# The Claw: Fury of Wolves



## darkreever

Fenris, a ferocious and ever changing world of fire and ice, unforgiving as it undoes the life of the weak while the strongest struggle to survive. In records, Fenris is little more than a harsh deathworld of ice, floating in space near the innermost sectors of Segmentum Obscuras. To those who know, those who call it home, Fenris is more than just a world of cold and death. It is a place where warriors are made, gods walk amongst men to venture across the stars and defeat the horrors therein. These warriors are the Space Wolves, who some might declare as barbarians and others heroes’ greater than any other.


High upon the greatest mountain of Fenris’s largest continent, Asaheim, lies the Fang; mighty fortress of the Space Wolves and one of the most impenetrable bastions in all of the Imperium of man. This fortress, this hollowed mountain, serves as home to the Space Wolves, piercing the very sky like a spear pointed towards the great moon.

All; The Fang looms high in the distance, even so far away as it is now, on the mountain cliffs at the edge of Asaheim. You look to it for a few moments before turning to the fire and the other forms gathered around it. It had been two months since you had last set foot in the halls of the Fang, in that time you had traveled across half of Asaheim on foot tracking a great razor-ursid. For some of you, this is not the first of such ventures, but rather a tradition that held its place from your former leader Kjarl. But for others amongst you, the tracking of the great beast was the first true act with your pack-brothers, with your claw.

The journey had been long, you had been dropped at the edges of northern Asaheim to seek the tracks of one of the continents deadly creatures. Clad only in furs and armed only with spears and knives, you had discovered tracks of a razor-ursid and stalked the beast. The creature, from the tracks alone, was a massive one, easily four times the mass of any of you and greater in size, and adding to that it was a wizened beast for it had eluded your pursuit on a number of occasions. One week ago, the hunt came to its climax when you had happened upon the creature, catching it downwind of your scent during a storm.

You and your brothers had come upon the creature, fighting a shifting game of cat and mouse as some took up advanced positions to surprise the creature while others acted as bait. Once, the creature had cornered Tyr along a cliff face, nearly ending the wolf’s life if not for the quick thinking of Keris and Frostulfr, offering their larger brother support to escape the cliff face and climb higher. It had been Krahl who struck the killing blow, shoving Alrik aside and nearly into the path of the beasts massive claw so that he could thrust his spear into the creatures eye, circumventing the armoured bone, and into its brain.

Alrik, Yngvar, Tyr, Frostulfr, Heimdall, Njord, Krahl, Azhad, Hrothgar, and Kjartan; You gather around the fire that you had managed to build, kept mostly alight from what fat remained of the ursid. Over the flames the smell of cooked meet washed over your senses, the smell of the last of the creatures meat that you had taken with you being cooked. The fight had been a truly epic one, something that would impress other claws, of that you were certain. But still, there was but one more task left to be done, to return to the Fang with the pelt as proof of your kill and completion of this task. As you sit around the fire, upon a flat overlooking some of the mountain ridges between you and home, Alrik and Tyr tell tales of past glories, of the fighting on Hecutor for Tyr and the Horrors lurking within a space hulk for Alrik.

Vermundr, Iorek, and Keris; You also sit by the fire, but there is something else on your mind, an obstacle still in your way from here and the Fang. Before you had set off on this hunt, Vermundr had sought the approval of Ragnar Blackmane, liege-lord of the young pack leader’s company. Permission had been granted with amusement, with a word of warning given before the two had parted ways months ago. Others would be watching them, to try and block their success and rob the pack of its glory were it to lax. In these two months, there had been no sign of who, or what, lord Blackmane had warned Vermundr of and now that they were returning to the Fang it was all the more likely that they would soon encounter it.

In these weeks, Vermundr had spoken of this warning to Iorek and Keris, not entirely sure of its meaning but wanting others aware. Now though, you contemplate on who, or what, the warning may speak of and whether or not it be best to reveal this to the others of the pack.

[Hello everyone, welcome to the start of Fury. Not much going on in regards to action, more of a little introduction for you lot; let you interact with one another and recall the last few months of your lives. About seven months ago, the _Fist of Russ_ returned to Fenris and the Pack had been reforged to twelve strong. In the following five months, you had trained together, become a family. For some of you, this has been an adjustment, being the ‘older’ wolves when not so long ago you had been much the same. For others, to be chosen by someone under the eye of a wolf lord, was an honour you had only dreamed of since your trials had ended.

The Fang is little more than a day’s journey away from here; what are your thoughts on these last two months? What about the next twenty four hours, in the case of those aware of the warning?]


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## BlackApostleVilhelm

Tyr had the full attention of his younger pack brothers as he told them war stories of Hecutor. He was currently at the part where he, Alrik and Morgun had defended a Comms room from inumerable traitor guard before finally breaking their enemy's back as the rest of the pack met up with them with the Inquisitor. 

*"That's when four Ogryn made their way through the broken blast doors, uglier than Alrik himself, and yes that is possible."* he nodded his head to emphasize this before continuing, *"They shot at us wildly as they ran into the room, their human allies filling with courage as they saw this and coming back at us with more energy, but we would not have it. We charged at the beasts, howls upon our lips as we cut into them, and they cut into us,"* he pointed at the huge mass of gnarled scar tissue on the right side of his chest where the Ogryn had torn into him with its massive blade.

He went on to tell about the battles after the rest of the pack had met up with them and their second encounter with the traitor legionaires and finally reaching the final battle aboard the Fist of Russ with the deaths of a few of the legionaires and the escape of the sorceror. *"Traitors have no backbone brothers, remember that, they are so weak willed it is disgusting."* he leaned in close to the fire so that it lit up his face, *"But there is no better feeling then pounding a traitor into the dust and killing them so deep that they feel your hatred for them even after they are dead. You know what I do to traitors and cowards?"* 

He punched his left hand into his bionic hand as leaned back and looked at Hrothgar who was sitting to his left before saying, *"I break them."* he stared at his pack brother with a serious face for awhile as a silence came over them all, he strung it out as long as possible before breaking into a large smile and slapping his packmate across the back as he laughed, *"Come Alrik you can talk just as much as I can, tell them some stories to ease the pain of looking at your face."* he chuckled at his little joke as he crossed his massive arms across his even larger chest as he thought about returning to the Fang. 

It was very close, not over 24 hours away, he fancied he could smell the mead and roasted meat in the dining halls. His mind fell back to when he had been cornered on a cliff face by the mighty beast they had been hunting, he was most certainly not the best cliff climber of this he was certain, there was usually never enough space for him. He had had no room to move and knew himself dead had Keris and Frostulfr not come to help him so that he could pull himself higher up onto the cliff face. One of the few times he had thought himself fat, he had told himself to not eat as much when he got back to the Fang but he knew it wasn't going to happen, he would have eaten that whole razor-ursid if his brothers had allowed him to. 

He flexed his right hand and looked down at the bionic replacement, moving each finger seperately and then together. He could see part of the scar tissue on his chest and thought about all the scars that their pack now had, they had truly been through much at Hecutor and that campaign had scarred each of them in a different way. Many of them bore blatant physical scars from that campaign, him, Alrik, Iorek, but all of them had been changed mentally. They had lost a lot of brothers to the traitors including their own pack leader Kjarl. At the thought of his old pack leader Tyr fingered the necklace around his neck, his lord had given it to him from Kjarl's own personal armory and it had meant more to the large wolf than Blackmane could have ever imagined. 

It had numerous runes of protection and bravery on it but one large one stuck out the most and was set right in the middle, the rune of the guardian, this coupled with Tyr's belief that he was here to protect his brothers and his lord had given him much inner strength and he had yet to take the necklace off after receiving it. Without realizing it his normal hand came up and he touched the large burn mark that covered the majority of the left side of his face and then the scar on his chest. He had suffered grievous wounds on Hecutor yet when he had received them he had thought almost nothing of them, instead using them to fuel his hate for his enemy, now he realized how close to death he and many of his brothers had come to and come out on top. 

He smiled at the thought, that had to be one of the reasons Lord Blackmane liked fighting alongside them, they had the luck of an older pack but the burning vibrant and sometimes hard to control fire of the younger wolves, he fancied that they reminded Blackmane of himself when he was young....er. He was getting anxious now just sitting here around the fire, he wasnt showing it but he didnt like waiting here and then heading to the Fang in the morning, his breathing quickened a little bit but not too much as he sat and listened to the rest of the pack talking.


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## Serpion5

*Krahl*

Krahl`s grin had not left his face since the beast had been felled. The spear he had used stuck in his grip like an extension of his own arm, for reasons most wouldn`t bother to guess. Krahl had claimed vigilance of course, for who knew what kind of creatures may come across the party at any time, drawn by the scent of cooking meat or the noise of a group of travellers. 

In truth however, Krahl was reluctant to relinquish the feel of such power in his hands. With this very spear he had killed the great ursid. With this kill he had accomplished the Claw`s task. Why shouldn`t he savour this glory? 

He sat opposite the fire to Tyr as the older pack brother told his tale, a compelling story of tainted brutes that had given the grizzled wolf the scars he bore down his chest. Cracking a few jokes at Alrik`s expense and drawing a few laughs from Krahl among others, Tyr passed the torch to Alrik. 

Krahl took a moment to stare into the fire as the laughter receded. Perhaps only slightly, the grip on his spear had begun to relax, and he lowered the weapon to the ground. Momentarily he noticed a few of the older pack brothers had remained oddly silent by comparison. Not in a cold way, but even so, they seemed distracted. 

_Bah, it`s none of my concern what gripes they may have._ Krahl told himself. _We won, and we`ll be home in a day. If they wish to grieve their former brothers I will leave that to them._

The lapse in his attention was quickly put aside as Alrik began to speak.


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## unxpekted22

Vermundr watched carefully for the longest time. He had absolutely taken his duties as pack leader to heart. He hadn't realized it before, but going from what was technically the temporary leader to a permanent one made a huge difference. He scanned over each of the new faces time, and time, and time again.

"_So many thin faces in the pack,"_ he said to his two pack brothers Keris and Iorek who sat beside him on a fairly flat but large rock, which had likely been part of the nearest mountain ages ago. Keris was facing in the opposite direction, looking off into the distance. "_not that I have much on them really, but I'd say its pretty clear by their faces alone how new they are._

He sat with one arm across his knee, his other hand gripping the thin but strong threads of rope that tied the pelt into a bundle, which lay on the cold stiff ground by his feet, the countless hairs which still looked alive fluttering in the breeze. Vermundr's nose caught the breeze as well, and he turned his head, catching eye of a distant but likely approaching storm. He turned back to face the fire again, surrounded by large bodied Astartes freshly made for war.

"_Some of these thin faces have definitely stuck out to me more than others. Krahl is one of course, but I doubt I am the only one of us three sitting on this rock who knows Alrik will not let Krahl's actions go unchecked." _

Vermundr had attacked the Ursid himself as little as possible during the fight with it, trying to allow each of the new pack members a chance at experience, as well as further practicing his own ability at giving command and keeping morale. 

"_Though this venture has taken longer than I expected it to, I am certainly glad we have what we sought for,"_ he gave a hard pat to the enormous pelt, "and with no casualties."

he paused for a moment making sure Iorek and Keris were both thinking the same thing he was before saying it,_ "Whatever our Lord warned us about, their last chances at stopping our successful return is quickly approaching. With only one day left of travel, any attack or act of thievery would have to be made soon. Likely in the sooner half at that, as I cant imagine any rivals committing their deviant act at the base of Asaheim. "_

_"With only a day left, I see little harm, if any, in telling the rest of our pack here. It would be better to have all eyes looking sharp, and all toes ready to pounce. Would you agree brothers?"_


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## revan4559

Hrothgar sits with his pack mates around the fire as he listens to the older wolves tell the stories of their recent battles, listening intently Hrothgar merely wishes that he was a few years older and that he had been chosen earlier as he then could of maybe joined the older wolves when their claw was first made instead of joining several months later on. Hrothgar continues to listening intently to Tyr with a grin on his face when Tyr says about breaking traitors and cowards who have turned away from the All-Father. As Tyr turns and gives Hrothgar a silent and serious stare Hrothgar's face twists into a frown wondering why Tyr is looking at him like that before he ends up laughing and gets slapped arcross the back by the older wolf. Letting out a laugh aswell and slapping Tyr on the back he says in his usual loud voice "That was a great tale Tyr! One day i hope i will be able to top that with one of my own!". As Tyr goes silent Hrothgar turns his attention from his pack brothers and stares in the direction of the Fang, his home.

While turning his attention to the direction of their destination Hrothgar starts to think on how he misses the fang that has become his new home and where all of his brother-wolves currently reside while not doing Russ's and the All-Fathers work amongst the stars. As Hrothgar continues to think on the fang he does his best to remember the events that led him to where he is now, and what little he remember of his previous life. He remembers the battle in which he had been 'killed' and picked by the Wolf Priests of the Space Wolves chapter to be taken for the trials and tests to become one of Russ's wolves. While thinking on the basic training and the more advanced training after that he remembers that only one wolf within this claw has been beside him from the very beginning and who he hopes will be with him until the very end, Frostulfr.

Turning his head to look at his brother-wolf Hrothgar remembers all the times he and Frostulfr have trained together and their maby brawls other things that are of no importance to the other members of the pack. Finally looking away from Frostulfr Hrothgar returns his attention to the ursid meat currently cooking about the fire they had managed to build, his new enhanced sense of smell picking up the rich flavours that he had some to enjoy over the last few days of eating the creatures meat. As a small bit of saliva runs down from the left side of his mouth Hrothgar runs his tongue over his lips and his new fangs which he is still getting used to. He remembers when they had started to grow after receiving the implants that made him into an astartes he had bitten his tongue on a number of times due to not being used to their size and sharpness, but now he was starting to get used to them. As he continued to smell the flavours and scent of the cooking meat infront of him Hrothgar's inner wolf wanted to force him to leap forward and sieze it with his fangs but he knew he must do all he can to surpress his inner wolf as allowing it to take hold would mean his degeneration from a noble warrior into one of the feral wulfen.

Hrothgar looked left and right at his pack mates before wondering who was going to take the next part of the ursid meat so he decide to try and luck to take part of the meat which he remembered would of been part of the creatures flank. As he reached out towards the meat he saw a hand to his left reach out towards it aswell, letting out a small growl Hrothgar turned his head to see Frostulfr reaching for the meat aswell. With his inner wolf snarling a challenge Hrothgar knew exactly what to do. "Frostulfr! you are trying to reach for the piece i am reaching for! Let us settle this in our usual way! With an arm wrestle. What say you!?"


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## BlackGuard

It was cold, but hell, it was always damn cold on Fenris. Kjaratan rotated his neck around, being rewarded with a few cracks and pops, has he attempted to alleviate the tension. Their task was complete, but not without due suffering and sacrifice, their time in the wilderness had been exhilarating, it had been a test, a chance for him to prove his worth to his pack brothers, to make an initial place for himself within the claw. He had failed in this task. He wasn't even particularly close to the razor-ursid when it was slain by Krahl, albeit done so with less than disciplined decisions. The pack-brother had simply shoved Alrik out of the way and claimed the kill himself. For that he was still considered the slayer of the beast, so doubt, but Kjartan couldn't help but not feel pride for his brother. 

Still, he had contributed only so much to this task and therefore couldn't raise complaint to anything his pack-brothers had done. Putting the thought from his mind he turned his head, half-hearing the story being told by Tyr, and gazed at the Fang. A days travel if weather and conditions permitted, although Fenris was a fickle world, one almost with a mind of its own. Once they returned great stories would be told by his brothers, especially Krahl for slaying the razor-ursid, and a number of his other brothers. He would be oddly silent he knew, he wasn't a braggart ... well not as much as some within the claw, but he still wanted great stories of his own.

_'Soon ...'_ he thought solemnly, _'There will be some Ork warboss or some heretic who demands to be killed and I'll claim my stories from their death ...'_

His mind somewhat at ease, Kjartan turned his head back towards the fire, just in time to hear Tyr's story come to its relative conclusion as he seemed to pass it onto Alrik. Kjartan gave a general grunt of amusement, the story had been funny even though he'd only kept his mind half-attentive to it.


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## komanko

The journey had been long, it was not a trivial task for Frostulfr and for many of the other pack brothers to track the great Razor – Ursid and slay it. A deadly beast it was, yet still there were other things which presented more danger then this beast and this comforted Frostulfr. He did not bother with the tracking and let the more experienced pack members track it down for him, he understood from what they said that it was a rather large Ursid, this made him even harder to kill and much more dangerous. They tracked it for a long time, none gave up, not the beast and neither did they, it was a wise creature, at least tactically as it managed to avoid them on several occasions but this ended a week ago when they finally traced the creature finding it as he was on the run away from them. Frostulfr managed a smile then, he knew that the journey home will begin shortly. 

Unlike Alrik or Krahl, he did not participate in the killing of the beast, instead Keris and he helped Pack Brother Tyr escape from the clutches of the beast by helping him climb up a cliff to escape the beasts range of attack, from there Frostulf watched as the battle unfolded, he saw how Krahl pushed Alrik aside so he would be able to strike the killing blow, although it was a great feat to kill such a beast it still was foolish of him to push Alrik in this way as he would have been brutally wounded easily by the creature if Krahl missed the strike, luckily he did not.

Frostulfr returned to reality, blinking several times he refocused on his surroundings. He was staring at the fire in front of him, it kept his body warm, a gust of wind passed which resulted in him tightening the wolven pelts he had, even for a Fenrisian the weather was never to warm in this time of the year. The smell of the beast did not leave the pack as it was used to keep the fire burning, it was a good pack, he did not dislike anyone here yet but maybe it will change and he also got to keep his friend Hrothgar with him, they’ve been through the harsh training together, and both of them survived each with the others help. Moving forward Frostulf torn a piece from the creatures meat and stuffed it in his mouth, it tasted well. As he sat there he could hear his pack brothers talking, mainly Tyr who was sharing stories about the Hecutor campaign he participated in. Frostulfr reminded himself to keep his senses sharp and not to drown in the pleasure of the kill as they still had the task of returning the pelt to the Fang. 

Frostulfr had noticed something; it was not the first time that he noticed that yet it occurred to him every time anew. There was some sort of a barrier between the older pack brothers and the younger. It was weird, maybe they have gone through terrible things in the time before the new members’ arrival. He sighed, he hoped that soon this barrier would shatter and they will be able to act as a whole and not as two different packs.

Deciding that food will take his mind of such things Frostulfr moved his hand towards a piece of the creature’s flank, as he reached out with his hand he heard a growl of dissatisfaction, looking to his right he saw Horthgar, apparently the man already eyed that piece, Frostulfr was about the back away as he did not want to get into a brawl yet it seemed inevitable, snarling Hrothgar shouted at him, challenging him to an arm wrestle for the piece of meat, before he could verbally agreed he already knew that the fight was on, he won’t let this challenge go unanswered. Nastily smiling back at Hrothgar, Frostulfr bellowed back at him, “*I accept your challenge*!” Frostulfr knew that he was stronger, and bigger. Yet he knew that Hrothgar must have some trick or a nasty plan in mind so it will enable him to win this fight and thus he prepared himself. 

Standing up from the stone he was sitting on Frostulfr pointed at it, showing Hrothgar that this was a suitable place for the competition. Both of them knelt on the ground, their heads were now nearly at the same height. Slamming one palm against the other made a small booming sound, both of them grabbed the others hand strongly. Both of them counted to three, “*One! Two! The meat would be mine Hroth!! Three!!!*” He shouted and then smilingly he began pitting his strength against Hrothgar’s strength. Although less resilent and weaker then Frostulfr Hrothgar was still a worthy foe and he did not give up, he knew that this would be a long and tedious battle as none of them pushed yet but neither let down any ground as they both knew once someone gets the advantage he will most likely win. Although expecting Hrothgar to use some dirty trick he did not expect what was going to happen next. They both continued wrestling with their arms, three minutes have passed and not he or Hrothgar seemed to give an inch, slowly beginning to apply more strength Frostulfr began winning, slowly but steadily pushing Hrothgar’s hand down, as he was halfway to his victory he saw Hrothgar smiling, a second later he was pushed back, stars filling his eyesight, he was confuse for a moment and then understood that Hrothgar headbutted him. The little trickster, he will pay for that! He saw that Hrothgar used the moment to his advantage and began pushing Frostulf’s hand down. A cruel smile began to stretch on Frostulfr’s face, something that his opponent did not notice, with a quickly swung his left arm which was free and smashed it into Hrothgar’s face while succumbing to an endless laugh, he laughed friendlily and full heartedly, he laughed so hard that his belly began to ache and he did not even know why, it was not that funny after all yet he still laughed, This evening just became much more interesting and entertaining. 

OOC: We've already worked this out, so no godmodding here 
Not my best post though, still need to get into that wolfish head.


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## dark angel

_Amid the snow, the Wolves of Fenris hunt. 

Gene-enhanced, muscular-augmented and fur-clad figures stalked, spears clutched tightly to chests, sniffing and grumbling. 

I stalk left, my movements nonchalant, bundled in grey-speckled hides. Across my chest, in a mammoth-hide scabbard, I wear the flaying blade. Fur-trimmed gloves and boots are the only other clothing upon my body. A hood, shaped into the countenance of a howling wolf, is pulled over my head.

I am an imperfect sculpture, unfinished by the Allfather; cursed by horrible scarification, gifted with bundles of taut, oversized muscles.

With a quick, narrow-eyed glance towards my flanks, I spy Vermundr moving towards my right, keeping back; observing the younger Packmates, and we share a nod. Once, our bond had been fractured; but those days are gone. We now regularly confide in one another, honing our skills with blade and axe, jesting and discussing - With a mixture if seriousness and playfulness.

Through the snow flurries, I witness movement. It is cumbersome, moving on heavy, but powerful legs and growling inanely. I know what it is: the razor-ursine. We have stalked it for days, hunting the mountain of caked fur and naturally attained muscle; slavering feverishly, longing to taste his throat. 

Even from a distance, it is monstrous. Old, pale scars snake across his haunches, snout and chest area, where it has survived through countless bouts with other beasts; rending and gnawing. 

A warbling howl arises from the throats of the Pack. 

My own, ululating howl joins the melancholic cries. 

The razor-ursine twists around, and I lock eyes. 

Black, thin slits meet crimson, beady orbs. 

The Hunt is on… _

…In the distance, the Fang punctuated the sky. Even from such a great length of land, the structure was immense, a giant to the snow-capped children around it. Alrik Firehawk, sat, cross-legged and dour faced, firelight seeping amongst his scars; bathing his accursed countenance in vibrant orange. He averted directly looking at the flickering, molten fire. 

It only sought to destroy his vision, and despite his advanced ocular systems; the darkness still seemed evermore dark after a look into the flames. Distant, bloodcurdling howls sounded. 

Instinctively, he seized the haft of his spear, which lay in the snow nearby. His fingers, raw in the cold, crackled and bled. With his free hand, he drew his mantle of furs tighter around his shoulders and throat, feeling snow land upon his exposed torso. Not even his advanced physiology and metabolism allowed him to withstand the winds for long, even he knew that.

When Tyr had finally fallen into silence, the attention was turned upon Alrik. He smiled, his snaggletoothed smile, wetting his lips with his tongue. 

‘You wish to know of the Harmonious Descent, dearest Tyr,’ He rasped, looking at his overly large brother. Tyr was forever jovial, his bionic hand humming ominously. ‘Of the nightmares and horrors, which lurk in the darkness? Then,’ He smiled again, thinly. ‘It shall be so.’

‘The Harmonious Descent,’ He muttered, remembering the day. ‘Had arrived on the fringes of our system, and the honour of eradicating her populace, was gifted to Lord Blackmane and his Company. I, along with Iorek,’ He nodded towards the pale-fleshed, claret-eyed Marine. ‘And the grey-haired fisherman, Njoror, were amongst the force.’

‘The Harmonious Descent was a particularly horrible gathering of vessels, a piece of a world, given flight. Over the years, ships had been attracted to it, and lay broken upon the expanse. We stalked through the thing, facing.. Insects, with oversized talons and agility that was akin to the beasts of legend. Purple hided, bulbous of skull..’

‘We clove our way through them, purifying the shattered hallways and collapsed tunnels. With sword, bolter and flamer. The older Wolves led us, Kjarl at the forefront, we following obediently. I was blessed, in not sustaining any injuries; but gifting many upon the Tyranids. Even the white-bastard fought well,’ He added a mirthless chuckle, a deep rumbling from within the depths of his throat. 

‘But there was other, worse, things inhabiting the hulk. Outlawed men, bearing foul mutations and walking hand-in-hand with the Xenos, walls that moved and gibbered, crushing men between them. And Astartes.’

‘It was said, that one of the Grey Hunters was taken into the cusp of the Wulfen, gnawing and clawing at his brothers, renting throats and guts. I saw none of this - But rumours spread like wildfire, and it was soon in our ears.’

His eyes, narrowed in resentment, darted from face to face. He hated the newcomers, they were not worthy of their positions in the Pack. Worst of all, was the one they called Krahl, ever-grinning, having nearly killed Alrik…

_…The Razor-Ursine roared challenge to me, and my hands tighten around the haft of my spear. It is humungous, thrice the size of even Tyr, shaggy fur draping from it like a cloak. Teeth and claws, like daggers, glisten wetly. 

My spear whistles in, embedding itself in the flank of the creature. Blood gushes from the wound, turning the haft of my spear red. It freezes almost instantaneously. 

Krahl, young, untested and utterly idiotic, rushes in my flank. I cannot help but to detest the young Wolf, cocksure of his abilities, longing to establish a reputation.. 

I throw myself in again, striking out once more, spearhead penetrating flesh, drawing more black-red blood. It roars in defiance, launching a tremendous backhand, but I duck beneath its flaying claws. It turns its attention to another of the Pack; and I breath between gritted fangs. 

‘Die,’ I manage, chest lifting and collapsing rhythmically. ‘Now.’

And then, as though abiding to my words, it twists. A predatory smile, teeth glimmering in the moonlight. 

I am about to launch forwards, but something stops me, rough hands push me aside, and I fall closer to the creature’s clicking claws. It swipes, and then…_

…Krahl had, in a matter of seconds, nearly killed Alrik and had stolen the bear’s hide. 

‘Why do you grin, wyrm?’ Alrik growled from across the fire, one of his hands tightening upon the hilt of the flaying blade. He pulled it ever so slightly, so the black blade was revealed. ‘What great accomplishment have you partook in, to wear a joker’s smile?’

He could kill him now, if he truly wished… Spill his throat, cut him from groin to nape…

He stood, furs seeping along his back. ‘Know this, Packmate - If you lay hand upon me again, place me in danger, the snow will run red.’ 

And with that, he retook his seat, snorting in derision.


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## deathbringer

A bitter wind sliced across Fenris, rumbling howls within her mighty bellow, cut at the pelt he bore around his shoulders, it bit deep into the fur and attacking his very core. Strength found wanting, it snarled and hurried on to trouble others elsewhere.

He sat together yet alone. He liked it thus, just far enough for solitude, close enough to be considered at one with the others

Yet he was alone.

Tyr's tale chased around him, as eyes fixed upon his great form, Ioreks own fixed upon the bionic of his right hand as it gesticulated with gusto. Whole again, stronger in fact.

His own fingers probed delicately around the empty socket running over the great rivets upon the left side of his face.

He would never be whole.

There was a hole in his heart, compassion and love lost, destroyed, torn asunder and replaced with fear and hatred, emotions of the twisted and the damned.

Bitter laughter rippled around his mind 

_pathetic fool_

"Silence" strength reverberated in his voice, dominated his own mind with ripples of pure fury. The laughter receede, withdrew to niggle at his subconscious once more. Thought deserted him and his single eye closed and he plunged himself into the calm balm of darkness.

The red eye opened once more and fixed upon a new speaker.

The firehawk, he too brutally disfigured talked of times long past, a name long retired never forgotten brushed his ears and his right hand gripped his hip bone, nails digging into the skin, lips fixing together.

He longed for his pistol, the wolf snarled yet Iorek slapped the sound away, with a spear of thought.

He longed for the emptiness its motion brought, the playful push of the recoil against him, the effortless click that brought death onto his foes.

Two short knives crossed his back, two long fangs, thin and balanced, built for speed and accuracy rather than pure power nudged against his vertebrae.

He had worked relentlessly, speed and pace, his movements lithe his blade strokes sure. He had much to work on... so much to pay for, this hunting trip an irritating aside he wished he could avoid, yet the packleader had spoken, he must obey.

The leash tugged at him, subservience a niggle he had never noticed before, yet Vermundr had grown, an assurance laced his stance as he lounged upon the rock, he would be great one day, it was obvious indeed. The story rose and fell, the teasing asides falling upon deaf ears as Iorek's mind followed his own thoughts that day.

He would not speak of that day

Never... that fallen grey hunter could one day be... dont say it... dont think it

Blood spilled over his fingers as his nail pierced the pure white skin at his hip and he embraced the irritating flare of pain that erupted in his mind.

He longed for solitude yet now words reached his ears. Words in the packleaders hushed tones, meant for his ears.

His own eyes flittered to the other listener, the ice blue eyes of the sage met his own then moved on.

Another that had grown, another reputation that shot forth, another that would go far.

Two blood claws grappled, their arms rock, unwavering, unbending, granite met granite, its strength tested by not taxed as they sought the advantage.

"Some of these thin faces have definitely stuck out to me more than others. Krahl is one of course, but I doubt I am the only one of us three sitting on this rock who knows Alrik will not let Krahl's actions go unchecked." 

The older wolfs face was fixed upon the frozen smile upon the young bloodclaws face and Iorek nodded in agreement, yet he spoke not. The animosity was not his domain, that was the packleaders concern, yet he could not condone the young ones actions.

Thrusting a brother into harm to gain a killing strike was ruthless, not a brother he wanted at his back.

The wrestle was ended with a thump as one smashed his face into the others to gain the advantage.

A little snarl bit across his lips and he spat, friendly play maybe, yet it was another he did not want at his back.

Yet he would need them, if Blackmanes words were true... the thoughts were disrupted by Vermundr's own musings

"Whatever our Lord warned us about, their last chances at stopping our successful return is quickly approaching. With only one day left of travel, any attack or act of thievery would have to be made soon. Likely in the sooner half at that, as I cant imagine any rivals committing their deviant act at the base of Asaheim. With only a day left, I see little harm, if any, in telling the rest of our pack here. It would be better to have all eyes looking sharp, and all toes ready to pounce. Would you agree brothers?"

Iorek's bitter laughter rang through the clearing

"With our Lord's decision to run with us he honoured us and taxed us. Those that respect him wonder what metal we bear that lead him to choose us, those with animosity long to prove us suspect, to cast doubt upon his prodgidies. All i can see is they wish for us to return empty handed, bruised, battered and defeated. It would be wise to warn the others, but I would not. Forewarned is forearmed yet I would see how these brothers of ours react when they are the ones being hunted, when the shadows cause a menace. Of our number there are 4 i would walk into russ's hall alongside, if we are to face the serpent once more I would wish to trust all 12. Tell Alrik and Tyr if you must yet I would like to see how that one..."

He inclined his head towards the headbutter who still grappled in friendly animosity with his brother

"reacts to being tricked rather than playing the trickster."

The scar across his chest rippled and seered and he ran an icy finger along its length his eyes moving up to fix upon the mountain in the distance.

There was much to do when he returned... so much to do


----------



## Lord Ramo

Heimdall stared at the crackling and roaring fire, a beacon of light and warmth in the harsh wilderness that was Fenris. He was grateful that the claw had set up a fire for warmth and to cook the meat of the huge and deadly razor-ursine. All that him and his genetically enhanced brothers wore were simple pelts of fur for warmth in these harsh conditions. Heimdall would never get used to it, even though he had spent his entire life on Fenris, either in his former life before the chapter or when he became one of the Emperor's Angel's of Death.

Fenris was one of the harshest climate's known to the Imperium, more deadly than most worlds. This was shown in the quarry that they had tracked, huge deadly and smart it could of ripped through an entire tribe, even unprepared initiates. However he was a member of the pack now, and as long as they worked together they would survive and succeed. He respected his brothers that had fought alongside Wolflord Blackmane, though they were more distant to him and the newer members of the pack.

Alrik was particularly hostile, but Heimdall cared not. He would prove himself eventually, patience was all that was required. A hard thing for him to do, he was used to acting impulsively and was known for his short temper. He had played a part in killing the beast. Not as great as some of his other brothers but still, he played his part. He longed to have his flamer back in his hand, the rush of roaring flames once more. However for now he would have to make do with his spear, one which was close to him even now. They were close to home, close to the Fang. But they still had a little way to go and Heimdall would not let his guard down.

Alrik, spoke to Krhal, who had put him in harms way to get the killing blow. Heimdall felt for neither of them, he wouldn't want Krhal behind him, and he wouldn't want Alrik either, he couldn't trust the new members like a space wolf should. They were all off the same chapter, and the new members had been chosen to fill the void where others had fallen. 

Heimdall sighed as he watched two of his brothers fight over meat, three sat away from the group conversing too quietly for his enhanced hearing to pick up. If it was anything important then he was sure that the rest of the pack would be informed. But when? The older marines would converse, plan with each other, but not with the newer members of the pack. It did not bode well in Heimdall's opinion, but what could he say.

He stood slowly, drawing his spear close as he turned away from the fire. He would be vigilant in case some wild beast, or pack, caught their scent and decided they would be a fit meal. Heimdall doubted it, but he would watch out nonetheless. If his newer brothers wanted to fight over scraps of meat they could, and if the older ones wanted to keep secrets that was fine by him. As long as it didn't threaten the new Claw, which he was now a part of and had a responsibility to.


----------



## Deus Mortis

Azahd couldn't help but being slightly disappointed with the way the hunt had gone. As he tore into a final slice of meat and listened to Tyr's tale of the battles of Hecutor, he realised that he was jealous of Krahl. Whilst he would not have liked to have received the same threat from Alrik as Krahl had, the glory which Krahl would no doubt gain from striking the killing blow almost made it worth enduring that. Besides, Azahd got the impression that Alrik was not the most well liked member of the pack, either by his own choice or unfortunate circumstances, so it seemed unlikely he would have much support to carry through with his threat. 

As it stood, Azahd still felt like he was not respected amongst the pack, and listening to Tyr and Alrik's tales of past glories, he could understand why. He had no impressive stories to tell, no crowning moments, no gruelling scars to show for dangerous tests of ability, save for those from his feat that secured his initiation, but then again, they all has tales and scars like that. They were nothing to boast about. And whilst he probably knew that striking the killing blow against the razor-ursid would not have made him into an instant choice for pack leader, or made him as respected as some of the other members, it would have certainly helped.

Azahd drew one of his short blades they had all been sent out with, and sheared off a shard of ice from the rock he was sitting on and rolled it absent mindedly over his fingers. They had been out on the borders of Asaheim for two months now, and Azahd was eager to be back in the Fang. As much as all Wolves felt at home in the harsh landscape of Fenris, Azahd couldn't help but miss the familiar hum of the servos in his power armour, the dull roar of his chainsword and the satisfying kick of his bolt pistol with every shell it fired. As much as he could prove himself on the plains here, against some of the most hostile environment and creatures the Imperium had to offer, no amount of razor-ursids he could kill would get him in the annuals of the Space Wolves history, no amount could give him an noble name, no amount could forge a legacy for him. 

A great deal of noise was going on around him, Frostulfr and Hrothgar were engaged in an arm wrestle over one of the pieces of meat and three of the senior pack members were having an inaudible conversation aside from the rest of the pack. For the moment he was content to sit round the fire rolling his shard of ice over his fingers. This time tomorrow, they would be back in the Fang, in the great hall possibly gloating about the exploits of their hunt. No doubt Krahl would lead the bragging on that front, and Azahd would have to take a back seat. Still, he would bide his time. He would prove himself, very soon...


----------



## Serpion5

*Krahl*

Alrik was fuming as he spoke, and after a few moments Krahl finally understood why. The hostile stare that the older wolf gave the younger ones seemed to increase twofold once it reached Krahl, and the grin vanished from the young Blood Claw`s face as Alrik vented his rage.

‘Why do you grin, wyrm?’ Alrik snarled, glaring at Krahl. For the moment, they young claw was silent, so Alrik took it on himself to continue.‘What great accomplishment have you partook in, to wear a joker’s smile?’

Krahl narrowed his gaze and tightened his grip as the elder blood claw stood and stared down at him through the flames. ‘Know this, Packmate - If you lay hand upon me again, place me in danger, the snow will run red.’ 

Following this, he sat back down. The flames seemed to recede as the rant finished, almost as if they were mocking or perhaps emphasising Alrik`s point. 

Krahl was silent for almost a minute, before he could take the derision no more. 'You feel cheated _packmate?'_ Krahl called, glaring through the fire. 'You feel as though I robbed you of your glory, is that it? That damn beast was going to kill someone sooner or later, what did you hope to accomplish by pissanting around in front of it?' 

Krahl stood and took a step closer to the fire. He drove his spear into the base, causing an eruption of embers and a renewal of the fire`s emphatic heat. 

'Next time you have a great hulking mass of muscle and claw bearing down on you, rest assured I will friggin` leave it to you to kill. So if you want to put yourself in front of another monster, you better make sure you`re up to the task on your own, _packmate!'_ He spat the last word, before withdrawing the spear and sitting back down. 

He glared at Alrik for a few moments before turning slightly sideways and counting the stars in the sky above the fang in an attempt to calm down...


----------



## Euphrati

‘Are you so keen for personal glory that you would simply _abandon _the oaths you have sworn to your lord and your packleader, son of Russ?’

Keris’ voice was diamond hard and dangerous as he spoke, the tone weighted with the undercurrents of a warning growl. He had not moved from where he sat beside Vermundr throughout the exchange, turned mostly away from the flames and the wolf pelt on his broad back pulled close to keep the firelight from his eyes, his spear lay ready on the rock at his side. The fur was storm-grey; the coarse guard hairs tipped in silver as if the pelt was forever rimmed in hoarfrost and glinted in the play of shadows cast by the popping flames as they were ruffled by the ever present wind.

‘Glory is meaningless if bought at the forfeit of your wolfbrothers. Nor is his lifeblood yours to shed, Firehawk.’

Keris shifted; his crystal blue eyes catching the firelight and reflecting mirror-bright for a moment before he turned his gaze back out to the moon lit mountains. The Fang loomed in the distance like a spear thrust into the heart of the void itself. Keris’ breath ghosted into the darkness as he tasted the wind, the faint outline of a storm hung ominous and low upon the horizon like a stalking Thunderwolf. The moon was just waning and cast oil-black shadows in the lee of the harsh peaks of Asaheim. _A hunter’s moon._

‘Have you all forgotten that our task is yet unfinished? Fenris is unforgiving of remiss; perhaps that is a lesson that needs to be re-learned in humility...’

Keris paused and lowered his voice, his next words muted for the ears of his wolfbrother Iorek and his packleader. His eyes found the scared face, pale as the ice that flanked the dark shadow of the Fang. His tone was not chiding, but one of quiet thought,

‘The task Lord Blackmane set upon us is more than a test of our might to bring down the prey, brother; it is also one of trust. I would have not thought that you, Ghostwolf, of all of us would seek to withhold after experiencing the costs of such a choice.’

Keris’ eyes then turned to his packleader,

‘We carry this task as a pack or we have already failed.’


----------



## unxpekted22

Vermundr stared with narrow eyes once Alrik came out with the feelings he knew were inside him, narrowed merely due to increased attention, not anger. When Krahl acted as the blood claw he was, and stood to refute Alrik, Vermundr's body clicked forward ready to move and intervene.

Keris did not hesitate to speak out, which settled Vermundr back into his sitting position. Vermundr had known Alrik long enough to know that his large pack brother was not wavered by words, only actions. Words, even from respected Keris Hell even from one such as the great Stormcaller, would only stave him off for some temporary amount of time.

As the awkward silence that now lay like a poisonous fog over the campfire settled in, Vermundr moved back to the other matter at hand with his two brothers upon the rock. 

"Duly noted brother," Vermundr says with his head turned toward Keris, "Iorek brings up a good point, and it agrees with your opinion. It would definitely be good to see how this pack reacts to being hunted rather than the other way around. I guarantee you the next 24 hours in that case would seem just as long as the last week, but it would be less stress on our eyes, that is for certain."

He turns his head back forward, towards the pack around the fire, "But, I have to agree that if we tell one or more, we should tell them all. Whatever the reasons may be for telling only one or two, the rest would likely see that as us playing favorites even if it actually just testing them."

The bitter taste of arrogance stung the back of his tongue yet again. _Stop it, stop acting like you're more than you really are. Puh, testing them, like you have some kind of actual rank experience._

Vermundr let out a sigh backed by a low growl. He again eyed the razor-ursid's giant coat of fur bundled up beside his leg. He spied a knot in the roping, which he felt did not look tight enough so he began to rework it.

"So it is decided then, we shall tell the rest of the pack of our Lord's warning. As I said, one day of stress shouldn't be so bad compared to the last two months as a whole. I'm sure they can handle it. But first, " he said with a heavy breath as he finished the knot and sat back straight, "I should talk to this one,"

"Krahl!" he waited for the other blood claw to turn, "Come here, I wish to speak with you about something."

He knew Alrik would be watching and so he turned an sure enough found Alrik's gaze. Vermundr nodded to him, assuring his fellow wolf that he was not taking the younger one's side and hoped Alrik would understand that Vermundr wished him to relax and be patient with the newcomers.


----------



## Angel of Blood

_Said to be one of the most hostile worlds within the realm of the Imperium. Ever changing, unpredictable, the ferocious weather able to kill a man as easily as the beasts that stalked the its lands or swam in its unforgiving oceans. The people of Fenris lived a constant life of survival, never able to let their guards down lest the world punish them. The Imperium would call it a deathworld. Its inhabitants called it Fenris._

The biting wind wrapped itself around Njord more completely than the furs and pelt he wore ever could do. Such was life on Fenris, one could never truely escape the weather, only adapt as best as possible and learn to embrace it. Flecks of snow clung to his shaven scalp, the vestiges of hair starting to grow back in due to the months spent on the hunt, he would of course shave them away once they returned to the Fang. 

The Fang loomed in the distance, still colossal despite the distance they were from it. Its mightly battlements and walls part of the Asaheim itself. The moon was in such a position that from where Njord sat the Fang appeared to be stabbing the moon itself. How typically Fenrisian he thought. They had not set foot in the Fang for two long months, two months of hunting the beast across vast continent. He longed to return to the distant halls, cold, dark and without elegance. Home.

The pack had caught up to the beast in time, having evnetually found its trail and followed it before catching its odour on the winds with their enchanced sense of smell. They had fought a dangerous game with the beast, a deadly dance to ensare it within striking distance. Njord has been one of the ones to funnel it towards the bait. Attacking and provoking it enough to turn the beast in the desired direction but not enough to gain its full attention. It required complete trust in the rest of the pack and careful co-ordination. It almost ended in disaster though when it managed to corner Tyr, but the reactions of Keris and Frostulfr were enough to save the older Blood Claw. Krahl had been the one to deliver the killing blow in the end, perhaps rising Alriks life in the process however.

Njord turned his gaze to the roaring fire the pack were huddled around. The wind snatched angrily at the flames, trying to eradicate the warmth it gave to those around it, not willing to let them rest from the its icy touch. Tyr was spinning tales of past glories to the others, telling them of battles with Ogryns and traitors. Njords attention though was on the elder members of the pack. Sat a little apart from the rest of them, conversing in quiet voices. What about he could not discern, but there was clearly something on their minds. 

The voices around the fire growled louder abruptly. Alrik having finally lost patience with Krahl, enraged over the younger pack members actions that led to him bringing down the beast. They traded angry snarls with each other, brandisihing their weapons at each other. The pack was not unified at all yet, the elder Blood Claws appearing to not want the company of the new bloods. Had they forgotten what it was like when they first began their new lives as an Astartes?

Despite the altercation taking place, Njord did let go of the feeling something was being held back from them by the elder ones, he turned his golden eyes, so like a wolfs back to the the trio, resting them on the pack leader as he wondered what was being kept from them.


----------



## Serpion5

*Krahl*

They were disapproving. All of them, Krahl could tell. In truth he did not care as much as he knew he should but at the same time he knew it was important to have their trust and respect. There was no denying that if this pack were to survive, then at some point he and Alrik would have to reconcile, or at the very least come to terms with each other. 

Perhaps a sparring match when they returned to the Fang, a good one on one fight to vent both their frustrations and anger upon each other. It would be fun if nothing else. 

He gave up counting the stars, there were too many and they kept flickering. The light of the fire on the edge of his vision didnot help the task either, so instead he turned the other way and saw the elder members of the group, talking softly among themselves. Krahl`s hearing was good, but not that good, as clearly the seniors of the pack knew what would be heard and what wouldn`t. 

‘Are you so keen for personal glory that you would simply abandon the oaths you have sworn to your lord and your packleader, son of Russ?’ A voice caught his attention, that of one of the older pack members Keris. 

