek and based out of modern day Istanbul...
Oh. and Gall-Gaedhil is also Irish Gael and refers to those Gaels, be they Irish, or Scot, and often Hebridean Islanders, who adopted Norse ways.
Anyway, Intellectual property of myself, Jared G. Juckiewicz... Not much violence, mostly just setting the stage for the next one...
The fires of the wounds I had taken has dimmed now. Only a dull throb remains. What little lead had been left within me festered out by the following dawn. By now, the dusk after, I feel fine, more or less. As does Vixen. Better than fine, in fact. We have caught up with our companions, Tyrone and Cutyr, and the black Gryffon, Hugin Ravenwing. We are all properly armed now. Admittedly,'tis with AK's, which are not the most modern of weapons, but effective enough. The best of it is, Hugin managed to track down the mules we'd stampeded. Some had carried drugs to be shipped west, now destroyed. And money, claimed for our own. A tip, a gratuity if you will. And the other two had carried a small mortar and many, many rounds of ammo.
We no longer cared what Illus' orders had been. To be perfectly fair, we hadn't in the first. Send a wolf, especially one named after the Devourer of Souls, Hel's own Hound, alongside a Kitsune with the blood of the Wykingr and Samurai, and a Fae Sidhe of Irish heritage, Gall-Gaelidh no less, out to scout, there is no way you'll keep them from the shedding of blood. We'd figured it was open season from the time we'd left camp. And now the hunters were armed. To the teeth, as it were. Which in the case of three of the five of us, were weapons as well, seeing as Cutyr is Cuain Sidhe. Oh. And Hugin's beak is nasty. It might not be curved and razored like those of most of the broadwinged Gryffons, or even the faster, lighter Gryfalcon. No, his is the heavy, blade-like beak of a Raven, a carrion-eater. Built for ripping through flesh toughened by age and rigor mortis, for cracking bone and tearing drying hide. All told, we should be more than a match for the two score left of the party we took these weapons from.
We were on their trail the now. They'd left one poor blind Hlod could have followed, afore Bragi slew him. It was good. It meant Vixen and I could follow it without changing. Which meant we could use such things as firearms. Which meant we might actually manage to take them without getting shot to pieces. And it gets better. I'd been out this way before. Spent a decade or so up here with a Varangian garrison. We were getting into the lands I'd patrolled. Lands where we Varyaags had hidden caches. The food would be gone, rotted and useless. But the steel should still be good. It had been good steel, and had been stored safely, wrapped in oiled cloth and oiled canvas and oiled leather, to keep out water, and then packed tight in peat to keep out air and rust. A few light spells tacked on, for no few of the Varyaags were not exactly human, and they should be easily obtainable. Armour too, and even the odd uniform. Perhaps we could present our foes with the appearance of ghosts from the past, put the fear of the King of the Greek in him.
Anyway. Some explanations.
Gorm is the name of the Wolf that guards the bridge that leads to Niflheim, the halls of the dishonoured dead. He is the devourer of those souls that try to escape, or that displease Hel in some way.
Wykingr is an Archaic form of the word Viking.
Fae Sidhe means Faerie Elf in Irish Gaelic.
Cuain Sidhe is a mishmash of Irish Gael and Scots Gael, which I believe means Elf Hound, Or rather Hound of Elves.
Hlod was one of the Norse gods. He was blind, and that disability made it possible for Loki to trick him into killing his brother, a deed for which Bragi killed him. Hence the poor blind Hlod statement...
Varyaags is one of the many names for the members of the Varangian Guard, short for Varyaags of Miklagaard. Don't ask for a translation, I don't have one...
The King of the Greek refers to the emperor of the Eastern Roman Empire/Byzantine Empire. Which was effectively greek and based out of modern day Istanbul...
Oh. and Gall-Gaedhil is also Irish Gael and refers to those Gaels, be they Irish, or Scot, and often Hebridean Islanders, who adopted Norse ways.
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