Krahl simply shook his head as he replied. 'What youngster doesn`t want a good tale to tell in his youth. Had the situation been any different I would not have put an act like this past any other. I only acted in the heat of the moment, how was I supposed to know the grumpy one had any kind of plan in mind.' He suppressed a grin, not wanting to inflame Alrik any further than he had already.

Something else was said between them and the three of them glanced between Alrik and Krahl. The older wolf Vermundr kept his gaze on Krahl a moment longer than the others, and immediately the young claw knew he was in some sort of trouble. 

'Krahl!' He called, confirming the younger astartes suspicions as he looked up. 'Come here, I wish to speak with you about something.'

As Krahl stood, he saw the look Vermundr gave to Alrik, a look of warning maybe? More likely reassurance of Krahl`s impending punishment. As Krahl approached, he dropped the spear to the ground, not wanting to appear hostile to his superior. 

'You have words for me I assume?' Krahl said. 'No doubt some speech on brotherhood and duty. Fair enough, but keep in mind that Alrik made the first threat and I would not simply allow such disrespect to go unanswered.'


----------



## deathbringer

(Post moved to respond to vermundr)

The packleaders words flittered across his mind to be met with a sharp toss of his head a harsh bark

"As you wish, warn them."

The single eye was blank, his face emotionless, his voice empty and cold as his gaze snapped from Alrik and Krahl to lock with the ice blue stare of Keris

"Your advice is as ever sage, brother, yet my experience,"

His voice bit deep as he raised the one long eye brow

"Blackmane had no problems with secrecy, defined it as a quality that made a leader, so do not talk of my experience. Vermundr has proven him correct in that. Yet I will tell you of my experience, the agony only came when the shield of ignorance was cast asunder. If you tell them now they will wonder why we did not tell them before, we will merely remove the shield of ignorance and unleash a needless pain and suspicion. It may be a test of trust yet so far we have been found wanting, we have not told them, we sit aside and scheme. We were a divided force against the bear, new and unfamiliar, glory was gained almost at the expense of one of our brethren, one who does not love or forgive easily"

"I know not who to trust, is it so wrong to wish to know who would stand beside you and fight or who would thrust you under the bears claws to seek their own glory?"

He let out a little snarl as his eyes turned once more upon Khral

"He knows no remorse for his actions, does not feel any bonds of loyalty tie him to his brothers within the pack. I would have him know that the pack is a brotherhood, that he will met an enemy he did not expect and that someone will be at his back when he stumbles and falls, when his muscle fails him."

_Yet you dont not believe that line you wish to be alone_

The snide voice bit deep into his mind and his eye closed, his voice faltering as pain bit across his temples as he thrust a spear of reason at the wolf within

_"I desire to make things right, to earn my place within the pack once more. Upon Hecutor I dishonoured myself, I will return when I have earnt my honour once more"_

_bullshit, you desire to be alone_

Anger flared but the snide voice was gone, turned tale and fled into his subconcsious. The red eye opened returning to grapple with the icy orbs before him

"How better to do that than with an enemy he did not expect, that attacks when he believes the job is done, will not meet him head on as the bear did, but lies in the shadows?"

A strained chuckle tore from between his lips 
"What does a man fear more than that which he cannot see"

The blood claw came forth at Vermundr's command his back arched chest thrust out words laced with defiance 

'You have words for me I assume?' Krahl said. 'No doubt some speech on brotherhood and duty. Fair enough, but keep in mind that Alrik made the first threat and I would not simply allow such disrespect to go unanswered.' 

A bitter tang of cotempt carressed his tongue and he spat upon the floor with a harsh snarl

"No he called you close as we wished to wonder upon your hideous visage more closely. Have some sense, glory hunter, let the pack leader speak before you assume. However as you seek words, I have words for those that place their own glory before the safety of their brothers, yet they are curses and chastisement not fit for such tender ears. However I would say that someone that would thrust me upon a bears claw merely to steal the glory of the kill is not someone i would call a brother. Personally i would rather embrace the bear."

His fingers stretched to lace through the bearskin hide before turning a wolfish grin upon Khral

"He was certainly a prettier sight"


----------



## G0arr

*Yngvar*

The cold swirled around him, but did not hold the same bite it carried as a child. There was a time when these winds would have driven him to the comfort of a shelter, to his tribe huddled close around a fire, to a shared hide, but that was so long ago when Yngvar was a child when he was only a mere human. Now he was so much more. Every time he thought of the past he was reminded of this. So many of his own frailty's had been stripped away leaving behind a warrior, a Blood Claw.



Yngvar sat near the fire listening to the tales of past glories as he worked a stone. The slow meticulous work had taken him far longer than normal. It was rough and jagged worked by the most primitive means with most primitive tools, a true hunters spearhead. Forming it had not been the longest part, it was the symbols that were carved into each side. The first a small fang, opposite was his tribe's symbol for an ursid. 

Yngvar smiled and watched as Tyr finished his story. As the speaker changed from one packmate to another he reaching into a pouch. From it a chunk of fat roughly the size of a man's hand was produced. The white/yellow stuff bubbled and spat as he threw it into the base of the fire. For a few moments it melted and oozed before finally feeding the flames. It had been carved from a razor-ursid. This same beast's meat was cooking over the fire. The memory of driving the creature was still in his mind. It had been the first real ‘battle’ of the pack. 

The claw had tracked the beast for days. Yngvar had assisted but not for the sake of only finding the beast. He had watched and listened to the senior members gaining some experience from the endeavor. He had also watched the others learning more in those days then the entirety of their training. The young Space Wolf had seen the schism that seperated the older and younger members of this pack. Still Yngvar did not know the true reason for it. Perhaps it was the younger ones inexperience, or the older ones mistrust that caused it. Maybe it was that the older ones had seen combat and were forged into a brotherhood, and the young upstarts were seen as imposters attempting to replace those lost before. For whatever reason their differences had not been settled when the beast was cornered. The massive creature lashed out toward its attackers as it found itself cornered against cliff face. After Tyr, the last brother to take the role of aggressor, escaped with the assistance of Keris and Frostulfr it had no one person to vent its rage upon. As it was lashing out toward the remaining hunters the pack needed to coordinate their movements. The memories of his former hunts helped keep Yngvar prepared. He knew to draw the creature's attention from the one who would strike the final blow. As such it was surprising when Krahl moved for the kill and everything almost fell apart. Whether it was impatients or glory seeking that had driven him to shove Alrik aside and strike. Thankfully it had been a kill, if it hadn’t they might be one less.

As the thoughts turned toward that moment voices became raised. Yngvar was brought back to the present. Alrik and Krahl were brandishing weapons as they spat words of hate to one another. It punctuated the schism between the younger and older Blood Claws. Yngvar had noticed there seemed to be an abundance of aggressors, and very few hunters within the Claw. 


After several tense seconds a voice called ending the two's confrontation. Yngvar glanced around at the others as silence seemed to fill the air. His eyes halted on The Fang. The massive structure was so close, but yet so far. It was a day away at the most. One day and they would be home, one day and they would be declared a Claw, and still so long until they truly were. They each were bound to each other by the blood in their primarch, and their oaths to the chapter. For the older ones they appeared bound to each other through their past, through the stories they told of the things they had done. Yngvar hoped to one day share that bond as he turned to the spearhead in his hand. Perhaps one day.


----------



## BlackApostleVilhelm

Tyr sat in silence and listened to Alrik as he chided Krahl for his actions, Alrik may be blunt with his words but he was honest and Krahl needed to be told that his actions were wrong, he had thrown a brother into an almost fatal position for his own personal glory and that was never ok. Yet Tyr kept his peace and said nothing as Krahl fired back his own hot head response at Alrik and chuckled a bit at how ignorant he was of who Alrik really was, the Firehawk would not let this go until he was satisfied that Krahl had learned his lesson and the wrong had been righted, which could take awhile.

He grabbed his spear and stood up, grabbing the piece of meat that Hrothgar and Frostulfr were fighting over, before making his way over to Vermundr who had just called Krahl over, *"I will go and keep watch with Heimdall, it will do us well to have two sets of senses keeping watch rather than one."* he looked down at Krahl, the tone in his voice serious, *"The pack must always come first little one, the minute you put yourself and your own ambition before your brothers is the one that one or all of us will die because of your actions."* he turned back to his pack leader, *"I will be outside if you need me."*

Tyr turned and made his way towards where Heimdall was keeping watch and as he passed Frostulfr and Hrothgar he said, *"I already ate the piece you two are fighting over."* the large wolf pointed to his head indicating that sometimes you need to use your head and not just your strength, he laughed and shook his head at the two of them as he passed them by. 

Heimdall was by himself staring at the stars, Tyr could tell he was thinking about something so he was quite for awhile as they both stood watch, their senses peeled for anything that could be a danger to them all. As they stood watch Tyr finally spoke up, *"Tell me Heimdall, what do you see out there? Hear? Smell? Feel?" *it was a strange question but the large wolf knew that by having his younger brother concentrate and tell him what he was sensing that it would make him focus that much more and his senses would be sharper. 

Tyr had always had stronger than normal senses, even for a Space Wolf, and it was something he had prided himself on more so than his abnormal size and strength. It was one subtle gift that he had and it had saved him more than once on Hecutor, at the moment all he could hear was the whistling wind and the general violence of Fenris's weather. Yet smells were different, the cooking meat, each of his brothers had a distinct smell to them, and lucky for him the wind was coming right at them so if anyone or anything was out there he would smell them before seeing them.


----------



## komanko

A fighting has erupted inside the pack, and it had nothing to do with the fighting between Hrothgar and Frostulfr. The wind raged and howled just like the tempers of the two opponents, Alrik and Krahl. The inner fighting made him stop laughing even though Hrothgar was still on the ground rubbing his cheek to ease the pain from the smash he just suffered. He watched quietly as Alrik began to chide Krahl about his actions, he spoke harshly without mercy; he was straight forward and strict with his opinions, unrelenting like the weather around them. A gust of wind suddenly passed by, he heard the footsteps of a brother, he smelled him, it was the one known as Tyr, he passed by them, chuckling while saying that he already ate the piece Hrothgar and he were fighting for. He snarled at him, it was not a snarl that he would give to an enemy, but a friendly one, yet he was right, as he pointed at his own head explaining silently that they both should use their brains more. Frostulfr could not resist, he chuckled and a small wicked smile crept into his face. Tyr was right after all…

Frostulfr watched, seeing that Hrothgar was slowly getting up and ready to retaliate he stretched his hand towards him with one finger raised, it was the same motion which would tell someone to be quiet if it was near the mouth, the objective was the same, to stop Hrothgar from continuing the friendly brawl as they had more important matters to solve. Hrothgar probably noticing the shouts himself quickly nodded towards Frostulfr acknowledging the short truce. He knew that his brother will get his revenge later when he won’t expect it. Probably he will smash him into one of the walls in the fang and smack him in the face as an act of revenge. These raised a small smile on Frostulfr’s face which was rather grim due to the harsh words which were said by Alrik and Krahl.

He looked at Alrik first, his harsh and brutal features clearly visible in the light of the fire, he was eternally grim, rarely smiling and nearly always frowning. It was hard to be at his side, yet in this argument Frostulfr could understand where Alrik’s words were coming from although they sounded extremely harsh and unforgiving. On the other side of the conflict stood Krahl, young and naïve just like Frostulfr probably, he mocked Alrik, asking him if he felt that he was cheated because of the kill which was stolen, this was clearly not the case, even Frostulfr could see that, yet Krahl’s ignorance and maybe even stupidity caused him to speak those words. Such words, form both of them would cause division and trust issues in the pack, those things should never happen as they hampered the ability of the pack to act as a whole body. When one part did not work correctly all the others suffered and when two did not it was even more terrible.

Seeing that the pack leader, Vermundr, called Krahl to him Frostulfr moved to Alrik, he hoped he will be able to start some kind of a conversation with him, and try to understand fully what was going in that brain of his and more importantly he had to know if there was a deeper meaning to the words Alrik spoke and to why he confronted Krahl. Frostulfr got up from his kneeling stance by the icy rock and moved towards Alrik, he passed by the fire, the light quickly falling over him revealing more of his form as the shadows danced upon his clothing and pelts, he took a sit near Alrik yet at the same time in a safe distance, he knew that the man was short tempered. “*Brother, a minute of your time if you may?*” Frostulfr spoke, trying to catch Alrik’s attention. He did not wait for Alrik to answer or respond at all, he just continued speaking, he was blunt and straight forward and wanted what he thought to be heard, “*I understand where you come from Brother, although I don’t know you for long and probably not as well as the others I do know that in this case you are right, Krahl shouldn’t have pushed you aside like that, endangering a brothers life, it was careless and reckless. Yet do you think that your harsh words were necessary; will you real leave your brother to die due to pasts events? You don’t have to like him, but he is your brother, and you must both work together. I am quite aware that you might hate me for the words I am about to speak but please, try and keep your temper under control, such arguments just threaten to divide the squad even more then it is now. I’m saying even more because you are probably aware like me that the squad is pretty much formed out of two groups, the experienced and the new, and not everyone here likes each other… At any rate, brother, Alrik, please, try to keep calm and withstand the foolishness and ignorance of others, if not for us, the new members, then for others like out pack leader Vermundar.*” He finished speaking, he spoke rather loudly, but silently enough for others to understand that what he was saying to Alrik was for his ears only and not for everyone. He never liked feeling like a conspirator and a secret keeper so he always kept his voice rather loud.


----------



## dark angel

Alrik’s lip bled.

In the suppression of unbridled laughter, he had bit deep into the thin strip of flesh. Now, claret liquid ran into his mouth, slipping between his enlarged canines and sharpened incisors. 

The taste which ran into his mouth was beautiful - Causing his eyes to widen, his chest and arms to prickle with excitement. 

Krahl was a despicable bastard; fiery-hearted, unable to hold his tongue when in the presence of his betters, glory-hunting..

Alrik’s left hand seized the haft of his spear, which lay in the snow, while he fingered around the hilt of his flaying knife with the other. All he needed was one flicker of movement, and he would gut Krahl. Or, he would give him a mortal injury - One which would fester and puss, which not even the Wolf Priests would be able to heal with their techno-magic. 

If Krahl truly wanted to fight, then-

‘Are you so keen for personal glory that you would simply abandon the oaths you have sworn to your lord and your packleader, son of Russ?’ Keris intoned, his voice tinted with wisdom and beneath that, a sibilant warning. 

He turned his attentions towards Alrik, eyes aglow, bright, ice-blue. The Firehawk straightened, glaring back with his own, obsidian orbs, red rivulets running down his chin, in silent contemplation.

‘Glory is meaningless if bought at the forfeit of your wolfbrothers. Nor is his lifeblood yours to shed, Firehawk.’ Addressed the Ice-Eyed. Keris had been gifted with a poetic mastery of words; with a wise, cunning mind. Accursed with indefatigable, relentless mind..

Alrik snorted back a laugh, and removed his hand from the hilt of his blade. 

‘Damned sage,’ He sneered, a joyless half-whisper, turning his head from Keris. Alrik counted him amongst the closest of his brothers, but found his self-righteousness and pride to be irritable. ‘Then I shall break him upon me knee, no blood..’

In the distance, a great expanse of storm-clouds hung low, crackling and rumbling with thunder and lightning, as it seeped across the landscape. 

When Vermundr’s voice barked across the ridge, commanding and guttural, Alrik turned towards the Packleader. Like those in the Pack, he was drabbed in heavy, musky furs. His expression was stony, riddled with determination. Two, heavy braids draped down the side of his face, sodden and lightly dotted with frost. Vermundr nodded his aquiline features, and Alrik returned with a shallow, half-serious dip of his grim countenance.

His ears prickled. The one called Frostulfr, who had been play-fighting over a scrap of meat, took a seat next to him. Yet, he was not. He was distant, weary and alert. His body was secreting warning pheromones, sending Alrik’s senses reeling. It was an horrible, acrid taste upon his tongue and within his nostrils.

When he spoke, his words were loud and careful, treading upon thin ice, the simplest hint of wisdom in his uncultured, barbarous tone. 

‘What do you know of division among the Pack, Frostulfr?’ He barked harshly, staring away from the younger Wolf. With each word he spoke, a gout of mist arose before his face. ‘Was you there, when I laid hand upon Bloodclaw Keris, whom I considered amongst my closest? Was you there, when Tyr, Iorek and myself questioned Vermundr, and in turn faced judgment at the hands of Vermundr? Was you there, when I was branded as Oathbreaker?’


His eyes narrowed in contempt. He stood, drawing his speckled-furs tighter upon his shoulders and chest. The hilt of his flaying-blade protruded from beneath. 

His words fell into a low, mirthless grumbling. 

‘What do you know of division, brother, that you deem it acceptable to pass words of wisdom unto me? I share no bonds with the likes of Krahl, nor shall I do so. Our Pack has survived worse than a petty mongrel,’ He jabbed an angry finger towards Krahl. ‘And will continue to do so. I have no qualms with you, nor do I have any intents of making such a thing. But I will not abide to your commands and suggestions, you are lesser. You are untested. When you kill a man, smell his blood, hear his cries; then perhaps that will change.'

With both hands, he raised a hood of night-black fur over his head. His features were shrouded in confining shadows; save for his chin and mouth, which were yellow and dancing in the firelight. 

'Do not interfere with matters which do not concern you, and there shall be no loss of love between us,' Not that there was any, he added silently. 'You have a wise head upon your shoulders, Frostulfr. Use it as you should - Wisely.’

And with that, he turned, stalking away from the sitting Astartes. A grin of accomplishment, one of malice and ingenuity, parted his thin, crimsoned lips.


----------



## komanko

A simple sentence from Alrik sent all of Frostulfr’s words spiraling into an abyss, he was right to an extent, when he spoke crimson droplets of blood could be seen in the dim light which surrounded them, the blood was running from his lip, he must’ve bitten it which was not surprising considering the cold that was around them. Alrik asked Frostulfr what he knew about division in a pack, although masked as one it was not a question, it was a bellow, a command, Alrik was defending himself from Frostulfr’s words and not replying to them truly. His behavior was curious, maybe he acted like that because Frostulfr was distant, unknown to Alrik. Yet something was weird about how he acted, as he defended himself he also turned his gaze away from Frostulfr, it seemed that he does not want him to meet his eyes, he hid much pain underneath them, Frostulfr could easily smell that now when he was aware of that fact.

After that small outburst Alrik seemed to get calmer, the tension was lessening, and then Alrik began talking, Frostulfr never expected that, he never expected Alrik to talk about what happened before the new Blood Claws Frostulfr with them joined this claw. Alrik told him that he laid his hands on Keris, he continued, telling Frostulfr how he along with Tyr and Iorek doubted and questioned Vermundr and in return faced judgment by his hands, he finally finished his sentence by adding a small bit of information, yet as small as it was it was an important one, he apparently was branded as an Oathbraker, that was a bad thing, and it could easily explain Alrik’s distrust of others and his actions. He was a physical person simply because he was unsure and unsecure at least it seemed so to Frostulfr…

Alrik continued staring at the distant mountains, still not looking Frostulfr in the eye, some would have taken that as an insult but Frostulfr merely shrugged it off, it was just an act of distrust from someone who really did not know Frostulfr well. While Alrik stared at the mountains Frostulfr saw him tightening the pelts around him stronger to protect from the cold, it seemed to Frostulfr like a chill ran down Alrik’s spine as he recalled those events but was it just his imagination, he would probably never know. It seemed like Alrik was spent, no more words came from him for a few moments yet when Frostulfr was about to reply he spoke again, his words came out in a low and grumbling tone, he was clearly unhappy.

Alrik attacked him, even if not directly or physically, he mocked Frostulfr, he maybe even secretly laughed at him, he emphasized the fact that he knew nothing about division, he was quite amazed by the fact that Frostulfr lectured him, he then again, turned to talk about Krahl ranting about him for a few moments and then moving back to attack Frostulfr verbally, he spoke, telling Frostulfr that he was lesser and untested, he was beneath Alrik’s level and now it was finally clearly seen how Alrik held himself high above the others, he thought of himself as the best thing that every came to existence, at least it looked that way when he spoke those words. He told him that after he would kill a man someone things will possibly change. Maybe he was right, maybe he was wrong, Frostulfr will not know until he would have to kill someone.

He slowly raised a hood, covering his features, making them invisible, the more he acted that way the more it seemed that he is defending himself, he tried to escape what he knew was partially right… His final words came to be, telling Frostulfr to not interfere in matters which did not concern him, in the end before he walked away he complimented Frostulfr, yet this compliment came along with hidden venom, it was as much as a compliment as mockery was and Frostulfr did not doubt that it was intentional. 

He stalked away; he ran away from his own problems, he did not want to face them. He was afraid, clearly… Yet Frostulfr was not about to give up, he knew that those things will have to come up at some point and it was better that they would come up now and not in the middle of battle. As he stalked away so did Frostulfr, he followed Alrik, he was not silent and subtle, he clearly let him know that he was walking after him. “*Alrik! Don’t walk away like that!*” He said, speaking boldly yet in some kind of a whisper, he did not want others to hear his words, they now were meant only for Alrik to hear and he was not about to shame him or humiliate him before the others. “*Alrik! Listen to me, I did not command you to do anything, I merely humbly suggested it. I can see your suffering and from what you have said a moment ago I can easily see that it’s hard for you even if you are not showing that. You might be tough on the outside, you might be a brutal and strong man but you are frail, rotten from the inside, and if you won’t cleanse this rot, if you want amputate the corrupted feelings it will only get worse.*” He knew that those words might hurt Alrik, he also knew that Alrik might hate him for that and maybe even attack him with that skinning knife of his yet he had to say that, he was bound to Alrik even if Alrik did not like it. They were a pack, and a pack should work together no matter the differences in it.

“*Alrik… Look, I will admit, you have been through a lot more than me, you are clearly more experienced and in a way you are truly superior yet I am not as lesser as you think. You may be physically strong, but beneath that mask you are weak as a babe beset upon by wolves. You are confused, and you are full of hate and those things make you think harshly and unforgivably of others. You look at us, the new blood claws from a position above, maybe rightfully yet your ignorance blinds you of who we really are, its true Krahl acted foolishly but you can’t go threatening a pack members life just because he made a mistake, you yourself said that you have been called as an oathbreaker, you know how it feels to be an outcast, shunned and hated, why would you put others in the same position?*”

Frostulfr sighed, he hoped some of his words will go through to Alrik, and he hopefully would understand where he was wrong yet at the same time a part at Frostulfr’s mind told him that he was just being naïve. “*I know that I may mean nothing to you Alrik, but even though I mean nothing to you, you mean a lot to me, we are of the same pack, which makes us brothers whether you like it or not, and brothers don’t go off killing each others, not even in planned mistakes… Alrik, you must confess to yourself if not to others, admit your actions were foolish, not just those, but the future ones you will make, admit that you might have acted with ignorance in the past, I am sure that even Krahl will forgive you, and maybe in time Keris will forgive you as well if he did not forgive you by now.*”

Taking a risk Frostulfr laid a hand on Alrik’s shoulder, it was nothing more than a slight tap, it was not aggressive, he just wanted to make Alrik understand that he really cared for him as he did for everyone else in the pack, they were his new family, each of them special in his own way. “*Alrik, please… Just let it go, in time you may find us to your liking even if you doubt that… Remove those thoughts of sadness and darkness from your mind and focus on the present, what’s done is dead and you may not change the past, focus on changing the present instead.*” As he finished speaking he stayed silent, he was afraid that he might have confused himself in his words and did not make sense.

OOC: Sorry if its a little incoherent I just had to make it with several stops in th middle which cut off my thinking flow  Just PM me with a question if you want or post it in the Rec thread.


----------



## Euphrati

(ooc- This post is done with the ok of both Darkreever and Serpion5)

There was no warning as Keris surged to his feet in a blur of silver-grey rage; the haft of his spear sweeping around to catch Krahl behind the knees, sending the Blood Claw sprawling to the frozen ground. Surprise etched the younger Wolf’s features as he made to spring upright only to be pinned in place as the blunt end of Keris’ spear came crushing down upon his exposed throat. A liquid deep snarl of warning halted further struggles as Keris loomed closer, fangs gleaming in the firelight and eyes as cold as the heart of a glacier,

'Listen _well_, you mongrel pup, *listen well all of you*! I will personally drag your worthless arse back to the Fang, stripped and bound like a cur, to explain to Lord Blackmane why your _*personal *_glory is more important than the lives of your packbrothers… ‘

Keris’ throaty tones were made all the harsher by the undulating growl that rose and fell in echo to his breathing. His crest of night-black hair bristled like the hackles of a Thunderwolf, 

‘There is no place in service to the Allfather or in the Halls of Russ for oathbreakers; nor for a warrior who would seek to place blame upon a brother for his own actions. There is no excuse for such _cowardice_; bear your choices and failings as a man, not a wet-spined yearling.’

Ice-blue eyes moved from face to face amid the new blood of the pack as Keris continued, his gaze piercing with intensity,

‘There is _*no room *_for doubt when steel is drawn and battle joined; a warrior who cannot be trusted to stand and fight at his brother’s side without question does the work of the great Enemy for him and will find himself facing the judgment of the Wolf Priests. Our task remains to be done; mark no day until the next dawn, no ice until crossed, and no foe until his lifeblood stains your blade.’

After a long moment of weighted silence Keris released the pressure on the haft of his spear,

‘Your packleader summoned you for a _purpose_, Blood Claw Krahl, you will heed his words and show him respect or I will tear out your tongue for your insolence.’

With that, Keris turned and stalked back to where the Ghostwolf sat before dropping back into a kneeling crouch and laying his spear back upon the stone at his side. The fire crackled and popped for a full minute before he spoke again, voice low for his wolfbrother and eyes watching the cobalt shadows,

‘Vermundr made a choice; sacrificing his own honour for the unclouded focus of a single packbrother, for you, Ghostwolf. Can you say what you would or would not have done, brother? Can you see down the un-trodden paths of the wyrd?’

Keris shook his head, the torq around his neck shifting with the movement and his breath coiling like crystal smoke as he sighed. Twenty seven bones, each carrying a rune Keris had carved in the long voyage back to Fenris, were set around its circumference. Bones from the hand he had severed in the duel with the Serpent.

‘The mantle of leadership is a heavy burden; there are times when a decision has no truly right nor trouble-free answer, but still a choice has to be made. It is because Vermundr was willing to make that choice, to cast the spear of his honour knowing he could never call it back, that Lord Blackmane saw the truth of his focus.’


----------



## unxpekted22

As Krahl came into position, Alrik stood and moved away, Frostwulfr quickly following him. Tyr moved away from them as well, off to stand beside Heimdall. Despite their own conversations, they would all hear Keris's words along with the blood claws remaining around the fire pit.

As Keris was retuning to take his seat once more, Vermundr stood and moved to Krahl's form still laying upon the ground holding his throat. He heard Keris begin to whisper to Iorek, but what was said he did not hear. he loomed over Krahl, not yet letting him stand back to his feet.

"If I have something to say to you, it is likely the pack has something to say to you, not just myself. And if words aren't what you want, physical punishment is what you shall receive as you have just now partaken."

Vermundr leaned his rugged face in closer, his brown eyes narrowed and his brown haired braids swung low.

"Your words to me express the exact same problem within you that caused you to push Alrik in the first place: impatience. You were in a hurry to kill the beast for yourself, you were in a hurry to point fingers, and you were in a hurry to disregard whatever it was I had to say. What if I was intending to congratulate you in your achievements?"

"You say Alrik was the first to disrespect you. Bah! He only spoke to you in such a manner because of your disrespect to him! Even if you had cast him aside to save his life and happened to be able to make the killing strike in the process, you would have owed him an apology or explanation. How were you supposed to know the grumpy one had a plan? _Because he's a space wolf! An astartes!_ On top of that, he is more experienced in the field of battle than you, for you are none at all."

"Some speech on brotherhood and duty. Do not mock me. You have no idea the weight that those two words hold. When the blood of your brothers splashes upon your face in the heat of battle, and bullets continue to rain down upon your position, and it up to you and you alone to stand up out of cover and face the enemies that will not hesitate for a second to kill you and everything you stand for and are oathbound to protect, _then_ perhaps you will know the weight of the words brotherhood and duty"

"All I _was_ going to say to you before you opened your big mouth was advise against trying to start a long lasting conflict with Alrik. Trust me, he will outlast your efforts in that regard. There is no wolf that I know in Lord Blackmane's great company that is more stubborn and strong willed than Alrik the Firehawk."

Vermundr lent out one of his large hands, and pulled Krahl back to his feet, "Verbal apologies wont work with him now, I'm sure. To gain his trust again, it will have to be in the fires of battle, through actions alone."

He turned his head away from Krahl, making it clear he was done speaking with him, and stepped forward closer to the fire speaking to everyone now, calling them back in towards the circle a bit if they were far off, 

"My pack-brothers, listen well. Before starting this hunt, our Lord warned of a potential threat. Not everyone in our Great Company looks upon our pack with smiles, it seems. During these final hours traveling back to the Fang, it is likely someone may try to steal our glory, the glory of our _pack_." He turned his head again to Krahl when he said this as well as pointing to the giant Ursid's pelt still by the rock.

"The beast was able to withstand our hunting for two months. We shall see if our pack of thirteen can withstand being hunted for a mere twenty-four hours. A storm is approaching (darkreever's info to me) and I suspect if anyone is going to try something it will be during the harshness of the blinding weather. It could be one, or it could be a group of many, I have no answer for that. Do not consider us lucky if it is none at all, instead consider us lucky if someone tries to attack or steal from us and we catch them in the act, defending ourselves and showing our superiority. "

"Once we leave this small campsite, there is to be no verbal communication beyond what is necessary to return to the Fang victorious with our our Razor-Ursid's pelt. Everyone is to keep their senses sharp as we travel, eyes ears and noses alert at all times. We shall begin moving again shortly."

He turned and returned to the rock with Iorek and Keris. He gave a deep breath and turned to face them both, "Sometimes I feel we believe ourselves to be Grey Hunters already. Why do we act so? We tell the newcomers act as our older brethren often do, and yet, our company brothers rely on us as Blood Claws to run in headstrong against the odds. Granted, some entire packs of Blood Claws with our company seem to be nothing but a bunch of Krahls, and seeing as we appear to be in our Lord's favor I suppose we must be doing something right."

He gave a short breathed laugh, "Forgive my musings".


----------



## Lord Ramo

Heimdall stared away from the fire as he took a lookout position instead of the rest of the pack, who seemed to be content enough to fight with each other and argue with each other. Obviously the old guard thought themselves above their brothers with their experience. Heimdall was glad to be in their squad, there was no doubt about that. But at the same time they were all just Blood Claws, the older marines may have far more experience than the rest of the pack brothers but they were still just Blood Claws. Heimdall knew that Alrik was fuming about what had happened, and Heimdall did agree with how Alrik felt. But to say that he would kill a brother? That was wrong and he would was lucky a ranked brother hadn't heard him.

Tyr moved behind him and asked what he heard, saw, smelt. Tyr was much more accessible then his other brothers, he seemed to be the kind of brother that you could rely on in a battle. Heimdall nodded at his brother as he moved next to him. *"Brother Tyr, I enjoyed your war stories, it is a shame about the sacrifices that had to be made."* Heimdall said as he stared into the snow. *"I can smell a small pack of wolves, heading away from us upwind, but apart from that nothing. How about you brother? I have heard tale of your senses."*

He listened as the pack leader spoke, trying to defuse the situation that was obviously spiraling way out of control. The pack leader spoke of other trying to stop them and this made Heimdall wonder. If there was a threat to the pack as a whole, or even one of the members then why weren't they told in the first place when the threat was spoken to the older members. Heimdall kept quiet however, he wished not to try the bonds of brotherhood even further at the moment. *"How do we know they haven't already made their move while we have been hunting? They could have tried some greater feat or such?"* He spoke quietly to Tyr, he knew his brother would provide a calm and reasoned answer that others wouldn't.


----------



## dark angel

Alrik’s crunching footfalls were accompanied by a gentler, wary padding. The scent was pungent, of hotheadedness and unfortunate stubbornness, of misplaced judgment and clinging beneath that, the acrid stench of perspiration and the musky tang of furs. 

‘Frostulfr,’ He growled, his voice laden with animalistic irritancy, a low, sub-vocal whisper. ‘Persistent mongrel..’

The Firehawk was courteous, if anything. He allowed the younger Astarte to finish his poetic, downgrading discourse, his reddened lips peeling back over razor-edged teeth, his hands bunching into powerful fists. When Frostulfr was done, no longer having words of brash wisdom, Alrik’s hellish countenance flushed with vibrancy and cruel urges.

He surged into action - Clenching Frostulfr’s wrist, twisting until he felt bones grind against one another, but not break. The flat of his palm shot upwards between them, pummeling into the other Wolf’s chin, snapping his head back. 

‘Idiot,’ Alrik sneered, bringing his knee up and in, clapping organically against Frostulfr’s side. ‘Not so wise, after all.’

He balled his hand, and struck Frostulfr’s unprotected gut. Once, twice, five times. His attack was unrelenting, brutal, ungracefully beautiful - Filled with raw, undulated, contempt and rage. 

‘I humiliate and discriminate for one reason,’ He spat, striking Frostulfr’s cheek with a tremendous backhand. ‘One reason - I enjoy it.’ 

Alrik’s hand came from Frostulfr’s wrist, and with it, he pawed at the Wolf’s ribs. In a show of inhuman dexterity, he twisted on the ball of one foot, and rammed his elbow into a muscular torso. Frostulfr stumbled backwards, his breath escaping in shallow, pained gasps. Alrik launched forwards, barreling Frostulfr to the ground; following closely with a thud. 

His fingers were sinuous serpents, dancing around the other Marine’s throat, snapping shut. Bruises bloomed across the warrior’s body, vivid purple against pale, frost-coated skin. 

‘You should have left me be, whelp,’ Alrik grumbled, pushing downwards. Frostulfr’s head impacted bodily with the ground. ‘I beg for no forgiveness from Krahl, nor do I want any such thing,’ He threw back his head and let out a harsh, mocking laugh. ‘Perhaps I will bless you with a gift for your insubordination..’

He unfurled his fingers, standing unsteadily, rocking back and forth for a moment. He regained his composure, a wafer-thin smile of malice and enjoyment, slowly seeping across his face. Surreptitiously, Alrik licked his lips and pulled his pelts tighter about him, staring down at the blackened-and-blued Marine beneath. 

Once again, Alrik rained blows into his brother, who lay, sprawled, jerking under each impact. Alrik was seething with anger, bellowing Fenrisian curses and incoherent, illiterately so, insults. After a scarce several seconds, he staggered from Frostulfr, snorting echoingly. His eyes danced from face-to-face, but his smile did not move. 

His eyes went to the prone form of Frostulfr. A thin line of claret seeped from a gash in his cheek, where knuckles had scathed flesh. ‘Lecture me again, Frostulfr, and your tongue will hang from my belt,’ His voice was trembling with anger. ‘Lay hand upon me, and that will be the last time you can do so.’

His attentions went from Frostulfr to Keris. His smile dissipated, and then returned. Front teeth having attained a ruddy pink, highlighted against the white behind. Once again, he tugged at his furs, sniffing at the stiffened prongs of hair.

‘I spilt only a little, brother. I am sure that Lord Blackmane will not care.’

His laughter, an heavily accented, mirthless sound, ebbed across the ridge, weaving down into the vales and gorges.

The laughter halted abruptly, and his features became dour, all warmth and mockery fading away. His eyes locked with that of Iorek and those of Vermundr, and he bade them both a subservient, semi-respectful nod.

He hawked between his feet.

‘They are not ready, Packleader, these are not warriors. Lambs amongst the Wolves, children in the hides of men.'


----------



## Euphrati

Keris gave a solemn nod as Vermundr returned to the rock; his brother had grown in his role as packleader and Keris favoured him with an unguarded smile, a smile that faded like a man pitched from a dragonboat into the icy fangs of the tempest churned worldsea.

Keris slowly rose to his full height, the haft of his spear creaking under a white knuckled grip. His features were a cold mask of disapproval, anger bleeding of him in palatable waves like thunder from an imminent storm. _The wolf in his soul was utterly still, its teeth bared in a soundless outpouring of fury._ 

Like their home world of Fenris, the outlook of the Wolves was one of harsh lessons of survival and principle. A boy-child, still wet from his birth, who did not grasp at the haft of an axe was cast aside. A youngling who did not learn to respect and read the unconstrained humours of his home would find his lifeblood frozen in the howling winds of a storm, coursing down the gullet of a fearsome beast, or staining the snow red as the land thirst brought forth the murder-make. Keris’ stern and forceful warnings moments before had been driven by a deeply rooted devotion to each and every one of his wolfbrothers, their lives tied together by the blood of Russ that flowed through their veins. _No action taken without cause, no censure without purpose. A lesson enforced with the sharp clarity of pain and submission, not unwarranted brutality._

‘*You go too far*, Firehawk.’

Keris’ words held the same warmth as the tempest winds of Helwinter and his stride took him past Alrik to stand between the larger Wolf and the beaten Blood Claw,

‘Get on your feet, Frostulfr.’

Keris did not move to aid his packbrother beyond his words; he would not dishonour the younger Wolf by such an action, his unflinching gaze never wavering from the scarred features of the Firehawk in open challenge.


----------



## darkreever

Alrik; You finally turn your gaze away from Vermundr and Iorek and look down to Frostulfr, if anything to pull him back to his feet. What you see when you look down though, it robs your limbs of strength and halts you in your place. Frostulfr stares up at you, his eyes missing and face contorted in a rictis mask of pain and suffering. The flaying knife you had been gifted lays buried in his throat, having carved apart the geneseed within. Your eyes fall to your hands, stained with your brothers blood, but the hands are not your own. Through the dark blood, you can see the deep purple of ceramite gauntlets chased in a sickly green, an unintelligible declaration calling out in the distance.

Within a single blink it is gone, your hands are your own and Frostulfr is alive. Keris stands between you and him, whatever words he had said lost to your ears after that sight. Was that a vision of things or maybe some sort of hallucination? You turn away from Keris and Frostulfr, your mind awash with that troubling sight. 

[What was that? You had wanted to beat some sense into Frostulfr in your own way, but it would never have gone that far, would it?]


Keris; As your eyes bore into Alrik, he finally turns away from Vermundr and Iorek to stare at Frostulfr. Something is odd though, for the briefest moment the Firehawks eyes were glazed over. But then they were normal once more, his expression though, it flashed from worry and confusion and then back to a sneer to hide what truly lay hidden within.

[You know Alrik to be many things, blunt to friends the least of them, but that had been different. And what of his eyes? What was that?]


Tyr; You stare out into the distance, eyes making out features in the partial moonlight of the night. On the air you also catch the scents of wolves, and can make out a distinction of three creatures. Of the three, one is far older, likely near its end whereas the other two are much younger and knowing of the elder’s time coming soon. You hear Keris’s words to Krahl and everyone else, all but feeling him take the younger packmate down to the ground and cannot help but recall how Sigurd had actually done much the same to Alrik.


All; It is finally time, time to leave this fire and return to the Fang, return to your home. Gathering your things, the last of the meat is taken and the fire doused. A look beyond the edge of the continent shows a great storm, likely to come here in a few hours time. Casting one last look to the land ahead of you, you set off to return the ursid pelt to the Fang.

Making your way down from the flat outcropping at the edge of Asaheim proves no challenge, and crossing the valley at its base little more than a race. It is not long before the storm makes way to the continent, smashing into the land with cold, sleet-like rain and howling winds. For you, it was good fortune to have crossed the valley when you did, for in minutes it became bogged down by the storm waters. As you trudge onward, you cannot help but feel as if there are eyes on you; but try as you might, you cannot find anything through this storm and the winds throw scents about like ships on the sea.

Three hours of moving, of taking care to traverse the land and get that much closer to your goal. You come upon a narrow path of stone overlooking a great drop, the rain has made the path, barely wide enough for one of you to traverse, less than appealing to cross but there is no other way.


Keris, Alrik, Njord, and Yngvar; You opt to be the first group to cross the pathway, for though it is barely wide enough for one of you to walk on, it does appear sturdy enough to take the weight of several of you. Through the sleet, Yngvar finds himself staring at a figure on the other side of the path, and a look to Keris indicates that he had seen the figure as well. Had that not been the case, you might have just taken the image as a play of the winds, for one moment you saw someone and the next it was gone, but you were not the only one.

[Keris and Yngvar; was that a man you saw or just a play of shadows in this storm? And if it was a man, what was he doing and where did he go? Better yet, how long had he been there, was he the one following you?]


Tyr, Hrothgar, Frostulfr, and Iorek; Once Keris, Njord, Alrik, and Yngvar make way to the other side of the path you go next, crossing without a word. Despite your care, Hrothgar slips mid-way along and nearly plummets to a likely death on the jagged rocks below. The quick reflexes of Iorek and Frostulfr save Hrothgar, but the storm nearly takes all three if not for the larger form of Tyr keeping Frostulfr steady.

[That was more certainly a close one now wasn't it? Good thing you have such a big brother to make sure your ass doesn't do a swan dive into some stone.]


Vermundr, Krahl, Kjaratan, Heimdall, Azahd; When Tyr, Hrothgar, Frostulfr, and Iorek are nearly across the narrow pathway, you prepare to follow suit and be about your way when a howl picks up over the winds. You turn and see a number of lumbering figures walking through the rain, behind where you had come from. There are seven of them, seven ape-trolls native to the continent but rarely seen outside of the winter seasons. Each one is three meters tall, bedecked in gray and white patches of fur, with great gleaming claws of a double row of jagged fangs. With another roar, this one from the other side of the chasm now behind you, the trolls charge at you.

[These things are tough, and unlike you the storm appears to not phase them at all. You do not have much room to fall back on, but being who you are that matters very little. Vermundr, unlike the others you have your axe with you to wield alongside your knife, meeting two of the trolls head on in its charge. Krahl and Heimdall, before you have much of a chance to react a troll is on top of each of you. Krahl manages to dodge a swipe, but Heimdall is not so fortunate and a trio of slashes bite deep into the furs, grazing his side. Kjaratan favours better, able to plunge his spear into the chest of a charging troll, but that does not stop it and it crashes into you, sending both warrior and creature sliding towards the cliff-side. Azahd faces off against a pair of trolls, sidestepping and smashing the back of ones head as its weight keeps it going forward, hopefully over the cliff.]


Keris, Alrik, Njord, Yngvar, Tyr, Hrothgar, Frostulfr, and Iorek; You do not hear the roar from the opposite end of the chasm, but a flash of lightning does illuminate six ape-trolls blocking your path forward. One of them, a meter taller than the rest and with great scars across its chest and face, looks on at the lot of you with a hint of intelligence in its eyes. It bellows out what, were it a man, would be little more than a warcry and the five alongside it run at you before three more jump up from the cliff side.

[Alrik, that massive troll, likely the leader of these things, stalks forward to you and you alone. Maybe it can feel what happened before, maybe not, who knows with a creature like this; have fun. Tyr, Iorek, and Njord, you are closest to the edge of the cliff when the three hidden trolls leap up. Tyr is the least caught unawares, planting his metal fist into a trolls face before it can do much. Hrothgar, Yngvar, and Frostulfr, you meet three of the trolls charging towards you with spear and knife. Frostulfr, one troll lunges towards you, and before you can react a sharp pain in your side robs you of strength, the world blurring in that instant. Before you know it, the troll is on you and its taking all your strength to keep those fangs from sinking into your neck. Keris, you watch the troll jump on Frostulfr, but before you can help your packmate two such creatures come at you and force your attention.]


[Alright, as I mentioned before these things are tough. Do not expect to be able to kill them in a single post; maybe two so expect to be seeing something from me. Obviously, its probably gonna be a bit more for those of you who are fighting more than one, or are Alrik, but you never know.]


----------



## Serpion5

*Krahl*

Krahl lay in silence for a few moments, letting the weight of what Vermundr had said sink in. He had wanted to strike Keris back for his cheap shot, but he was not so foolish as to think he could best a veteran of a prior campaign under these circumstances. For the time being, he accepted humility... 

When the group began to stir, Krahl accepted Vermundr`s hand and rose to his feet with the older wolf`s aid. The pack leader then gave a warning, a grim reminder that their pack was not without rivalries and that their could be opposition on their return to the fang, or yet before... 

--- --- ---​
It had not taken a great while before the approaching storm had finally caught up to them. Krahl thought of the valley they had crossed not long ago, and how horrifying it would have been to try and cross it in this. He could see the sillhouettes of his packmates against the blinding snow, but distinguishing them was guesswork at best, for the wind made sound and smell as unreliable as his hampered vision. Three hours had passed since they had started to move, and so far it seemed as though they were following a faded trail. He couldn`t see anything that would count as a landmark, and there was no hope of telling direction from the stars. 

So far though, everyone seemed to have the same instinct, and Krahl had no reason to doubt his pack`s sense of direction any more than he would doubt his own. 

At last they reached something that had more detail to it than the colour white. A sheer drop was in front of them, with the only way across being a small rocky path. 

'So...' Krahl grinned. 'Who`s first?'


- - -


----------



## komanko

It was unexpected, surprising even. He moved quick striking Frostulfr who did not expect such an attack from Alrik. Blood, its metallic taste filled his mouth as it gushed from a wound in his cheek. Alrik, he stood above him, bellowing, shouting, raging, explaining how he enjoys humiliating and discriminating. 

Pathetic lies, Frostulfr knew that he hit the right spot; he knew that he pressed right where it hurts the most. He said that Frostulfr should have left him; he threatened him not to lecture him again. Empty threats, nothing that a sane man would manage to back up, Alrik knew better than that and Frostulfr knew that Alrik will not be able to harm him like that. The chapter’s code of honor forbade it and no one was stupid enough to ignore the code of honor. 

Alrik moved away, laughing. His laugh sounded unreal, fake. The man was not truly happy with his action at least that’s what it seemed to Frostulfr. He knew that this made end like that; Alrik was the type who showed their strength physically.

Suddenly Keris was in between Arlik and Frostulfr, his presence calmed Alrik down, and now Frostulfr knew why and that strengthened his will and resolve. The sage commanded him to get on his feet.

The pain was not terrible, he had worse and thus he slowly stood up, stretching out his body and trying to see if any severe damage was caused. 

Nothing of note… Several bruises and a wounded cheek.

Frostulfr spat, a red stain now decorated the white snow which began to disperse as the chemicals in Frostulfr’s spit began to work. He stood up pushing himself from the ground with his hands. As he stood he look at Alrik, a crooked smile spread across his face and started laughing uncontrollably, muttering in between laughs, “*Alrik, you are even more pathetic than what I first imagined.*” He could not stop laughing from Alrik’s reaction to his words it was unexplainably funny to Frostulfr.

He calmed down and moved towards his spear which lay on the snowy ground by the fire. They all began to move, Vermundr’s orders were clear, they had to get the pelt safely to the Fang as someone was after that same pelt which they earned by hunting the damn Ursid for two months.

The fire was doused quickly, the rest of the meat gathered and belongings taken. They left only the smoke of the fire behind, nothing else as they began to move towards the Fang. A storm was following them and they had to move out quickly, no one wanted to be caught out in the open when a storm hits and by the look of it the storm was moving quickly and will probably reach them within several hours which gave them barely any time at all.

They all quickly moved, making their way out of the valley quickly successfully escaping the storm behind them. The storm arrived, howling winds, pouring rain, it all made moving forward more difficult. The land in front of them was virtually invisible due to the storm and in this hard time he felt something awaken inside of him, his senses sharpened, his heartbeat quickened. He was no longer blind, he just could not see… He smelled it all, like a second sight it was… Magnificent. 

He knew that something was watching. something or someone was following them, the thing’s gaze always on them as they moved on. He ignored those feelings as he could do nothing about the fact that they were being followed.

The storm grew fiercer yet they were closer to their goal now, the Fang was within reach, just a few hours away and they will be back at the warm Fang, indulging themselves on good ale and food…

Yet now a new obstacle blocked their way. A narrow path, barely traversable by man or beast, a long drop down awaited those who slip which made the path less than welcoming but they had no other choice, the narrow path was the shortest and right now the only way to reach the Fang thus they had to cross it.

They split to three groups, his group consisting from Tyr, Hrothgar and Iorek. The other members of the pack split to another two groups. Keris, Alrik, Njord and Yngvar passed the narrow path first, reaching the other side quickly. It was the turn of the second group to pass, Frostulfr’s group. They moved on but suddenly something went wrong and despite the carefulness and care they took Hrothgar managed to slip and nearly fell to his death.

Frostulfr leapt from his place, grabbing Hrothgar’s hand, he saw Iorek on the other side, taking the other hand as they began to pull Hrothgar back from a likely death yet Frostulfr’s stance was not good and he began to sleep threatening to drag Iorek and Horthgar with him but a firm hand grabbed his shoulder and straightened him up, helping him stand firm and steady. Looking back Frostulfr saw Tyr’s large and imposing figure behind him, he smiled and nodded a thank you as they finally pulled Horthgar back up. This was a close call and nearly ended tragically yet they survived and now moved on to the other side.

A flash of lightning, a new scent hit his nostrils, vile, disgusting. Frostulfr looked as the lightning illuminated six new figures, ape like hairy creatures. Trolls. They were blocking their way forward “*Was it the threat that Vermundr talked about?*” Frostulfr wondered yet he quickly dispersed those thoughts as redicolous there must be something else awaiting them if they defeat the beasts.

Suddenly one of the beasts let out a rage filled roar, something which resembled a warcry. Not a moment later the trolls which accompanied him charged forward, five in number, as the “leader” marched towards Alrik. Three shadows passed by his line of sight, more trolls… They stayed hidden until now, it was an ambush!

Frostulfr heard himself snarl in hatred and rage as they were faced with this new obstacle. As his heartbeat quickened its pace he could feel his senses sharpen even more, his bestial side slowly taking control over his instincts and thoughts. His only goal now was to eliminate the threat.

The trolls charged at them, he stood steady and firm with Hrothgar and Yngbar. He bared his fangs at the incoming trolls. Pulling out the spear from his back he was about to counter charge the trolls yet one of them lunged, a sharp pain filled him, his vision blurred and quickly refocused as the rage forced him to fight on. The next thing he knew was him on the ground with a troll on top of him. The creature’s breath was vile; the smell of rot and death plagued it.

Frostulfr felt his strength seeping away as he tried keeping the trolls fangs at bay, his hands pushing the face of the beast away from his neck. He felt like his muscles were about to explode, his face turned red from exhaustion. The beast was extremely strong and stubborn. He felt as he was consumed by hatred and rage as a beast was unleashed inside of him. He snarled again and spat at the troll’s face, the acidic spit spread across the beasts face as it howled in pain and rage. His feral instincts guided him, he quickly let loose of the trolls face and kicked it away with both legs while it was blinded. Frostulfr rolled away and stood up, his instincts were sharp now and he saw his brothers fighting, each of them had their own enemies. He refocused on the troll in front of him which seemed to begin calming down and refocusing on Frostulfr. Roaring in rage the beast inside of him told him to charge and so he did, listening faithfully to the wolf inside of him as he charged at the troll and leapt towards it with a knife in hand hoping to carve the face of the beast out.

OOC: If it seemed like I god modded a bit throw me a Pm and I will quickly change it.


----------



## BlackGuard

The snow was probably the best of the enviroment around him as he moved on, slogging just outside of the valley as the first storm-waters began to cascade from the skies in a great booming roar. His eyes were constantly clogged, the water clinging to his pupils and freezing momentarily, just long enough for him to blink the frost away, clearing his vision. The wind was scathing and brutal and he rejoiced in the pain it lent to him. He'd perferred the heat, and everyone in the pack knew it. Not the heat of a warm campfire, not the stale heat that radiated within the Fang -- to desire that kind of heat was demeaning to one of the Rout. He'd perferred anything the exact opposite of Fenris' climate. His Astartes gene-forged biology coped with it in almost every way making even the harshest Fenrisian winters livable for him, if he kept on his toes. Physically he was capable and willing to endure the cold, snow, and wind, but mentally he'd rather be on some desert world fighting in the baking sands than upon Fenris in the snow. 

He'd never understood why and his talks with the Chapter's rune preists could only offer one possible conclusion ... his past. They'd found him buried in a mound of bodies clinging to life as the cold slowly froze one corpse at a time. Had the Rout not found him when they did, he'd probably have died upon the icy tundra of Fenris. No matter how much psycho-indoctrination they hammered into an Astartes there were some things imbredded within them, some feelings and emotions that simply couldn't be rooted out. He hated the damn, fucking cold and he would not be ashamed of it. 

_Left_ his mind screamed out at him. His eyes and skull jerked around to his left, staring into the blindness of the Fenrisian storm. Nothing was there. He gazed for a few more moments, not halting or slowing his pace one bit, but nevertheless his eyes scanned the pack's left flank. His instincts had been in an uproar for the last two hours, he could feel eyes staring at them from almost every angle. He'd tried to put it aside as nothing more than anxiety on his part as he wished to reach the Fang with their prize. That excuse lasted for about as long as it took to create it. Still, if there was a threat out there he had no doubt that they could handle it. There could be no true foes upon Fenris, nothing that a pack of the Rout Fenryka couldn't kill. 

He could feel that the others had felt the eyes as well, most might have tried sniffing for a scent but it would be futile -- the storm would mask it. His anxiety was reaching a high as he swore he saw something in the snow, a looming shape that seemed to just fizzle into nothingness. He did what he always did in these situtations ... he opened his mouth.

He chuckled at first, 'Brothers ... ever get the feeling you're being watched?'

He waited for no replies, the storm would likely drown them out. Hell he wasn't even sure they could hear him, 'Maybe its your mothers? I've told them all to stay at the damn hut, but they don't listen. Stubborn wenches just like the rest of you.'

Acidic he knew, and likely to recieve a reprimand for it. He mentally shrugged, promotion was the furtherest thing from his mind -- solid warcraft and bloodshed were his only thoughts. Anything beyond that was merely unnessecary politiking, something he wished to have no part in.


----------



## G0arr

*Yngvar*

As the spectacle was made Yngvar sat with his stones in hand. The Claw was divided, and it appeared that nothing would end that this day.The blood claws begin to stir as the order was given. The fire was doused as Yngvar slipped the stones back into a pouch. There was one left that he wished to make, but it would take time he did not have now.


The storm caught the Claw as the last climbed from a valley. As they began to trudge on Yngvar glanced back. Through the falling rain and ice he could see water moving below. Within minuets the valley would be filled with a rushing river fueled by the storm overhead. The thought sent a shiver up the young blood claw’s spine. He turned back to their original course and began the long march. Yngvar pulled the furs close trying to keep at least some of the wind and rain from chilling him.

Memory was what drove Yngvar forward. Seconds before vision had been lost he had found the Fang. Since then he had moved forward with the others keeping the wind to the same side. For three hours he had walked in silence. It was not only because of the orders from Vermundr but because of the storm itself. The howling wind and beating rain/sleet made it almost impossible to communicate. The entire time something pressed at the back of Yngvar’s mind. He would glance around from time to time. Each time he expected to see something, someone he did not know. Each time he only found the familiar shapes of his packmates. It felt like they were being watched, being tracked from just beyond the edge of the young Space Wolf’s vision. The feelings made Yngvar pull his furs tighter, even though it did little at this point he had been soaked from head to toe for over an hour now.

Yngvar halted as others did. Ahead was a sudden change. Instead of the stone and ice there was sheer darkness, a strait drop. Below there would be icy water gushing much like the valley they had crossed and a certain death. A small smile came to his lips. “It never can be easy,” he whispered looking over the drop. The view betrayed no depth, and barely betrayed the width.

So... Krahl grinnedas he stood before the only crossing point, Who`s first? "I will go," Yngrar replied over the wind and sleet. The young pack mate hid how much he wished to be out of this storm and away from the feelings of being watched. Others began to step forward forming the first to go across the chasm.

The first group to cross were Keris, Alrik, Hjord, and Yngvar himself. The young Blood Claw moved first. He stayed hunched low, nearly walking on all four to keep the wind from effecting his balance and progress. Constant glances to the path would warn of ice that could hinder or send the four to their doom.

The young blood claw moved first. He was hunched low nearly on all four to keep the wind from effecting his progress. Constant glances to the ground would warn of any ice on the path as the four made their way.

It was close to the other side that Yngvar glanced up. There against the far side stood a figure. There was nothing about this phantom that he could tell. There was only shadow covering the form. The young Blood Claw halted as he watched. Behind him the others had gotten closer. A voice spoke from behind which made Yngvar glance. The face he saw was that of Keris. When his eyes returned to the other side there was nothing, as though the phantom had never existed, but there was something in the pack mates' eyes that told him it had been real. When they reached the far side Yngvar knelt down where the phantom had existed. If there was sign it appeared that the rain and ice had concealed or removed it. He turned to Keris. "You saw it didn't you," the younger Blood Claw asked, "It wasn't just some play of light and shadow. You saw that phantom, that man did you not?" His senses were sharp as he scanned the surroundings. Listening for the reply.
-----------------------------

In the future, please only use the standard text size and font, and make sure that more than half of your post is in the regular colour. - darkreever


----------



## BlackApostleVilhelm

Tyr smelled the air while attempting to make out shapes in the distance. He could smell them clear as day, the shadows that their forms played against the moonlight becoming a bit clearer now that he could smell them. He could smell the wolves and clearly pick out three creatures, one was ancient his scent filled with wisdom and experience yet it was clearly close to dying, the two young ones with it aware of this fact. 

He smelled the different scents of his brothers too, each one of his older brothers had a distinct smell to them now while the newer claws still all smelled like eagerness and barely contained energy. A smile crept across his face, they were all not so far from that stage of their careers, after all they were all still Blood Claws even if Lord Blackmane did fancy using them as a younger guard sometimes. 

Movement behind him made him turn to see his brothers packing everything up to begin moving out. He had to admit he was giddy now that they were on the move again, he hated staying put and not doing anything, yet they were moving now and according to Vermundr there was still yet one test that awaited them before they got back to the Fang.

-------------------

The blizzard around them was bad, he could barely see in front of him and the wind was playing with his nose and ears and to make things worse they now had to cross over a short pathway over a gaping chasm. This was one of those times he was thankful for his weight, the wind was not strong enough to shake him from his footing and once the first group was almost across he, Iorek, Hrothgar and Frostulfr made their way onto the pathway. 

Tyr brought up the rear of the group he was with and saw Hrothgar lose his footing in slow motion, his hearts stopped as he saw his brother begin to fall over of the edge but Iorek and Frostulfr were there stopping him from falling. Tyr quickly made his way over to them as they all began to slip, his two hands grabbing the shoulders of Iorek and Frostulfr and pulling them back to safety along with Hrothgar. He nodded at the three of them to continue moving and they did, finally making it across the pathway yet as they did a flash of lightning illuminated six ape-trolls blocking their path forward. 

Tyr grinned in anticipation, he loved to fight and this was most certainly going to be a good one. The leader of the trolls let out what sounded like a battlecry and the other five charged them, he saw movement to his left off the cliff side and spun around in time to plant his metal fist into the face of one of the trolls coming up over the cliff side. The troll stumbled back as it cried out in pain, Tyr's fist flying into its face again as quickly as the other one had before grabbing his spear from his back and getting into a fighting stance.


----------



## revan4559

It hurt it always hurt, Hrothgar stared up at the sky from his back after receiving a punch to the face from his pack brother Frostulfr. Slowly pushing himself to his feet he scanned the surronding area with his steel-blue eyes in search of the back brother that hit him, seeing Frostulfr wasn't to far away Hrothgar started to make his way closer getting ready to pounce on him before his pack mate raised a hand to stop. Stopping in his tracks his ears only just started to pick up the arguement going on between his other pack brothers about what Krahl had done earlier, when he had pushed Alrik out of the way of the Ursid and into the way of its claws. To Hrothgar such a thing was uncalled for as while you may gain the glory of the kill you could also end up loosing your pack mate. Prefering to stay out of the fight Hrothgar made his way over to his original seat and takes his place again before he shifted his eyes back towards the fang and once again his thoughts returned to home as he allowed his fellow blood-claws to go about their arguement not noticing Alrik pounce on Frostulfr and injure him.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was time to leave as the pack was finishing gathering up what was left of the meat and dousing the fire. Pushing himself up Hrothgar looked around at his brothers before picking up his spear, Hrothgar then made his way over to Frostulfr and waited until the pack set off in the direction of the fang. For three hours they walked and for those three hours Hrothgar remained silent as he thought on what his first battle will be like. Would it be glorious and heroic? would it be brutal and would he loose many of his pack brothers? and more importantly would he himself survive it? All these thoughts swirled inside of Hrothgar's mind as he tried to picture what exactly it would be like to fight in his power armour for the first time in a true battle. Eventually though his trail of thoughts were intrupted as the pack came to a halt infront of a narrow stone path connecting two sides of a valley together and let out a small growl as he realized crossing such a path even when they weren't in a storm could be dangerous due to how small it was let alone with ferocious howling winds and rain battering them.

Hrothgar stood with Frostulr, Iorek and Tyr as he watched Keris, Alrik, Njord, and Yngvar cross over the narrow path way one infront of the other with no problem. After they had crossed the narrow path it was him and his three pack mates turn with Tyr at the front followed by Frostulfr, himself and then Iorek. Carefully making his way across the path he was only half way to the other side when he stood upon a small stone and lost his footing making him overbalance and tumble from the path. The world was moving vertically as he stared at the sky cursing to himself about dying in such a pathetic way, two mighty arms clamped around both of his wrists stopping him from falling. Looking down from the sky he could see that Frostulfr and Iorek had put their own lives indanger to save him and noticed that Frostulfr has almost joined him in falling it if had not been for Tyr. After being hauled back onto the bridge Hrothgar let out a sigh of relief before looking at his three brothers that had saved him. "Thank you brothers for saving me, i promise i will do my best to repay you all ten fold in the coming years." With that Hrothgar made his way to the otherside of the path while the rest of the group started to make there way over.


Hrothgar let out a throaty growl along with his inner wolf as he saw the six huge forms of trolls infront of him and his brothers and quickly drew his knife from its sheath at his waist. With several throating noises from the tallest troll the otehrs start to charge at them deciding to not let the troll built up momentum Hrothgar let out a howl to the wind and charged towards the one that was charging at him, raising his spear in his right hand Hrothgar put as much weight behind his spear as he could so he didn't over balance and aimed the tip of the spear towards the jaw of the troll to distract it so he could sweep in low and plant his knife into the creatures stomach.


----------



## Serpion5

*Krahl*

As eager as he was to be out of the blizzard, Krahl was not so arrogant as to think he had any right to impede on the others` position to lead. Two groups had gone across so far, leaving Krahl and four others behind. Vermundr was among them, the pack leader ensuring that everyone would be accounted for. It looked at last like it was time for the last group to cross. Krahl began to approach when a bone chilling howl stopped him dead in his tracks. 


'That was no wolf...' He muttered. The others had heard it too, spreading formation and looking into the blinding wall of snow. After a few moments he saw them, sillhouettes of towering figures, vaguely humanoid but at the same time very different. There were six of them, and Krahl could see they would never be able to make it across that narrow bridge until all of the creatures were slain. Vermundr had clearly seen this as well, and met the creature`s advance with his own charge. 

Krahl would have followed suit, had not a target already begun to advance on him. It swiped a massive claw for his head, but Krahl was more nimble than the brute and managed to evade the swing. He focussed, trying to ignore the biting wind and swung the haft of his spear into the creature`s thigh. It impacted, and Krahl`s wrist jarred from the sudden shock. It was as though he had swung the weapon into an adamantium wall! With a growl the creature took another swing, and again Krahl managed to dive out of the way. Trying to put some distance between him and it was difficult, he could not go much further back without risk of falling off the cliff edge. He had to coax the creature into overcommitting and try to get behind it. He hoped it was as stupid as it looked. 

Feinting twice, he jabbed the spear into its shoulders, inflicting only a shallow wound. It roared in fury and stepped forward, batting the speartip aside as Krahl aimed for another thrust. In a moment of blind desparation, Krahl threw a punch directly at its face, hitting it squarely in its left eye. It recoiled immediately, scratching at its bleeding face while the space wolf clutched his broken knuckles on the ground in front of it. 

Recovering first, Krahl dove to the side and recovered his spear. It was on top of him almost instantly, but its hasty advance was its downfall as Krahl managed to spin on his back and impale the spear through the creature`s cratered eye socket. It was still and silent, but still standing. Had he killed it, or was it just stunned momentarily? In any case, the spear was stuck tight so if it had survived Krahl was now in a tough spot... 


- - -​


----------



## dark angel

The silence was deafening. The howling winds had subsided, the distant crack-boom of thunder had become a gentle, ominous rumbling. Vermundr and Iorek watched him, with narrow, contemptuous eyes. Alrik’s own obsidian orbs wandered, flowing over the landscape and the dark, threatening silhouettes of his brethren. And then, they drifted onto Frostulfr. A sudden ache struck through him, weaving through his limbs, causing his mouth to slowly open. 

The younger Wolf lay, staring upwards, through eyeless sockets, tears of blood running down the cheeks. His face was tight, contorted in agony, the lips peeled back in a soundless cry. The Cretacian blade, in all its blood-soaked glory, lay hilt-deep in a muscular throat, rich claret seeping outwards from the ragged gash. The Geneseed, the blessed genetic data of Russ Himself, was a mangled heap within. 

Frustratingly, his fingers opened and closed. From the brutalized form of Frostulfr did his eyes move, slowly, methodically absorbing the sight before him. His hands were slick with blood, ropey viscera dangling from between gauntleted fingers. Purple, the colour of distant flowers, highlighted against green the colour of the ocean.. 

Acidic bile rose in his throat, an inhuman howl rising upon the horizon, drifting on the winds.

He blinked, flabbergasted at the sight before him, biting down on his lip again, cursing sub-vocally, and then - 

- It was gone. The fire flickered, dancing across Keris’ muscular form, bathing him in gold-orange. He stood, stoic, shoulders wide, a snarl upon his lips, between the downed Frostulfr and Alrik. The corners of Alrik’s mouth twitched, forming a nervous, anxious smile. From there, it became an enraged snarl, his fangs bared, glimmering in the moon and firelight. He gave a snort, his breath misting and sparkling before his face, and marched away.

_‘What was that?’_ He asked himself, when out of earshot of his brethren. Somewhere, amongst the gorges and forests, a wolf howled its lament. 

***

Vermundr gave the order to move, a throaty growl which echoed over the barren ridge. The fire was doused, the meat gathered and the pelt bundled. Alrik retook his spear, firm hands slipping around the long, oaken haft. In the month or so since he had crafted the weapon, shallow grooves had formed along the haft, perfect indentures for his fingers.

In his mind, the sight of a broken, murdered Frostulfr replayed. Had it been an hallucination, a side-effect of his bloodlust? Perhaps it was something else, did the Psykers of the Imperium not suffer similar visions, that drove them to madness and extermination at the hands of the Inquisition? 

Feebly, he attempted to banish such thoughts. He was no Witch, his mind was not weak enough to conjure up false realities..

Again, the image flashed through his mind, coalescing before his eyes, before dissipating..

Now, the Pack were moving down the ragged rocks, rain slanting in amongst them, rendering them as tall, muscular shades. Down the ridge, they moved, at a pace, the storm licking at their heels. At the base of the ridge, they broke into a sprint, Alrik lopping on the right flank, his mind clouded. He watched the forests and mountains, every wary of larger, more powerful dangers. 

They moved, at a pace, in a staggered, fur-clad line. Their movements were slow, careful; those of an hunter, those of born-again slaughterers. Keris was a phantom, ghosting Alrik’s movement, keeping eyes fixed upon him. The Sage, his ice-eyed brother, had a keen sense and a strong mind, and had tailed, or ran alongside, Alrik for a while now.

The path ahead narrowed, thinning out into a ledge, a deep, oily darkness spreading off. Alrik and Keris, accompanied by two of the young-bloods, traversed first. Alrik was in the van, his spear thrown over a shoulder, running both hands across the sharp, dark rock. His boots, seal-leather and wolf fur, were sturdy and unwavering, made of finer stuff. The ground widened, leveled out, until they were in a ravine, Keris and the younger Wolf, Yngvar, spying something.

A flash of lightning, and something was shown in the bright, silvery-blue light. Six things, to be precise. They were huge, their movements languid and lumbering, clumps of white and grey fur clinging to their broad bodies. Fangs and claws, more akin to daggers than bone, gleamed threateningly. The centremost beast, taller by far than the others, with scars decorating its chest and face and eyes the colour of a storm, bellowed inanely and the creatures bounded forwards.

That particular beast, horrid as it was, circled left, staring intently upon Alrik. 

Alrik broke off from the Pack, bounding forwards, with an howl of excitement upon his lips. The ape-troll, massive as it was, moved with shockingly alien agility. 

It darted forwards, claws spinning, fangs dripping spittle. Alrik matched it, his contracted, reddened face awash with anger, rain running along his scars. 

His spear was quicksilver, a blur of metal and wood; striking the beast between breasts. Blood erupted from around the point, glittering, splashing over Alrik’s face. The warmth was beautiful, as was the taste upon his lips and the tang within his nostrils. 

And then, it.. _Chuckled_..

The ape-troll backhanded Alrik; sending the Firehawk bouncing away. His cheek opened up, a trickle of blood escaping from a slender, shallow cut. 

Alrik was back on his feet instantly, wielding the broken haft in one hand, drawing the Cretacian with his other. The ape-troll lumbered closer, the scars upon its face rippling, as the creature let out a long, keening roar. 

The Wolf of Fenris darted forwards, cracking the haft over the beast’s skull. His flaying knife was liquid metal, licking over the creature’s hip, drawing another gash. 

Before he could strike again, massive paws seized him, dragging him closer. He was pressed into stone-hard muscle, that stank of blood, dung and perspiration, and felt dagger-like claws sink into the skin of his shoulders. 

The Firehawk refused to cry out, refused to allow the others to see any form of pain - That was a weakness, and he did not need the newcomers to believe him lesser. 

He smiled, and chuckled hoarsely. 

In the crushing embrace, Alrik could do nothing but ram his blade into its gut. Again and again and again.


----------



## Euphrati

Keris could feel his wolfspirit as it prowled deep within his soul, echoing his own tension as his cold eyes bore into the hulking warrior before him. _What has your wyrd by the scruff of the neck that you would risk my ire like this, you snaggle-toothed bastard? I am going to pummel your hide bloody before dragging what’s left back to the Priests by the hairs of your insolent arse…_

Of all of Keris’ packbrothers Alrik was by far the most impetuous in nature; his belligerent manner and volatile temper in keeping with the hallowed spirit of Ferki, the notoriously more bellicose of Russ’ two wolfsiblings, where as Keris’ wolfspirit was more akin to the wise and watchful Geri. To anyone outside the warrior-brotherhood of the pack their quarrelsome rapport gave the impression of being tenuous at best but, in truth, the bond between them was one of the closest; the pale scar on Keris’ flank attesting to that.

The Firehawk finally turned back to face him and, for a heartbeat, Alrik’s dark eyes were hazy and unfocused; disorientation and concern marking his scarred features before the mask of cynical superiority slipped back in place. Keris felt a shock run up his spine; the hair on the nape of his neck stiffening in response as the beast that shared his soul gave a low growl, suddenly cautious. 

He gave his wolfbrother a measured gaze as the pack broke camp on Vermundr’s orders, staying close by Alrik’s side as they moved out. Keris had seen that look in another’s eyes before and poured over his memories if his wolfbrother had shown any signs of walking that path previously. Until the Claw had completed its task and Keris could speak with the Firehawk alone, he settled on keeping a careful watch on the older Wolf as the frigid winds brought the first rumbles of distant thunder.

-

The winds tugged at his form, dragging at the storm-drenched fur draped about him with a giant's strength as Keris tasted their icy bite on his cheeks even with the short growth of coarse, black hair that he had allowed to cover them. He would shave it back when they reached the halls of the great company again in keeping with the tradition for the youngest of Russ’ warriors, but for now it served to keep the worst of the lashing shards from his skin. 

The power of the storm coursed all around him; the cold was no bother to his gene-forged body and Keris felt the elemental wrath stirring the beast deep in his blood as he loped along in the company of his wolfbrothers. The planet mercilessly challenged every creature that drew breath upon its wrathful form; only the absolute strongest survived and the Wolf King would have his world no other way. This was the distilled and untamed spirit of Fenris, his beloved homeworld, and Keris honoured its feral glory with every beat of his hearts.

The storm had rolled across the high peaks of Asaheim like a hunting pack in full pursuit of wounded prey, swallowing the Claw up as they pressed onwards towards the towering shadow of the Fang. _The wolfspirit in his soul bared its fangs in empathy to the rage of the deathworld. Something set it on edge, pressed at the very limits of his senses like a predator skirting the line where firelight meets darkness._ Keris had felt the eyes in the storm, yet the scything sleet limited vision and the fierce winds whipped any scents away into the steel-dark clouds above them. He endured the restrictions on his senses begrudgingly, trusting in his packbrothers and the instincts of his wolfspirit.

After nearly three hours of pushing through the teeth of the storm, the Claw found its path hampered by a gorge that seemed to fall away into the dark heart of Fenris itself. A narrow arch of stone bridged the gap in defiance to the brutal elements, carved away by over centuries until it soared across the void like a boarding grapple holding one iceskif to another. 

Keris padded carefully behind his wolfbrothers in the first group to cross; crouched low to the stone and each step placed with a surety of instinct and balance. His elk-hide boots were soled with the skin of the deep-sharks that hunted the breaking of the pack ice, yet even with their added purchase the stone was murder-slick with wind driven sleet. The storm clawed at them, whipping the shards of ice into billowing curtains and howling through the darkness under their feet. 

Keris kept his eyes locked upon the far side of the path, his wolfspirit wary and suspicious. For a moment a shadow loomed in the swirling winds on the far side of the gorge and Keris felt the flood of endorphins spike through his bloodstream in response to the snarled warning of the beast in his soul. One of the new members of the pack, Yngvar, made to pause ahead of him. Keris gave a deep-throated growl of warning,

‘*Do Not Stop!*’

The Blood Claw pushed onwards, tossing a glance back at him that showed he had seen the figure as well. The younger Wolf turned to him when they had finally set foot on the far side of the abyss as Keris pulled his spear from its sheath across his back,

‘Aye, I saw it.’

Keris’ tones were thick with the underpinnings of battle arousal as his eyes scanned the storm around them without pause,

‘_Skitja_… Russ gave you wits along with fangs, brother, *use them*. No mere men walk these peaks, much less in a storm that would take the fur off Morkai’s arse!’

Lightning split the clouds above them, illuminating the broken expanse of stone before them and the six hunched figures that stalked forward. Patches of matted grey fur covered the creatures’ bodies, their twisted features betraying the maddened hunger of near-starvation and their gait a lumbering motion of simian-parody. A hunting throng of ice-trolls, the sub-species not as potent as their larger parent breed but a ferocious foe none the less. The largest of the group bellowed a bestial cry of threat, its scarred face turned towards the Firehawk in challenge. Keris gave a vicious lupine grin, ivory fangs flashing in the lightening of the clouds overhead. _Looks like Alrik has finally found something as ugly as he is._ 

There was a scrapingof talons on stone as three more of the lumbering brutes heaved themselves up from the lip of the gorge right behind the second group of the pack to cross the stone bridge. Keris bared his short fangs in reply as the entire throng launched itself on the Wolves with a chorus of maddened roars.

Keris caught Frostulfr stumble and go down under the lumbering bulk of a troll out the corner of his eye, but before he could turn to his packbrother’s aid he found two of the brutes angling towards him in a snarling rush. The creatures were frenzied in their headlong charge, nearly trampling each other in order to be the first to engage him. Keris choked up on his spear, the haft carved from the pale bone-spine of a seawurm with an adamantium rod at its core, creating the illusion that the weapon was far shorter than it actual was and tensing the corded muscles in his legs as they neared. The lead troll made to lunge the moment it was in range, only to roar in agony when the monomolecular edge of Keris’ spear point came smashing into its shoulder as its prey’s reach suddenly doubled in length.

Keris howled as he threw his weight into the thrust, twisting as he did so to turn the brute’s momentum into the path of its fellow. The troll behind it shrieked in anger as careened headlong into the first, going down a thrashing mass of limbs and storm-iced fur. Keris lunged at its exposed back before the pair had even come to a stop, driving the tip of his spear into the base of the brutish creature’s thick neck and seeking to sever the spine before it could untangle itself from its wounded fellow.


----------



## unxpekted22

Vermundr trudged through the miserable weather at the front of the pack, spread out as it was. He was surprised to find himself joyful amidst the storm. A bubble of laughter boiled inside of him, and knowing the sound would be drowned out by the storm and winds he let it out. He laughed for several reasons. The first and foremost was because the icy sting plowing into his face was just ridiculous. How could someone call this their home? It was probably more uncomfortable, and perhaps even more formidable than the Alpha legionnaires, which was the second reason he laughed. The final reason was because he needed it. After seeing his pack continue its legacy of infighting even amongst new members who hadn't been on Hecutor, he needed it.

A kept a grin even as his pack mates crossed the thin bridge in front of him. He was glad to see some team work from them when it was needed, as several from the second group reacted in the blink of an eye to save Hrothagar from falling to his death.

He turned to face the ape-trolls as they made themselves known, and still his grin remained. He noticed peering through the sleet, that his brothers on the opposite side of the bridge were encountering enemies as well, an ambush. He laughed and shouted out loud even if his packmates still could not hear, "These foolish beasts think they can outwit Astartes in the art of battle! How adorable!"

He gripped his large callused hand around the metal handle of his battle axe that hung at his waist beneath his furs. It felt as if his fingers stuck to the frozen metal instantly, fusing with his weapon. It may have been painful if his hands weren't already numb.

He drew it and his knife together raising them in front of him and charging at two of the trolls coming at him, shouting a battle cry in case any were near enough to hear him, _"Glory for all who want it now, brothers!"_ There were plenty of targets this time, there would be no stealing of kills or sparsity of struggle. Everyone would have their chance to kill one of the trolls. 

While running he noted the height of the Trolls, approximately three meters made them one to two feet taller them himself, so low blows would be easier. However, he noted second, their arms hung low, so low swings would likely be easily blocked. They hunched and stepped with heavy feet. They were not nimble to any degree. Almost within reach he noticed several more details before striking, these creatures were not being affected by the weather conditions as he and his packmates were. Their teeth and hands were their weapons, and their bellies were paunched. 

The predicted swing of the arm flew over his head as he dived low, but his right arm swung high sending the blade of his battle axe clean into the Troll's gut which spewed blood as he pulled his weapon away continuing to move forwards to get behind it. His knife came around, held in his left hand, and punctured the troll's lower spine. The first of his targets dropped dead onto the snow covered ground. 

Any smile or laughter he still had left was gone in an instant as he saw that these 'silly' beasts were in fact a significant threat. He saw some of his pack falling and tumbling with the creatures, some of them clearly had been wounded. He found no humor at any of those under his command being killed, especially by some disgusting ape-troll on their own homeworld; not even an enemy of the Imperium. He noticed Some of the figures getting achingly close tot he cliff's edge. 

He took this all in in just couple of seconds before he heard the roar he was waiting for. His arm swung behind him, the head of his axe turned to the ground knowing the Troll's long arm would be coming in low. Though he had guessed correctly and blocked the first arm, he hadn't expected the troll to swing with both at once, and so the other arm still came crashing into the side of his head sending him to the ground disorientated. 

He stumbled trying to stand up, his furs getting in the way of his movements. The troll pounded its large hands into his back as he tried to regain his footing again and again. I let out caws that sounded like something between a large seal and a human each time it brought down its fists and claws into Vermundr's backside. 

He couldnt think, there was no room to think. Face back to the ground, then feet scurrying, then face back into the ground, then feet scurrying. He did the first thing he _could_ think of and took his knife which was amazingly still in hand and ripped his fur cloak at the sleeves, allowing the wind to take hold and fly into the Trolls' face. 

The fur was quickly knocked aside but it served its purpose all the same throwing the troll's focus off for the slightest moment. Vermundr was back on his feet, axe and knife again at the ready. 

The winds whipped at the exposed flesh of his face and torso. He knew dieing in the freezing storms of Fenris was definitely possible, but he would rather die at the icy grips of a storm he could do nothing about, than be the pack leader who's group of blood claws was found dead by the hands of an apparently too tactically savvy troll clan for them too handle...


----------



## Deus Mortis

Azahd watched as events outside his control spiraled into madness. Alrik toppled Frostulf and pummeled him into submission. Azahd flinched to watch the scarlet fluid stained the pure white blanket of snow. Blood, Astartes blood flowed free and uninhibited and it pained Azahd to watch, but Alrik's blood was up, and to aid Frostulf would only serve to prove Alrik's point; the newer members were weak, and undeserving of their place. Vermundr was done rebuking Krahl, and Keris had also brought Krahl low and now intervened for Frostulf. All the other fresh bloods seemed to fair better, integrating well with the existing claw. Azahd for the moment watched the scenes unfold and listen to the warning given by Lord Blackmane. The blade of ice continued to roll over Azahd's knuckles, and he absorbed all that was happening with an almost casual indifference. Mistakes were being made, trying to bond with the Firehawk and acts of selfish glory were amongst them, and these were things that Azahd could learn from. 

Once again, events moved forward relentlessly. It was time to go, time to go home. Azahd watched the brothers around him move into action, glimpsing some curious silent exchange between Keris and Alrik but thought nothing of it. The two seemed like fire and ice from Azahd's brief experiences within the pack and was not keen to stand between the stream of emotions that joined the two like a chord. Azahd was the one to put out the fire and then the pack was left alone with nought but the like of the stars and moon and the howling of the wind. And yet, something pricked on the edge of Azahd's senses. Barely palpable but defiantly there. A fleeting presence. Possibly some predator drawn by the smell of roasting flesh. But the pack moved quickly and the fire was already out and almost immediately the presence disappeared. *A phantom in the snow* Azahd thought *Nothing more*. Time to move.

The claw trudged constantly for hours. A storm rose up like an angry cat and spat wind and hail and ice at them. Rain and ice whipped around Azahd.Even as a native Fenrisian, this storm still chilled him to the bone. Who on earth would think to make such a hostile environment their home. Surely such a thing was madness. As the trudged on, Azahd became increasingly cautious. Dispite his best attempts to settle his mind, he couldn't help but fell they were being watched. But this storm was playing hell with his sense of smell and it drank all sound, even from most of his battle-brothers. Still, there was unmistakably something out there, just beyond the veil of ice and rain.

The claw reached a natural brigde of perma-ice and stone, but in this storm, with the holwing winds and the rain that turned to ice on contact, crossing it was less than inviting. However, the claw stil split up again, and the first half started to make their way across. Just as Azahd's group was making ready to cross, an feral howl rose up from the storm. Azahd could feel his wolf-spirit snarl at such a direct challange. Azahd was still unaccustomed to keeping his wolf-spirit in check, but managed it whilst he spun to see what manner of creature had challanged them. 

There was not just one shadowed form in the storm but several. From the size of them, Azahd judged they were a troll of some sort. Big bastards. This wasn't going to be easy. Again a howl rose up from both sides of the valley, and the beast charged. Azahd issued his own howl of acceptance and rushed to great them. Two beasts were comming straight for him. Both looked to swipe him, and so Azhad dove feet first into a slide in the ice and snow. He slid right between the pair and came out the otherside unscathed. As the two started to turn, he took hold of his spear and lept into the flank of one of them and struck it with his spear. THe creature howled and swiped at him but as quickly as he had struck, Azahd jumped back.

This exchange went on for several minutes. Azahd could hear the sounds of his pack-mates fighting and the howls of creatures as the were sturck by the Astartes. Azahd could barely get a stirke in against his two assailants. When the oppertunity presented itself wiht one, the other was always ready with a strike, giving the other time to recover. One Azahd's part he had remained largely unscathed. A few shallow marks from the trolls razor sharp claws, but nothing more. But this fight was testing, and unlike the trolls, the feirce weather was making the fight all the more difficult for Azahd. 

Again, one of them swiped for him and Azahd jumped back to avoid the swipe. Then, an unholy howl rose up to his left. The second troll had moved around and was now charging for him. In front of him was the rapidly recovering troll, to his left the second, and to his right a sheer drop. Then quick as lightning, the idea hit Azahd. He stood, bold as brass in the face of the charging troll and howled back at it. Such impudence from it's supposed prey seemed to enrage the troll and it's speed increased. In a few moments, it would have cannoned into him and sent him flying off the edge. But at the last moment, Azahd spun out of the path of the troll. Cleasrly realising it's fate, the troll tried to stop itself, but Azahd struck out with the point of his spear to the base of the creature's head. The force of the blow, sent the three meter tall monster stumbling toward the edge. At that moment, it looked as if the creature would surely fall off the edge, but Azahd had not time to watch and be sure. The other troll was ready to attack again and it wasted no time doing so. Again Azahd side-stepped a hammer-blow swipe and grinned a feral smile. He was enjoying the thrill of the fight...


----------



## Lord Ramo

Tyr nodded as he agreed with what Heimdall smelt, obviously there was nothing else out there or he would tell the blood claw. One thing that Heimdall didn't understand was to why the elder blood claws thought themselves above the others. Admittedly they had combat experience and had fought and bled in the name of the Emperor and the Wolf, but they were still blood claws, like the rest of them. 

The group soon moved out, moving forward in groups. The storm that was coming hit them hard and followed them for hours, causing all senses to be pretty much useless. Heimdall could hear the howling winds, and could barely see his brothers in front of him. They were getting closer and closer to the Fang with every step though, soon they would be rejoicing in the halls of the legendary keep. 

Heimdall was in the rear echelon of the group, the place he preferred to be. In training he would always volunteer for a rear guard action when applicable, and wished he had his trusty flamer with him, then the snow and ice could feel his rage. He would have been good if he had it with him at the front, lighting the way for the others to follow. Heimdall had grown up on Fenris, but in all his years of training and before he had never experienced a storm of this magnitude. He felt his annoyance rise within him, they were being to damn cautious and slow. He could be in the halls by now, drinking and feasting to tales of their victory.

He knew the Wulfen spirit wanted him to snap, to abandon the others and make a push for himself to the Fang, but he ignored it. He had a claw to look after now, brothers whether they be by choice or not. Soon the Claw reached a natural looking bridge, made out of ice. The groups set across in their smaller divided echelons, Heimdall's would be the last to cross the frozen ice bridge. Heimdall stopped as they waited, keeping a lookout as best he could, but it wasn't good enough. he could see, hear or smell anything thanks to the storm, and he let loose a snarl of frustration at this.

Then he heard something, a roar it sounded like. Out of nowhere the group were besieged by some form of trolls, they seemed unaffected by the blizzard, and smashed into the rear echelon. Heimdall faced a creature bigger than him, and before he could even bring his spear to bear on it it stuck its claw into his leg, and raked down it. Crimson blood flew freely out of the wound, the Troll had some in it claw while the rest stained the ground he stood on. With a howl of anger and determination Heimdall leapt straight at the troll, knocking it backwards with the butt of his spear.

The troll quickly regained its composure as Heimdall led a series of lightning fast hits on it. The troll was barely scratched as Heimdall sliced with his spear, and with a roar it swung a fist at him. Heimdall ducked underneath the blow, stabbing his spear upwards into the trolls arm. It howled in pain as it grabbed hold of his spear and yanked it out of its arm. Dropping the spear on the ground it charged at Heimdall, who barely had time to pull out his knife before it was upon him.

Heimdall ducked and slashed at its legs, hoping to knock it off balance, but the troll kicked him backwards, Heimdall slamming into the snow. He rose quickly and leapt forward to meet the troll head on once more, darting in with his knife and causing blood to spray as he sliced the outside of its leg. Heimdall rolled underneath one of its punches and grabbed his discarded spear, turning to face a charging troll head on. Heimdall would end this fight soon, once he had repaid the troll for injuring his leg.


----------



## G0arr

*Yngvar*

Yngvar’s eyes darted as he searched as Keris spoke. “Then what would you have me call it,” was the younger one's reply. Looking back up to the older pack mate Yngvar saw that his eyes were locked elsewhere. Spinning the young blood claw could make out the shapes against the storm.

They were massive things. Yngvar gripped his spear tight as he stared at them. This was not what he had seen moments before. He could see flashes of ivory fangs and heard the scrape of claws on stone. Rain dripped from clumps of hair along their skin which rippled with muscles as each moved.


Alrik was the first to act. He burst forward howling as he went. The warrior’s aim was easy to track; he was charging the center most creature. Yngvar quickly followed. The young blood claw held himself low. As the others roared, or shouted their challenges the hunter sprinted. These things were prepared, which meant the maneuver would be far more difficult. 

Yngvar struck low. The ape troll appeared to be more interested in the louder individuals so it was not fully prepared when the hunter struck. It was the knife that struck first biting into the front of the creatures shin near the ankle. A second fast slash as the blood claw turned his momentum to drive himself behind the creature stabbing and then slashing across the back of its leg. The ape troll roared as it retaliated. A heavy arm slammed into the ground where the young blood claw had been. Instead of rising close to the creature Yngvar gave distance as the second clawed arm slammed into the rocks inches away. 

The young space wolf spun to his foe. The monstrous creature roared as it stomped forward. Hate burnt hot in its eyes as blood ran from the pair of wounds on the creature’s leg. It was close, to close for the hunters spear, but well within the aggressor’s knife. One massive clawed hand lashed out again. Yngvar went low managing to avoid the claws, and only brush the arm behind it. The young hunter dove forward knowing the other arm was close. Rainwater sprayed behind him as the wet hand arched in. Yngvar sprung forward past the beast again. With the blade in his right hand he could not make a clean strike against the foe to his left, but still he tried. The blade barely cut through the thick skin and fur as he moved past.

The creature spun hard as its feet slid on the water and snow. The sinew and muscles of its injured leg popped and strained as the young hunter’s aim proved accurate. The ape troll leapt to force a change in its momentum. The wound released a splash of blood as the tendon popped again. Yngvar drew his spear and spun to meet the foe in a single fluid move. This time he was prepared to meet the charge as a hunter.

Past the creature there was another fight. Through the rain and the howls of battle the young blood claw saw it, a brother was in danger. The form of Alrik and that of the largest of the beasts seemed to have combined into one. The huge thing embraced him within its massive arms as the older blood claw violently thrashed.


Yngvar ran at the beast he had been dueling. This would be a game if inches, and hopefully the pair would not decide to flinch at the same time. He saw the creature’s muscles flex along its right flank. He watched as the claw reached out toward him. He could see the trail of water the storm was leaving behind as it sliced through the falling rain. Yngvar dove hard to the right at the last possible moment. He saw the other claw flex, and felt one of the talons slice into his cold skin. The ape troll would not let its quarry away so easily. The young blood claw shouted as the claw ran down his left arm in a jagged gash, but did not find purchase. 

Claws raked against the wet ground as the ape troll turned itself. It had been the third time the prey had passed. It howled with rage as it adjust its weight. The howl changed as its foot clawed across the ground. There was a cracking sound almost like a small gunshot as the injured tendon was stressed one last time. The muscle contracted wildly into a mass of meat as its connection to the creature’s heel disappeared. It was sent sprawling as the foot became a useless mass of muscle and bone.

Yngvar sprinted toward the pair in their deadly embrace. Both hands gripped at the spear wet from the rain and from his own crimson blood. With the wounded creature thrashing behind him and his pack brother ahead the young blood claw finally released a battle cry. Against the rain, the roars of monsters, and the claps of thunder he began to howl.


----------



## Angel of Blood

The pack continued joking and testing each other. But then it took a new turn when Alrik began to savagely beat Frostulfr. Njord sat up a little straighter and went onto alert, but he knew better than to try and intervene, this was between the two of them and if anyone was to intervene then it would be one of the elder Blood Claws. Still it might him uneasy and uncomfortable, how were the pack meant to work together when they were at eachothers throats at every turn.

It was Keris who eventually stepped in. Placing himself between Alrik and the beaten Frostulfr, whom he allowed to get up by his himself for the sake of dignity Njord presumed. With the situation pacified for now he relaxed again, though it still left an feeling of disquiet within him.

Eventually it was time for the pack to move out again, though now back to the Fang. The initial part of the journey back was uneventful and simple. But the weather caught up with them before long as it always does on Fenris. As he had mused before, Njord thought of how the weather was just as alive as anything else on Fenris, it was unescapable, relentless and unforgiving, but it was what made Fenris home for the wolves. This storm was particularly strong however. Njord could feel the sleet rain assaulting his exposed skin like a thousand tiny needles. He pulled his pelt closer, though it did not help too much. Without their gene-enhanced physiology the pack would not have been able to survive this assault, it would have been suicide for a human to attempt to brave this storm. But they were astartes and nothing would stop them from completing their task.

They then happened across a great drop, even they would not survive the fall. The only way across was a narrow path, barely large enough for one of them to traverse. But their was no other route, so across they went. They did however choose to at least split into groups to cross, just incase. Njord joined the first group along with Keris, Alrik and Yngvar. As they slowly crossed to the other side, he could not help but look down to the gulf below. The drop seemed endless, a maw to the belly of Fenris, ready to swallow anyone unworthy of standing on its grounds.

Yngvar came to an abrupt stop for a moment, staring intently ahead at the other side of the path. He and Keris exchanged quick words before carrying on, but the words were lost in the storm to Njord, all the feeling it increased the disquiet within him. Cautiously they continued on to the other side. On the otherside Njord turned back to watch the next groups progress. It almost ended in disaster however when Hrothgar almost fell into the maw below, the others saving him however. He then heard a roar from the otherside of the path, but could not discern what had made it. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end though as he sensed they were not alone on their side either, eyes narrowed he slowly turned to look onwards.

At first he saw nothing but vague shapes moving in the storm, but a flash of lightning soon revealed what had set his senses off. Stalking towards them were six large troll like beasts blocking their route ahead. One of them clearly larger than the rest, obviusly the alpha of the group, it affirmed this by letting out a challenging below to their small group. Alrik responded with a howl of his own and charged the alpha. Njord went to move forwards aswell with Tyr and Iorek at his side. However as he went to move another three trolls leapt up from the edge to attack the trio.

Tyr responded instantly, planting his fist in one of the trolls face. Njord was not quite quick enough as one pounced at him. Still his reflexes were enough and he rode the pounce, rolling with the troll before leaping back to his feet. Hackles raised he snarled at the troll, his blood now up as his twin hearts beat a furious rhythm pumping blood around his body, the cold completely forgotten now. He had lost his weapon in the tumble, normally he would consider himself to be quite a duelist and smart fighter. However sometimes the smartest option was the simplest and with the least amount of finesse. With a feral growl he leapt at the troll, rolling into the ground with it. He controlled the roll and ended up ontop of the troll and began to pummel its face and chest with savage blows from his fists. The troll roared in anger at the beating.

But was not out the fight by any means, as Njord raised his fast for a hammer blow to the trolls skull it used the opening to crash one of its mighty fists into Njord head instead, sending the young Wolf skidding across the ground towards the edge of the gulf. Njord almost slid fully off the edge before managing to get a purchase on the ground with one of his hands, left hanging precariously over the edge of the bottomless drop.


----------



## darkreever

Vermundr; Tearing away your furs gives you the freedom to regain your feet and face the troll. However, doing so has opened you up to the elements and Fenris is a harsh teacher, if not looking to take life at every turn. In moments your body is feeling the effects of the cold, the skin becoming more sensitive and your senses dulling from the beating they are taking. Not that you have much of an effort to notice this, for the troll lunges at you again, only to find your axe waiting for it. Sidestepping its bulk, you plant a blow into one of its arms and are rewarded with a growl of pain as it hits the ground and rolls.


The creature attempts to stagger up, but you do not give it the chance, pouncing forward and buring your knife in its neck. The troll tries to swipe you with its one good arm, but it is more heavily wounded than you, its body to starved for a trolls improved healing to kick into effect well enough.


[Finish this thing and help who you can, you need to get the others across the chasm.]



Azahd; The second troll forces your attention, but had you been able to see the fate of the first one, you would have been rewarded with the sight of it falling over the side of the cliff with a yell drowned out by the wind. That is, until it found purchase on the stone wall and began to haul itself back up. But that really does not matter, as you sidestep a swipe from the second troll for a third time, stabbing at it with your own weapon and looking for a good kill shot.


Nothing outright opens itself to you; mostly blows that could seriously harm the troll but would leave you open to a return before you had a chance to get away or do more damage. Still looking, the troll seemingly decides a course of action for you, jumping at you, taking your spear to its gut and gripping your neck in one of its clawed hands. Prickles of pain make themselves known to you, where the razor sharp claws pierce your skin, but the damage of the spear stole away some of the trolls strength and its strike did not manage to kill as it likely intended.


[Your on the ground at this time, the hulking mass of the troll pressing down on you, furthering the spear through its body. You could possibly send this thing to meet the first one over the edge.]



Yngvar; Turning away from the troll and howling proves to be an error that nearly costs you a limb. In your actions, the trolls eyes go red and it claws towards you, hurling its body forward and snapping its mouth for your legs. You get away from it in time, putting your spear through the trolls neck and killing it in an instant. Looking up, you watch as Njord goes over the side, the troll he was fighting falling on its back, clutching at its face.


[That troll, unlike the one you faced, is not yet dead, merely hurting. However Njord may be in trouble, in need of some help unless he has fallen completely. Do you go to see if your packmate is still there, or deal with the troll first? You only have enough time to make one choice, not both.

Also, please just stick with the normal text colour when you post.]



Keris; Your aim would have been true, had the troll not rolled to the side and jumped away from you to avoid further injury. It crashed into the second troll, who did not take kindly to any of that and proceeds to ram its claws into the first troll, tearing out great chunks of meat and shoving it away to face you. This though, this is rather fine. Though you had not been able to kill the one troll, one was still seriously wounded if not dead, and this other one would soon follow it. Not wasting a second, you let the troll make a frenzied run at you, but the first troll is on top of it before the thing has a chance to move and both topple back to the ground in a mess of razor limbs and fangs.


[Perhaps not the most eventful of actions for you, but these things are helping you to kill them in a fashion. By the time you move towards them, the wounded troll will be dead with its heart torn out. The other troll will not escape its little scuffle unharmed, down an eye and ear.]



Njord; At first you are sliding along the slicked ground, then there is no more ground beneath you. You plummet, scrambling for purchase, and just barely managing to find something with your fingers in time to arrest your fall. You hang there for a number of breaths, dangling from one arm, your spear still held in the other one. Your other arm is burning with the pain of holding your weight up, and the effort to keep from slipping away draws much of your attention, though not all of it.


You still manage to notice a form clawing its way up the cliff side; one of the trolls, or perhaps another one? Either way, it is moving for you, and you need to either deal with it or get back up over the side.


[You have a choice here, you could hurl your spear at the troll and likely take it from the wall, but the effort might make you lose your grip. Alternatively, you could simply drop your spear and grab hold with your then free hand to haul yourself up. Both options would mean the loss of your spear, though the first would end with the death of a troll. Which will you choose to do?]



Frostulfr; Returning to your feet, you lunge at the troll in time for it to regain some of its sight. Mid air you bat a claw out of the way from stopping you, landing a blow with your knife into its shoulder before barreling the thing back and ducking under its other arm. You smash the back end of your spear into the trolls exposed side, darting out under the thing and cutting it across the back. With a wild kick, the troll steals your legs out from under you, and you land face first to the ground, breaking your nose on a rock and losing your spear in the process.


[Turn over, get up, and fight this thing. The pain in your side will make you sluggish, but you should be able to kill the troll; might I suggest hitting it with that rock.]

Heimdall; Your charge is met with a charge from the troll, its greater mass giving it an advantage against you when you both collide. A well placed stab from your blade finds a place in the trolls hip, but not before it clamps a set of jagged fangs down on your shoulder. You hit the ground in a tumble, and stab into the troll with your spear to get it off your other arm, and perhaps get your body from beneath its pinning weight. A blow to the trolls ear finally wrenches it off you, taking a chunk of fur with it, and the troll then tries to snap at your face with that maw.


[Now that is a sight nothing can love. Its big and deadly, but you should be able to get it off you, though it trying to take your face doesn’t make the job easy. Once it’s off you, it should not last much longer.]


Alrik; Your stabbing does little, if anything, but further what might be a smile on the largest of the trolls as it continues to crush you. You can’t breathe, and it feels as if even your augmented ribcage is going to crack from all of this. Finally the troll lets up, bringing you up higher to its face, maybe to look at you, maybe to tear your head off. No one will ever know, for when it did that, you took the chance to smash your forehead into its face, falling to the ground at its feet as the troll clutches itself in pain. You regain enough composure to stab the troll in the back of one leg before it swipes you away, claws raking against your chest before it falls to the ground, unable to put much weight on its now damaged leg.


[Get up Firehawk; like that large troll your wounded but far from dead. Which of you will prove the victor here? It or you?]



Tyr; The troll falls back from the blow, barely able to get up and even then on unsteady legs. You can see the damage your fist wrought, half trolls head sages awkwardly. Something in its eye does not sit right with you, for your punch pulped its other one, as it simply circles you. Not giving it the chance to regain its senses, you go after the troll, dodging a clumsy claw, crushing the oversized limb with your metal hand.


[Your first hit was truly a good one, this thing was half dead from that moment. Finish it and see to helping anyone else. You don’t so much see Njord fall over the side, but you did see something go over. Perhaps see what it was?]



Krahl; You stare up at the troll for long moments, ropes of sticky saliva falling from its gaping mouth in a snarl of half pain and half rage. You begin to shove it away from you, when the thing comes alive, as if it had been waiting or something. Its clawed hands go for your exposed arms, but you blocks the blows with your elbows, put your legs under the troll and kicking it away from you. Your spear goes with the troll, still embedded in its body and probably causing more damage as it is moved about within. You stagger back up, taking to your knife to finish the troll off.


[End it, maybe cut the things throat or a blow to the brain. Whatever method of death you decide, the troll will not go out quietly.]



Hrothgar; The troll reacts exactly as you had hoped, twisting to avoid the spear aimed for its face and not being able to avoid a blade to the gut. The thing howls in pain, grabbing your knife arm with its claws and tossing you to the side. Pain blossoms up your cut limb, but nothing your body cannot handle. You roll to the side and dodge a lunge, claws coming down where your head had been a second ago.


[This thing is hurt, but far from down; it’s going to take more than a single gut hit to end the troll. Your spear is bone with an adamantium core, try smacking the troll around with that and see if it works.]



[Kjartan and Iorek: unfortunately there is nothing I can give you this update because you have not yet engaged the trolls. Do that for more; yours is as the last update.]



[And in case anyone is wondering, and before its asked/mentioned; there will be another update very soon.]


----------



## deathbringer

A sad smile spread unfurled across the pale features

"I would weep for you...."

His response tailed away as Keris embroiled himself between the spoils of Alrik's passion, rendering violent recompense upon a chuckling blood claw.

So many idiots, posturing, they would change their merry tune when death came upon the group. That changed everyone, the day they realised they may be immortal yet they were not invincible.

Standing between the hawks talons, preventing him from lashing further under the mocking laughter of his prey, the icy blue gaze fell upon him again.

The two icy glaciers met with the mild flickerings of seering iron as it hissed in the forge bucket, the glow dying in a hiss of steam.

The conversation was not over

The cold bit deep, gnawed through bones yet it could not penetrate the icy chill that gripped his heart.

A storm was coming.... such a terrible storm.

_____________________________________________

Wind lashed his back, a flail of bitter ice slashing across his shoulders, cutting at the muscles and he moved, small movements. a vain endeavour to keep his body loose, as his eye wandered the snowy peaks, toiled across the broad ridges.


Physical challenges tested their bodies as they moved, the cold an impedement to the trials and tribulations ahead, yet it was in the mind where Iorek strained most, where his subconcious splintered in nervous shards of thought. Where eyes stared upon him from the darknes and his hand gripped his hip where his pistol once rested.

Oh he missed its familiar weight, the satisfying thud as it buried itself within flesh and bone, the satisfying crack and splatter as it tore chunkcs from flesh.

His tongue carresed his lips and he snarled gently.

A ctear in the landscape, a giant cleft in the landscape, a searing scar bridged by a thin length of treacherous stone and ice.

They crossed together, group by group, Iorek and Tyr within the middle party, Tyr at the back lest his massive bulk endanger the others if the stone did give under his weight. Iorek moved first, the footing treacherous and he felt his way along, eyes closed he slid forth, steady arms outstretched, the twin knives aiding his balance.

A cry and a scuffle and the single eye flashed open whilring to find the one with mischief in his eyes, the headbutter, the trickster was toppling. Iorek lunged, the knife in his right hand switching he plunged the pair into the ice, a foot hold in dire need they stuck and quivered even as he ducked, hand seizing the falling tricksters wrist.

His bicep strained yet he was steady, legs sliding to find a strong stance, he locked his back and held steady, locked even as he felt the force halved by another seizing the other wrist.

The second astartes had seized the other wrist and he too strained against the unrelenting mercy of gravity.

"Hold it" snarled Iorek, his face impassive and calm even as his body ached, his face desperate to taughten in anguish, held back by calm assurance

He was locked muscles on edge taught and unmoving even as the wind swirled and buffeted yet suddenly the weight was shifting, the figure beneath him slipping slightly and his arm wrenched, weight upon his weaker forearm as his arm pivoted and his eyes locked upon the sliding figure.

Curse sprang through his mind. He could not hold two of them.

His brothers name came to his lips in a grunt of panic which pushed through terse lips

"Tyr"

Even as a mighty paw landed upon his and the slipping blood claws pauldrons and held them steady, his massive bulk firm against the wind, impervious to the storm, the gigantic biceps barely tensed as he held them steady.

Secure, they lifted the trickster back to the plinth, words of gratitude and repayment upon his lips and Iorek almost let out a snigger, a bark of laughter echoing through his mind from the wolf.

"Pups playing at honour, may it rot their ouls"

His face returned, became impassive and unreadable, ignoring the pledge of the trickster he growled gently to the other. 

"Keep your feet apart and your back straight, pull with your arms next time"

On he moved, eye sliding closed once more, the two knives once again in his outstretched hands, he slithered slowly across the ice. Once embraced back upon Fenris's sanctity he reached out to clasp upon Tyr's left pauldron, a gentle squeeze of thanks before he moved away.


Assailed, suprised, the events upon the chasm, rendering his heart rate high, his awareness low. 3 trolls assailed 3 of them, large fur strewn beasts, he tasted there scent upon the air and the wolf snarled.

Malice, destructive malice, laced through every line as bright red eyes fixed upon Iorek, even as one stumbled backwards from a crashing blow by brother tyr, the quickest to react.

The knives raised and he leapt aside from a great lumbering charge, followed by a lazy bear like swipe. Evaded with ease he raised the knives ready to spring for the counter strike. Then the world was turning hiss footing suddenly unsure he wavered then tumbled to the floor, floundering upon ice and snow as the great beast barrelled forth, the deep glow brightening in the red eyes, long claws unsheathing from matted blood stained fur.

The knives remained in his hand and a sweep of their long blades sent a plume of snow into the beasts eyes as he regained his footing and the beast stumbled, snarls bursting from his lips as it clawed at its suddenly blinded vision.

Upon his feet Iorek met the snarl with a long loud howl, that echoed from the pit of his soul, burnt from the raging desire of the wolf within, the howl of a wolf that ran to hunt, that would end the night with blood upon its fangs and triumph in its heart.

The howl echoed and reverberated dying into a low snarl of bitter hatred as Iorek pushed forward, pivoting away from a thrust of a claw, he thrust the first knife downwards at the outstetched claw, the long blade held out to knock aside and block, the second knife a rapier, flashing steel moving on the rotation of his chest to slash directly at the beasts throat


----------



## Serpion5

*Krahl*

Krahl was still and silent save for his ragged breathing. The thing was immobile and heavy on the end of his spear, its eye a bloddy mess where the point had driven home. Surely it was dead? Krahl was still just a few moments more, his stamina taking a little longer to recover because of the damned wind. 

He hefted the haft of the spear to toss the brute aside, only to almost be sliced open by a razor sharp talon. The troll was not dead at all, and now lunged at him again, furious and blinded by the young wolf`s attack. Krahl raised his elbows and blocked, doing his best to fend off the frenzied swipes and keep a hold of his spear until at last an opening presented itself. 

'Damn you, you ugly beast!' He roared, kicking out as hard as he could and booting the creature back several paces. The spear was yanked from his grip in the process, staying embedded in the troll`s eye. Krahl snapped to his feet in an instant and drew his knife from his belt. With a snarl of impatient rage, he charged. 

The troll was wild with rage and hate at this point, its eye glinting with frozen blood and the spear haft flailing wildly as it jerked its head to follow Krahl`s movements. He aimed a slash at an outreaching claw, causing it to retreat another step before ducking in and stabbing it in the thigh. In the same movement, he barelled it to the ground and aimed a second slash for its throat. This attack was blocked by a massive forearm, which then swatted the wolf aside as though he was a rag doll. Krahl rolled to his feet and darted forward again, not wanting to give the creature a chance to right itself. He slammed into it, putting it back to the ground before it could stand, and delivered a two handed stab to its chest.

It roared an agonized scream and bucked while clawing at its chest. Finally able to sieze the upper hand, Krahl wrenched the knife free and struck a third time. Then again, and again. 

As its flailing arms finally dropped and its howls died out, Krahl let loose a howl of his own before planting a foot on its blood crusted head and wrenching his spear free. The damnable cold had been taxing, and he resisted the urge to rest as he looked to the rest of his pack...


----------



## komanko

He was too late and he could not stop himself although he saw that happening. As he charged at the troll he saw it trying to remove the spit from its face and it did so successfully which meant that when Frostulfr will jump the troll would be waiting and so it was.

As Frostulfr leapt towards the troll a hairy, muscular arm flew towards him, trying to stop his deadly jump. 

Curving his body sideways in inhuman speed he managed to dodge the troll’s arm and at the same time smash it aside with his arm. The troll was surprised by that and it roared in anger. He continued his leap towards the troll who had no time to muster another attack.

Sadly, the troll’s attack forced Frostulfr to redirect his body and thus he could not make his way towards the head of the troll. Instead burrowed his knife deep into the monster’s shoulder and than in a show of inhuman dexterity he rolled behind the troll dodging his other arm which tried to sweep him aside.

As the arm passed over his head he could feel the force that it created, if he would’ve been hit by the arm there was a high chance that his ribs would have cracked because of the combined momentum of both of them. Yet luckily he dodged and found his way behind the troll.

Not expecting an attack from behind the troll did not have the time to reposition itself. As the troll began to try and move back to face Frostulfr he used the opportunity to smash the back side of his spear into the troll’s ribs. He was rewarded with a hiss of pain from the troll and with a pause in its movement for a brief moment.

Yet a brief moment was all that a space marine needed to inflict more damage. Frostulfr changed the grip over his spear to resemble what could have been a sword and then slashed across the troll’s back receiving a howl of pain as a prized reward for his actions.

His relative success so far in fighting the troll made him over confident and bold. He never expected the troll to retaliate after such an attack, this was a big mistake for him as the troll kicked back wildly hitting Frostulfr in the dead center of the chest and sending him sprawling back through the air. As his body spun through the air he saw where he was about to hit but could do nothing to halt or escape the nasty fate.

He braced himself for impact.

He felt the rigid rock; he could tell that it was not smooth as his face impacted against it. His nose suffered the most. Frostulfr heard his nose cracking and giving in against the stone. Quickly the smell of blood filled his nose as the stone inflicted small wounds upon his cheek and forehead.

He roared in terrifying rage as he realized that the troll outsmarted him. Standing up he looked at the troll who was standing in front of him with what seemed to be a mocking smile. It’s smile exposed rows of sharp jagged teeth which filled the troll’s mouth.

A determined look took control of Frostulfr face as he put his nose back into place. Not flinching for a moment. He closed his fists and realized that he had no weapon on him. Looking down he saw the bloodied stone which he smashed his face upon.

Frostulfr picked the stone and moved slowly towards the troll. The troll lashed out with its right arm, claws flashing through the air. Frostulfr countered the attack with his new weapon smashing it against the claws and breaking them into pieces.

He smiled nastily and charged the rest of the way towards the troll suffering a wound from its left clawed arm as he sluggishly dodged it. Luckily for him the wound did not slow him down as the claw slid mostly across the back side of his shoulder and a small part of his back. He ignored the sharp pain and swung wildly and powerfully with his stone. 

The stone smashed with superior speed and strength into the troll’s confused and unprepared face, he saw teeth flying out of the things mouth and its jaw dislocating. The powerful swing sent the troll spinning through the air and directly into the ground. 

Not giving it a chance to recover Frostulfr lunged on top of it and began smashing the already bloodied stone against the troll’s face, unrelenting, showing no mercy, he continued until he stopped hearing the troll’s breath. Yet he was not satisfied the wolf spirit demanded more so he continued pummeling the face of the troll until it was no more than a bloody pulp which was splattered across the snowy surroundings.

A wicked smile spread across his face as he looked at his handiwork. A masterpiece.

Looking around he found his spear lying nearby and he picked it up, after that he plucked the knife out of the troll’s shoulder and looked around trying to see what was going on. Everyone seemed to be doing fine, none was struggling under pressure. Although he could not spot Njord, this was alarming. The only option was that he fell down the cliff. He advanced forward along the cliffs edges trying to spot his pack bother.

It was good the all the trolls were occupied as he had no chance of finding his pack brother if the trolls were besetting him. In the end he was able to spot his brother dangling in the air, barely managing to hold himself with his one free hand. 

Frostulfr rushed towards him but only than he realized that in his wounded state he won’t be able to push his brother up with only one hand. Yet he had his priorities first, he made his way as quickly as possible to his pack brother and shouted to him, trying to overcome the howling of the wind, “*Hold on, I will pull you up in a moment Njord*!” 

Frostulfr looked around and saw Alrik fighting what seemed to be the leader troll, both of them were evenly matched, each wounded. He did not mind taking another pounding from Alrik for what he was about to do. He was doing it for the good of the pack. He could not allow Alrik to die foolishly.

Positioning himself in a convenient manner which faced Alrik and his opponent he took a few deep breaths and held his breath. He slowly and precisely aimed at the troll leader, hoping to hit him in the chest. He then stretched his arm as far as he could and powerfully hurled his spear towards the troll. 

He did not bother looking if he hit the troll; he knew that Alrik will not be hit as the troll was far enough from Alrik. The worst that could happen was a gust of wind which will make the spear miss the target and just fly forward though he hoped that the swing was powerful enough to stop such effect from happening.

Turning back to Njord he grabbed him by the hand and leaned back trying to pull him back up. “*Come on; help me out here, push*!!” He yelled at Njord as he put more and more strength into his pull.


OOC: Throw me a PM if its not good or if I overdid something  You know, as usual.


----------



## dark angel

He felt his blade plunge hilt-deep into flesh, felt a warm gush run over his hand and along his front. The taste of blood upon his nostrils and lips was wonderful, drawing excited gasps and gibbers from Alrik, intermingled with pain and defiance. His stabbings, frantic and wild as they were; did little but to annoy the beast further. Splinters lay, rich red with blood, in the hide of both Wolf and Troll, where the monster’s hug had drawn him against the broken haft of his spear. 

And yet, Alrik Firehawk felt nothing but cruel delight in stabbing the beast, hacking and tearing away matted fur and clumps of muscle, red against white and grey. His lungs burnt, a pair of pyres within his reinforced ribcage, which itself felt as though it would crack under the pressure. From between clenched teeth, Alrik brought in ragged breaths, burning his throat as they went down. He had faced worse pain; for he had stared into the heart of a starship, stood toe-against-toe with the dread Alpha Legion. And he had prevailed, as he would today.

The Troll’s embrace ended, claws seizing Alrik’s sides, lifting him up. The beast was damnably ugly, with a scarred snout and piggish eyes, intelligent and filled with hunger. Alrik, with a grin, imagined the beast thought very much the same of him. Ropey lips peeled back, over a maw of yellowed fangs; a chasm of promised death, before the Firehawk’s face, pulling the Posthuman closer. In a blur of movement, Alrik squirmed, arching his head back, before bringing it back in. 

Teeth and ligaments crunched, blood pouring from ruptured nostrils and a half-torn tongue. It dropped Alrik, paws instinctively clutching at its face, a appalling mewling noise escaping from its mouth. Alrik grinned voraciously, staggering to his feet, taking deep, raspy breaths. His blade sang as it went through the air, curling with Alrik’s hand, before burying itself into the rear of the thing’s knee. It toppled, a mountain of fur and muscle and barks. 

Alrik lifted his blade high, his hands red, glittering in the light. He would take the skull of the troll, and its claws, and its fur. He would wear them, as his trophies; at his hip and laced to his neck, and upon his shoulders. And he would - 

- His thoughts were ripped violently away from him, as was his breath and moment of respite, when horrifying claws danced over his chest. He tumbled backwards, a sudden, warm wetness coating his torso. When he landed, he rolled, back into a crouching position, snarling inhumanely. Four narrow gashes decorated his skin, the blood crystallizing upon the edges, slowly hardening towards the centre. From such a mighty beast, Alrik was disappointed at such a meagre injury. 

The Troll stood, gasping in pain, before tumbling back onto one knee. A pool of blood was slowly accumulating around him, dribbling from the many gashes and rents in it. Oh yes, he would it’s skin with unbendable pride. 

He moved forwards, spinning his blade in his hand, avoiding its feeble, almost desperate strikes..

_..The Wolf prowls closer, circling the beast, spittle running from its furrowed snout. Small, predatory eyes - The colour of fire and coal, set amid a scarred countenance and a coat of shaggy, dark fur, analyze it. After another careful turn, the beast roars in anger, and the Wolf bares its fangs. 

It leaps onto the creatures back, sinking fangs into a muscular shoulder, before ripping back in glee. The Troll’s fingers weave around fur, and toss the Wolf onto the ground before it. The attacker lets out a pained howl, pinned beneath great paws. The immense Wolf squirms, snapping at a wrist, blood sprouting from the opened limb. 

And then, it is free, darting up. Teeth gnaw into its throat, warm blood running down over the Wolf’s face, as he presses all of his weight against the twitching Troll, pushing it back into the dirt. In its death throes, the Beast draws cuts along the flanks of the Wolf, drowning on its own blood…_
Alrik, covered in both his blood and that of the Troll, sat atop its chest. His jet-coloured blade lay, to the hilt, in the windpipe of the alpha male. It twitched, eyes slowly discoloring with death; pawing gently at Alrik’s ribs. A deep hole was carved in its shoulder, and its left hand dangled, all sinew and bone and blood - His Cretacian blade had scored all, parting flesh with unnatural ease, diving deep.

‘You’re dead.’ He smiled, knife-thin, his eyes aglow with triumph and rage. The following howl echoed through the valleys, morose and terrible.


----------



## unxpekted22

He had wounded the second troll, sent it to the ground. But it was no victory yet. His body was failing him, of all things.

His teeth began to clatter uncontrollably, his muscles shook, all futile attempts for his body to try and stay warm. Fenris was not one to relent. Vermundr was sure his palm was actually frozen to the handle of his axe at this point, but he wasted no time to look. 

He charged in the direction of the troll's stagger, lashing out with his weapon and catching the beast's outer thigh; the reverse swing catching its knee cap. A yell much louder than before wailed from the Troll's disgusting maw. Vermundr moved to end it, his muscles feeling stiff and noticeably slower than normal. As he raised the axe over the Troll's head he could see the blue coloration, shading the flesh of his massive forearms and biceps.

The axe came down all the same, splitting the troll's skull, silencing its wail with a triumphant splatter across the icy ground. Unable to drop his axe, he retrieved his knife from the trolls body, just to plunge it back in again.

He dug and he carved the best he could with just one hand, all the while his broad back gathering ice, snow, and sleet, chilling his spine rusty cold as he worked, the winds a loud whistling train of death with its light quickly coming to meet him upon the sticky frozen tracks.

His hands began to warm first, becoming covered in the beast's fresh blood. He had no time to do this properly, his packmates' battle yells still echoed through his ears. He still could hardly even see the figures across the chasm, not knowing of any of his pack had died. His sense of leadership pulled hard on him as he dropped his knife in the snow and tore the large piece of back-skin away from the rest of the troll. 

The hide still dripped with blood and other bodily remains as he whipped it around his neck. He yelled in agitation at having to slap this foul creature's hide onto his skin, while he stretched what had been the pieces covering the troll's shoulders until he could knot them around his throat. It didn't cover much more than his own back, but the remaining warmth from the troll helped a bit more. A few of his upper body muscles that had gone numb, began to regain some feeling. 

He looked to his brothers still on this side of the bridge. He spotted Krahl, Azahd, and Heimdall but had lost sight of Kjartan.

Krahl seemed to have things under control, more so than the other two at least. He saw Heimdall push his opponent off of him, but Azahd was still struggling with his. Azahd was also the closest so Vermundr rushed over to help him, blood from the skin of the troll dripping down his ribcage.


----------



## BlackApostleVilhelm

The troll struggled to get to its feet, half of its face limp and broken, its eye pulped and oozing a sickly yellow liquid. Tyr smiled and cracked his neck as it moaned in pain, his first punch had apparently been a damn good one and almost killed the beast outright but it was not dead yet and there were still more trolls to kill so his job was not yet done. It swung a claw at him sluggishly in an attempt to disembowel him but he dodged it with ease, gripping the arm in his metal hand and crushing it before plunging his knife right through its remaining eye, burying it to the hilt before ripping it out and kicking the dead troll away from him.

As he did this he saw a flash of movement as something went over the side of the cliff, he turned his head to see Frostulfr leaning over the edge and a troll on the ground clutching its face and screaming in rage. Tyr was on the troll in an instant, his metal fist slamming into its ribs at the same time as his knife, he would take care of this beast so that his brother could help whoever had fallen off the cliff back up. It got up, blood dripping from the knife wound he had inflicted upon it, a growl of hate emanating from its lips as it charged him in a blind rage. He let out a howl of joy as he answered with his own charge, his muscles carrying his large bulk across the snow in a split second, his fist powering itself right into the middle of its chest as he let his momentum carry him and the punch right into the beast. 

OOC: i talked with Angel of Blood and he requested that i take care of the troll for him


----------



## G0arr

*Yngvar*

Yngvar heard the howl from behind. Then came to claws scraping against stone as the ape troll lunged. The young blood claw spun. He could still feel the hot breath against his leg as the thing’s mouth snapped close inches from the flesh. Clouds of cold steam belched forward as the beast roared. Yngvar kept his two handed grip on the weapon. He could see the eyes both red with hate. It howled and began to pull itself up for another strike.

Both hearts were pumping in unison as blood surged. Every sense was sharpened. Yngvar could smell the wet fur; he could hear the claws raking across the stone ground as rain and ice continued to fall. Cold water splashed on his face as he gripped the spear tightly enough that it almost hurt. He was the hunter now, the killer, the ender. The ape troll lunged forward. With superhuman speed the blood claw reacted, not with strength but with agility. He moved toward the attack, and dove into the air. 

Claws scraped against rock, and a new ploom of steam released as the ape troll roared. Its target was not where the claws slammed into the rocks. The head twisted to get a view as the intended prey turned into a predator. The spear slammed down behind the skull. The shaft bent as the force sent it down through skin and meat until it hammered into bone. For a moment it stopped, and then the point found a weakness. It slipped only slightly before plunging down severing the spine as it slid between the heavy bones. Without information flowing to the limbs the animal went limp as Yngvar stuck the ground and halted.

The young blood claw wrenched his spear from the beast. Warm blood steamed in the cold wind as it quickly pooled around the dead creature. The battle had heightened his senses further, and Yngvar found it all intoxicating. Deep within him the hunter’s spirit, part of his inner wolf, growled for more.

His packmates were fending for themselves well. It seemed that Alrik had gained the upper hand with a sudden head butt. The older packmate would not need assistance now. The others were each gaining the upper hand, except for one, Njord. He was no where to be seen. A sudden rush caught Yngvar, had a brother died? Another, Frostulfr, was already running to the edge. 

Yngvar broke into a full sprint. He could tell the other blood claw was not at full form. Frostulfr shouted something below, before turning and taking several deep breaths. Was the other brother over the side? Had he fallen? The blood claw launched his spear toward where Alrik was fighting. After launching the spear, Frostulfr turned back to the cliff. 

As he approached Yngvar turned his eyes toward the ape troll. It was howling with rage. For a moment the young blood claw almost dove into the creature, but another entered his view. It was Tyr, the sheen of his metal hand was unmistakable. The older blood claw launched himself into the thing. At the cliff it was easy to tell that Frostulfr was struggling. Yngvar repressed his hunter’s spirit. There must be a brother in trouble.

“*Come on; help me out here, push*!!” Frostulfr yelled. Even before the steam from his words disappeared in the wind a new arm thrust out. The hand locked onto Njord’s wrist. “Don’t worry brother,” Yngvar said his head turned so that he could see Tyr’s fight, “you have all the help you need.” 
One brother had been saved, but if the fight shifted Yngvar would offer his assitance with all haste to keep another from injury as well.


----------



## revan4559

Hrothgar let out a howl as the claw of the troll sliced into the flesh of his arm but thankfully being a son of Russ and a gene-forged warrior of the All-Father his body quickly reacted to the wound by starting to pump collected blood to the wound to stop it from bleeding out too much. As he stared at the sky Hrothgar saw a claw desend towards his face and quickly rolled out to the side and thanked Russ that he had done it when he had, for had it been a second later then the trolls claw would of must likely pierced his skull and killed him. Rolling two move times Hrothgar then jumped back to his feet with spear in hand and stared at his opponent, noticing that his dagger was still buried in the things gut meaning his only weapon would be his spear unless he could get back in and collect his dagger. Formulating a plan Hrothgar let out a howl to the wind as he rushed towards the troll with his spear now held in a reverse grip with his right arm pulled back ready to thrown his spear like a javalin, but he waited until he was only five feet away before hurling the spear with all his might towards the sternum(the base of the neck where it meets the top of the rib-cage) of the troll not only hoping that the spear would cause some damage to the troll but also distract it for the second part of his plan.

As the spear flies through the air Hrothgar charges straight ahead and ducks in low to the trolls mid-rift as he out stretches his right hand when he gets close enough to the dagger imbedded within the trolls stomach. Upon gripping the hilt of the dagger Hrothgar doesn't try to pull it out but instead tries to pull the dagger to the side to try and cut open a larger wound into the trolls stomach while pushing toward on his blade in an attempt to open up the creatures stomach and make its internal digestive organs feel the below freezing wind wondering if the freezing cold would stop the trolls strange healing abilities should its organs freezing. After trying to make a large enough wound Hrothgar then finally pulls his dagger out of the troll and hurls himself backwards in and attempt to get out of his opponents range and not be wouded again, but he had made the mistake of leaving his spear where it was meaning that should the creature survive he will have to fight with only his dagger while he tried to retrieve his spear.


----------



## Angel of Blood

Njord slid over the edge and threatened to plummet into the abyss below when he found a purchase and arrested his fall. It felt like his arm had been wrenched out of its socket from the abrupt stop and it took all of Njords willpower to not let go. Hanging helplessly for the moment he took a few deep calming breathes, trying to will the burning sensation in his arm away. In his other hand he still gripped tight his spear preventing him from using his other arm to find a more sustainable grip or to climb back up. He realised he would have to drop his weapon into the void, the thought of losing his weapon reeked of shame, but what other choice did he have. As he was about to let go though, he spied another form moving up the cliff face.

It was one of the trolls, either one like him thrown from the edge in the battle above or a fresh troll to boost the already larger force, either way it was heading right for him. Njord knew he had a decision to make. He could either drop his spear and attempt to haul himself back over the edge and deal with the troll when it reached the top as well or he could dispatch it there and then with his spear. Both decision had their drawbacks. If he reached the top he had no way of guaranteeing he would not be immediately engaged with another troll leaving the newcomer free to attack him or the others. On the other hand if he threw his spear at the troll below it could very easily make him lose his grip and potentially fall off the face. Ever the pragmatist, Njord knew which option he must take.

Weighing the spear in his hand he grinned down at the ascending troll and laughed “Time for us to find out just how big this drop is!” and threw his spear at the snarling beast. The spear stabbed into the trolls shoulder causing it to growl in agony and lose its grip on the rock face, tumbling into the depths below. As the spear left his hand Njord swung his arm up in a last ditch attempt to grab a handhold but his hand could only slide hopelessly off the wet rock. The imbalance of the throw also weakened his already strained grip in his other hand and that grip was also lost, throwing Njord, like the troll below him into the mercy of Fenris.

He closed his eyes as he began to fall, accepting that there was nothing he could do now. But then he felt a strong grip take hold of his hand and once again stop him falling, the pain in his shoulder intensified again as even more strain was out upon it. Opening his eyes again he saw Frostulfr stood at the edge, his hands grasped around Njords own, struggling to pull him back up. “Come on; help me out here, push!” He heard Frostulfr yell at him. He desperately tried push himself up, but his feet could not find and purchase with which to do so. But then another hand shot out and gripped tight Njords other hand. Yngvar had also come to their aid, “Don’t worry brother” he assured “You have all the help you need” 

Njord tried to grin through his grimace of pain from his arm ad the hauled him back over the edge. He took a few large gasps of air before looking up to see Tyr taking care of the troll that had flung Njord over the edge of the cliff in the first place. He unsteadily rose to his feet and clasped hand in each of his fellows brothers hands in turn, “My thanks brothers” he grinned “I am in your debt, but for now, let’s get back into these animals” and with a growl he ran back towards the melee. As he did he thought about how three of his brothers had combined to rescue him from certain death. Perhaps the pack was not as unsound as some of them thought after all.


----------



## Lord Ramo

Heimdall charged forward a howl on his lips as the troll met his charge. It roared at his howl as the two collided, the troll having the greater mass than Heimdall and therefore the advantage. Heimdall wasn't small, he was a big space marine, body rippling with muscle, but the troll was huge compared. Heimdall felt as if he had charged through a brick wall but he moved his knife around. He was aiming for its hip, hoping beyond hope that his blade would strike true.

He was fortunate, he felt his knife slide through, piercing its skin as blood welled out of its wound, covering his blade and his hand. He snarled as he twisted it, causing a shriek of pain from it. The blood smelled foul on the icy wind, buffeting Heimdall's face as he wrenched the knife free. The troll moved quicker than he thought was possible for something of its size, and with the pain that it had just been caused it wanted to do some damage. Its howling mouth clamped onto Heimdall's shoulder. Heimdall howled in anger and pain, he had been wounded twice by this creature, though he was sure that his shoulder injury was worse than the one on his thigh. 

Heimdall slammed into the cold icy ground as the troll fell with him, the two of them snarling and howling as they fought to gain the advantage over the other. Heimdall was angry beyond belief, he let his wulfen out, something that he was scared off, knowing what could happen. Heimdall brought his spear to bear on the troll, stabbing it several times as he tried to force the troll off of him, each time foul smelling ichor flew free from its wounds. It splattered on the icy ground and pooled around the two fighting behemoths.

Heimdall slammed his spear through its ear, causing it to roar in pain as it reared up. He twisted just out of the way as it tried to bite at his head. Slamming his spear into its head. He was only able to hit it with the blunt end, and he still needed to get up on his feet. He brought his spear into its shoulder, and at the same time stabbed it again in its stomach. It cried out in pain, and he kicked it back, getting to his feet as the troll did the same. His blood caked his skin and had also mixed with the troll blood at his feet.

Heimdall leapt forward like lightning, slamming his spear into its leg as he brought a fist into its head. It roared in pain and confusion as Heimdall finally gained the upper hand in the fight. He brought his knife in to cut the troll, striking quickly and soon the troll was covered in deep gashes. He snarled as he brought his spear into its knee, twisting so that it fell to one knee. He stood above it, and brought his knife down into its skull, putting his weight behind the blade as it carved through its skull and into its small brain. At least Heimdall assumed it had a small brain, it was a vicious but wild creature. He panted as it ended its death throes, his shoulder caused pain that flashed through his body with the wind slamming into his body. His thigh hurt as well but not as much.


----------



## Euphrati

The pungent scent of the ape-trolls’ blood cut through the icy bite of the wind as it thrashed wildly; Keris’ killing thrust merely scoring a shallow wound along the side of the beast’s mangy neck as it rolled away from the flashing spear tip. Keris gave a deep-throated snarl as he whipped his spear around for another strike, the cold intensity of kill arousal burning in his veins, but checked his thrust as the first of the ape-trolls sank its jagged claws into its kin in a blind rage of being jostled from its first attack. 

The stink of the trolls was a fetid mixture of rancid musk and the frenzied pang of starvation that even the driving sleet did little to dissipate as the troll thrust its fellow aside, turning to lunge at Keris with madness in its pinned eyes. Keris bared his teeth but held fast as, with a feral roar, the troll’s wounded fellow smashed into its side; fangs and claws tearing gouts from each other’s flesh as the pair went down in a frothing struggle for dominance.

It was only a moment later that the victor lumbered to its feet, the steaming heart of its rival hanging free from its clawed grasp. Bloody taters of flesh and the dark fluid of one eye streaked down one side of the surviving troll’s simian features as it cast away the cooling organ with a crow of triumph that was cut short as the tip of Keris’ spear found a home in its already ruined eye socket, the mono-edged tip punching through the back of the thickened skull and the sheer force of impact snapping in the brute’s spine with a wet snick of shattering bone.

Keris planted his foot on the broken face and pulled his spear free of the corpse; crystalline eyes taking in the destruction wrought by his packbrothers and tasted the storm around him. The fanged wind howled through the darkness as a roll of thunder uncoiled from the heart of the storm like the growling of Morkai from the gates of Hel. He could feel the blood-thirst of his wolfspirit hot upon his thoughts but forced it back under the unbending edge of his will; Keris had come to accept the crimson-tinted wrath of combat that had seen foes torn to shreds by his hands alone but also understood the state could cloud a warrior’s awareness. 

With the pack’s focus upon the last bleeding ape-trolls, Keris’ eyes watched the storm around them for threats to his brothers as he pressed close to where Iorek still fought near the edge of the gorge.


----------



## darkreever

Azahd; You desperately hold the troll back, its razor sharp jaws snapping mere inches away from your face. It’s hot, putrid breath washes over you, and it is all you can do to keep the infernal beast from making a meal of you. You glare up into the things eyes and notice something of a glint in them, and then without warning it changes tactics, taking one clawed hand and grasping for your neck. Prickles of pain sting along the sides of your exposed flesh as the hand clenches tight, cutting off your windpipe and the air of Fenris from your lungs. You grab its arm to try and wrench the limb free, but the troll does not budge and instead raises its other hand to stab those bladed fingers into you.

Before it gets the chance though, something calls out a challenge and the troll turns its attention toward the sound. In the next moment, something flashes over you and the grip of the troll slackens. Half the trolls head falls to the ground beside you, cut through the center of the mouth while you finally remove the bladed claw. Turning onto your side and spitting a gobbet of blood, you see that the others have dispatched the rest of the trolls and a lone figure stands in the center of all of you.

[The one standing over you is none other than the wolf lord himself, fully armed and armoured. He extends his free hand to you, helping you off the ground and back to your feet.]


Vermudr, Krahl, Heimdall; You dispatch the trolls attacking you, your limbs burning for the effort and body half frozen, in the case of Vermundr, from the storm. Before you can react to help Azahd while he struggles with the last of the troll’s, an object dashes from the direction of the chasm; a figure of grey-blue and black all but flies to Azahd and barks out something to the troll. The beast looks up, and there is the barest glint of metal before half the trolls head falls to the rain slick ground. While Azahd recovers from his fight, the figure stands over him, rune encrusted blade held low in one hand while the storm flaps his long black hair and black wolf pelt wildly. Wolf lord Ragnar Blackmane helps Azahd haul himself from the ground with his free gauntlet before turning to the rest of you.

_“This challenge must be cut short, there is a matter of graver import for us to deal with. Gather your pack Vermundr, it is time for us to go.”_ He says, his voice reaching each of you with little trouble through the storm. It is only then that you hear the roar of engines behind the howling of the storm, only just able to see the outline of a thunderhawk gunship hovering over the chasm.

Vermundr calls to the rest of the pack, his voice catching in the vox unit built into the base of his throat, as one has been for all of you. However, looking around you notice that only four of you are present here, Kjartan is nowhere in sight; where did he go? Turning about in search of Kjartan, you spy something moving towards you from further into the storm, however you do not raise your weapons towards this thing. It is almost as if your mind knows what it is, but cannot completely comprehend, until the thing gets closer and you can make out that it is not one thing, but two people. Or rather, Njal Stormcaller carrying another in his arms: Kjartan. You move to help the rune-priest, and see the damage done to Kjartan’s body, his arm and leg mauled on one side and his skin pale as snow.

You help the silent priest and Kjartan’s unconscious form onto the transport before it turns to allow the rest of your packmates in.

[Vermundr; having seen it before, you know without having to ask that the wounds Kjartan has sustained have put him into the Red Dream. Even if he survives the trip back to the Fang, it is not likely he will ever wake. Blackmane will notice you staring at your fallen pack-mate and lay a hand on your shoulder, though he will not say anything as nothing can be said.

All of you should try to find a place to sit down or a hand hold to keep steady. Who knows if this contraption will stay in the air or plummet to the ground?]


Keris; As you scan the surrounding area for other dangers that may be lurking in wait, your ears pick up something else within the storm: the roar of engines. And that is when you see it, the side of the thunderhawk gunship hovering over the chasm, facing more towards where you had all come and where the last of the pack still remain. Before you can say anything to the others, part of a scent crosses you despite the winds, and you immediately turn around to look for its source. Walking toward you and the others are four individuals, all clad in pelts and wielding spears or other personal weapons.

Without their scents, without those weapons, you know in an instant who these four are for you have seen them before, and fought alongside some of them as well. Baldyr Ice-slayer, deep blue eyes and unflinching scowl, Oger Mountain-stride, keeper of the company wolf standard, Hundir Thunder-smith, a former member of the great wolf’s own company, and Gunnar Orkbane, undisputed leader of Ragnar Blackmane’s wolf guard and second-in-command of the wolf company. The wolf guard, champions of the chapter and warriors nearly without peer.

[Why are they here? Why is that thunderhawk here? Could it have something to do with the warning from before?]


Keris, Tyr, Yngvar, Frostulfr, Njord, Iorek, Hrothgar, and Alrik; Vermundr’s voice echo’s in your ears, telling you to gather to him across the chasm, towards the thunderhawk. For such a thing to be here, you guess that the challenge of returning the Ursid pelt has been ended, but for what reason? Before any of you begin to cross the small bridgeway, the ship turns to you, its assault ramp now close enough for you to jump onto. Wasting no time, you make your way onto the thunderhawk, greeted by the sight of the wolf lord in full armour and the rest of the pack already within the transport. The coppery taste of blood is in the air, and your eyes fall on the pale form of Kjartan, one of his hands a ruined mess below the elbow and leg sheared away from the mid-thigh down. Njal Stormcaller, said to be greatest of the rune-priests, kneels by your packmate’s side, a hand resting on his chest. The Stormcaller’s face tells you everything, and it is not good.

[Best find a spot to sit or hold on to, lest you be thrown about like a longboat on raging sea's.]


Everyone; When the last of you and the wolf guard have made it onto the thunderhawk, the ramp closes with a hiss of steam and clanking gears before the ship lurches to the side and away from the storm. Many of you sit in the grav couches, while a few remaining standing and hold to hand rails. Hundir of the wolf guard climbs to the cockpit, likely to help fly the vessel through the storm and back to the Fang. You look around the barely lit main cabin of the transport and see tired faces, both blood claw and wolf guard alike, as well as concern written across some; concern for the fate of Kjartan, as well as concern for the presence of the wolf lord.

As if reading your mind, lord Blackmane finally speaks to you; his gaze seemingly falling on each of you and you alone. _“A call for aid has reached Fenris; the Sons of Russ swore an oath during the Macharian Crusade to fight alongside the warriors of the Aurora chapter against the greenskin horde. The green tide crashes into the Gorden Worlds once again, and we will break the enemy as we swore to do. Worlds of the All-Father are threatened, and the enemy stands capable of dealing a deathblow to a brother chapter; this we cannot allow. So the challenge of the Razor-ursid pelt must be ended, and a greater matter dealt with.”_

[The thunderhawk quickly passes through the storm, and though the vessel does not shake as badly as before, it does not stop entirely. Several times you are nearly thrown about, but each time manage to catch yourself. What do you make of what has been said? Do you have questions, questions of the wolf guard, or this news from lord Blackmane, or of Kjartan?]



[This is the first of two updates we will see this week. Felt it better to stop here, for the moment, rather than post some monster update that takes everyone two months to fully get through.

For now though, this thunderhawk ride will last a few hours as you return to the Fang, rather than the better part of a day. It being much faster at moving about than any of you on your own two legs.]


----------



## Serpion5

*Krahl*

Krahl arched his back as he stood atop the troll`s dead form. The fight had been more taxing than he`d initially thought. As he stepped off the corpse and moved to rejoin Vermundr, he became aware of all the small injuries he hadn`t noticed while caught up in the rush of combat. A bruise on his thigh, a small cut on his cheek that had frozen over, and a few others besides. 

_Pha, they`ll be fine once I`m out of this damned cold._ He thought to himself. He looked to his packmates, all had succeeded in eliminating their foes except for Azahd. 

Krahl tightened his grip on the spear and broke into a run, squinting to keep the ice from his eyes. Movement on the edge of his vision caught his eye and stopped him in his tracks. He could not see anything specific because of the blasted snow, but there was defenitely something... someone moving towards Azahd very fast. He heard a shout of something, and the troll assailing Azahd looked up. Moments later, the newcomer dashed past, and Krahl caught the destinct sillhouette of a large sword bisecting the troll`s head. 

Forcing his legs to move again, Krahl started towards the stranger as he heard Vermundr`s voice call out. He looked around, Heimdall was the only other member of the pack he could make out in the vicinity. As they all converged on Azahd`s position, Krahl was finally able to make out the figure`s identity. 

It was Blackmane! Ragnar Blackmane had come out to aid them, but why?

*'This challenge must be cut short, there is a matter of graver import for us to deal with. Gather your pack Vermundr, it is time for us to go.'* He heard the wolf lord command.

As if in response to Blackmane`s order, Krahl could hear the approach of powerful engines from nearby. Arching his head and looking skyward, shielding his face from the ice and snow, he could make out the approaching form of a thunderhawk gunship. The situation Ragnar was talking about must be dire indeed if their test was being cut short so arubtly. At the bequest of the wolf leaders, Krahl followed the others and boarded the thunderhawk. He immediately made his way deeper into the vessel and found a seat. He raised his hands above his head and gripped the harness tightly, but did not lower it. He did not relish the idea of being trapped should the craft succumb to the storm. 

He noticed Heimdall seemed to have struggled more than he had in the fight, judging by the volume of cuts and gashes over his body. He turned his gaze away from his brother`s form, not wanting to look disrespectful. Instead he turned his attention to the forward section as the thunderhawk lowered itelf. Within a few short minutes, the rest of the pack had boarded the craft and the front hatch closed, finally shutting out the cold. 

Krahl was glad to see them. Even Alrik, to Krahl`s surprise, was a welcome sight.


----------



## revan4559

Hrothgar looked at the troll infront of him and narrows his eyes to focus on the spear now jutting out of the trolls shoulder trying to work out how to fell such a beast with only his dagger and hands before it has a chance to wound him again. Hrothgar's eyes quickly dart to the cuts on his right arm from where the trolls claws had dug into his flesh when it flung him away, wincing at the slight tenderness from the biting wind on his open cut Hrothgar returned his attention to the troll before going into another charge, dagger in hand. The inner wolf within Hrothgar's mind snarls as his body gets closer, urging Hrothgar to use his own 'claws' to defeat the troll but to do such a thing would give the troll time to attack him unless he distracted it and then Hrothgar's plan finally pieced together.

Once within range of the troll Hrothgar stooped down low to avoid a swipe from the things massive claws before pushing himself back up to full height while extending out his right arm wielding the dagger aiming straight for the trolls lower jaw and after a few moments Hrothgar is rewarded with a crunch as the dagger pieces the trolls flesh and slams straight into its jone bone. Letting go of his dagger and ignoring his spear both of Hrothgar's hands shoot out infront of him towards the open wound on the trolls stomach, pushing his hands straight into the open wound Hrothgar then sets about grabbing what ever he can inside of the trolls abdominal area before pulling it out with his bare hands and throwing it behind him, covering himself in the things stinking blood. Hearing the troll howl Hrothgar narrowly ducks another its wild swipes and stares at the foul creature infront of him and pounces on it, aiming his hands straight for its eyes to gouge them out before he sets about tearing out its internal organs once again until it was finally dead and once it was, Hrothgar leans over and retrieves his spear and dagger, covered in blood, exhausted but victorious.

------------------------------------------------------------

Hrothgar stands victorious over the corpse of the troll and looks around for his pack brothers when he hears shouting upon the wind and strains his eyes to look in the direction of where it is coming from, he can tell it is the pack leader Vermundr but can't quite make out what he is saying so he moves closer, when he see's a large metalic contraption hovering in the air with the rest of the pack jumping inside it. Not wasting any time and not wishing to be left behind Hrothgar moves pushes forward ignoring the tiredness of his limbs and the pain in his right arm he leaps onto the ramp of the thunderhawk and moves inside of its metalic belly. Once inside Hrothgar's eyes look around at those before him before settling on one individual in particual, Wolf Lord Ragnar Blackmane...What is he doing here? Muses Hrothgar before he notices the wolf guard and the runepriest are in pelts aswell but the scent of blood draws his attention to Kjartan on the ground. Though he has many questions about what happened and is going on Hrothgar opts to remain silent as he makes his way over to one of the strange looking harness's and straps himself in before looking around at the gathered warriors when the Wolf Lord decideds to speak up.

Hrothgar stood there listening to the Wolf Lord as he explained the situation in a place known as the Gorden Worlds the home of the Aurora Chapter, Hrothgar's mind wheeled back to what he hand learnt from the great learning machines in the fang(they may have a different name, sorry its been awhile since i read the Ragnar books) and registered that they were worlds in the great black ocean of space meaning that the pack would be leaving Fenris. This excited Hrothgar as it would be his first time off of Fenris and his first real battle against the enemies of the Imperium, Russ and the All-Father...yet he felt unsettled and nervous about leaving his homeworld and knew not what the future and war has instore for him. Well...He thought, I am a Son of Russ, I will meet what ever challenges are ahead with weapon in hand and courage in my hearts. Nodding to himself Hrothgar then shifts his attention back to the rest of the back before looking to his right arm again and gingerly poked and prodded the claw wounds on his arm before letting out a sigh.

Finally finished with examining his wound Hrothgar shifts his attention back to the Wolf Lord and then looked at the Stormcaller, yet when his eyes settled on the Runepriest he felt a shiver run down his spine as if he was staring at the ice, snow and storms incarnate. Finally through all of the silence and roar of the engines Hrothgar cleared his throat and looked once again upon Rgnar Blackmane. "Lord Blackmane...Is it possible to ask how long it will take us to travel to these Gorden Worlds? Do we know the size of the force we will be fighting against? The size of our allies forces?" Hroghar then stood there awaiting the answers of the Wolf Lord or any of the Wolf Guard who decide to answer before mulling over the answers inside of his head before asking two more questions. "Does the Great Company leave as soon as we are ready? And finally do you believe that Kjartan will ever recover from his injuries?"


----------



## unxpekted22

Vermundr ran to Azahd's aid, and he saw the form of another doing the same, running through the sleet and rain towards the troll over their packmate.

but his help was not needed. Perhaps due to effects from the cold on his body, or because his mind was simply focusing on the battle and nothing else, he did not notice the thunderhawk of his lord until Blackmane appeared before him, slaying the troll's head in half with his frostblade. In an instant, at his Lord's words, the pelt that took months to obtain meant nothing to him. Vermundr addressed is pack immediately.

While uttering his words to those across the chasm, finally having time to see who of his pack remained, a figure emerged from the storm cast shadows who Vermundr instantly recognized as Njal Stormcaller. 

His spirits sunk to a new low as he finished his statement over the vox, his eyes coming to rest on the form being carried by Njal. One of his pack has fallen to a band of trolls. He knew how rare it was for those who slipped into the red dream to return and he had already been lucky enough to see Iorek's revival. A wrath built inside him as he moved into the thunderhawk. The icy sleet slamming into his face.

He had hand picked Kjartan along with the other new additions to the pack, and he had done so seeing much potential in each one of them. The long, grueling processes of becoming an astartes, months upon months of training just to never set foot off of Fenris...to never fire a round at the enemies of mankind...to never slay a single, true foe of the Imperium in hand to hand combat in the name of Russ.

A powerful hand braced his shoulder, his feelings over Kjartan likely obvious. the touch of his Lord's hand reminded him of how blessed he was for he and his pack to be so favored by him. It also reminded him of his excessive grief over those brothers he witnessed die in a riot upon first landing on Hecutor. The priest had scolded him for that, and had worked hard to never let that happen again. To almost slip into his old inexperienced attitudes toward losing brothers in battle was, he had to admit, an embarrassing moment.

The rest of his squad entered the thunderhawk, with no further casualties. Thanks be to the All-father

Justification was just as hard to swallow, but the thought entered his mind nonetheless: Kjartan had fallen to a single troll. The Orks would be just as relentless and far, far greater in number. If he hadn't fallen here, he would have fallen soon.

When all of his pack was accounted for, he was surprised to see extra figures climbing aboard. Of course, he thought, naturally he would bring his wolf guard with him. Baldyr caught his eye over the others, and was happy to be among the Ice-slayer once again. Of course, being in the presence of any of the four was always a tremendous honor. 

As the Transport closed up and began to move, the storm refused to be forgotten. Vermundr remained calm. Even if they crashed, they would be with his Lord.

One of his new pack brothers suddenly spoke up, badgering his Lord with questions. Vermundr would have stood straight up if he could, but in his frustration, had to remain in his grav-seat if he didnt want to be thrown into the side of the hull from the storm shaking the thunderhawk so violently. 

"_Hrothgar, do not badger our Lord with questions! If you would pause your thoughts for a moment you would not have to ask such things here. We will be given more detailed information about the mission once we are on our way there, and obviously we will leave as soon as we are ready, we are space marines for Russ's sake."_

He turned to Lord Blackmane, lowering his tone, "_Forgive me for speaking for you, My Lord."_

To his surprise, the Thunderhawk had already made it out of the storm.


----------



## deathbringer

The blade lodged in the beasts throat, slicing through its feeble trachea with ease, sheer momentum breaking through the tendons, causing the head to loll and roll with the gross sickening momentum of a failing ship upon a stormy sea. 

The body pondered its demise the blade meeting the fading strength of the claw, its dying scream reduced to a timid gurgle as the beast toppled, blood soaking into the ice revealing the form of Keris, approaching his position with spear raised.

Yet his brothers back was stiff his nose raised and eyes sharp as he peered away into the distance.

From his subconcious a low soothing growl made him drop his gaze and lower the knife he held out stretched, blood still dripping upon the snow strewn ground.

His body eased as he wiped the blade upon the trolls matted dank fur and a voice rang out across the clearing calling them back.

The packleader called them back, something had morphed, a new electricity lanced through the air, the dying fade of combat enchanced beyond its exhilerating levels by something new.

Change, a new path opened upon the winds.

Alongside him keris had not moved, his eyes focused upon something Iorek could not see, though his eyes strained into the distance.

The wolf in his head could see and he felt the familiar taste of four wolves, mind sage and muscles broad, veterans, lords amongst wolves.

One amongst them left a bitter in the wolfs mouth, a tang on Iorek's own conscience. A wolf with fangs of ice and a mind of blood and rage.

A warrior, a veteran, a mentor, one who had shamed him.

A low snarl blossomed from the wolfs lips, pure rage ricocheted through his own mind and his own hiss of irritation slipped through his own lips turning into a grunt of shamed exertion as the wolfs influence was rebuffed again

Hurriedly he tugged upon Keris's sleeve.

"The packleader calls us brother. Something has changed upon the wind, a new path opens, allfather be praised if it fails to swallow us whole."

Not waiting for his brother, fearing he may desire words with the iceslayer, Iorek hurried on, hunching against the cold pressure of Baldyr's stare which he was sure was upon his retreating back.

The route back across the chasm was far less eventful then the first and he crossed with little difficulty, scrambling with cat like grace across the plinth, his footsteps harried by the shame of the wolf guard.

Upon the other side, he saw Vermundr aside the wolf lord, immense, an aura of power seeping from his pores as he helped a new wolf to his feet from beneath a trolls sinewy body.

Yet Iorek's eyes flitted from him with little attention, a small mental nod of affirmation, changes indeed.

His eyes slid on to the figures whose shadows and bodies were intertwined the conversation of the others drowned in a fade of memories.

A torrent of emotions, a cascading waterfall over rode his body and his eyes closed upon the stormcaller, yet the image was burnished, branded upon his iris. Once again he saw the raging anger that had burned above the fear in the stormcallers eyes, pain that echoed in his voice, the victory laced through his assailants features.

His scar seered with agony and the wolf riled against his subconcious, savage snarls of hatred buckling the walls of its mental prison.

He longed to meet the stormcallers gaze, yet the ancient rune priest worked intent upon the limp figure in his arms.

Had he done wrong, had his actions truly been folly, had Njal had the traitorous wretch well within his grasp.

Had his attack been yet another stain upon his honor, an affront to Njal's skill over the wyrd.

Even as he sat and listened to the others, his eyes locked upon the rune priests back, watching the graceful movements of his shoulder as he worked.

Even as Blackmane spoke, as the new path opened before them and youthful curiosity was met with the snarl of the packleader.

He let out a rye smile a lilting whisper half to himself, half to all

"The curiosity of youth, are we so old?"

He let out a soft laugh eyes still upon Njal's back

Yet his true question went unsaid though it burned in his eyes

"Look at me rune priest" he thought "Did i stain both our honours the day my body was cleft in twain?"


----------



## dark angel

The troll shook, in an uncontrollable spasm, blood rushing from its mouth. Alrik Firehawk, bleeding himself, could not stop the smile which separated his scarred countenance; red and wide. Admirably, the beast had died fighting, if piteously, but it had refused to submit to pain, pawing uncomfortably at the Wolf’s sides and arms. The muscle of his arms burned, crisscrossed and leaking, though he played such superficial cuts little heed. 

Relatively unarmed, when in comparison to his ape-troll counterpart, the Space Marine stood, running a hand through the furs which covered him. They were sticky, the rain dyeing the browns and blacks and greys, a wonderful red. With the tip of his boot, he prodded the creature’s side, until it rolled over, lying face-down in the mud. With a sigh, Alrik slipped his knees either side of the thing’s back, and sat down. 

He tangled his left hand in the ape-troll’s hair, giving a savage yank, until the head was held aloft. The Cretacian Blade, Black Bite, was graceful in his grip; a shard of rock, with an ostentatious pommel and a fierce touch. There was a crunch, followed by an audible splatter, and slowly, the Firehawk sawed his way through the neck. 

Semi-solidified blood, growing black, ran out from rupturing veins, over his encrusted hand. Muscles squelched, contrasting against the crunch of ligaments and bones. He felt the spine shatter, witnessed shards of bone tear through callused skin; smiled as the edge of his blade pressed against a thin layer of flesh. And then, the body fell to the ground, spewing forth a torrent, and the head was dangling in his hands. 

For a moment, it was Frostulfr’s head which dangled in his hands, staring outwards with bloody sockets, mouth agape in pain. 

His hallucination had captivated his imagination, stalking beneath his eyelids, foreshadowing each of his sights and movements..

Standing, the Space Wolf sheathed his flaying knife, and unweaved his hand from the grey mane. He clasped the head to his chest-borne scabbard, and with each step he took, it bobbed hauntingly, all white-eyed and guilty. Vermundr’s words rang in his ears, calling for the squad to assemble, back across the chasm. Uncaringly, Alrik sauntered across, and stopped at the sight of the hovering Thunderhawk. 

It was immense, a bird of metal, the engines screaming. His eyes danced across the figures assembled - The Pack, all ragged and coppery; five others, four in pelts and leaning upon tall spears; the fifth regaled in a set of Power Armour, a blade in hand, aglow with arcane runes. Blackmane, he knew. The Wolf Lord was bedecked in blue-grey plate, his black hair wet and flickering, his eyes narrow and intelligent. There was a ferocious majesty about him, hanging upon his shoulders like a cloak. They shambled into the Thunderhawk’s mouth, disappearing in the red-lit interior. 

Within, Alrik found another beast, this of a different calibre to all others - A Witch, with fiery hair and solemn eyes, his face framed with a heavy, braided beard. He knelt over a Packmate, who’s arm and leg had been sheared away, now sinewy and hardening. 

‘The Stormcaller,’ Uttered Alrik, and then turned to watch the others. ‘Blackmane, Orkbane, Ice-Slayer, Mountain-stride, Thunder-smith.’ 

He gave each of the famed warriors a nod, before taking a seat nearest the Stormcaller. There was an aura of fire-play about him, of dancing upon thin-ice. It invigorated Alrik, made his every sense prickle and grow cool. The Stormcaller controlled the elements themselves, and by right, was a monster - An all-powerful being, untouchable by blade and bullet; who could call upon hail and lightning and fire to aid him. 

That notion - It made Alrik jealous. 

When Blackmane spoke, Alrik’s tongue slithered across his lips, savouring in the last specks of blood. 

They were to fight with the Aurora Chapter, against the Orkish hordes. The Firehawk had insufficient knowledge of the Aurora Chapter - They were the Children of Firestorm; the Seed of Guilliman, powerful, with large amounts of armoured units. 

Of the Gorden Worlds, he knew nothing. That, he would need to change. Previously, he had made the mistake of knowing little about Hecutor, and had paid with his features and the friendship of his brethren. He could not allow that to replay, nor would he. 

And yet, his thoughts were still haunted, by Frostulfr’s dread features, bloody and ruined.

After an hour or two into the flight, with the troll’s head bobbing upon his chest; while the Thunderhawk tossed and turned in the storm. And yet, Njal remained serene, calm, brooding over Kjartan’s slumbering form. It was unlikely that the Blood Claw would ever awake, doomed to the Red Dream, a state of hovering between life and death.

‘Stormcaller,’ Alrik said, respectfully, his voice a dim whisper. ‘When we return to the Fang, may I seek your guidance? I fear that I have foresaw..’ He trailed off, biting back the urge to say: _Frostulfr’s corpse, with his blood upon my blade._

He growled, irritated with the lack of his words, and simply said - ‘The future.’


----------



## Euphrati

The winds raged around them, biting sleet whipping against Keris’ body and the rolling voice of thunder setting the blood in his veins reverberating, but within the storm there was a deeper rumble that caught Keris’ attention. The sound was unmistakable, yet unexpected and crystalline eyes scanned the coiling false shadows of the storm. Grey upon grey, the flank of the Thunderhawk seemed to materialize out of the tempest itself like the Stormwolf of legend, its blunt nose turned towards the opposite side of the gorge as the craft’s engines fought the clawing winds.

Before he could call out to his wolfbrothers the presence of the Thunderhawk, the wolf in Keris’ soul stirred as its attention shifted. Keris’ nostrils flared and a fleeting scent ghosted across the back of his palette with an abrupt change in the storm. Turning away from the abyss, crystal-sharp eyes scanned the wafting sheets of wind driven ice in search as one corner of his mouth twitched as he recalled the warning Lord Blackmane had gifted Vermundr. _Keris knew the legendary warriors that stalked towards the pack by scent alone, but the thought of being tested by the heroes in such a primal state was an immeasurable honour in itself._

They stepped from the howling winds like the wrights of ancient gods, storm-iced pelts billowing as if they still maintained a vestige of the living breath of the beasts that they had once been. A note of concern underscored the scent of a predator’s amusement as emerald green eyes met Keris’ gaze. The twisting line of a scar marked the features of the face that had seen countless battles, flexing where it traced a line through the grey beard and down the warrior’s neck as Gunnar Orkbane gave Keris a brief nod before gesturing to the Thunderhawk with an arm gloved in the fur and talons of the ursid he had killed on his own first hunt.

The leader of Blackmane’s Wolf Guard was flanked by his wolfbrothers, eyes of a stormy sea blue met Keris’ gaze next as the powerful form of Baldyr Ice-slayer gave a brief nod of acknowledgement to the young Wolf though the elder warrior’s scent matched his ever present scowl in barely contained violence. Yet, even Baldyr was eclipsed in stature by the mountain of a warrior that trudged beside him. A good head taller than even Tyr, Wolf Guard Oger Mountain-stride’s dark umber eyes were locked ahead as he seemingly ignored the pack of Blood Claws, his scent severe and difficult for Keris to judge. Multiple tattoos marked his scared body and charms were plaited into the warrior’s thick brown beard though he wore his scalp shorn bare. The fourth warrior met Keris’ gaze though his scent was lost to the storm, an eye the colour of cloudy sapphire shone beside an augmetic of glittering emerald as Hundir Thunder-smith nodded his way. The warrior was broad across his shoulders, the wind clawing at the stiffened Mohawk of rufous hair, but under the dark pelts he wore his body was whipcord-lean and his skin surprisingly pale.

Vermundr’s voice crackled in his ear and Keris felt a tug at his elbow as Iorek leaned in with low words. Keris gave a half nod to the Ghostwolf as he returned the elder Wolf’s greetings in turn before turning to sprint towards the edge of the cliff. The burning of kill-arousal was still heavy in his blood as Keris leapt out into the storm’s grip, trusting his wolfspirit and instincts as the black abyss yawning away under him. For a moment he was weightless, and then the ramp of the Thunderhawk rose up to meet him. He landed in a predatory crouch; spear gripped tight and held out for balance as his powerful legs absorbed the momentum of his leap.

Keris rose to his feet and ducked out of the wind and into the darkened bay, feeling the thrum of the craft’s engines as it rode the fury of the tempest. The air was thick with the scents of his packmates and the potent spirit of elder Wolves and the craft’s machine tang a well, after the biting winds of Asaheim’s peaks the press of scent was harsh on Keris’ senses and he gave a low cough as he moved into the darkness. The magnificent form of their Lord stood in full armour, runeblade bared in his gauntleted fist and the black pelt of his namesake draped about his shoulders. Keris met his Lord’s eyes with a solemn nod, _the wolf in his soul giving a low growl of respect to the Wolf Lord. _

The metallic taste of blood hung in the air as Keris’ eyes adapted to the shadowed gloom quickly, finding the Rune Priest Njal Stormcaller as he knelt beside the still body of Kjartain who was deep in the Red Dream. Keris gave a nod to the Rune Priest as he remained standing as he had taken no wounds from the two ape-trolls he had faced and reached for the nearby stanchion for support as he listened to the words of Blackmane. Afterwards Hrothgar spoke, the young Blood Claw eager in his rapid questions and Keris’ eyes fell to Vermundr where the packleader sat even as he sheathed his spear across his back before speaking into the silence after Vermundr’s words in reply. Keris’ voice was somber and weighted,

‘Kjartain’s fate is in his own hands now. He matches wills with Morkari; that he awakes or not is upon his choice as a warrior and his willpower alone. But know this, if he does so it will be with different eyes. For none who stand before Morkai and return… do so unchanged by his gaze.’

Keris’ own crystalline eyes gleamed in the low light of the bay, his manner one of chained resolve and diamond will as he noted Alrik leaning in to speak in hushed tones to the Stormcaller. That the Firehawk had sought out the Rune Priest was surprising in a way. _Perhaps you have found a calling, the fury of Fenris and the stormborne would suit your bluntness my wolfbrother. _

Iorek was staring at the elder Wolf as well, his manner stiff and guarded as a wolf trying to hide a wound. The others had been silent up until now, their scents carrying the weariness of the hunt and healing wounds from the trolls. Keris’ eyes fell upon the ursid pelt the pack had been challenged to return to the Fang before he turned towards Blackmane in the silence broken only by the deep-throated growl of the thrusters as the Thunderhawk broke free of the storm,

‘My Lord, it bodes ill for us as a pack and your warriors to leave the challenge you have placed upon us incomplete. You tasked us to hunt the beast and return with the pelt to the Fang and,’

Keris gestured towards the bound pelt, ice-slick with the fury of the storm,

‘…soon, we shall have done just that. Allow us to stalk the stars as a full pack again with this complete. So that the honour of your Wolf Guard stands satisfied, since their own _hunt _was cut short,' 

Keris bowed his head towards the elder Wolves in respect,

'I offer, in turn for this, to face any that you choose in the cages in route to the Gorden Worlds.’


----------



## darkreever

[As I mentioned last week, another update. For those who did not post between these last two, don't worry about it; this and the last one were supposed to be one in the same but I felt it was to much in one go and broke it in half. As always, for the most part take your time.]

Vermundr, Hrothgar; Vermundr, Lord Blackmane nods to you before looking at Hrothgar, his features giving away nothing as thoughts spark from behind those eyes. _“Your pack leader is right Hrothgar, I have answers to some of those questions but they will be heard by all, not just those of us here. Of those I can answer, the Gorden Worlds are fifteen weeks to the galactic south of our home and I do not know the size of the orks. They are a tide of endless green, their number legion beyond the borders of the Imperium if those of the rogue trader ilk are to be believed. Of your pack-brother Kjartan, that I do not know and it is as your brother Keris says; he fights a battle from within like another of your number did.”_ He said, indicating Iorek in the process. _“He can give you a better answer than I, and even then it may very likely be no more than even the greatest of the rune priests or ancients.”_


Iorek and Alrik; Maybe it was your intention, or perhaps it was not, but as the thought forms up in your mind the eyes of the rune priest Njal raise up to you. ‘Do you speak of us Ghostwolf, or you and the spirit that wars for control within you?’ The words bubble into your head. ‘You were alive with the need for vengeance and paid a price for impetus. Others can claim such a thing, but few to have fallen into the sleep and come back from it.’

If the Stormcaller was to impart anything more into your mind, he is prevented by the approach of another. Alrik Firehawk whispers something to Njal, and his eyes turn to the larger wolf; those same eyes seemingly glaze over when Alrik pauses in his words and the rune priest nods to no one in particular. _“When I can speak with you, I shall find you young Alrik. What you have seen is most troubling and must be looked into.”_


Keris; After answering what few questions of Hrothgar's that he would, lord Blackmane then turns to you and smiles deeply. _“So then Keris, when is it that you concluded the identity of their hunt?”_ He said, waving an arm to the scowling Baldyr and grinning Gunnar who took the moment to speak up before Blackmane had the chance to continue. _“Give this to them Ragnar; two months of hunting only to be spoiled by the stiff backed sons of Guilliman? Not even you can be so cruel!”_ He ended with a chuckle, forcing even lord Blackmane to turn away and laugh at the notion. _“Fine. Our return to the Fang will see you returning the pelt as you were challenged to do, that shall be completed. Whether my wolf guard feel their honour needs to be satisfied, I leave to them,“_ He said, and then some thought struck him, _“except for Baldyr! If I leave that to him there won’t be a one of you left standing, or able to move of your own accord for weeks.”_ He finished, to the laughter of both Gunnar and Oger, and a look to Baldyr gave all the answer needed to how true such a statement was.

----------------------------------------------

All; In just two hours time the thunderhawk crosses the expanse of Asaheim to the Fang, a trip which was to take you nearly a full day from where you had been recovered. Every moment of that trip was spent with some degree of turbulence, from the storm you had pulled out of to the general high winds of your icy home-world. By the end of the second hour though, the transport was decelerating as it made the final approach to one of the mountain fortresses numerous hangar bays. With a final shudder and a clang of metal on stone, the thunderhawk lands and the assault ramp cannot lower soon enough. The unease of being in the transport is palpable, from any of you as well as Baldyr and lord Blackmane, if your senses are not deceiving you, but you still have enough about you to allow the wolf lord and his elite warriors to descend first. (With the exception of Hundir, still in the cockpit.)

Several of you help the rune priest Njal to remove Kjartan’s injured form from the back of the ship, where thralls bound in service to the wolf priests await to take him away. Few ever return from the Red Dream, but you can hold out some hope that Kjartan is one amongst those. Looking around, you notice the relative lack of bodies, of activity, throughout the hangar and surrounding halls. Two months ago, when you had set out, yours had been one of five companies within the Fang and despite its size you were generally able to locate other wolf brothers with ease.

Now though, the Fang was deserted, empty, little more than a hollow shell of a mountain waiting to be filled once again. You become aware of another thunderhawk within the hangar, one bearing not the ice blue and greys of the Space Wolves; but rather a light green and white. The Aurora thunderhawk looked every bit as ancient and dominating as the one you stepped from, the only difference being the colours making up its surface and chapter symbols it bore.

_“Assemble the head of the company, there is a war council to go through and decisions to be made.”_ Lord Blackmane said to Gunnar Orkbane, before the leader of the wolf guard nodded to his liege-lord and stalked forward, Mountain-stride making his leave with Gunnar while Baldyr stalked away from the group in a different direction without as much as a word. Finally lord Blackmane turned to you, raising the razor-ursid pelt up and giving you a wry smile. _“Though you did not return with this without help, you did return to the Fang after slaying a mighty razor-ursid and came back to the Fang with its hide. Of that feat, you should all be proud; it is the first amongst many I expect to see from you, a pack forged and reforged through blood and sweat upon a land where you have to fight to maintain your very life. When the time is right, more will be revealed of this new threat that we are to face, for now recover your wounds and let others know of your deed.”_

You begin to leave the hangar, some content with the praise in what you have achieved, while others longing to know more of what is to come. As you do leave though, a firm hand halts the departure of both Vermundr and Keris. Turning around, you see that it is Hundir, having made his way from the thunderhawk.


Vermundr and Keris; _“Indeed you are new to this eh? Blackmane has called a war council of his company; a council of his closest advisors.”_ He says before turning away to walk with lord Blackmane, as if that was all the explanation required. You look to each other with a measure of confusion before another speaks up from beside you. _“You have all heard the tales,lord Blackmane arms himself both with his own experience and that of those who would fight beside him.”_ Njal says, nodding to the retreating forms of the wolf lord and wolf guard before continuing. _“This extends to more than just other wolf lords, his wolf guard, or priests like lord Sigurd or myself.Lord Blackmane would also make use of the knowledge and experience of his pack leaders as well; for who will know better exactly what the elements of the company are capable of? So when the wolf lord calls a war council, any who might lead a pack are part of it, from the mighty wolf guard all the way to ones such as yourselves.”_ 

You nod to this, accepting it as a much better answer than the one given to you by Hundir; though that only explains why Vermundr is to take part in this. Keris does not lead the pack, and is about to remind the Stormcaller of such a fact when the elder wolf beats him to the punch with a raised hand. _“__Vermundr__ physically leads the pack, and is the one who makes the decisions for it. But you Keris, you keep it from tearing itself apart. There is no doubt that __Vermundr__ is your packs head, but Keris its heart without question. In that way, you lead the pack in a more spiritual sense; much like how I might commune with the ancient spirits and the runes. And so, because of this, you are part of the war council.”_ He finishes by clapping you both on the back, pushing you forward after lord Blackmane and Hundir.

[I don’t think there is much I need to prompt you with here; though the pair of you and Njal will quickly catch up with lord Blackmane and Hundir. The five of you will make your way to the chambers of the wolf lord, where he has a round stone table with a hololithic projector built into the center. For now, you wait for the other heads of the company to gather before the council is to begin. Since there is only two of you, this is more of a mini-update and another will be able to follow soon.]


All (except Vermundr and Keris); _“Though you did not return with this without help, you did return to the Fang after slaying a mighty razor-ursid and came back to the Fang with its hide. Of that feat, you should all be proud; it is the first amongst many I expect to see from you, a pack forged and reforged through blood and sweat upon a land where you have to fight to maintain your very life. When the time is right, more will be revealed of this new threat that we are to face, for now recover your wounds and let others know of your deed.”_ Lord Blackmane said to you before leaving the hangar, Njal taking Vermundr and Keris with him in tow with the wolf lord.

For now, it looks as though you are to be left in the dark about what is going on while others discuss and plan. This notion is fine for some of you, though a few yearn to know what lord Blackmane’s war council are to discuss between one another. Never-the-less, you do indeed have a challenge you did complete, a trophy to prove it, and others to laud such a thing over. If that is your desire, than the great hall is the place for you, where you can celebrate to such a thing and boast to any who would be there. However, if celebration is not what you desire at this time, there is always the many training cages; a place to work your body or vent frustrations, or to even settle matters should they need settling. Still yet, there is also the prospect of returning lost gear or being left to your own devices.

[The choice is yours to make, celebrate, train, seek isolation, or obtain new weapons for those you lost against the trolls. If your choice is one of the first two, then look below for more; but if it is one of the later two, then please PM me as those things must be more specific to each of you.]


Should you choose to celebrate then you go in the direction of the great hall. Wherein, you find four members of pack Jogvai, the eldest wolves of the company and ones who make up the esteemed long fangs. They are seated together by a great hearth fire near the grey hunters of pack Heimdel, all listening to the boasting of the other occupants of the great hall, the other pack of blood claws of the company.


[You do not know exactly what the other pack had been challenged to do, but it looks like whatever it is they accomplished such a task before you did. Was it more impressive than the razor-ursid? Does it matter if it was or not? Perhaps it is time someone was knocked out of the firelight so that their betters could bask in the glory.]


If instead you have chosen to fight, your path is to the training cages. Though there are hundreds within the Fang, you manage to make your way to one of the few that are occupied by others. You see grey hunters of pack Ssvorq gathered around a training cage. Opposite them, you see a trio of others, all clad in light green power armour with white markings. Each of the three stands rock steady, faces nearly identical with close cropped heads and clean shaven faces. Were it not for the subtle differences, the colour of eyes or different set about their jaws or size of their noses, you could have sworn that two of the three were copies of the third. What you see within the cage though, that catches your attention; or rather the motion within does.

Blurs of brown, grey, and green dart back and forth, nearly too fast for your superhuman senses to keep up with; much too fast for you to make out any detail of who the blurs are. Back and forth they come at each other, never slowing enough for you to get any detail until finally the blurs lock blades and are forced to stop. The first is the unmistakable form of Bladyr Ice-slayer, his frost blade held in a two hand grip and his face contorted into a snarl. A cut marks the top of his head, with a second closing up on one of his exposed arms where his pelts do not cover. The other figure you do not recognize, for he bears allegiance to the Aurora chapter. Stripped from the torso up, the warrior stands against Baldyr with a pair of long, orange blades crossing midway to halt the frost blade. He sports a number of cuts like the Ice-slayer; in fact twice that of the wolf guard. The sight of this puts grins on the faces of the grey hunters, and you hear one mention one more for the win.

[As you watch the pair duel, you notice marking on the Aurora’s body; the knowledge of their meaning coming to the surface of your thoughts. They mark him out as a veteran of some kind, one who specializes in the close combat, an assault marine as other chapters might go by. Then, the assault marine scores another cut to Baldyr, one on his upper thigh that forces him down on one knee and forcing him to roll away to avoid more blows. It looks as though the number of blows is nearly even; will the cold wolf guard come out the victor or will it be the newcomer?]


----------



## Deus Mortis

Azahd hadn't expected such a bold move from the troll. It dived with it's full body weight into Azahd. The spear robbed the troll of it's full force but the mass alone knocked the icy wind out of his lungs. The spear was last in an instant as Azahd brought his arms up to prevent the beast from taking a bite out of his face. The trolls putrid breath washed over him and droplets of foul smelling saliva froze to Azahd's face. But Azahd was far to focused on the rows of razor sharp teeth trying to reach his face to notice. Azahd's arm's locked and the beast seemed held in place. He tried to think how he could slay this beast, and clearly it was thinking the same.

All that gave it away was a momentary twinkle in it's eyes, and then it all went to hell. The beast pulled back, and the force of Azahd's arms propelled it further back. One of it's arms came around and grabbed Azahd's throat. The razor sharp claws of the beast dug into his throat and the blood froze around the troll's claws, and then thawed as the claws broke the crimson icicles and fresh blood came forth. He couldn't breath with the weight of the massive thing on his neck. His arms battered against the things arm, but it refused to budge. *It shouldn't end like this* thought Azahd *It. Can't. End.* The other clawed bludgeoning stick rose to swing down to take Azahd's head when another sound cut through the wind and rain and snow. Half of the troll's head clattered to the ground and warm steam rose from the exposed innards as a might figure stood above him.

Lord Blackmane. The Wolf Lord of their company had just slain the beast on-top of him. Azahd rolled onto his front and coughed and he sharply inhaled his mother's air. A hand was extended to him. His lord's hand. As he looked up he saw no condemnation or shame in his eyes, but he still felt it. Had lord Ragnar not saved him, yes saved him was the appropriate word, he would be a dead man. He was a space wolf, he should have been able to overcome one simple troll. But he hadn't. He had failed and nearly died. As he rose from the ground, he realised that he would need to out-strip everyone on whatever task they were next set to regain any form of standing within the pack. The truth was he had failed in his charge, and would have to atone for it appropriately. Azahd walked up the ramp into the thunderhawk, his gaze was cast low in shame, for fear of what the eyes of his pack-mates might say.

Once they were all inside the steel bird, their lord told them the reason for his arrival. _“A call for aid has reached Fenris; the Sons of Russ swore an oath during the Macharian Crusade to fight alongside the warriors of the Aurora chapter against the greenskin horde. The green tide crashes into the Gorden Worlds once again, and we will break the enemy as we swore to do. Worlds of the All-Father are threatened, and the enemy stands capable of dealing a deathblow to a brother chapter; this we cannot allow. So the challenge of the Razor-ursid pelt must be ended, and a greater matter dealt with.”_ "So, the Sons of Guilliman are in need of aid?" Azahd whispered to himself. As the thunderhawk ascended, Azahd could feel it be thrown and buffered by the storm, as was custom on Fenris. Still, Azahd could not help but feel discomfort at the notion of being tossed around like a left in a storm.

And so for two hours he sat. He listened to the conversations of others and watched over Kjartan's limb body. As he did he was reminded that if Lord Blackmane had not been there, that could have easily have been him. That thought sat worse in his stomach than the discomfort of flying. He tried to devise a form of punishment against himself for such foolishness, but rejected that notion. Instead he decided that it would be better if he channelled that energy into training himself better, which in some part would punish him as well. Stone touched metal and the ramp hissed open. Azahd waited for his lord and his wolf guard to descend before helping to carry the body of Kjartan to be received by the thralls.

Before leaving Lord Blackmane addressed them all once more. “Though you did not return with this without help, you did return to the Fang after slaying a mighty razor-ursid and came back to the Fang with its hide. Of that feat, you should all be proud; it is the first amongst many I expect to see from you, a pack forged and reforged through blood and sweat upon a land where you have to fight to maintain your very life. When the time is right, more will be revealed of this new threat that we are to face, for now recover your wounds and let others know of your deed.” *Hmmm...* Azahd thought *Clearly, this foe is something different if there is more to be revealed.*Still, training was clearly in order in Azahd case and so he wasted no time in formalities and headed straight for the training cages.

As Azahd made his way down the corridors, he noticed that the Fang was surprisingly empty. When they had left there had been several companies here, but there were none now. Or almost none. The halls were more quiet than they ought, and Azahd was suddenly acutely aware of how big their Fortress monastery was. As he turned the last corner he came to the practice cages. Many cages filed with training equipment were free, but there seemed to be a congregation around the centre cage. Three nearly identical Astartes stood on the opposite side to the grey hunters of pack Ssvorq. Their armour was a light green with white markings, meaning they must be from the Aurora chapter. The watched with what was almost a passive endurance at the blurs of movement inside the practice cage. 

As Azahd drew closer, he realised who was fighting. Bladyr Ice-slayer was fighting some unknown marine, obviously from the Aurora chapter. His markings and scars marked him out as an assault veteran, but even still it looked like he was loosing to one of his Lord's wolf guard. One of the grey hunters whispered that it was one more scar to win, and since Bladyr had the less scars by almost half that of the veteran from their brother chapter, he assumed that it meant this bout was almost over, and the thought of besting the Sons of Guilliman pleased him greatly. Suddenly, Bladyr was forced to his knee's by an attack and was force to roll away to avoid any more. Perhaps this fight was not over just yet. As Azahd watched, he became more wrapped up in the conflict of these two veterans. All notion of the razor-urzid hunt and his near failure were almost all but forgotten, and he found himself cheering for his lord's praetorian...


----------



## Lord Ramo

Heimdall felt the wind buffeting him and his wounds as they were exposed to the cold. He was furious that the troll had managed to wound him, an astartes. Even if he was just a bloodclaw he should preform better, the older members of the pack had, Heimdall would need to evolve, keep pace with them. He picked his spear up from the snowy ground and placed his knife in its sheath before he heard a roar of engines. Lord Blackmane quickly leapt out, killing a troll that was on one of his brothers and bellowing to the others to get inside the Thunderhawk gunship that he had brought with him.

Heimdall followed his order, climbing into the thunderhawk to notice the fearsome wold guard were here as well. Lord Blackmane would always have his protectors around him. They were here to protect him, they were the most legendary figures of the company, everyone looked up to them and aspired to be like them. Heimdall took a seat near the cockpit as he checked that his wounds weren't too deep, which he was glad to see wasn't. Soon all the others had entered the thunderhawk, Kjartan's limp form bringing brought onboard. 

_“A call for aid has reached Fenris; the Sons of Russ swore an oath during the Macharian Crusade to fight alongside the warriors of the Aurora chapter against the greenskin horde. The green tide crashes into the Gorden Worlds once again, and we will break the enemy as we swore to do. Worlds of the All-Father are threatened, and the enemy stands capable of dealing a deathblow to a brother chapter; this we cannot allow. So the challenge of the Razor-ursid pelt must be ended, and a greater matter dealt with.”_ Lord Blackmane spoke to them.

To be honest Heimdall was eager to go and get some combat experience under his belt so to speak but at the same time he knew he needed to have a clear head to fight effectively. He sat in silence as the thunderhawk struggled through the air back to the invincible fang. As the thunderhawk touched down Lord Blackmane spoke again, telling them to enjoy their victory even if their trial was cut short on the way back.

Heimdall bowed to his Lord before heading for the training cages, his wounds were fine, they wouldn't get in the way of his training, and would serve as a reminder to how close he came to losing to a simple troll. Heimdall moved through the deserted hallways noticing the lack of astartes around. There had been five companies here when they had left for their trial, but there wasn't that here anymore. He headed into the training area, seeing how all were gathered around one training cage. Heimdall saw Azahd there as well and moved over to have a look at what was happening. 

Three green armored astartes stood together watching as well, they were members of the Aurora chapter, the ones the Space Wolves would be aiding. In the cage fought the deadly and heroic Bladyr Ice-Slayer and a veteran of the Aurora chapter. Bladyr looked like he was winning, he had less scars and cuts on him then the Aurora marine, who looked to be an assault veteran, but the fight was far from over, Heimdall could tell that.


----------



## Serpion5

*Krahl*

Krahl kept silent and respectful as he could muster on the return flight back to the Fang. Kjartan`s condition was serious and dire, and the Wolf Priest and even Blackmane himself were generous in offering their sympathies to the pack. For the course of the flight, roughly two hours if he counted right, Krahl held his tongue and said nothing. The landing was bumpy and turbulent, and he kept a tight grip of the harness over his head until the craft had stopped moving. Ragnar Blackmane and Njal were the first to depart, followed closely by his wolf guard. 

Four brothers of the pack descended next, carrying Kjartan`s form between them. These were followed by the rest of the pack and Krahl. He looked around the hangar and smiled softly. It was good to be home. He turned to hear the words of Blackmane as the wolf lord prepared to address the pack. 

*'Though you did not return with this without help, you did return to the Fang after slaying a mighty razor-ursid and came back to the Fang with its hide. Of that feat, you should all be proud; it is the first amongst many I expect to see from you, a pack forged and reforged through blood and sweat upon a land where you have to fight to maintain your very life. When the time is right, more will be revealed of this new threat that we are to face, for now recover your wounds and let others know of your deed.'*

Ragnar turned to leave, and Krahl took a moment to reflect on the words. 

_If I were to go about bragging after what has happened these past few days, it will only make me look even worse._ He shook his head, staring at another thunderhawk further down the hanger with the colours of another chapter pained over it. _I have to set things right with Alrik. I have to at least try, a sparring session perhaps?_ Krahl thought back to earlier, Alrik was likely going to be in a sour mood, and further, had business with Njal unless Krahl had misheard.

He turned and jogged towards where Alrik was walking to leave. 

'Alrik!' He called. 'Brother, may I have a moment please?' 

Alrik turned and glared back at Krahl. Though he did not appear overly hoistile it was plain that he did not feel like talking. So Krahl continued. 

'I understand that you have lost a lot of respect for me Brother,' Krahl began. 'But believe me, whatever I may have said in the heat of the moment is not the way I wish for our future interactions to be. I understand you have little time for me now, but when you are ready, might you be willing to join me in the sparring cages?' 

Alrik was silent, but after a moment responded with a grin and a nod before turning and walking away. Krahl nodded back, glad to at least be on speaking terms with Alrik (even if only Krahl was speaking).


With this, Krahl decided the only other thing to do was recuperate. Though he was far from his astartes limits, the presence of another chapter meant that there was likely something big about to happen, and Blackmane himself had alluded to a key threat about to be revealed. He looked back at the other thunderhawk one last time before exiting the hangar and walking steadily towards his own chamber for some meditation and exercises. 

As he walked, he came to realize how different his life had become over this ursid quest. When Krahl had joined the Rout, he had pictured epic sagas of heroism and death defying feats of grandeur. He had envisioned battles against hordes of aliens, putting down the enemies of the Allfather with fire and steel. He had imagined that he would one day be among the greatest of wolf guard and have tales told of his deeds for decades following his heroic death. 

And yet, here he was before even having fought his first true battle, a naive fool. He had acted out of a selfish desire to accelerate his own rise to glory, and it had taken the berating of the older pack members to make him even begin to think about what he had done wrong. He had been so caught up in the rush of combat that he had not even considered what he would have done if Alrik had been killed. 

It was strange how differently the mind worked when you were in combat and when you were safe at home with time to think. This wouldn`t do. It was going to take time and dicipline to mould himself into a true warrior worthy of Russ. 

Krahl only hoped he would live long enough to succeed...


----------



## BlackApostleVilhelm

The Thunderhawk shook softly as it left the storm and neared the Fang, Tyr's mind in another place as he thought of the coming battle in the Gorden Worlds. He stared at his metal hand and flexed the fingers over and over again as he turned his wrist, *"Greenskin..."* he muttered, a low growl leaving his throat in anticipation, the green skin horde would be a good test of his strength. Orks were massive creatures with an even more massive lack of intelligence yet they were cunning and brutal fighters, they lived to fight just like he did, except he fought to protect the Imperium and kill the enemies of the Emperor. 

He smiled to himself as the Thunderhawk touched down in a hangar, the back ramp opening up to let them all out, Lord Blackmane leaving them with some parting words before walking off. A loud grumbling hit his ears and he looked down at his stomach, he knew that the meat they had had earlier would not have been enough for him, he was still hungry. Quietly he left the others and made his way to the Great Hall, he would train after he ate, the mead and meat was calling to him and he could not resist its siren's song. 

As he entered the Great Hall he saw the other pack of Blood Claws from Lord Blackmane's company spinning a tail to the Grey Hunters of pack Heimdall and a few of the elders from pack Jogvai. Tyr grabbed two barrels of ale and brought them over to the other wolves before putting them on the ground and grabbing a plate of meat, *"An interesting story brothers but I am sure that it was not as interesting as the test that we just returned from."* he said to the other Blood Claws, a large smile across his face as he took a swig from his mug, *"Let me tell you about our hunt for the Razor Ursid."* he nodded at the two barrels of ale indicating that they were for those assembled so that they had something to drink while he spoke. 

He began with when they had just left the Fang and the days after searching for a scent until finally picking one up. He told them about the hunt for the great beast, how it had eventually turned the tables on them and began tracking them, he himself getting stuck on a ledge and cornered by the beast before his brothers aided him. The trolls especially were a crucial part, yet he had left out the fight between Krahl and Alrik, the others did not need to know about his pack's issues.

The whole time he spoke he drank and ate, his loud voice carrying across the hall as he detailed every gory detail about the fight with the ursid and then with the trolls. He smiled viciously and punched his normal hand into his metal one to emphasize the punch he had landed on the troll's face, caving in most of it and nearly killing it outright, each of his brothers getting his due in his tail. As he finished he told them of the Gorden Worlds and the Greenskin horde, *"I relish the chance to fight the Greenskin Horde, it will be a true test of strength."*


----------



## Euphrati

Blackmane’s voice was a powerful growl as his lips pulled back in a lupine grin, elongated canines gleaming wetly in the near lightlessness of the Thunderhawk’s hold. Humour rode the body language of the elder Wolves, Gunnar seizing the moment to speak in the pack’s favour and Keris could taste the approval that laced their scents. 

There was something in their eyes that caused his wolfspirit to rouse, an impression of knowing and weight that reminded him of the gaze of another. _Do they see greatness within me the same as you did, Hunter Kjarl? I will not fail in my debt to you, I will watch over them with every drop of my lifeblood and the wisdom you gifted me._

Keris remained standing the entire flight, legs splayed and knees bent as the vessel bucked and yawed like a skiff in high seas. His hand that gripped the stanchion was white-knuckled as was the one held against the silvered storm-grey pelt at his side, the muscles along his arms tense and trembling slightly as the last of the kill-urge cooled in his veins. The air within the hold was heavy with the scent-trace of restlessness like the sharp bite of ozone before a storm. Even the elder Wolves shifted uneasily in the tight confines of the Thunderhawk, intensity and anticipation rolling off them in visceral waves. _Keris could feel the disquiet of his own wolfspirit, silvery plumes fogging before him with every panted breath, and fought back the urge to give voice to the guttural howl that echoed in his soul._

The pitch of the engines finally changed and the craft pitched its blunt nose upwards sharply before touching down with the harsh ring of its landing claws on the stone of the hanger bay’s cavernous expanse. It took decided willpower to keep from riding the assault ramp down as the Thunderhawk’s hydraulics snarled excess pressure from relief valves, yet Keris turned away from the lowering ramp and knelt to aid his packbrother Azahd in shouldering the cold weight of Kjartan’s injured form into the care of waiting thralls of the Wolf Priests. Ice-blue eyes marked every line in the face of the fallen Son of Russ before Keris nodded a solemn farewell to his wolfbrother; he could see it in the shadows that hung over the Blood Claw’s pale features – Kjartan would never wake from the Red Dream. _Until next winter, my brother._

There was silence that Keris could taste on the very air; it was a sense of ageless waiting, the slumbering of a predator in its den between hunts, a stillness as the halls of the Fang echoed with the low growling of the ever present wind as if Thengir himself slept in its very heart. The Company of Blackmane guarded the home of the Wolves while they recovered from the losses suffered at the envenomed fangs of the Hydra. Keris’s eyes came to rest upon another shape crouched in predatory stillness on the other side of the hanger, pale green and white in the greys of the Fang. _An unfamiliar scent carried on the air currents caused his inner wolf to stir_. As the last of the pack descended from the assault craft Blackmane’s deep voice turned Keris attention from the foreign scent-trace; the Wolf Lord’s words turned to Gunnar first and, as the leader of the Wolf Guard stalked off, his gaze shifted to the young warriors before him. Blackmane’s praise was tempered by a weighted reminder of greater tests to come and Keris met his gaze without flinching, his weariness pressed to the back of his thoughts in prospect of his Jarl’s approval.

With their Lord’s dismissal the pack started to break as each warrior chose his personal path, yet a firm hand upon his shoulder stopped Keris in his tracks. The Wolf Guard Hundir, a hand upon both his and Vermundr’s shoulders and a lupine twist of amusement upon his features, stood close enough that Keris could hear the faint whirring of the glowing emerald augmetic. Hundir’s words were peculiar and Keris shared a bemused glance with his packleader before the deep, rasping tones of the Stormcaller sounded at his elbow. Keris eyed the rune Priest with respect as he spoke, nodding at the idea. _Who better than a packleader to advise upon what the pack is able?_ 

Yet, though he was bound to Vermundr through his bloodoath to Lord Blackmane, Keris himself was not the leader of a pack and found the words halted in his throat by the Rune Priest’s calloused hand as he held it up before the young Blood Claw. Again, Keris could feel that the elder Wolf’s gaze was weighted when it fell upon him, but it was his words that brought forth an unexpected sense of calm truth within Keris’ soul and he nodded solemnly as the Rune Priest ushered them to follow their Lord. Keris paused briefly as a thought struck him to carve the fore section off the ursid pelt with a single sweep of his combat blade, draping it over his shoulder as he trotted along at Vermundr’s side. 

The three of them quickly caught up to fall into pace with Lord Blackmane and his Wolf Guard, though partway to the war chambers Keris stepped aside momentarily to place a request upon a passing thrall. The young woman nodded briefly; her pale, greenish-grey eyes never wavering once under the stare of the young Sky Warrior and Keris could see the smoldering fire of a brave fenrisian tribeswoman in their depths before he turned away satisfied that his request would be seen to without fault.

Blackmane’s personal chambers were comfortably large as befitting of a Wolf Lord who would have the need of war councils the very like of the one that was gathering now. The chamber on the Fist of Russ was a pale duplicate of the one that Keris found himself passing into now, banners and totems adorning the cold, dark stone of the walls where the glow of the firepit did not reach. The circular stone of the center table held a hololithic projector embedded in its surface, but it was the steaming copper vessel and bundle set upon a stone bench to the side that made him nod in satisfaction. Keris caught his packleader’s gaze and gestured for him to follow, stepping over to the shallow bowl and setting the ursid hide beside it,

‘It is fitting that you wear a token of the pack’s first hunt, but I doubt the sons of Guilliman will appreciate the aroma of _that_ thing, brother.’

Keris moved with a surety, unbinding the troll skin while speaking and, in one sharp motion, peeling the odiferous hide off of his packleader where it had partially frozen to the claw wounds across the Son of Russ’ broad back. The claw marks were shallow, but the remains of the troll’s flesh and blood were preventing Vermundr’s gene-forged body from closing them properly. Keris dropped the tattered remains beside the bowl before undoing the bundle of linen strips and counterseptic ointment. The water in the copper bowl was glacial melt from the flanks of the Fang and heated to just under scalding. Keris poured a measure of the counterseptic into the vessel and then dipped one section of cloth into the mix. Without even waiting for a reply, Keris stepped beside Vermundr and began scrubbing the remaining hide from the wounds on his packleader’s back.


----------



## Angel of Blood

The storm continued to roar around Njord and the others as they put down the last of the trolls. The cold sleet lashed across his unarmoured form, forcing his gene-enhanced physiology to work harder than ever to regulate his core temperature, his second heart already beating hard in rhythm with its twin. Njord stood where he was for a moment, panting heavily like a dog might. As he stood there he noticed another roar within the storm. Turning to look back to the chasm he saw the unmistakable shape of a thunderhawk filling the gulf. Before he could question why it was here he heard his pack leaders voice cut across the vox, ordering them all to board the awaiting gunship. 

Njord loped across with the others and as they did the thunderhawks assault ramp lowered, wasting no time Njord leapt lightly up to the ramp and entered the confines of the ships hold and went to continue inside, but hesitated at the sight before him.

The Wold Lord himself was present, fully armoured and a fearsome aspect as ever. Njord felt the urge to kneel before his lord, but sensed that he should continue on for now. Blackmane was not alone either, with him he had brought members of the elite Wolf Guard, throwing more questions into Njords already shocked head. But it was the other figure that gave him pause as much as Blackmane, that and the form he was crouched over.

Njal, the Stormcaller, highest of the Rune Priests within the Chapter. For all these legends to be present, something of great import must have happened, but Njord forget that all for a moment as he looked at the prone ruined figure the priest was caring for, Kjartan. From the looks of his grievous injuries, now within the red dream. Njord knelt next to him and put a hand to the blood claws arm and looked at the priest whose face told him everything.

He stalked over to one of the grav harnesses and took a seat, having no desire to be thrown around the cabin as the gunship cut through the storm. He continued to stare at Kjartans ruined form and felt the wolf begin to stir deep within him, enraged at the loss of a pack mate. Njord closed his eyes and clamed himself, forcing the wolf back deep within. He’d heard tales of those of the chapter giving into the wolf, becoming more deadly than can possibly be imagined, but losing control of themselves in the process. Some managed to claw themselves back into a steady state of mind, but the others…..

His thoughts were interrupted as Ragnar made an announcement to the pack, giving reason as to why their task had prematurely ended. The greenskin horde had attacked again, threatening both Imperial worlds and the Aurora chapter whom the Wolves were oathed to fight alongside. 

Njord felt his spirit lift in anticipation of fighting against the Orks and alongside another chapter, the first real chance for he and the other newest pack members to show their worth, to prove themselves and most of all, the chance to bring death to the enemies of the All-Father. The thoughts helped to sate the wolf inside.

The thunderhawk continued to turbulently fly through the skies above Asaheim, taking just a few hours to reach the Fang, the legendary fortress and home of the Space Wolves chapter. Once bastion and home of Leman Russ himself, still awaiting the day of his fated return.

The ramp of the gunship clanged down almost instantaneously with the crafts landing. Blackman and his guard descended the ramp first, followed by the members of the pack. Njord moved forward with some of the others including Azahad to aid Njal carry Kjartan down the ramp to the waiting thralls. As the thralls took Kjartan away, Njord placed his hand on his fallen brothers’ shoulder a final time. Willing Russ and the All-Father to bring him back from the red dream. 

Lord Blackmane then congratulated them on their kill, despite having ended their task early. Njord under normal circumstance might have been more disheartened or dishonoured at having not fully completed the task. But his mind was elsewhere now, on the thought of the upcoming campaign, but also once again on Kjartan. Seeing his helpless form borne away by the thralls had riled him up inside again. He decided to head to the training cages, to serve the purposes of releasing his anger, to hone his skills and more simply because in a fight was where a blood claw felt most at ease.

As he approached one of the many training areas and heard a large commotion coming from one of them, raucous roars and cheers mingled in with jeers and howls of laughter. As he entered he saw many astartes gathered around one of the cages containing two combatants. The majority of the assembled warriors were of the Ssvorq grey hunter pack. The others were clearly of the Aurora chapter, their light green armour picked out with white detailing. They looked the complete opposite of the Wolves, nearly identical, fair faced, with close cropped hair, shaved faces and standing firm, where as the grey hunters sported a whole manner of varying hair styles and beards, and clung to the sides of the cages whooping and cheering the combatants on.

Both combatants were both lethal warriors, both clearly more than capable in close combat and veterans. But they couldn’t have been any more different. One was the wolf guard Bladyr Ice-slayer, feral, brutal, draped in pelts and armed with a monstrous frost blade. His opponent was one of the Auroras, unadorned and stripped to the waist, wielding an orange long swords in each hand.

had no intention of standing by idly to watch others battle and test their skills however. He noticed both Azahad and Heimdall also watching fight. The two contrasted in many ways, the former being tall and with striking blue eyes, whilst the latter was short with deep brown eyes. Njord approached them both and spoke out to them with a feral grin.

“Are the two of you really preferring to watch a fight than participate in one? I tire of such things too quickly. Lets make things more interesting, which one of you is up for a bout?”

He stared at them both with his black pinned golden eyes, continuing to grin, and then made his way over to another of the cages. His weapon was usually a chainsword, but that still lay within the armouries of the Fang. Instead he picked up an evenly balance long sword from the rack and tested its weight. Satisfied he stepped into the cage and began to stretch himself off in preparation, taking a few practice swings. Though as fiery as any blood claw, Njord was cunning and spent many hours practicing his skill with a sword, fancying himself to be quite an elegant(at least for a Wolf) and able duellist. 

He spun around and waited to see if either of his pack mates would step up to the cage.


----------



## komanko

Suddenly another arm gripped Njord helping Frostulfr bring him up. Turning his head to the side to see who was the one who helped him he saw Yngvar. A moment later he spoke telling Frostulfr that he had all the help that he needs. Frostulfr was grateful from the timely intervention. It was good or else he feared that he wouldn't have been able to pull Njord up.

With a strong pull they managed to bring Njord back to ground. He gasped for a few moments breathing in air and probably steadying himself. He than clasped Frostulfr's hand and thanked him saying that he is in his debt as well as in Yngvar's. "No thanks needed. We are brothers after all." Frostulfr said as Njord charged back into the fight. He smiled, he felt good that he managed to keep one of his brothers a live. "Good job back there Yngvar, you saved Njord and possibly even me." He said while looking Yngvar in the eye. 

Frostulfr looked towards where Alrik was before. He was victorious. Apparently he helped not one but two brothers stay alive for a while longer. Seeing that all of his brothers were managing he turned and quickly ran towards the body of the trolls leader. He did not say a word to Alrik but simply torn out his spear which was planted in the trolls back. He showed it to Alrik without saying a word and moved away.

As he made his way back to his brothers he heard Vermundr's voice echoing in his ears. He ordered them to gather around him and thus Frostulfr assumed that the fight was done. He looked up to see where Vermundr was and only than did he see the Thunderhawk behind him. It seemed that their challenge now meant nothing.

The thunderhawk moved closer it's ramp open so they would be able to enter it with no problem. Frostulfr waited for the others to hop. He than gave one last look behind him scouring the bloody battle behind him. The corpses of the beasts were already beginning to freeze and be covered by snow. It was a harsh plant indeed. It showed no mercy for the weak.

Warmth. It described the thunerhawk well. Unlike the chilling cold which swept outside of the metal bird which in no way could describe it. Why would a thunderhawk pick them? It was a good question, one which opened the path for other questions as well yet he had no answer for it so he kept it for himself hoping that it will reveal itself soon enough.

He looked up when he made his way through the short ramp. A large figure stood nearby, a figure that caught his eye and drew him to look at her. Looking sideways Frostulfr saw that it was the Wolf Lord. For a moment his heart stopped he had never been so close to the legendary warrior. When he was in front of him he bowed quickly and than continued moving to take his place on one of the last free positions.

He felt that something was wrong. The taste of blood was in the air as was the smell of it. Yet no blood remained so fresh for so long. He scoured the thunderhawk until his gaze laid on the pale form of one of his battle brothers. Kjartan, pale, mangled, brutally hurt. He lay still. Immediately Frostulfr's heart felt sorrow and pain. While he managed to save two battle brothers he could not save the third. Maybe if he would have tried better he would've noticed that his brother was in need. Maybe... His mind was blank. The loss of a brother was hard on him, it always was as he got attached to people quite easily. 

His gaze turned away and he directed it at his feet. He could tell by the smell of his brother that it was not good. He was struggling but not fully dead yet. In his head his own wolf spirit howled. He knew that even if his brother survived he would never be the same again...

The last of the wolf guard finally made his way inside the thunderhawk. Frostulfr watched as they took their places and than a hiss was heard and the ramp slowly closed. Most were quite none spoke. He could smell the concern of some and the excitement of others.

A booming and deep voice broke the cursed silence. It was the Wolf Lord who spoke. He told them that a call for aid came from the aurora chapter which was stationed right now at the Gordon Worlds. Orks were attacking and that the sons of russ – the space wolves swore to come to their aid during the Macharian Crusade. Lord Blackmane than added that this is why the challenge had to be halted. They could not stand idly while a brother chapter and the worlds of the all father were under threat.

Frostulfr thought about it, it was a good reason to break the challenge although he knew that by breaking it a hole that could not be filled would be created somewhere inside him. He would have to complete the challenge so he would feel whole again. It was a silly think but he guessed that it was driven from the sense of honor he had felt so many times.

The thunderhawk quickly passed through the gathering storm and headed towards The Fang. It would be some hours before they will arrive, Frostulfr knew that but it is by far the quickest way to reach The Fang as walking there would've taken most of the day...

+++++++++++

Two hours passed rather quickly. In that time Frostulfr barely said a word. He had been thinking of their duty and their call. He only now began to realize that even though they made it through the first trails they were not immortal neither invulnerable. 

Even though they could carry ten times a normal man's weight or fight with the strength of one hundred men they could still be killed and he saw that in the most terrifying of ways. He saw that happening to one of his brothers.

He groaned, the turbulence was always there it made him feel like he was in the middle of a maelstrom. It was in a way like trying to brave the seas of Fenris during the most difficult of times. Suddenly the turbulence passed like it was never there, he could feel the ship decelerating.

They were finally home.

The clang of metal against stone could be heard as the thunderhawk landed. It was heard again when the ramp opened. Quickly the thunderhawk's passengers began to make their way out escaping the metal cage which held them in the rough skies. 

Frostulfr stopped himself from rushing out. He gave respect to the elite warriors and the Wolf Lord although he did not enjoy being trapped in such a confined space. It made him think too much. When everyone made it out he followed them out. 

The air was pure and frosty. Sweet in other words. He took it in and than exhaled. It was a welcome change from the Thunderhawk's air. He saw how the others helped the rune priest carry the nearly lifeless body out of the Hawk. 

For some reason he could not bring himself to come close to the nearly dead man. He thought that they should have left him, he could have died a warriors death and now he had to be tormented by hundreds and thousands of checks and medical work.

Since his rebirth he felt a slight revulsion at the thought of something coming back to life. Things which were dead should stay like that even if they were brothers. 

Frostulfr looked around. Yet he saw nothing, the Fang was nearly deserted nothing was inside it. While at other times people could be seen passing doing their jobs or tending to their tasks now nothing was seen. He did notice another Thunderhawk nearby though it did not bear the markings of the sons of russ instead it was painted in a scheme of green and white. He assumed that its a thunderhawk from the Aurora chapter.	

His mind was a flow with thoughts and he did not notice how some of the Wolf Guard began making their way to various location. He snapped out of his pondering as he heard the deep and booming voice of the Wolf Lord. He was praising their work and the fact that they managed to slay a mighty Razor Ursid even though they had help in getting back to the Fang. 

Frostulfr knew that they could have returned on their own as well. It was not a difficult task to return to the Fang. The Wolf Lord added and said that when the time will be right more information about the threat which they expected will be revealed to them. After that the Wolf Lord turned and left the hangar.

Seeing that they were now free to rest and tend to themselves Frostulfr began moving away. He than saw Alrik and decided to try and speak with him. Coming closer he showed him the spear that he plunged out of the Troll's leader. Somehow it seemed to go by him when he took it out earlier so Frostulfr decided to show it to him again.

"*Alrik, take a look at this. Smell it if you might*." He said before handing him the spear. Alrik stopped and grabbed the spear. Frostulfr swore that for a moment he could see hatred in Alrik's eyes like he was about to stab him with the spear yet this passed quickly. Instead Alrik laughed and snapped the spear in two, pushing it back at Frostulfr. He than walked away.

Frostulfr sighed, he could not understand why each of the veteran blood claws was that hostile. None of them seemed to like the idea of having new brothers in their claw. It was not an healthy relationship and Frostulfr felt that he might just give up, it was maddening... He hated seeing brothers so hostile to each other. It hurt him in a way.

He looked around and saw how most of the claw were making their way either to the training cages or to the great hall yet he was not in the mood for either of them. He had to think, something bothered him yet he couldn't decide what.

Frostulfr decided to go get checked by the wolf priests. Just in case that Alrik did some real damage that Frostulfr couldn't feel right now.

The small visit to the wolf priests was rather short, it appeared that none of the wounds he sustained were lethal in any way. Seeing that he had nothing of real interest to do now he decided to wonder around, he let his mind lead him somewhere and not his feet.

He walked for a while thinking to himself about everything that came to his mind. Each thing he saw gave him a new stream of thoughts yet no matter what he thought about it still linked him back to the behaviour of this Claw and the Blood Claws which were involved in it. It seemed so... out of place.

A change in the smell around him made him quit his day dreaming. He quickly became aware that he wondered into the Hall of Ancients. A resting place for the greatest, to those who died and to those who still live. He began walking around admiring the armor of the huge machines. It showed signs both of the mighty all father and of the savage sons of russ.

As he continued wondering he saw that something was out of place. Looking around for a bit he came to the understanding that one of the warriors of old were not in their place. Someone apparently awakened one of them for whatever reason he had. Frostulfr did not specialize in such things so he did not try to guess the purpose of such awakening but still it seemed reasonable that the mighty warriors was awakened to help the forces of russ in the coming battle which meant that it will depart with them. Though he could not be sure.

He noted that and than continued wondering on trying to figure out what was so wrong in the claw that he was part of. What made him feel so unwelcome in there. Was it the foul spirit of Alrik or the despair that was emitting from Iorek. He could not tell...


----------



## unxpekted22

His back still numb, Vermundr had practically forgotten about the troll hide bloody frozen to his bare back. As soon as Keris ripped it off he wondered, how in all that was within the Realm of Russ could he have not torn it off himself the moment they were in the Thunderhawk. He would have shuddered if not for the burning hot water that suddenly lapped at his wounds.

Keris scrubbed away at the foul remains, which of course hurt but was at the same time pleasant, perhaps only by thought thought of knowing it was for the better. When he breathed it felt as if some of his air was escaping through the claw marks raking his back side. The applied water, ointment and pressure sealing it back in.

He was still somewhat embarrassed, having this done in front of so many older wolves deserving of respect, but at the same time, he felt some pride. For once, Blackmane and the others could see one of his pack brothers showing him some true respect.

"_Each day I will continue thanking Russ and the All-father for placing you and I in the same pack Keris. My Thanks."_

He said over his shoulder in nearly a low rumble. He looked down to the disgusting troll hide. As foul as it was, it had probably saved his life from the icy grip of the storm, still...

"Gah, we need to get that twisted flesh out of this chamber..."


----------



## dark angel

The Stormcaller; ancient and fearful, turned tempestuous eyes towards Alrik. They were sharp, vibrant; and most gallingly of all, clouded. Alrik remained stiff, meeting the Stormcaller’s gaze with coal-coloured eyes, a pair of black islands amidst a sea of red and brown crevasses. The Rune Priest nodded solemnly, though whether to Alrik or another of the Thunderhawk’s occupants, the Firehawk did not see.

*‘When I can speak with you, I shall find you young Alrik.’* The elder Wolf said, in a voice which could shatter armies. Cold, feral; yet wise and tempered. It made the Blood Claw shudder, bile arising in his throat.* ‘What you have seen is most troubling and must be looked into.’*

And then it was finished - The Stormcaller spoke no more, idly watching over the limp and savaged form of Kjartan, his face saturnine and pale; while Alrik pressed back into his seat, grimacing which each bob and twist of the Thunderhawk. The blood of the troll, and that of his own, painted his arms, face and torso; an odd mixture of brown and red. His own cuts were stiff and aching - Some shallow and stinging, others deep and numb. 

Within the Thunderhawk’s crimson confines, time halted. The stench within was palpable, an acrid mixture of metals and oils and blood. The Firehawk refused to crinkle his nose in disgust or bare his fangs, not in the presence of the Wolf Guard, Blackmane himself and the cryptic Njal. The blood he could contend with - For it was aromatic, invigorating; enjoyable. 

The metal, however, was bitter and stale upon his lips, robbing him of fresh air in favour of recycled oxygen. Few of the Sons of Fenris enjoyed flight, though Alrik was counted amongst those - While he detested being confined within the Thunderhawk, the freedom that flight offered was excellent. Gyrfalcons and Seahawks had the rule of the skies - Unshackled, lone wanderers, hunting; watching, exploring. 

Slowly, the Thunderhawk’s engines lowered from a high-pitch whine to a low, throaty growl. The vehicle gave one last shudder, and the engines died. The ramp fell to the floor, with a loud, calamitous clang of metal upon stone, that rang and eddied across the hanger. The Wolf Lord and his guardians were first out; tall and powerful, in their pelts and armour. Njal and the Pack were next, four bearing the weight of Kjartan upon their shoulders. 

Kjartan was gone; slumbering in the red. It was a pitiful ending, for one of such promise and regality. Each of the newcomers were valued somewhat by Alrik; though the likes of Krahl and Frostulfr had little more than feeding the enemy’s cannons. Slowly, Alrik pivoted on his heel, watching the Pack disperse, scanning the hanger. 

It was immense, a natural cavern, converted for the use of the Space Wolves. And it was empty, save for the odd gaggle of thralls, attending to their duties, and opposite, another Thunderhawk. Where the one which had brought the Wolves in from Asaheim had been blue-grey, this one was green-white; with the Aurora Chapter’s heraldry richly embodied upon the nose. The colouration was odd, detestable even. 

And the scent which clung onto it, made the hairs upon Alrik’s back stiffen. It was inhospitable, unnatural. And it reminded Alrik of - 

- Krahl was suddenly upon him, calling out. 

The Firehawk turned, nimbly, his eyes narrowed at the other Wolf. Unworthy, untrained; greedy and an idiot. The Wolf within howled, huge and black and cruel, gnawing at Alrik‘s hearts. The prospect of hurting Krahl was sweet, soothing; and monstrous urges ran through his veins, as thick as blood, yet as beautiful as hippocras. He grinned a savage grin, his fangs bared, and nodded shallowly. 

If Krahl wanted to be broken, then the Firehawk would snap him over his knee. He wheeled, marching away, his furs fluttering. And then, another of the green-bloods was encroaching on him, this time Frostulfr. Was the Wolf so idiotic, that he would risk another beating?

In his hands he held a spear, coated in blood; with an affable smell to it. He proffered the spear, and most ungraciously, Alrik took it. The wood was splintering, and the leaf-shaped head glittered in the light of the hanger. The Space Wolf knew what Frostulfr was suggesting, and slowly, turned the spear over in his hands. 

With one thrust, one deft twist of his hands, Frostulfr would be run through. 

_Bugger that. Bugger him. _

Alrik snapped the spear in his hands, feeling splinters arc into his palms. The Firehawk chuckled deeply, a loud and raucous sound, and pressed the two halves back into Frostulfr’s hands. He spun, still roaring his mirth, and stalked into the surrounding halls.

The Fang was empty, a spire of ghosts and the half-dead, save for the mortal menials and Blackmane’s Company. When they had departed on their hunt - Five Great Companies had been housed in the Fang - But now, they too were gone, fighting in distant reaches of space. 

His chambers were deep within the mountain-fortress, sparse in comparison to those which the Lords owned. Three thralls had been assigned to the wellbeing of his belongings; the one-eyed, grey-bearded Urrigon; the soft-skinned and beautiful Aesatta; and the young, brash and strong Otkell. 

When he reached his chambers, he found Urrigon and Aesatta present, attending to his weapons and armour. Aesatta was applying lubricants and oils to the joints of his armour, her golden braid shining. Urrigon ran _Asaen _along a whetstone, nimble in his one-handedness. A brazier of black iron was flickering in one corner, unattended and dying.

‘Milord,’ He spoke, in Fenrisian. It was the only language which the man knew, and the only one which he cared to speak in. 

‘Where is Otkell?’ Alrik growled, sitting on a meagre throne, which had been carved uncomfortably. It was straight-backed, sharp and sharp edged. 

‘Sleeping, milord.’ Aesatta said, smiling that pretty smile of hers. ‘It was mine duty tonight, not his.’

‘Awake him, then.’ Alrik snarled, keeping his words brutally short. Aesatta nodded, and danced off, leaving the room. Before she left, he called out -‘Fetch a flagon, and a fire iron.’ 

When she was gone, Alrik turned his attentions to Urrigon. ‘Light the brazier, friend. I am in need of flames.’ 

Despite the lack of a left hand, Urrigon was surprisingly strong. He dragged the brazier closer, so that it stood in the centre of the room. He collected several logs, which were piled up in another of the corners, and set them amongst the embers. They lit, crackling upwards, bathing the Firehawk in orange-gold. 

While Urrigon did this, Alrik tore away his furs, tossing them uncaringly to the floor. Beneath, his skin was rough and bloody, with crisscrossing welts along his arms, sides and breasts. Urrigon surveyed the wounds, and scowled disapprovingly. 

When Alrik had been mauled by Váli, that fur-clad nightmare, it had been Urrigon who had tended to his wounds. Alrik met eyes with Urrigon, and smiled, his thin lips twisting. ‘An ape-troll,’ He tapped the creature’s head, white-eyed and slack-jawed, pulling it away from his scabbard. ‘Dead, now.’

‘You’re handsomer when you don’t smile, milord.’ Jested Urrigon, picking the head up. A trickle of blood ran from the torn neck, pattering at his feet. ‘And what shall I do with this?’

‘Skin it, have a hawk carved into the forehead. A yellow and red and orange hawk, Uri.’ Alrik said, as the oaken doors to his chambers swung open. Aesatta entered first, clutching a flagon in her hands. Otkell followed closely, knuckling at his eyes with one hand, an immense iron in the other. 

Alrik said his thanks, taking both the flagon and the iron. Both were diminutive in his hands, breakable; weak, much like Krahl and Frostulfr and all of the rest.

He downed half of the flagon, mead running down his chin, mingling with his scars. He handed it back to soft-spoken Aesatta, before clenching the fire iron in his right hand, and dipping the point into the brazier. 

Fire had grown attached to him, part of him; he had stared into the heart of a ship, scalded his face. Before he was taken, whether by sword or gun, he vowed that his body would know fire. Would be fire. 

When he pulled the iron back, the tip was glowing beautifully, embers billowing away. He started with his right arm, pressing the tip into each wound, until his skin blackened and blistered, weeping blood and pus. Aesatta poured the mead over each wound, a natural sterilizer. When the liquid met his arm, pinkish steam drifted upwards, dragged into Alrik’s nostrils with each sniff. 

He proceeded along his left arm, his right aching dreadfully; crying red tears, smoking blissfully. When his left was done, the flagon was nearly exhausted, save for the last dregs of alcohol. 

He downed it, before sending the flagon careening across the room. It shattered, into a dozen shards, upon impact with the wall. 

He shifted the ash within the brazier, pushing indignantly with the fire iron. Flames danced, twirled; spinning around one another in the air. The smell of burnt flesh clung to every surface within the chamber, masking all others. The damage was superficial, though his skin would be scarred; most pleasingly. 

If Alrik could not be beautiful, he would be terrible; a monster to behold, one that would insight fear and stop grown men in their paces. 

‘Otkell, gather me fresh garments. A hauberk, breeches and elk-pelt gloves. Something to conceal my torso, as well. A jerkin, perhaps.’ _I have an unsated hunger, one for meat and mead,_ he added, silently. 

A grim, snaggletoothed smile twisted his mouth.


----------



## revan4559

Hrothgar watches his pack brothers disperse into their little groups and go their seperate ways until they are gathered by Lord Blackmane when ever the company is needed to gather, watching most of his brothers go either to the great hall or the training cages Hrothgar decides to walk off on his own solitary path to go and stand out and stare at the sky to think on what is going to happen to the pack when they leave to fight along side the Aurora Chapter. Walking through the halls of the Fang Hrothgar doesn't really ask for directions as he is just content to listen to the rythmic sound of his boots on the floor as he stares straight ahead so he is able to move out of the way should he find himself bumping into things.

As Hrothgar continued to wander through the halls of the fang his thoughts turned to what it will be like leaving Fenris for the first time, it was here on Fenris that he was born and eventually forged and tempered into one of Russ and the All-Father's gene-enchanced Space Marines. The frozen and ice chilled air of Fenris always cooled and calmed him yet upon this mission he would be away from it and thrown into the raging fires of battle, yet while his hearts jumped at the thought of proving himself in the eyes of his Wolf Lord and Russ they also shuddered at the thought of being away from the cold harss beauty of Fenris. Returning his thoughts back to his destination Hrothgar had found himself drawn to the sparring cages on his journey and guessed that he most of walked the long way around to them, deciding to vent some of his built up tension on some target dummies he stepped inside and looked at a gathering of Space Wolves and Marines.

Walking closer Hrothgar's nose twitched as he caught the scent of those several marines armoured in White and Green which made his inner wolf snarl as if rivals had stepped into its territory but Hrothgar ignored it and stepped closer to observe the battle going on inside of the fighting cage. Upon seeing the the Ice-Slayer currently winning Hrothgar's heart and soul filled with pride that the Wolf was beating one of the Sons of Guilliman however he also noticed that it now wasn't by much, the out come of this fight will be close, very close indeed standing at the edge Hrothgar focused his gaze onto the sparring match and watched to see who the victor would be.


----------



## Euphrati

Keris tucked the raw end of the last strip of linen binding back in upon itself before giving a grunt of satisfaction and turning to place the rags beside the now crimson water that remained in the basin. Vermundr’s scent was one of gratitude tinted by a note of humility as he eyed the pungent remains of the skin and Keris gave a low chuckle, the sound part throaty growl and somber mirth. He lifted the skin from where it lay and placed it within the curve of the bowl, covering it with the scraps of linen he had used to cleanse the wounds,

‘Every warrior must walk his own path; I am grateful that my wyrd has allowed me to walk at your side as well, brother, but know that no matter what lies ahead of us that you are always my wolfbrother and my friend. Call upon me as you will,’

Keris picked up the ursid hide, pressing it into Vermundr’s hands as his tone became weighted,

‘Be these the first and last wounds that I _*ever *_tend upon your _back_, Vermundr Iron-Vengeance.’

Crystalline eyes held the gaze of his packleader for a moment before Keris let the faint hint of a lupine grin break the hold of the somber expression upon his features and turned back to the massive stone table with a nod. _He could feel his wolfspirit shifting inside his soul; there was tension in the air, a rawness that called to Russ’ blood in the never ending hunt of the Allfather’s warriors. It was always there, the hunger, the need to stalk between the darkness of the stars. It was what he had been created for and it smoldered in his being like an ember at the heart of a firepit._ Yet to be called to his liege Lord’s side in council was an honour he could not have begun to expect. Keris clapped Vermundr upon his shoulder firmly,

‘Come, packleader, let us show the Elders that we Pups are worth more than causing trouble, aye?’


----------



## G0arr

*Yngvar*

Yngvar watched as the final ape troll fell. As he turned to his own kill there was a roar from the other side. Vermundr was calling the pack together. There was one thing the young hunter wanted before returning to the pack leader.

The young blood claw gripped the dead creature’s hand. He slashed across its wrist and slowly ringed the skin and muscle clear. As he finished Yngvar twisted the hand. There was a sickly series of pops and cracks as the remaining sinew was stressed to its limit. One last slash severed the remaining flesh.

Yngvar spun with his trophy as engines roared. Hovering above the drop a massive metal contraption floated against the storm. As it finished turning light was cast across the stony ground. The loading ramp was open like the mouth of some great beast. The blood claw quickly ran as his brothers did, and dove into the craft.

Inside the wind did not bite and the rain did not fall, but there was still a cold feeling in the air. Yngvar looked down to see the injured form of another of his brothers. He remained silent as he made his way deeper into the craft. It pitched as the engines whined and roared. Finally sitting the young blood claw gripped the harness and snapped it into place. Even with the idea of the craft slamming into the ground looming somehow it comforted the warrior.

The craft seemed to calm. Perhaps it was clear of the storm, or the mighty engines were staying the storms fury. As Yngvar looked at the others he heard Lord Blackmane’s voice. The mighty warrior loomed in the craft seeming to fill an unnatural amount of the hold. As Blackmane spoke he looked to each of the pack. There was some excitement in Yngvar’s eyes as he heard the reason for the intervention of the wolflord. The pack would be tested in true battle. As the young blood claw glanced down again his excitement was lessened. If the likes of ape trolls could lay one of them low, then the orks might lessen the pack further.

Yngvar sat with uneasy silence as the thunderhawk flew. He wanted so much to ask of their role, and of the worlds they were to visit. He knew that many of these things would be answered in time. Occasionally the craft was shaken by turbulence, but it did not stop them reaching the Fang, to reach home.

As the young blood claw exited the craft Lord Blackmane spoke again. He held the pelt, the trophy of the trial, with a smile. As he dismissed the blood caws Yngvar glanced around. The massive chamber was nearly empty compared to when he had last seen it. The only other thunderhawk he could see was unknown to him. It did not have the markings or colors of the Wolf’s, but instead was green and white with a symbol he was not completely familiar with. They would be a brother chapter but not by blood as the Lord had said before.

The pack left the hall. Each man seemed to move in their own direction. Several seemed to head to the training cages, others moved toward quarters. Yngvar weighed his options before moving through the halls. The pack had been fighting to survive, and that made them strong in war. The young blood claw knew the cages would be filled with excitement, but that was not what he wanted now. What he wanted would be better found in the great hall. There would be tales to tell and to hear. There would be brothers to ask advice, and learn. Most of all Yngvar wanted a taste of ale, and the heat of a roaring fire.

When the young blood claw arrived in the hall Tyr had already began his tale. Yngvar grabbed a mug of ale and plate of meat before sitting to listen. A smile covered his face as he heard the tale from another’s perspective. From time to time he spoke reinforcing what his brother was saying. As he sat there in the warmth of the flames Yngvar pulled his trophy from a pouch. There was a low crack as he sliced one finger open and twisted a claw from it.

Tyr reached the fight with the trolls. Yngvar pulled one of the rock spearheads from the pouch. He looked it over. On one side a symbol resembling a tooth; the opposite having a tribal symbol for a great beast, an Ursid; and a single word ‘Fenris’. Using a small length of hide he tied the spearhead to the talon.
_*
"I relish the chance to fight the Greenskin Horde, it will be a true test of strength."*_ 
Yngvar smiled. “A first true battle for some of us,” he spoke up. He stood with the first finished charm in his hand. “The chance to be tested in true combat,” the blood claw smiled, “I can hardly wait.” He looked at the others in the hall still with a smile. A mug raised above his head. “What say you warrior brothers? For those who are to be tested, and for those who enter battle again! For Russ and the All-Father!” Several other cries went up charged by the tales and the enthusiasm of the younger members. Yngvar took a long swig from his own mug before returning to his seat and waiting for the next tale to begin.


----------



## darkreever

Vermundr and Keris; Before you have the chance to do anything more, the great doors leading into lord Blackmanes chambers grind open, and nearly a dozen figures of legend make their way in and to the large table you are already waiting by. They are the eyes and ears of Ragnar Blackmanes company: Grey Hunters Leidolfr Darkstalker, Ani Silverclaw, Ssveruk Redfang, Mar the Silent, and Heimdal Stormclaw alongside Long Fang leaders Enkil Othersight and Bruni Longfire, the wolf priest Sigurd, and the rest of the wolf guard less Baldyr. Like the three wolf guard, each of these other newcomers to this council is a warrior of legend in his own right, leading one of the various packs and all veteran wolves with decades or, in the case of both Enkil and Bruni, centuries of experience and wisdom to back up their words. The grey hunters are clad in a variety of dress, some in little more than ruined chitons and belts and others in armour while both Sigurd and the long fangs are clad in pelts. 

Both you and the rest of the war council take places as lord Blackmane, Njal, and Hundir do the same. With a wave of the wolf lords armoured hand, the hololith set into the center of the stone activates and shows a map of the Imperium, then reshaping and focusing on Segmentum Pacificus, and then again on the western half of the segmentum. Dozens of runes denote the systems within the segmentum; Ultima Macharia, Hydraphur, Jakart, and Joura all a steady red indicating where the greatest fighting is taking place. Adrantis V, Joura, and even Chiros all have blinking runes, to tell of enemy sightings and light fighting though not much more. Chiros, you recall, is further coreward than the Aurora homeworld of Thesis III, located between Chiros and Joura. The rune for the fellow astartes world is a dull gray, no telling just what its state is.

_“The orks have sent Pacificus reeling, already half a dozen systems have fallen and a number of major ones are teetering.”_ Lord Blackmane stated, and as he spoke a number of the outlying systems winked out completely while dirty brown-green arrows indicated the advance of the orks. _“From what we have been given, these bastards came from beyond the rim and in numbers that overwhelmed a number of defense monitor stations before the outland worlds could be warned. The sector fleets have been forced to flee from a number of engagements while the Aurora chapter, supported by a crusade from the Black Templars and three other lesser chapters and a dozen regiments of Imperial Guard, have managed to stall them in the Gorden Worlds. We have been called to honour a promise made in the years of the Macharian Crusade, to crush the orks should they ever rise up to plague the Segmentum again. Make no mistake, this ork invasion is a full fledged WAAAGH!!! and none of our brother chapters are entirely capable of taking its head.”_ He said with a half snarl, half smile.

_“That is what we are going to do, find and kill the ork leading this where others have failed.”_ Blackmane finished, slamming a fist to the stone next to where he had set his rune etched blade. _“And do we know who leads these orks, what it looks like?”_ Enkil of the long fangs asked at length, earning the laughter of the grey hunters Ani and Leidolfr. Before either could say anything, Gunnar cut them off, _“You both know full well that most orks look the same, but ork leaders are most definitely different. The question is valid, who leads the greenskins?”_ _“The data we have been given does not present an image, merely a name: Stelegob Harteata; likely a most enjoyable sort.”_ Njal said, eliciting a few chuckles that died down swiftly.

Heimdal started to say something, but was cut off by lord Blackmane, having guessed the grey hunters thought. _“We are answering the call as we must, and at the same time we are not. Since the time the of Russ and the All-father a company has always stood watch within the Fang. It is tradition that we will never break, tradition that saved us against the depredations of the Thousand Sons millennia ago. Four packs, that is all I can send on this, and they will be going with the frigates *Hunrodr* and *Raudulfr*. We are here to decide which of you shall go.”_


_[More is to come, but for it I need to speak with both of you in chat at our earliest convenience.]
_


----------



## Nicholas Hadrian

*Blood Claw Iotki*

Iotki had been silent nearly the whole return trip.

Something was bothering him.

This had been his first hunt with his new pack. a mighty Razor-Ursid, a fearful beast. They had even gone above and beyond, besting two mighty Frost Trolls. It was a great honor for his Claw. Despite the early end to the challenge.

And yet, something had soured it.

Heimdall.

Or rather, the thoughts about his wolf-brother.

Every time he looked at him, he saw Heimdall's scars. 

Scars he himself had given him.

True, Heimdall did not know of this fact, many years ago, before they ever joined a great company, he and Heimdall fought, training upon the practice field, showing their talents for the wolf-priests.

They had been quite evenly matched he and Heimdall, had they both paid proper attention, it should have been a bloodless bout, but for the fact that, upon the end being called Heimdall had exercised proper control and halted where he stood, whereas Iotki had been a fool.

His blood still up and racing at the time, he had charged forward, agression glinting in his one good eye. Before his mind had regained control over his wolf-spirit he looked at his brother's face and seen it covered in blood. His was the hand that held the fateful knife.

Heimdall had been shocked, he barely registered being injured until he put his hand to his face and pulled it away, covered in his own lifeblood. In a way it had been better that way, the sheer suprise of the suituation had allowed Iotki to regain his mind before his hand struck out again, prepared with a killing blow this time.

The gathered wolf-priests ran as quickly as they could to intercept Heimdall. Upon realizing his injury, Iotki saw that the ber-serk had gripped him, Heimdall wanted to kill Iotki, Iotki had simply dropped the knife in horror.

For most of his own life Iotki had been handicapped by the loss of his own right eye, ridiculed and thought less of by the warriors of his tribe, a dead weight, fit only to lie in some seamonster's belly.

Now he had nearly given a fellow wolf-brother such an injury. To make matters worse, now they were in the same pack. He had to look at his brother every day and be reminded of what he had nearly done. 

Following the incident, while the Wolf-priests had lead the wounded aspirant away, Iotki had slunk off on his own, in shame, preparing to exact his own penance from himself.

It had primarily consisted of slamming his forehead against a wall.

And Allfather forbid if Heimdall found out that Iotki had been the other aspirant. It was a small comfort that Heimdall did not know. After all as Hiemdall, his other pack brothers Alrik, Tyr and Iotki himself proved, a wolf-brother without scars of some kind was a rarity. With no name and only a scarred eye to go on Heimdall could only have suspicions about his pack brother.

And Iotki resolved to keep it that way.

As he looked down, Iotki banished dark thoughts from his mind. He was returned to the Fang, he was home! He resolved to celebrate the great honor upon his pack.

And what better way to celebrate than with all the ale he could drink?

He stepped down the loading ramp, his fur boots padding silently like the paws of the wolf whose name they took, he nodded pleasantly to his brother Iorek as he passed, his mind pausing to momentarily consider what he had been told of the Red Dream. He considered asking him more, but was fairly certain he would only be answered with a snarl.

The great hall of the Fang is a wonderous place, a gigantic cavern, festooned with charms and trophies, battle-honors and talismans. Iotki loved every inch of it, it was a place to tell stories, hear legends of bygone heroes, sing songs, and on occasion, set up pranks. 

He could recall one occasion where he himself had been drunk under the table by a brother Long Fang, and had found himself locked in a cage in the training fields the next day He resolved to find the prankster whom had done so, and one day, get even. 

Iotki paused at a large Ork skull, it's forehead carved with runes. At one point it had belonged to a mighty Ork warboss, then it had become a trophy of famed hero Lukas the Trickster. Iotki admired him.

He could hear several Wolf-brothers swapping tales before the fire and resolved to join them, seeing a few of his pack among their number. Pausing only to snatch a steaming platter of meat and tubers and a jug of ale he sat down before the fire and listened with rapt attention, waiting his turn to add to the stories being told.


----------



## darkreever

Azahd, Heimdall, Hrothgar, and Njord; The battle between Baldyr and the Aurora rages on for another moment before ending, the conclusion cracking the stone faces of the outsiders, if only for a moment. In a show of superb sword-work, the Aurora had somehow managed to disarm Baldyr, sending his frost blade skidding to the far end of the cage and putting the Aurora between it and Baldyr. Rather than take up a defensive position from the lack of weapon, Baldyr instead charged forward in a move almost too fast for the eye to see. His foe reacted quickly, scissoring his blades towards the Ice-slayers upper torso. Rather than dodge the attack, Baldyr kept charging forward, twisting at the last moment and taking one blade across the back. The second one, though, found itself and the owning arm slammed up high and into the side of the Aurora marine’s head just short of the ear.

For long seconds the two simply stared at one another, cold fury and calm precision locked in a battle to see who would look away first. In the end, it was not Baldyr, and the moment the Aurora did cast his eyes away the wolf guard shoved his opponent back, before stalking forward to take his blade back up and sheath it across his back. There was an almighty roar of approval from the gathered wolves, silenced by a look from the rage fueled wolf guard, and then he spoke. _“Quite this staring and get to your training, or suffer me in this cage.”_ The threat was more than enough for some, though a number of the gathered wolves left with grins on their faces or laughter in their wake. 

You see Baldyr move back to the Aurora, and growl something to him, though you cannot make out what was said. Movement from the corner of your eye turns your attention to approaching forms. The three Aurora marines that had been watching now come to you, and it is only up close that you notice any discernible difference between the three. One of three has more thick features, a gold service stud embedded in his brow. The second and third ones have more sharp, angular features, with the second one bearing older shrapnel scars from a battle. _“Greetings warriors of Russ. Were you out on the plains of your world as your champion was?”_ The lead Aurora asks Njord, noticing the pelts you are still clad in.

[When you answer the Aurora, he will immediately want to fight you, to see if all Space Wolves are as tough an opponent as Baldyr or if it was some kind of fluke. Obviously your not going to just take that, but the details of the fight are left to you; though actual combat will garner a mini-update. Azahd, Hrothgar, and Heimdall; do you just stand there and take what the Aurora said or do you in turn challenge one of the other two? Perhaps you did not remain and went into one of the training cages to fight one another?]



Krahl; Lost in thought, you do not completely pay attention to where you are going. By the time you do bother to look to your surroundings, you discover that you are far from your chambers, but instead are standing at the apex of the Fangthane just before the statues of dozens of heroes of the chapter. *Millenia ago this chamber was much different, when it was the Wolfking Russ himself who stood watch over all within here. But that time has long since passed, and instead we pay him honour, not by falling back to the past and rebuilding what we lost but instead moving forward and filling the place with new heroes.* A powerful voice booms throughout the chamber, making you aware of two others at the bottom of the steps. Looking down, hidden by the statues, you spot a marine clad in bright green and *********** armour, a blue and gold cape covering his back and a plumed helmet nestled in the crook of his arm. Next to him, though, is a figure to who your eyes fall right to; a hulking mass of adamantium and pelts. The Aurora and dreadnought turn away from the top of the steps and continue away, it appears neither had noticed your entry.

[One of the ancient dreadnoughts is about and with one of the outsiders? Though you do not know which of the fallen it is, will you leave for your chambers with this knowledge or is it not enough?]



Frostulfr; It is indeed hard to believe that one of the ancient warriors of The Fang is about, and likely for the coming fight against the orks. But who is it? The sound of someone coming draws you from your thoughts, and you look about for the source of the noise. It is to soft for the tread of a dreadnought, and to slow for someone with purpose. More movement, this time from behind you and much faster than whoever is coming. As you turn to find it, something faster than your eye make out darts beyond the low light.

[What on Fenris was that; and better yet do you dare find out? If you do not, and choose to leave here, you will come closer to whoever is approaching and discover it to be Iorek, lost deep in thought, or searching for something.]



Alrik, Tyr, Iotki, Yngvar; Though many of the other assembled Blood Claws do not seem as enthralled by the tale of the hunt as you might like, a number of the Grey Hunters and Long Fangs present are. For only an older wolf would understand the ordeals of such a thing, that a hunt is more than just the fight to kill a creature, but the fight to survive and master the world about you and to overcome the impossible any way you can. Mention of the orks has a different effect though; the other claws give a mixture of bewilderment and excitement while the older wolves are far calmer, and a pair show little more than annoyance. _“And what makes you believe that we shall be fighting the greenskin plague any time soon?”_ One of the long fangs asks, though if it is because he does not know, or is merely testing the extent of what you know, escapes you.

[Obviously, someone feel free to answer him, though how much of what you know do you reveal? When you do answer, one of the annoyed wolves will point out that there is but one company here in the Fang. Another, a grey hunter, will speak of not seeking to fight the orks to soon, something Tyr will understand though Yngvar and Iotki will not.

Alrik; You will arrive in time to hear the question of the long fang, but not of Tyr retelling the tale of the hunt. What you do between your chambers and getting to the great hall is left entirely to you.]


----------



## Nicholas Hadrian

*Blood Claw Iotki*

Had Iotki been a real wolf, his tail would be twitching.

He looked at his pack brothers about the fire, they were listening with rapt attention like himself.

Well, almost all.

Their tale had failed to impress the other Blood Claws, which, he would be the first to admit, he found disappointing. It was always a joy to thrill with tales and song for him. I had been since he was a young boy, after all, entertaining the warriors, almost like a young skjald,was one of the few things a boy could do when he had only one eye.

Suddenly, his ears, much like his chapter's namesake on the hunt, twitched.

He had heard a word which excited him.

"Ork".

The other Blood Claws all began muttering with a mixture of bewilderment and excitement. One of the Long Fangs looks at the brothers gathered round and speaks.

"And what makes you believe that we shall be fighting the greenskin plague any time soon?"

Several of the others began to mutter, probably vocing the same question themselves.

Iotki chose to tip his hand.

"I have heard... rumors." said he, baiting his words like a snare.

the others turned to look at him.

Iotki briefly considered toying with his wolf-brothers, stringing them along, perhaps blowing his story out of proportion, even making it sound as though the Great Wolf himself had confided in him, lowly Iotki.

Then his good sense pounced and pinned his mischevious side.

"Lord Ragnar made mention of strangers, Brother Space Marines from the Aurora chapter, and also mentioned a oath made to them, they are under assault from the greenskin tide, he told us we are to go to their aid."

On second thought, maybe the lie would have been more beliveable. The other Blood Claws from the other packs seemed split, some tittering at his statement, other excited at the prospect to show their skill. 

One of the old wolves protested that there was but one company here in the Fang, a grey hunter turned and admonished the gathered Blood Claws, warning them to not seek to fight the greenskins too soon.

He looked at his brother Tyr, he seemed to understand, Iotki was however, sure he did not.

Should they not be eager to face a worthy foe? to fight in the name of the All-Father? Save a brother chapter from destruction? Iotki turned to look at the skull of the long dead greenskin warlord. It was nearly the size of his chest.

The more he thought about it, the more he realized, there probably was somthing to worry about after all...


----------



## Scathainn

Ørrgrimr’s presence into the drinking hall was silent; a quality not usually attributed to him as he sat alone at one of the long tables, nursing a flagon of mead. The ride back from the hunt in the Thunderhawk had been quiet too, despite the pack’s success. Hunting the razor-ursid and fighting the trolls with his comrades filled him with a joy he seldom had felt before, but not because of any brotherly love for those who fought by his side, only because of the venting of the pent-up emotion inside of him. The Blackmane’s words put a sense of purpose in him, true, but deep down he was still perplexed. 

_Why me, and why these others?_ 

He did not know what to make of his packmates yet, even after all they had been through. But there was one in particular that he knew _exactly_ what to make of. One that filled his heart with fury and made him grind his chipped teeth just looking at him. One who’s tribe name tortured his mind as the last memory of his former life; Alrik the Firehawk. 

And now as the Firehawk entered the drinking hall, that single memory flared again. He could see Alrik’s uncle in him; the single memory of his life before the Fang burned into his mind like a brand. He could remember the feel of the harpoon in his hand as he tore at the Firehawk chieftain; he could remember the crunching noise of his body hitting the rocks of the tidal cave; he could remember the icy poison seeping through his veins like liquid night. But most of all he could remember the face of the Chieftain, his nephew at his side, the condescending sneer on his face as he gave the order for Ørrgrimr to be thrown to his death.

Ørrgrimr’s scaling knife slid out of the sheath that contained it as the Firehawk passed, heading over to the others in the pack. They were telling their tales to some ancient members of the Long Fangs and a few Grey Hunters, reveling in their newfound conquest. All members of the Fang sought for others to praise them, this was true; it was in the nature of the Space Wolf to be proud of their mighty deeds, otherwise what would Sagas be for? But Ørrgrimr would have no part in it tonight; better to show your prowess through deeds than through words, he thought. Suddenly, a smile on his face dawned slowly. 

_Through deeds, not words_. That was how he would connect with the others in the pack…and get back at the Firehawk besides.

He took another swig of his mead, then stuck the knife into the table with a wooden _thunk_. A knife in the table and a drinking warrior; the traditional Fenrisian sign of a warrior seeking to wrestle. Ørrgrimr allowed himself a small chuckle. “Now, who will meet the challenge?” he muttered under his breath.


----------



## komanko

OOC: Well, I decided to go ahead and post what I had without you answering my Pm  Its not much but still... I can edit it later if needed.

A thought came to him; maybe he would be able to find out the name of the mighty warrior who was awakened. If he could find out his name maybe he would be able to ask someone about its whereabouts. Deciding that this is a good course of action Frostulfr looked around for something which could help him in his task. It could be maybe a panel of sorts or engraved plating, though as much as he looked he could not find anything which might help him.

His ears flickered like the ears of a wolf catching the distant sound of prey. Someone was approaching. He turned around quickly, it did not sound like an enemy and he could smell the scent of someone familiar. It was not an enemy that much was clear.

Suddenly another sound, a rustling from behind him forced him to turn quickly. It did not smell familiar, didn’t sound familiar either. Something was wrong. As he turned he could see a faint shadow quickly disappearing into one of the low lighter corners. No wolf would sneak around their base, could it be an intruder? He found it hard to believe… Still, if it is he was honor bound to stop him or at least warn the others.

His blue eyes scoured the surroundings. He could not see any other movement. Was it possible that it was merely one scout of an enemy force? It did not matter; the intruder had to be stopped.

One foot in front of the other, he approached stealthily to where he was sure that he saw the shadow going to. It was all too possible that he would be overwhelmed and killed, the thought made his heart beat quicker. He bared his fangs and snarled.

The other figure which slowly approached grew in familiarity, Frostulfr could sense that it was one of the pack mates but he could not decide who. It surely was not Hrothgar, the man couldn’t move slowly unless he was planning to ambush Frostulfr to reap vengeance because of his earlier victory. No. It did not sound like Hrothgar after all. 

He suspiciously turned back expecting to be stabbed in the back any moment soon by an agent of the ruinous powers. As he turned he still saw nothing. He clenched his fist tighter and felt the rough wood against his hand. He looked down and saw that he was still holding the broken spear. 

Seeing that it was his only weapon he took each piece of the spear in each hand. At least he had some sort of a weapon which wasn’t his fists. He was not in his power armour something which rendered him vulnerable and in a disadvantage. He stopped for a moment, was it really a good idea to investigate? Wasn’t it better to raise some of his pack mates to come and investigate with him?

Those thoughts passed through his mind but he quickly sent them tumbling away. No. This was not the way of a son of russ. He shall not cower in fear; he shall go and face the unknown himself. 

Deciding so, he clenched his spear tighter and moved slowly towards the lightless spot which he felt, more than saw, the figure diving to.


----------



## darkreever

Keris and Vermundr; Keris, as the hololith moves closer to the Gorden Worlds, you notice something strange about what you see. When you speak of it, the first to respond to you is the grey hunter Heimdal Stormclaw. _“Speaking in riddles? Are you sure you are not one of the Stormcallers kin rather than a claw Keris?”_ He asked, garnering a number of smirks from the gathered, Njal included. _“But only four packs? We cannot send more?”_ Heimdal asked after the revelation from Blackmane, that it was not the entire company that would be going. _"The Fang has always had a company to guard it, by sending even a single pack that tradition is tested, you know this Stormclaw."_ Sigurd growled before inclining his head to the wolf lord. 

The long fang Bruni brings things back to the problem at hand, who is to be sent. _“Runes aside, I nominate the long fangs of Enkil.”_ He said before looking to the others. _“You all know that at most only one of us is going, and I cannot deny that Enkil has fought the orks longer than I have.”_ He added, drawing out the nodding of heads from several others.

Vermundr, you are the one to speak up next. Your thoughts more on how four packs will be able to do what larger forces have not, and just how large those others forces actually are. Both Enkil and Bruni nod in support of your words, looking in the wolf lords direction for the answer. _"As I have been told by the one who came to us, the Aurora chapter currently has four companies fighting the orks. Between their strength and the Black Templars and what we will send, roughly six companies by the standards of Guilliman."_ He answered at length, the desire to send more evident in the air but the knowledge that this is all that can be sent equally as clear.

Gunnar Orkbane, leader of the wolf guard, seconds the selection of Enkil and his long fangs, before pointing out that it will not be the entire group of astartes present who follow the tenets of the codex astartes. _"For what good it does them."_ Leidorlfr added, _"I nominate my own pack, we outdid the lot of you when it came to ship-to-ship and there may be some of that." "Darkstalker has a point, I support him and call for the silent one. He and two of his pack were deathwatch, they may know things the rest of us do not."_ Njal Stormcaller adds in support of Leidolfr Darkstalker.

With two packs already supported to go, Vermundr you put forward your own Claw. However yours is not met with outright agreement as was the case with long fang Enkil. _"You truly believe that you and your brothers deserve this honour blood claw?"_ Hundir growled. _"You may have the spirit and be willing to toss your lives away but you lack the experience boy. I say Enkil's fangs, Heimdall and Leidolfr's hunters, and the wolf guard as the fourth." "Still think you cannot trust those who have sworn to the inquisition for a time wolf guard?"_ This from Ani. _"And would you have yourself lead this group?"_

Despite the harsh words and lack of support from Hundir, not everyone seems to agree with him. _"This was seen in the runes, I support them in going, as much as some might want older wolves in their place."_ Enkil said, siding with Vermundr _"And our numbers will be greater for it."_ _"Enkil's fangs, Leidolfr's hunters, Vermundr's claw and who else? Does Mar or Heimdal go with their hunters or do you all get eclipsed by the vanity of Hundir, the brooding of Oger, Gunnar's leadership, and Baldyr's rage?"_ Blackmane asked with a grin; Hundir simply snorted at the statement, while Gunnar cracked a smile.

Gunnar grinned at Keris from the idea of going as the fourth pack. _"If the one who leads us will have me then yes; and unlike Hundir I shall throw my support in favour of Mar. Secrets or not he would use what he knows even if it is kept from the rest of us." "Bah! And next someone will want the Stormcaller to go as well then?"_ Hundir said, throwing his arms up. _“I will be going wolf guard, whether the one who leads us likes it or not; my presence in this has already been cast by the runes.”_

_“Vermundr’s claw for more than a dozen, Enkil’s fangs for half that, and as many hunters as blood claws between Leidolfr and myself.”_ Mar the Silent rasped like low gust on the chill nights air. _“That gives us a force of forty from the packs alone, add in another by the Stormcaller, but none of that answers the question of who leads this. It is not to be Orkbane, he confirmed as much, and nor will it be Ice-slayer; he made it clear years ago that he would never lead if not present for the council. So who is it?”_ 

But before any could answer the question, the doors again groaned open, this time for two vastly different figures. The first, small compared to the second, was clad in bright green power armour and white trim, a plumed helmet nestled in one arm. His face was a light tan, with four service studs embedded in his brow and short cropped brown hair framing the top of his head. This one could be none other than the bearer of the call for aid, one of the Aurora chapter.

The second was a Space Wolf, from his grey armoured frame to the charms and totems bedecking his armour. *I shall be leading this gathering of wolves grey hunter. My vow will not be left for another to uphold, not while I can still walk about and kill the enemies of man.* The ancient dreadnought *Aldr* announced as his massive frame strode into the chamber. Each footfall sent vibrations through the stone, which became greater as he came closer. As ancient *Aldr* came within a dozen paces of the gathered wolves, he stopped and his armoured body sagged, which you quickly realized was his own way of kneeling before lord Blackmane as a sign of respect to the wolf lord. *Lord Blackmane already knows of Davis Namur, but few of the rest of you do. With me is Davis Namur, champion of the fifth battle company, Aurora chapter, here for aid from the vow I made a lifetime ago.*


[Since we three have been in contact, for the most part, nothing I really need to add here at this time.]


----------



## Deus Mortis

Azahd wooped and howled in victory as the match between the wolf guard and the Aurora champion drew to a close. In a show of true wolfish spirit and cunning, Baldyr has shown the staunch son of Guilliman that the Wolves were better fighters. Most of the cheering came to an immediate halt as Baldyr threatened to face anyone left standing around in the cages. Having seen the ferocity of the wolf-guard, and knowing that even though he was of the same chapter he could expect no mercy from the veteran wolf, Azahd didn't fancy his chances. Just as Azahd was about to look around for a practice cage to fight in, he notices three figures in his peripheral vision approaching him and the other Wolves of his pack. 

The green plated Aurora marines stood before him, Heimdall, Hrothgar, and Njord. One had a gold service stud imbedded in his brow, which marked him out as the more experienced of the three. The other two looked rather similar, but one showed signs of shrapnel damage to his face. _“Greetings warriors of Russ. Were you out on the plains of your world as your champion was?”_ Although the question was directed at Njord, Azahd answered for him.
"We were, but your Chapter's call for aid force us to return earlier than intended" The Aurora marine regarded him. His calm facial expression cracked slightly and a mixture of curiosity and a slight annoyance bleed through. A moment later, all trace of emotion was scrubbed from his face. *Typical son of Guilliman. Never let an emotion show through* 

The Aurora had turned his attention back to Njord. "I'm sorry for cutting your quest short. I know how fond Fenrisians are of these quests you partake in. I am curious whether all Wolves are as capable as the Wolf Guard, or he just got lucky as I suspect. What do you say, will you give me a bout in the cages and I'll show you what the sons of Guilliman are truly capable of?" Once again, before Njord could respond, Azahd laughed heartly. "Ha, yeah. And while Njord is kicking your sorry ass, I'll face one of your brothers in the cages. That way if YOU get 'lucky' and beat Njord, at least it will be two scores to the Wolf-King! Come on, there is a cage free. Which one of you two will defend you Chapter's honour?" Azahd walked over to one of the free practice cages and picked up a sword and shield and stripped to the waist. After giving the the sword a few practice swings, being satisfied with it's weight, he glared at the three Aurora marines. "Come on then! Who'll face me?" Azahd gave them a wolfish smile and waited for one of them to step into the cages. He'd show them what the Sons of Fenris were made of...


----------



## Serpion5

*Krahl*

It seemed strange to be back in the Fang, but perhaps Krahl simply hadn`t readjusted to being home after spending such a time in the wilderness. Oh, how much he had enjoyed it at times, at others he had cursed the weather, the cold, his packmates even... 

His mind kept coming back to Alrik, and the impending confrontation. Keris had been kind enough (in his own straightforward way) to help him see the error of his own brashness, and the pack leader Vermundr had been likewise caring enough to advise him on Alrik`s nature. It seemed unlikely that Alrik would simply cool off, which meant that their sparring match was going to be more a case of Alrik venting his rage upon Krahl than a true practice duel. 

Maybe it would be prudent to have someone else present at the time? Krahl didn`t think that Alrik would actually try to inflict serious harm, but at the same time, he didn`t know the warrior as well as the others. Damn, but what had Krahl gotten himself into? 

He looked up suddenly as he walked... _Where_ had he gotten himself into...? Oh, it was the Fangthane. He stood at the beginning of a walkway lined by statues of great heroes. Seeing no reason not to, he continued a little further. Smiling ironically, he wondered how marvellous it would be to one day have his own likeness standing among these legends, but instantly dismissed the thought. 

He was not so vain as to think he deserved that. Not anymore at least. 


After a few moments, his eyes came to rest on two figures at the other end of the line of statues. One was an astartes, wearing the armour of another chapter. It seemed to match the colours of the thunderhawk he had noticed earlier. The other was of the Rout, though much larger. It was one of the great dreadnoughts, a revered ancient of the chapter. 

Whatever they were discussing, it had to be important right? Curiosity piqued at the young blood claw`s mind and he stepped softly forward, hoping to catch more of whatever they might be saying. He froze as the two of them moved. They hadn`t noticed him, no. They were moving on now, meaning Krahl could go forward without being seen. But was that really the right thing to do? 

Maybe they were friends from a previous campaign? Maybe they were discussing some matter of import? Krahl kept walking forward, softly as he could. Even if he only caught the gist of the conversation, that would be enough...


----------



## dark angel

Otkell, strong as he was, shambled into the room, red-faced and panting. Dutifully, he laid the clothing which he had gathered at Alrik’s feet - A hauberk of mail, inlaid with grey-black fur; woolen breeches, thick and itchy upon the skin; a pair of elk-pelt gloves, leather on the exterior, furred on the interior; a jerkin of soft clothe, to prevent the chainmail hauberk from rubbing, and finally, a large, black-white mantle, to give him that regal appearance.

It took Alrik moments to get himself dressed, pulling his jerkin and breeches on first; before proceeding to slip into the hauberk and mantle. He clasped the Obsidian Blade onto his thigh, alongside a notched combat blade. The Firehawk snarled his good-bye’s, pulling on his gloves and boots, and crept back out into the Fang.

The quietness was uncomfortable; sounds traveling from deep within the depths of the Fang, echoing along the hallways and feasting halls. He passed the occasional Astartes, huge and fearful; with braided hair and monstrous fangs, their faces pinched and wind-bitten. He greeted these in low tone, speaking fluent Fenrisian to them, with a commodious, broken-toothed smile. The Thralls which he passed were ignored, unless they made contact; which they did not, too fixated upon performing their duties. 

He made short work of the hallways, taking great, powerful strides. The feasting hall was largely empty, by the time Alrik came striding in, broad-shouldered and angry-featured. 

_“And what makes you believe that we shall be fighting the greenskin plague any time soon?”_ He heard, from a hoarse throat; as he entered at the back of the hall. A portion of the Pack were gathered around Tyr, a mountain of muscle, with his glittering, mechanical hand. One of the Pack, Iotki, answered in return, though the Firehawk cared not.

He gathered a chalice of hippocras, brewed from deep in the depths of the Fang; along with a platter of cold meat. The seat he took was near the others, on a wooden bench; long and spreading out across the hall. Empty plates and drinks were scattered along the length, some with films of grease clinging to the surfaces. 

He sipped at the hippocras, watching intently. It slipped down his throat, cold and burning; sending his senses reeling. And then, there was a knife through the table, and the youth, Ørrgrimr, stood, bellowing a challenge. Alrik’s lips peeled back, over his sharp teeth, liquid glistening within. 

‘It is an ill omen to draw your blade, without intending to blood, fish-man,’ He rasped menacingly, smiling scornfully; looking up at the tattooed face of the Wolf. His teeth were cracked, a forest of splintered bone. He took another sip, sliding one hand down to the pommel of his blade, beneath the table, and out of view. ‘Careful with that, you don't want to get your pretty clothes all covered in blood, now.'


----------



## deathbringer

The stormcaller seemed to heed the Ghostwolf's words, eyes of ice and flame rising to lock with the single bead of blood red tinged with gold, pillars of calm in a face built with steady wisdom.

Yet words popped into his head that brought rage to a feral mind

‘Do you speak of us Ghostwolf, or you and the spirit that wars for control within you?’ The words bubble into your head. ‘You were alive with the need for vengeance and paid a price for impetus. Others can claim such a thing, but few to have fallen into the sleep and come back from it.’


Vengeance.... was that what the runepriest saw in him, was that why he thought Iorek had pushed to his aid, surged to his side.

Nay he remembered, remembered the moment he had embraced death, gone to his side.

He had feared for the runepriest, feared the elder outmatched, dreaded their doom if he had been cast down to the halls of Morkai.

Did the runepriest know his soul better than he did?

More words seemed about to come yet it was disturbed by Alrik, the firehawk's low whisper causing the rune priests eyes to fix elsewhere, the vestiges of unsaid words and burning concern fading from his consciousness.

Unfilled the rage built swelling yet he forced it away as the transport lurched and the beast within growled in ire.

Blackmane's words floated to him, the fate of their comrade upon the floor likened to his own, yet none brought the question to light, Iorek's low glare and the slight rumble in his throat enough to keep any curiosity silent.

Anger and unease riddled the transport, the conversation scattered and inconsequential, the laughter sparse and distorted, punctuated by rippling excitement as the fang loomed closer.

Upon the ground Blackmane dismissed them to tend their wounds. Iorek intended to do so, yet they were not wounds of flesh.

Wordlessly he stalked away, the ghostwolf fading into the fang, the greying pelt of the wolf billowing behind him.
________________________________________________________

Clad in full armour, helm clamped at his side, chainsword and bolt pistol strapped to his waist, he felt complete, his hand clamped around the pistol as a babe returned to her mothers embrace.

He strode through hall after hall, searching, seeking the one who shared the disruption in his mind, who had fought and one and now strode the stars, the forerunners of russ.

Outcasts, more similar to him that he had ever felt.

The long fangs he longed for, had dreamed of joining their hallowed ranks, til the change came, til he had lost his comradery, replaced it with bitter hatred, contempt for his fellows, tinged with a continual longing for solitude.

Yet now he sought scout Morguns company, to come up empty handed, the wolf scout as elusive in peace as he was in battle.

An now Iorek turned downwards, his plan thwarted, his feet moving upon a path of little consequence, deeper and deeper he delved mind lost in thought, frustration gnawing at his veins.

Everywhere he turned, everyone he tried to talk to.... they were never there, answers to unasked questions flittered from his grasp.

"Will I ever be rid of you?"

The wolf in his head let out a rumbling cackle which turned into a snarl at the sound of movement further along the corridor


----------



## BlackApostleVilhelm

Tyr's mind was on the brothers they had lost agains the Greenskin horde, it was folley to simply rush into battle with the Orks, they would most certainly make them pay. Yet he had confidence in himself and those of his pack and his lord's company that they would do well. *"I do not claim to know how Lord Blackmane plans on sending aid, I am no Wolf Lord, my duty is to kill the enemies of Russ and the Allfather whenever the need arises. Our brothers require aid and there is an oath to be fulfilled, I can only hope that my brothers and I are sent, it would be an honor to fight alongside brothers from another chapter and show them how the Sons of Russ do battle."*

A smile cracked his features as he downed his ale and saw Alrik come in and take a seat, he nodded silently at his brother before hearing a challenge. He turned to see Orgrimmar with his blade stuck in the table and his drink finished, a challenge to fight, yet before he could say anything Alrik was already talking. 

Tyr chuckled,* "Well Alrik? If you do not accept the challenge I will."*


----------



## Euphrati

The doors to the war chamber opened on heavy hinges and the room suddenly felt heavier as if the sheer force of personalities that entered it were too much for the confined space to bear. Legends amid heroes, the Wolves that entered were warriors beyond kin each and every one. Keris bowed his head in respect; feeling much like a newly weaned pup next to the elder Wolves, though he could not deny the fierce pride that kindled within his heart as he stood by Vermundr’s side. Their very presence spoke of a trust and honour that their Jarl held in them.

Keris watched each as they entered, weighing their responses to the presence of the two Blood Claws in their midst. Their scents carried a heady mix of predatory strength and smoldering facets of personality. None of the veteran Wolves showed surprise at the presence of Vermundr in his role as packleader, yet Keris caught a mixture of reactions when eyes slid from his packleader to where he stood at Vermundr’s side. Some, such as Grey Hunters Heimdal and Ssveruk alongside the scared visages of Long Fangs Enkil and Bruni, seemed to anticipate his attendance. Only Hunter Ani Silverclaw radiated disapproval, Leidolfr Darkstalker’s scent trace carrying a note of wary indecision and the reactions of Mar the Silent were, as if echoing his namesake, entirely unreadable. A few of the Wolves were already clad in their armour, but some answered their Lord’s call in hunting furs revealing that Keris’ packbrothers had not been the only ones pulled in from the icy plains. 

Blackmane’s commanding voice drew all eyes as the last of the council took their places, the glow from the hololithic projector casting grizzled features in cold underlight. Motes of light spun upwards, defining star systems beyond where the eye could see from Fenris’ highest peaks. The play of the stars shifted as Lord Blackmane spoke, becoming more focused and finally detailing a system under siege.

As the veteran Wolves spoke up; the hairs on the nape of Keris’ neck slowly rose as he leaned forward, muscles taunt and heart rate increasing with arousal like a predator slipping into prey lock. _Deep in his soul, Keris felt his wolfspirit rouse as his crystalline eyes danced across the pattern of stars._ Recollection gnawed at his thoughts before a memory surfaced. Understanding uncoiled from somewhere in his heart as he spoke into a moment of silence, his voice low and weighted,

‘I _*know *_these patterns; I have seen this before…’

His eyes flicked to the shadowed features of the Stormcaller,

‘_A world wreathed in flames, reflected in the eye of a green monster. You circle that world, the growling of your wolfspirit is different… older._’

The Hunter Heimdal’s reply brought low chuckles from many of the older Wolves, including the Rune Priest himself, before turning back to Blackmane to question the worth of only sending four packs. Keris gave a lupine smirk at the thought before shaking his head even as Heimdal’s question was answered by the growling voice of Wolf Priest Sigurd, his words a reminder to all present of the Great Company’s existing duty.

'That was the riddle that was cast in my runes, Grey Hunter, when I sought clarity a winter's passed.' 

Keris nodded respectfully to the Stormcaller, 

'Riddles that I have kept close for the runes never lie.'

The grating voice of Bruni brought the topic back to the question of whom should be sent, the Long Fang bowing to the experience of his wolfbrother’s pack in casting Enkil’s name forward over his own and drawing forth nods of approval from many of the others present. Vermundr shifted beside him and Keris listened to his packleader’s words as the older Wolves nodded in approval. Keris gave his packleader a weighted look before speaking in turn, 

'There are times when swiftness, cunning, and ferocity can overcome where numbers do not, my packleader. Too many hunters can spook the beast on the ice when a few can draw it out.'

Their Lord spoke next, answering Vermundr’s question though the keenness of his scent betrayed his displeasure at the choice he was forced to make in sending only four packs of his men. Keris felt the wolf in his soul giving a low snarl of aversion at the thought of willingly hindering one’s tactics to the strictures penned in a moldering book, voicing as much while Vermundr added his weight to Enkil’s behalf. The leader of the Wolf Guard finalized the selection of the Long Fang pack before remarking that the Templars did not wholly follow the Codex in form though the comment brought a harsh grunt from Leidolfr Darkstalker before the Hunter made a case for his own pack’s inclusion.

As the veteran Wolves continued, the Stormcaller adding his thoughts into play, Keris felt a sense of restlessness claw at his mind. _The call for aid had kindled a hunger from the beast in his soul, the kill-urge genelocked in the spiral of the Helix._ He could taste it in the air from the older Wolves as they debated who would be honoured with the murder-make. Keris turned and placed a hand on Vermundr's shoulder, 

'This is your choice, packleader. I cannot speak for the pack in this, but we have fought the greenskin before, you and I.'

Vermundr took the implied meaning of his words, finally stepping forward to argue for their pack to be included in the hunt. Despite the fact that Keris felt his jaw clench at his packleader's words, he held his gaze steady though it took willpower to do so and defended his wolfbrothers readiness under the questioning of Wolf Guard Hundir, 

'The pack has been re-forged; let it be tested on the soil of another world under the hot breath of greenskins. Would you deny us that, Wolf Guard? Would you deny the runes as well?' 

Keris stood firmly at his packleader's side; lending his own tenacity in presence to Vermundr’s argument as the Blood Claw responded to Hundir’s words, challenge marking his tone. Enkil followed his statements, casting his own support for Vermundr’s claim as foreseen in the runes. Blackmane silenced them all with his approval, finalizing the Claw as one of the four before drawing chuckles from the council with his words.

Keris gave the Long Fang leader a nod of respect for his support before favouring the Wolf Guard leader with a brief lupine grin, 

'Would you fight at our side instead of hunting us through a blizzard, Elder?'

Gunnar returned the statement in kind, though Hundir threw his hands up in mock disgust before the Stormcaller made his intentions to join the hunt clear. Keris shook his head and let a low chuckle coil from his chest, 

'If the Stormcaller wishes to join, then I’m sure _none _of us would deny him,' 

Keris bowed his head to the might of the stormborne, 

'But my question lies with another...'

Keris turned his ice-pale eyes to another face, one that held the same icy gaze as his own, 

'Lord Sigurd, tradition must be kept with guarding the Aett, that cannot be denied, but who will watch over the packs in flesh? It was not just for the runes that I was called to this council… was it?'

The Wolf Priest had been a mostly silent at the council, but Keris had felt the weight of his presence keenly as the older Wolf gave him a weighted look before responding into the sudden hush. "And what else do you believe you were called here for young Keris?"

Keris met the wolf priest's piercing gaze feeling as if his soul was bared to the elder, 

'My faith, Wolf Priest. My brothers take strength from it and I find my tenacity from them in turn. I have been their will and reminder of duty when they needed it and that will never change.'

"Nearly got it in one." Lord Blackmane chuckled before elaborating. "That is a quality that has been seen from you, but you possess another one as well. You display a control for your temper, something that is of great value for a younger pack leader." The Wolf Lord nodded to Vermundr as he spoke to show no offense was meant by the words; they were merely a statement of fact.

'I had a good mentor,' 

Keris' voice was one of respect to the memory of the Grey Hunter who had helped shape his path, 

'There is much that I need to learn still, I am not blind to that, but I will not falter in my oaths to Russ in the Allfather in this.'

It was Mar who spoke next, his voice like the low snarl of the wind that cut through the world’s spine, but Keris did not miss the approval that tinted Sigurd’s rough features at his words. Yet the groan of the great doors drew the group’s attention before any could respond to the Silent Wolf’s statements and Keris felt his wolfspirit bow its head in honour to the revered warrior whose voice echoed like the rumble of thunder. 

The mighty dreadnought Aldr entered on booming strides, the rumble of his engine like the growling of a Thunderwolf and grey-flanked sides bedecked in charms and furs turned back with age, seeming to dwarf the power-armoured figure at his side. Aldr had been there when the whoresons of the Red Sorcerer had dared to set foot upon Fenris, one of the few who had withstood while the Fell-Handed himself faced the might of the daemon primarch. Keris could not deny the fierce sense of pride that welled up from within his soul at the chance to fight beside such a legendary warrior of Russ, clenching his right fist to his chest in the archaic warrior greeting he favoured. The ancient came to a halt before his armoured chaise visibly dipped with a hissing of released gears, a gesture of great respect to Lord Blackmane from a warrior of ages past.

As the revered ancient raised himself again, Keris’ eyes shifted to the warrior at his side and found a strange uneasiness stir from the beast in his soul. The warrior’s skin lacked the coarseness of the tribes of Russ, tanned and shaved smooth. His hair was cropped close to the scalp in a fashion that somehow suggested a standardized regime. In absence were the distended jaw line, pronounced canines, and predatory cast to the features that marked every other countenance in the room; leaving the warrior in some way diminished for their lack, somehow more _human_.

The rich green of the warrior’s lacquered armour plates were devoid of fetishes or carved runes, seemingly severe and coldly functional. His scent was one of other worlds, oils and finery unable to wholly hide the lingering trace of smoke and blood from Keris’ keen senses. There was a measure of respect directed at the gathering of Wolves, underscored by a haughtiness that lingered on the back of Keris’ tongue like a bitter fruit and tinted by the unmistakable frustration of a warrior forced to call on the aid of others. 

‘You would rather not be here,’

The words felt awkward on Keris’ tongue, spoken in gothic instead of the hearth cant of the Wolves, as he took a step forward to meet the warrior’s gaze, the storm-grey pelt around his shoulders glistening in the pale light of the hololithic projection that hung over the table. 

‘Such would be clear to a blind _konungur _caught in a Helwinter storm. Of that, you have my regard as warrior-blood, Champion Namur of the Fifth, gene-son of Guilliman. Now, what does this map _*fail *_to show us of this greenskin hoard that you have seen with your own eyes?’


----------



## revan4559

Hrothgar watches the continuing spar between Baldyr and the Aurora marine with interest until the fight finally comes to its conclusion with Baldyr being the winner but the look of anger on his face makes Hrothgar think that he came close to losing to an offworlder and that is why the wolf guard is now in such a foul mood. Hrothgar looks around at the three pack brothers he is standing with before hearing the hum of powered armour and the heavy clanking foot falls of three marines approaching them. Turning to face those three astartes which were stood apart from the rest Hrothgar looks over their white and green power armour and starts to wish he was in his to seem more intimidating, however he was a son of Russ and a child of Fenris so he would not back down infront of these three warriors.

Hrothgar listened to the Aurora marine ask about if they had been out on the plains of Fenris like Bladyr had and Hrothgar nodded his head to give his answer before he looked over the three again trying to look for any other differences in their appearance. Looking at the Aurora marine with the scar down his face Hrothgar smiles before finally speaking "Baldyr is one of the best warriors in the great company and is as strong as any son of russ, if you ever want to find out how strong teh rest of us are then I will gladly fight against you inside the ring when ever you wish." With that Hrothgar waits for the scarred warrior to say something before heading off to one of the training cages to get in some practice not minding if the Auroro Marine take shim up on his challenge.


----------



## unxpekted22

The meeting had beun, and blood quickly began running to Vermudnr's head, trying to keep up with the elder wolves. The information they spoke, the jokes and prods between, nominations already coming up. Everything was really just a bunch of small talk getting to the real question he wanted to be answered: would his pack be sent?

He participated eagerly in the small talk nonetheless, not wanting to sit silent in his first war council. He raised questions of their small numbers being sent where the chapters already present with larger numbers had failed. His argument was refuted well as he knew it would be. He spoke of differences between the wolves and the Templars, but as he knew would happen, this was also something able to be put to rest.

Upon hearing a nomination for Enkil and his longfangs Vermundr was quick to agree, seeing as they helped his pack greatly on Hecutor and he had seen with his own eyes just how durable they could be.

He wanted nothing more but to nominate himself and his squad to go, but couldnt find the space between his elders words, until Keris prodded him to do so. As soon as keris whispered to him he nearly stood from his seat, responding to one of the other wolves's reasons for self nominations, 

""My own pack has fought a ship to ship battle as well, defending our _Lord'__s _ship in fact, against the hated traitors, and with the help of only a few we were successful in repelling the attack. We also have had experience fighting the greenskins, and recently at that. I know some of you may not have a very good opinion of my and my pack, and for that i cannot blame you. However, we are solid now, and I think it would benefit us as a whole to have a pack who is willing and able to throw themselves headlong into the enemy so that the rest of you can do the real work and have the time to excel at your pack's abilities."

His blood was rushing so fast all he heard were the words against him. He had hoped no one would disagree, but with his pack's reputation that had been unlikely. He closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath before expanding his argument,

"I do, I do believe My pack deserves this Honour my Brother. Blood Claws have always served an essential role on the battlefield for the Space Wolves, and all the other blood claw packs are currently too broken to fulfill that role. I became the packs leader upon my first off world mission. I led them through Hecutor, I am less than 30 years of age and have slain a traitorous Alpha Legionnaire. I have fought by my Lord's side and defended his vessel. Do I truly not deserve this Honour? Does my_ pack_, eager to show their worth, do they not deserve this honour as well?"

And before he knew it, it was decided. his pack would be on of the four going to aid the Aurora chapter against the Ork horde. Unbelievable. He sat back in a more comfortable position as the rest of the council meeting went by him. He couldnt think of anything else, only that what he had hoped he could do had been done. 

He was surprised, as he assumed many in the room were, when the aurora chapter representative and the hulking form of a dreadnought carapace strode into the war council chamber. Secretly, Vermundr had hoped that Baldyr would be the one to go with them. However, the pride and honour he could gain from going to battle alongside the ancient Aldr was no small amount. As unfamiliar with this ancient battle brother as he was, one could hardly begin to doubt that such an individual's skill in battle and tactica was lacking by any means. There chances of success in killing the warboss were surely increased being led by Aldr than one of the wolf guard.


----------



## G0arr

*Yngvar*

Yngvar listened to the long fang, and the others as he tore a mouthful of meat from his plate. After their ordeal hunting it felt good to have hot food in his belly that was not Ursid meat. A second small charm was finished as he listened. This spearhead was broader than the first by purpose. It was not slim and sleek able to pierce hide with ease; but was wider slightly more brutal, made to cut and bleed the opponent, an aggressor’s spear. 

*"… I can only hope that my brothers and I are sent, it would be an honor to fight alongside brothers from another chapter and show them how the Sons of Russ do battle."*
Tyr spoke. Yngvar looked to the long fangs he could not tell if their question had come to test the younger, or if it was that they did not know. “We were carried back here within the belly of the Wolflord’s own vessel. He spoke to us of the threat. I know I am not as long in the tooth, or wise as you. I have not seen a true war as you have, but I wish to. To see my brothers around me, to feel the rush of battle, to see my foe fall! To bring those stories back to this place. To stand proud here among my warrior brothers as a Son of Russ, as a warrior in my own right.”


----------



## Lord Ramo

Heimdall watched the bout between Baldyr and the Aurora marine veteran, Baldyr was going to win this for the honor of the Space Wolves, of that Heimdall had no doubt. He found himself cheering at every attack the space wolf inflicted upon the Aurora marine, though he did fight hard in return and was obviously a worthy opponent. Heimdall roared with joy, as did the majority of the wolves around him, as Baldyr got the final blow, he was the victor and the chapters honor was upheld.

However Baldyr looked annoyed, even angry with his victory, and bellowed at the assembled wolves to disperse or he would face them in the cages. Heimdall was no coward, but he couldn't hope to fight the legend that was Baldyr, and so quickly departed with his other pack members away from that particular cage.

Three figures walked over to them, the other Aurora marine members, one with a Golden stubb obviously higher than the other two that flanked him, one of which had a scarred face. They challenged the pack, believing that it was a fluke that their veteran lost. Heimdall smirked as Azahd and Horthgar taunted them, trying to get the other two marines into the cage, while it became apparent that Njord was being challenged by the leader. *"For the honor of Russ and the Allfather you better accept the challenge Njord, four wolf victories today is what I want to hear about sung in the great hall as we teach the sons of Guilliman how to fight."* He smiled at the marines and held his hands up to show he was joking, the marines were sons of Guilliman, and therefore too rigid and disciplined to probably get the joke.

Heimdall decided he would watch the fights, and then go and get his armor, he hoped that if their Lord Blackmane had brought them back early from their trials then he would choose them to accompany the Aurora's and help them win their fight against the greenskins.


----------



## darkreever

Krahl; As the pair leave the great chamber, you carefully follow in their wake. To be able to return to the others with what you have seen will garner many questions, and being able to lord answers might be a treat in and of itself. You cross the expanse with relative ease, pressing your back against the cold stone wall until the sound of the ancient’s footfalls recede enough to tell you they are not near. At that, you turn to follow, fires casting long shadows along the slightly winding corridor deep within the mountain. You hear one of the two speak, likely the Aurora warrior for the voice is much less powerful than the dreadnought’s, which filled the entire chamber you had been in with no trouble.

Throwing caution to the wind, you increase your pace until you can see the pair once more. The dreadnought’s tread is slow, allowing the Aurora to match pace. _“Lord Aldr, many would be honoured beyond words by all that you have shown me, but I am not here to be impressed. The Space Wolves have an oath to uphold, all that we do now is waste time that can be better spent making ready.”_ The Aurora marine’s voice carries down to you, annoyance rife within his voice. But that name, *Aldr*, it feels so familiar to you; but why?

*I need no reminding of the oath boy.* The boom of the dreadnought’s vox amplifiers shakes the very walls. *You forget so quickly who it was that made such it all those decades ago. You have never been present for the awakening of one of your own ancient brothers.* It was not a question, but a stating of fact though how this *Aldr* would know such a thing eludes you. *To be held outside time and then torn back into the realm of the living is a burden upon the mind, something that takes time so that we may regain our thoughts and be of use once again. You are here walking with me not so that I may impress you, but so that I may fully regain myself and be able to tolerate the childish prodding’s of one of Guilliman’s seed.*

*But it seems that your impatience for things is not all that I shall meet this day.* The dreadnought said, suddenly coming to a stop and then swiveling around on its main axis to bear in your direction. *Return to your pack-brothers you blood claw. My patience is enough only for one this day, and it will not go to you.* It said to you, and the air was stolen from your lips at the undisguised threat. This ancient dreadnought did not sport the heavier weapons of others, but instead was equipped with a pair of arms that ended in deadly claws. And to further the point of the threat, both crackled to life, opening and closing to shower the ground in blue sparks.

Despite your desire to learn more, the old warrior before you did not need his claws to prove the point of his thread. His bulk alone, against your unarmed and unarmoured frame would be more than enough.

[Unless you’re up to chancing fate, returning to the great hall with what you have seen is likely the best course of action. When you arrive, you will bear witness to the first of punches being thrown, a large blood claw will hurl himself on top of you moments after your entry. You don’t know why you’re being attacked by a wolf brother, and he doesn’t seem to be content to answer any questions. Best get him off you, though subduing him will not be the easiest of ventures.]



Frostulfr and Iorek; A snap of movement in the distance brings Iorek from his thoughts, letting him know that in his silent travels he is no longer alone. In the half light of distant fires he sees the still unarmoured form of Frostulfr scouring the shadows for something. Though what that something is, that is a mystery of equal to where the pair are at this time. It is no more than a scant few seconds before Frostulfr feels the one eyes gaze of the Ghostwolf, briefly informing him of the shadowed movement.

You both continue to search for what might be the source of such a thing, something deep within Iorek giving him a feeling of familiarity while all Frostulfr gets is something similar to back when he had been with the others hunting the Ursid. As if whatever is out there knows it is being sought, but does not know what to feel. In the searching, Iorek notices claw marks torn into the stone walls, however when he points them out to Frostulfr, they are no longer there. Maybe a trickle of the past? Could that be the significance of this section of the Fang?

Something moving behind you, something more defined and wholly real, tears your attention away from searching for the creature. When you turn to face this new presence, it is none other than Baldyr; deep blue eyes seemingly blazing in the near dark. _“Halls of our ancients are not the place for the wary; nor is seeking out the cursed and the damned.”_ This he says, inclining his head slightly in Iorek’s direction. _“You would not like what you find, for some the eventual truth of things is a burden left in darkness for as long as possible. The council is likely near its conclusion; with me, now.”_ He growls before turning to leave but pauses a moment and mumbles something that not even your enhanced hearing can make out.

[Best follow the Ice-slayer or be left in his wake. He will lead you in the direction of the Training Hall where you will come across Keris. The wolf guard champion will exchange words with your brother for a moment before being off, leaving you to follow Keris and learn that though not all of the company is going to fight the orks, your pack will most certainly be amongst those who do.]



Hrothgar, Azahd, Heimdall, and Njord; The one Aurora with the old scarring looks to Azahd and his challenge with the shake of his head before entering one of the cages. He takes up a slender blade and holds to it in a two handed grip across his chest, waiting for you to make the first move. This fight is the first to three blows that draw blood, something you expect to perform with relative ease in order to prove who is the better. However as you charge at the Aurora, he sidesteps and the flat of the blade smashes into your face, cracking your nose and drawing blood. Faster than you can recover, he swiped your feet out from under you, slashing the tip of the blade across your left bicep before jumping back and avoiding a counter from you. Within a heartbeat you were on the ground, two blooding blows to you and none to your opponent.

He does not give you time to think of this or recover for more than a handful of breaths before coming in again. You spring to your feet and make to break through whatever attack he sends your way, but his charge is a feint and instead he locks his blade with your own weapon and rolls around you, a fist connecting with your back and robbing you of your balance. A desperate sweep of your weapon keeps the Aurora back, but you are forced down to a knee and are unable to keep him back for long. Eventually, and without scoring any hits of your own, you lose to the Aurora and are greeted with silence from any onlookers. Making things worse, the warriors stands over you, offering a hand to help you from the ground where you lay, wounds already clotting and bruises healing.

 Hrothgar turns to find another of the Aurora warriors, the one with the golden stud in his head, has indeed joined him in a cage. He takes up a blunt axe and short blade, swinging both to get the feel of each before saluting you from one warrior to another. Without any preamble, he launches himself at you, axe chopping down from his but stopped by your own weapon, if only just stopped. Unlike Azahd, this is a battle of submission, if a warrior is disarmed or unable to continue fighting then the bout is over, and that first attack left you reeling.

It took both your arms behind the counter of the attack to stop it, and that had nearly not been enough, especially when you were forced to jump back and avoid the short blade. However the Aurora was slow to press, stalking forward and pushing you back with each attack while fending off anything you gave without being forced to lose ground. Eventually, the hairs on your neck began to stand on edge as you neared the side of the cage. This was what the Aurora had been aiming for all along, to force your back against the wall and force your hand in a single blow! But any creature, especially a wolf, is at its most dangerous when cornered. When the attack you knew was coming did in-fact come, you sprang toward it and lashed out with your own weapons. But the Aurora had planned this situation, your attack had been intended to throw his weapons aside and secure your victory, instead it was you who found yourself unarmed and with a blade against your throat.

Ultimately, you were forced to relent; the Aurora had won this fight and there was nothing you could do about it. Looking through the bars of the powering down cage, you peer over and see Azahd on the ground, having fared no better than you, if not worse.

As the fights go on, the remaining Aurora, soon joined by the champion that had fought against Baldyr, turns to Heimdall and Njord. _“Your champion Baldyr is of remarkable quality, if rather blunt and led by his anger. A shame that your own brothers lack his raw talent.”_ He says, the words carry the feeling of him almost being bored with what he sees, as if he had expected no less!? Though you will not admit it, Azahd and Hrothgar were to easily led though it is rather clear that their opponents possess skill greater than either of your brother blood claws, or yourselves for that matter.

 Heimdall looks about the great chamber, catching looks from the few Grey Hunters still about. You spy Baldyr leaving, had he watched the fights? When he leaves, a measure of warmth returns to the ever present cold of the Fang.

[Azahd, now that couldn’t have been terribly fun. Do you take the offered hand, ignore it, or cast it away in a display of anger for the loss?

Not that Hrothgar can claim much better; do you have anything to say to the Aurora, who is already making way out of the cage and back to his own brothers.

Heimdall, You do not take to the Aurora’s tone at all. Though it is subtle, you know his comment is aimed to insult; are you going to let him get away with that?]


Alrik, Iotki, Orgrimmar, Tyr, Ulvbror , and Yngvar; A great goblet of mead is hurled across the tables to shatter against a wall. The blood claw who hurled the vessel stands with his arms pressed into the stone table before him. _“Pah,”_ he spits in the direction of the Long Fang, _“Or perhaps you no longer have the spine for such fighting old timer. Caution in the face of piggish xenos like the orks! And what next? Are we to search the dark corners for monsters?”_ He declares with arms held out, eliciting laughter from a number of his packmates.

_ “Quick words from someone who has fought in no wars, just had his ass kicked back and forth along the cages.”_ One of the grey hunters retorts, only to have four of the blood claws stand up and edge towards him. The other grey hunters in the chamber took notice of this, both giving their full attention to the things now going on. Tyr and Alrik each attempt to calm things, or at least Tyr attempts to calm things, with the other pack-warriors, only to have the venom of the first turned on them. _“Hold your tongues fools; who are you to speak of anything? A half broken brute and a wild yheetee’s ass? It took your lot months to defeat a single Ursid; I slayed a full grown wolf all my own in a third that time.”_

* “Full grown in body, maybe, but I saw the eye you returned with.”* The long fang started, standing up and crossing over to the hulking blood claw. _*“What little of the creatures spirit that remained spoke volumes. You hunted babes in order to lure out something more, and were presented with a cantankerous old wolf o**n its final leg. You fought a beast at the end of its life, letting its thread be cut knowing that you would be denied the prize you so sought to obtain.”*_ He finished, and after a full minute of silence the blood claw rammed his fist into the side of the older wolf’s head. Perhaps the blood claw was a good fighter, maybe the long fang too old to react properly, but whatever the reason for it, the blow connected solidly and sent the old timer flying across a table.

The great hall exploded from that, blood claws attacking the trio of grey hunters spread out amongst them. None of you just sit there and watch this, jumping into the fray and taking on an enemy where you can. Tyr backhands one wolf with his metal arm, knocking him out for a moment while the large wolf goes after a second enemy. But that was only a moment, and he then jumps on Tyr’s back while he is distracted.

 Alrik takes after the one who started everything, getting between him and the downed long fang and brandishing the flaying knife with a half snarl, half smile. _*“Fine, time for someone to put you in your place Firehawk; maybe improve your features.”*_ He says before grabbing one of the smaller stone benches and throwing it at you before charging.

Before Yngvar and Iotki have a chance to throw themselves at anyone, they are each beset by a pair of blood claws. One pair toppling into Iotki and laying into him with punches and kicks. The other pair circle about Yngvar, preventing him from helping anyone while looking for a good spot to rush him from. It is not long before one grows impatient and hurls himself forward with a howl, only to find Yngvar’s elbow waiting for his face. The second wolf, however, crashes into his side and sends all three into a stone table and shatter it.

Ulvbror jumps in to help Yngvar, kicking the head of one wolf and sending him to the ground clutching at a broken nose. Before he can do anything to the second claw, a powerful arm wraps itself around his throat in an attempt to toss him.

 Orgrimmar lies closest to the long fang, and attempts to haul the old wolf back to his feet, narrowly avoiding a punch from the long fang in the attempt. Something hard and cold crashes against his head, sending both of them to the ground in a daze.

[Tyr and Alrik, I think neither of you need much prompting in what to do. The general outcomes of your respective fights can be seen in the end of the update for Vermundr, however I leave the middle ground up to both of you.

Yngvar, Iotki, Ulvbror,and Orgrimmar; while you will eventually overcome your foes it shall not be the easiest of endevours. I leave the content of the fights to each of you, though take care not to go too far with them. These are still Sons of Russ, though they may not act entirely like it, so you cannot kill them.

As your fights come to an end, you will be joined by Vermundr though he will come too late for the fun.]



Keris and Vermundr; Without even sparing Keris a glance, Namur steps around him and proceeds towards the hololith. He places his helm on the great table before regarding lord Blackmane with his stoney features. _“My lord, everything that we have here to work with, all that I have brought you to this point, there is little more month old information can do.”_ He said, “We must be off, not wasting time sitting here and debating how few of your number you shall send to honour your own vow. That you must do so to begin with…” He trails off, the deathly look spearing away from Ragnar Blackmane more than enough to silence any further insult.

*You are so quick to forget, champion Namur, that while nearly a third of the Aurora chapter hides within the walls of its own fortress, all but one company of the Sons of Russ fight in more than twelve engagements across three Segmentum’s. And that number is soon to see us active in a fourth Segmentum, to honour a vow while compromising our own strength on OUR home-world. Do not let your desire to rejoin your chapter cloud your judgement. You will find no one here that shall support your insults, not of our own commitment.* *Aldr* boomed, taking but a single step forward and silencing comment from any that may have been about to speak.

_“Unless there is anything more that can be added,”_ Lord Blackmane began through a clenched jaw, clearly trying to keep up a fraction of resolves after the measure displayed by Aldr. _“This council is concluded. Pack leaders, gather your wolves and make ready to depart. Hunt well my warriors, and let all know why the Wolves of Fenris are to be feared, few in number or not.”_ He finishes, and many of the pack leaders make their leave to be about their business; the few going to gather their packs, others to inform the remaining packs of the events here. Before either of you can leave, Njal intercepts you but his attention is on events not entire at the ready. You are told that your claw is divided, many in either the Great Hall or the Training Hall. Since there are two of you, you each take a location to gather the pack: Keris to the Training Hall and Vermundr the Great Hall.


--
Without another word, you both split away, Keris descending further than Vermundr in order to locate the training halls. As your travels take you further from the great hearth of lord Blackmane’s chambers, a familiar cold enters the air followed by one of indecision or difference. It is not long before you come upon Baldyr, and with him are both Iorek, who you had known you would find, and Frostulfr, who’s own scent was simply overpowered by Baldyr and Iorek. Baldyr stops long enough to inform you of the losses in the training hall, but not before finding out of the conclusion of the council. You cannot place your finger on why, but you feel as though there is something amiss with the wolf guard champion; like something is gnawing deep within him.

But all too soon, and before many of your own questions can be answered, Baldyr is gone, leaving only your brothers left in his wake and the current task at hand left to be performed. Travel to the training hall is without any other incident, though as you approach a wave of tension flits into your being; something is not right and it is likely only getting worse. Entering the chamber proper, you spy a few older wolves within, some burning away time by dueling with one another while a scant few observe a different scene. Across the hall, between a pair of the cages, you spot Heimdall and Njord alongside the more battered forms of Azahd and Hrothgar. Opposite them are four Aurora marines, two fully armoured while the other two are returning to their armour.

And there is the source of the tension, all but oozing off of Heimdall and lancing in the direction of the armoured Aurora marines, the backwash of such feeling strong enough to exude across the hall itself.

--
Traveling to the great hall is a quicker endevour. Unlike Keris, Vermundr comes across no one to occupy his thoughts. However the peace that can come from such a thing is shattered in an instant when the sounds of fighting reach his ears; and without a second thought he is sprinting to the source. What the young pack leader finds, however, is a picture that gives him mixed feelings. A scene of brawling, or rather the end of one, spreads out before him. 

Tyr stands with a pair of foes, blood claws of the other pack within the company, held firmly in both of his hands as he pins them down. Alrik and Orgrimmar each have another claw, Orgrimmar holding the head of his enemy, whom he had knocked out cold. Alrik, on the other hand, subdued his claw opponent by knife point, one powerful arm locked across the claw’s chest while his other hand held the flaying blade to his opponent’s neck. Blood was in the air, a small welter of it dripping down the neck of the young warrior.

Iotki, Ulvbror, Krahl, and Yngvar also stood over defeated blood claws, though they had apparently not been as apt in their respective fights and had sustained light injuries in the process. Other members of the blood claw pack lay in varying degrees of defeat, many at the hands of the few older wolves in the hall.

[Keris, when we have a chance I would like to speak with you on the contents of the brief conversation between yourself and Baldyr. After that, you head to the training hall with Frostulfr and Iorek at your side in time to come upon what looks like Heimdall getting ready to trade blows with an armoured Aurora marine. That can’t be terribly good, especially not when that marine is backed up by a second one, and this one has a pair of sheathed blades across his back. Diffusing the situation might not be possible, so informing your packmates and the Aurora marines of what has transpired in the war council, and that it is time to go, might be enough.

Seems you missed the party Vermundr; however perhaps you should get Alrik to release his opponent before he decides a trickle of blood is not enough. Inform the warriors of your pack what is to come, though when you announce this the other blood claws not beaten to badly will look at you with nothing short of hatred. One of them, the alpha of his pack though not its leader, will challenge you for the right to go. His pack is more often looked over by lord Blackmane, largely because it does not have an older wolf to train it yet. It was decided by the heads of the company that your pack would go, you do not have to challenge this blood claw because he does not speak for his pack, Blackmane does.]


----------



## Serpion5

*Krahl*

Krahl was overcome by the need to hear more, hardly surprising really given how far he had come already. If he could discern more of what they discussed he could return to the halls with bragging rights the others would be envious of. He felt a momentary pang of shame given his recent epiphany. This was not exactly the best course of action to garner the respect of his superiors, but he could certainly make an attempt to gain the envy of his equals. 

He pressed himself close to the wall as the pair began to move. As the heavy footfalls of the ancient began to recede into the distance, he began to move. Following with the same stealth and swiftness he had employed during the trial, he followed at a discreet distance. He could hear them converse as he followed. From this he was able to discern the Ancient`s name as Aldr. For some reason, that name sent bells ringing in Krahl`s mind, but this was hardly the time to be dragging up old memories and Krahl increased his pace to try and catch more of the conversation. Evidently this aurora marine was impatient to begin preparations for some battle, and seemed intent on holding the Rout to some previously sworn oath. 

Krahl froze as the dreadnought boomed its reply. The walls shook with its voice, and the young blood claw started following again with increased trepidation. The dreadnought spoke of an unworldly fate, to be forced to sleep between millennia only to awaken to one conflict after another. Such a fate sounded horrifying to Krahl, and his reverence for the ancient one increased tenfold on that very spot. 

Krahl had come much closer than he meant to, catching the end of the conversation with clarity as he rounded a corner of the winding corridors. He froze as the two came into his vision, not realizing he had come so close in his eagerness. 

*'...not so that I may impress you, but so that I may fully regain myself and be able to tolerate the childish proddings of one of Guillemans seed.'*

The constant footfall suddenly stopped and the ancient paused for a moment. 

*'But it seems your impatience for things is not all that I shall meet this day.'* Swiveling suddenly, Aldr turned to face where Krahl had attempted to hide directly. *'Return to your pack brothers you blood claw. My patience is enough for only one this day, and it will not go to you.'*

Krahl was too taken by surprise to offer any apology or pathetic excuse, instead simply backing away hastily before turning and walking back the way he had come. The sight of those crackling claws had been more than enough to quell the delusions Krahl had cooked up for himself. With nothing but a half formed story of meeting a dreadnought, Krahl decided to return to the Great Hall.

* * *​
On his final approach, he could hear the sounds of what seemed to be a fight breaking out. 

_Interesting._ He thought, grinning as he wondered who and why a scrap had come about. He was completely taken back as he jogged through the doorway to see what was happening, he caught a glimpse of a brawl between an Aurora marine and a wolf brother, but before he could give any thought as to why this was happening he was barreled to the side by a heavy force. Turning to see his attacker, he was surprised to see it was a fellow blood claw! 

'Pining for some pain are you?' Krahl snarled, no longer caring why he had been attacked, just wanting to exact the proper payment. His attacker was a good deal larger than him, but didn`t seem too focused for a true warrior. Krahl blocked two clumsy strikes before landing a palm strike back on his opponent`s wild face and lifting his leg enough to throw his opponent onto the floor. Krahl righted himself immediately and charged his downed opponent. To his surprise, the other blood claw was also quite nimble for his size and managed to reach his feet before Krahl could pin him down. 

They exchanged blows fiercely, Krahl taking a few strong hits to the chest and midsection as he reciprocated the attacks. Tiring of this senseless scrap, he resolved to do what he had to to end it quickly and stepped forward. Inside his opponent`s guard, the rival blood claw made the obvious move and attempted to headbutt Krahl backwards. He was prepared for this though and simply ducked, causing his foe to overcommit himself. Krahl then surged to his full height, inflicting a headbutt of his own and immediately followed through with a hook that knocked his opponent off balance. 

Siezing the moment, Krahl barged his opponent from behind and pinned him to the floor under his weight. He could feel one of the wounds on his forehead leak blood for a moment before clotting as he reached down and wrenched the marine`s arm backwards. He could feel the bone straining as the wolf brother started to yelp in pain, but Krahl was in no more mood for foolishness than Aldr was after the unpleasant welcome he had received...


----------



## aboytervigon

It was like being grabbed by a troll.

The large bloodclaw that had grabbed Ulvbror was trying to toss him but fights from his village had taught him to easily avoid it, Ulvbror shifts his weight into the middle of his body quickly, abruptly disturbing the bloodclaws balance and that was all Ulvbror needed, with a feral punch Ulvbror quickly released himself from the Bloodclaw but that wasn't enough to defeat him. Ulvbror could see now that this Bloodclaw was very large and the best way to defeat a large opponent is knock him over, Ulvbror charged the bloodclaws legs but he was quickly deflected.

Ulvbror felt dizzy and he knew at this time this was dangerous. The mighty bloodclaw charged like a bull at Ulvbror and unable to move out of the way he was struck hard in the chest repeatedly, the heavy blows each sapping what little energy ulvbror had left. Ulvbror looked around desperatley for something he could use, a weapon anything but sadly there was nothing... as he began to slip in to an unconcious sleep, Ulvbror felt a feral presence welling up inside him and what ever it was wanted to fight. 

Ulvbror swiped at the bloodclaw, he tried to think of a clever retort but all he could manage was a fierce roar, there was no time to loose Ulvbror launched blows after blow at the blood claw. Ulvbror's fury was unrelenting, the bloodclaw had tried to hurt his friend and he must be punished.. He had no right being a son of Russ and Ulvbror could remedy that... he could make it look like an accident...but the choice was not up to Ulvbror his hands were moving by themselves going for a killing blow. "No! I will not be controlled" and with that he stopped, silent as a grave Ulvbror contemplated what he could of done.


----------



## revan4559

Hrothgar was pinned up against the cage with his head tilted up slightly as his throat was bared towards the blade that the Aurora marine was wielding. The fight had been one which even if he was at full strength and not suffering the injury from the troll he had fought earlier, he may not even been able to do much better than he had already. His opponent had toyed with him throughout the entire fight as he forced him back towards the cage step by step without even allowing any opening for a counter attack, these Sons of Guilliman were good and as Hrothgar looked at his opponent his eyes fixed upon the golden stud and tried to recall what exactly the golden stud meant for those marines that followed the codex.

The golden stud...Hrothgar continued to stare at it as the blade was removed from his neck and he tried to recall what it meant, thinking back on what the learning engines had implanted within his mind he briefly realled that the silver stud meant that the marine had served for fifty years and the golden stud was given to those that had served for one hundred years...No wonder he lost to this marine the opponent Hrothgar had decided to pick a fight with had atleast one hundred years of fighting in the name of the Emperor and their own primarch. Curse his own cockiness for choosing such an opponent...however he did last alot longer than his pack brother had in the battle which made Hrothgar feel slightly better.

Just as the Aurora marine was about to leave the cage Hrothgar turned to him and called out: "If you sons of Guilliman fight this well within a sprring change then what need is there for the Wolves to come to your rescue?" Hrothgar stared for a moment before waiting for an answer from the marine before he looked down at his arm where the troll had cut into his flesh earlier and winced slightly at how tender the wound still was. After a few moments Hrothgar allowed the Aurora marine to leave the cage before walking out after him and went to rejoin his fellow pack brothers.


----------



## deathbringer

Thoughts of swirling blackness dominated him, the wolfs laughter and echoing reverberation that rippled through his subconscious dominating him, holding him within, an eyes of blood red locking with a single eye of burnished gold.

Then the gaze splintered by a rough trodden footstep and Iorek came too, realising his position for the first time, lowering himself to a defensive stance, hand slipping to the pistol at his hip, eye piercing the darkness.

Ahead he saw one of the new bloods, the pups yet to be blooded, well he had been blooded, nose bloodied by Alrik's brutal fist, his brothers temper kept on a short leash at best, in truth it probably kept a leash on him.

He moved as if stalking, hunting eyes flitting in the darkness, an Iorek frowned, tasting the air, the unfamiliar scent of his brother contrasting with the familiarity of an unknown odour. It lingered just ahead of them, wafting tantalisingly forward, even as the pup moved forward again, blissfully ignorant of the wolf that stalked towards him.

Two meters away, he called out
"Fixating on your prey ahead, can often lead you to become prey to what stalks behind"

His face was impassive, his voice a gruff caress of cold indifference and distaste.
"What do you hunt in the depths of the fang?"

"shouldn't you ask yourself that question?" came the sly snarl of the wolf in his head

He tasted the air again, was it familiarity or similarity?


----------



## Lord Ramo

Heimdall watched the fights that his brothers initiated against the Aurora marines. He was shocked to how quickly they were all dispatched, it wasn't what the Space Wolves wanted to watch. Heimdall knew that the Aurora's would use this as a way to claim victory, even though he and his fellows were all young blood claws, not having fought an enemy, or even left the world Fenris.

He felt a presence soon near his shoulder and turned to see the Aurora marine champion that had been bested by Baldyr had come over to watch his brothers and how the fights went. “Your champion Baldyr is of remarkable quality, if rather blunt and led by his anger. A shame that your own brothers lack his raw talent.” The Champion uttered. Heimdall narrowed his eyes at his words, he was insulting his pack brothers and seemed to insult the Space Wolves abilities. 
*
"Well its hardly a surprise that my brothers have been bested now, is it champion? We are Blood Claws, we aren't veterans of campaigns like you are, in fact we have never been on a campaign before. I would hardly say that you can take these "victories" as a consolation prize for you being bested by our company champion."* He kept his tone calm, though he couldn't help to have a slight edge on his voice as he bristled at the implied insult. He could tell the marine had done it deliberately and was sorely tempted to challenge him to a fight, even though he knew what the result would be. Even if he could get one hit on this smug Astartes he would be happy. Heimdall's may have gone too far with his words, he might have insulted the Champion a bit too much, but he cared not for now. 

Heimdall quickly looked around the chamber, he could see several of the few Grey Hunters watching the fight, and he caught a couple of looks from them. Heimdall could also see Baldyr leave, he didn't know if he had stayed and watched the fight, though he could imagine what Baldyr's reaction would be if he had seen the fight. Though he was in awe of his Champion, he couldn't help but see the atmosphere liven a bit after he left. He turned back to the Aurora marine champion and waited for his inevitable rebuttal.


----------



## G0arr

*Yngvar*

Yngvar turned his attention when the tankard smashed, and the other spoke. Some of his own words had been spoken in haste, but respect had not been completely lost. This blood claw spoke in mocking tones.

Anger poisoned every word as one of the long fangs spoke. Yngvar listend and watched as he placed the charms back into a pouch. Was he partly at fault for this? Then came the words of his own packmates. Surely seeing another blood claw taking the side of peace may sway the hotheaded one, but it was not to be so.
Yngvar’s face turned into a snarl as the other spoke. It was one thing to show disrespect to his warrior brothers, but to his pack brothers was another thing. The long fang spoke again. And then came the silence. Tension was almost palatable in the room as each waited. Release came to the sound of meat striking meat. To the waiting ears it was louder than any gunshot, and greater than any battle cry. Bodies surged forward to the fight.

Two of them rushed in for Yngvar, and two for Iotki. In an instant the two packmates were separated. Flurries of blows were launched into Iotki. Yngvar snarled as the other two circled him like sharks. The young blood claw continued to glance back to his packmate and to the pair circling him. The others could easily see his desire to assist. “You’ll never reach him,” one said. Yngvar’s vision locked in a hateful glare. The hunter within him growled. _This fool thinks he can stand between you and our destination_, the thought entered Yngvar’s mind. As it did another followed _There are two_. This one was less instinct, calmer, more collected. _For every pair there is one aggressor and one hunter_, the words echoed through his mind. Senses quickly lashed out searching for the threat, the hunter.

There was a howl, an aggressor’s move not a true hunter. Yngvar’s snarl twisted into more of a smile. He didn’t have enough time to bring a full swing to meet this foe, so an elbow would have to do. The would-be prey turned hunter for a single strike. His legs slid to absorbed the impact, and allow a quick recovery. Yngvar turned his head bringing the attacker into view. He balled one fist, and used his other arm to brace it in place. The blow landed with a sharp crack, impacting the assailant in the center of his forehead. Momentum carried the stricken warrior forward forcing the blood claw’s defense. 

Keeping upright was the primary concern when Yngvar moved. He pushed forward losing his stance to avoid being drug down with the now falling foe. As he did the other launched himself into the fray. The strike sent all three blood claws sprawling into a nearby table as a single mass. Under the impact the stone table buckled throwing them into the floor.

A sudden surge of energy shocked Yngvar’s system. There wasn’t enough room for a proper strike so he slammed his fists against the man on top of him. Every instinct told him to get distance, to free himself from this position. The man above him was easily larger making the blood claw’s position even worse. The two traded snarls of anger. A fist flashed up as it prepared to hammer into Yngvar’s face. The blood claw twisted his head at the last instant turning what would have been a perfect shot into a glancing strike. Below them there was a grunt, the other of them had taken the strike directly to his gut. Yngvar wedged one arm between him and the man above trying to get enough leverage to force him away. The fist flashed up again as another arm pressed back down onto his chest. This time the blood claw had forced himself into a position where at least most of the blow would be taken. With one last effort Yngvar hammered his free arm into the other’s side receiving a low grunt, but not managing to free himself. He braced for what of the strike he could not deflect.

But the strike never came. With a sudden smack another of Yngvar’s pack mates had come to his aid. The strike sent the man above to one side. Without the weight pressing him down the blood claw lept to his feet, only to see his brother assaulted by another. He turned to the pair and prepared to strike. As he did a blow caught him in the hip, though it was easy to tell it was intended for somewhere else entirely. The foe was the last of the pile. He had managed to move to his knees, but the sluggishness in his movements made it clear he was feeling the blows already landed on him. With a growl Yngvar faced him as a hunter, as an ender. He twisted and stepped forward reinforcing the bow on the recovering foe. His fist slammed into the side of the other’s face. Blood splattered from his mouth as the other wavered, and fell back to the ground.

As Yngvar turned back to his pack brother something splattered against his face. It was thick, warm, and filled the blood claw’s nostrils with the smell of copper. His left eye twitched as he tried to blink the stuff out, but there was no time. A fist slammed into the side of his head sending him staggering to one side. Yngvar turned to bring his unobstructed eye around. There stood the other. Blood covered the middle of his face from the broken nose. Behind the young blood claw’s eyes the hunter howled in rage. The attacker stepped forward and swung again with a blood covered fist. Yngvar dove in putting himself below the strike. He hammered a fist into the other’s chest below the fused ribs. There was a loud exhale as the blow forced air from the other warrior’s lungs. A nearly instantly breath told Yngvar that the extra lung had robbed much of the blows effect. 
The hunter drove the young blood claw’s moves. Before his foe could completely recover he came with fist in hand again hammering his elbow into the side of the other’s head as he tried to spin. Staggered several feet, the other tripped to his hands and knees. His head twisted up only to see a knee. The blow sprayed spit and blood in an arc as the other tipped to one side, and collapsed into a heap. 

Yngvar felt the pain in his knee as he raised a fist. _No_ he told himself looking at the fallen brawler. The hunter growled. _He is a brother, and not a true foe_. The young blood claw lowered his fist and looked to the others. Both he had fought were lying quietly, but breathing. The others were quickly finishing their own foes as Yngvar looked to himself, and the others around him. He glanced down to see a cut across his knee. As he reached down to examine it he felt a bulge. When he pressed it back a small white shard appeared in his rapidly closing wound. A broken tooth was what he found when he held it up. A morbid smile covered the blood claw’s face as he looked to the foe.

“Well fought,” Yngvar said to Ulvbror who was standing silently over his defeated foe. He turned to the others with a barely visible smile a small trickle of blood ran from the corner of his mouth. “If I wanted a fight I would have gone to the cages,” he said in a loud voice surveying the scene.


----------



## komanko

OOC: Deathy and me will continue this until we reach the part with Keris I guess.

His hearts pumped with adrenaline as he moved forward towards the ill lighted spot, to Frostulfr it did not matter, one of the many gifts bestowed upon a space marine was heightened senses and increased sight which meant that the slight darkness did not make it any harder for him to see.

He crept closer and then with a burst of speed he charged into the corner, nothing… There was nothing there except Frostulfr’s disappointment. If that was not annoying enough the fact that he did not even know what he was stalking was infuriating. He smelled the familiar smell of a pack mate, yet he paid no attention, if the one would like to exchange words he would come to him.

Frostulfr sniffed again, below the familiar smell of a pack mate he could smell something unknown, he could feel that that thing, whatever it was, knew that it was being sought.

He heard a voice from behind, one that belonged to the ghostwolf, Iorek. The wolf told him that by fixating on the prey ahead one can become prey for the one from behind. That was true yet not in this case. Frostulfr did feel Iorek’s presence and as such did not react in any way.

Before he was able to reply Iorek already asked a question, he wanted to know what Frostulfr was hunting in the depths of the fang. That was a good question, the problem was that he did not know himself what. He scanned the room around them, looking for anything that might catch his eye as unnatural yet he could see nothing.

“I do not hunt anything grimwolf. I sought solace and silence. Had to think. Yet I found none when this thing caught my attention. There is something here, can’t you feel it? Sense it?” He turned and looked at Iorek just to see a frown written all over his face. “But what is it to you? You did not seem too caring for any of us, unblooded, why so interested now? Nothing else to do?” Frostulfr spat back at the grimwolf, every word sounding more venomous then the other.


----------



## BlackApostleVilhelm

It was getting edgy, the venom in the blood claw's words directed not at his pack now but at the older wolves sitting in the Great Hall, this was getting out of hand. Tyr bit into a leg of meat before speaking, *"Sit down before you make more of a fool of yourself."* the claw spat his words of hate back at Tyr and Alrik. Tyr turned to look at his brother with his eyes raised,* "Lets hope this continues, for their sake."* he said quietly to Alrik before turning back.

A Long Fang stood up, his words causing the Blood Claw to go silent, Tyr putting his leg of meat down as he took a draw from his mug. Suddenly the Claw's fist was connecting with the older warrior's face, the Long Fang not even having any time to react as his body was flung back. Without hesitation Tyr was moving for the closest of the other pack, the back of his metal fist slamming into the side of his face and knocking him out, the large wolf quickly moving onto his next target.

He threw a punch at the claw's chest causing him to jump back to dodge the hit, something large slamming into his own back and causing him to stumble forward to catch his balance. His other target had already leapt back at him, throwing a hard knee straight into his gut causing him to grunt in pain, unfortunately for his attackers it only served to ignite his anger. He roared as he reached up and grabbed the warrior that had his arms around his neck, his living hand slamming into the side of his face over and over as his metal hand closed around one of his wrists, the sound of bones snapping being accompanied by a howl of pain as the warrior let his hold on Tyr's neck go.

A fist collided with the back of his head and his vision went black for a second, returning as quickly as it had left, his vision slightly hazy. He pivoted on his left leg and swung his body around, his elbow hitting his attacker in his temple and knocking him to the ground, leaving his back open for the other to attack again. The claw took the bait and caught a left hook to his jaw as Tyr spun himself around again, this time on his right foot, throwing as much of his weight as possible behind the blow. 

The wolf hit the floor next to his friend who was now pulling himself off of the floor and swinging at the huge knot of scar tissue on the side of his chest. Tyr dodged the blow and leapt to the side as he grabbed the wolf's arm and, using his momentum, flung him at the closest wall. He grabbed the other wolf as he was getting up and threw him too, his body hitting the wall with a thump, he had to subdue them quickly before this got too out of hand, he would not be forced to kill or seriously hurt another brother.

He grabbed both of them and slammed their backs against the wall, one hand on each of their chests, his full weight behind each arm as he pinned them against the wall, their chests heaving as they stared at him with anger in their eyes. He chuckled as they realized they were too weak to escape his hold on them, *"Who's broken now?"*


----------



## Euphrati

Keris could feel his crest of raven-black hair bristle as his muscles tensed in involuntary echo to the rage of the wolfspirit that shared his soul, the strength of will that Lord Blackmane had noted within Keris mere moments before the only thing forcing back the growl that rumbled through his thoughts at the Aurora champion utterly disregarded his presence. The scents in the room shifted, blade-sharp with barely contained fury like the taste of thunder in the wind before the violence of the tempest as the older Wolves reacted to the slight; even the peculiarly elusive scents of the Grey Hunter Mar and the Wolf Priest Sigurd were marked with the distinctly acrid note of threat.

The Aurora spoke with a clipped accent; the disdain in his words all but spat upon the table and seemingly oblivious to the tensing of muscles and rising growls of displeasure around him, his voice finally trailing off with unmasked glare of threat from Lord Blackmane. The marrow-shaking voice of Aldr, even produced by the mechanical vox-system of the revered dreadnought's tomb, held the unmistakable snarl of barely contained anger as the ancient took a single thunderous stride forward in blatant challenge.

Blackmane's own voice was thick with the underpinnings of rage, his words pointedly aimed at his own warriors and excluding the foolhardy insults of the son of Guilliman. Keris clasp his fist to his chest in acknowledgement of his Lord's dismissal before turning on his heel to stalk after Vermundr, the urge to bare his teeth like a burning ember within his skull as he cast only the most fleeting of glares at the Aurora champion.

Keris dipped his head in respect as the Stormcaller moved to intercept the two Blood Claws. There was an undertone like the rumbling of distant thunder to the Rune Priest's voice as he spoke of their packbrothers' whereabouts; nuances in scent and movement betraying the elder Wolf's attention was already upon the myriad of tasks that would require consideration in the wake of Lord Blackmane's decision.

-

Keris padded effortlessly down the darkened corridor, the dusk-like gloom offering no inconvenience to his strides due in measure to the work of the fleshweavers and the awesome power that the Canis Helix had unlocked within his body. He could feel the weight of the stone around him, countless thousands of tons of steel-grey granite that rose above him to scrape the airless void of space and coursed beneath his feet to the very heart of the worldforge. To the tread of outsiders the lair of Russ was a foreboding and deadly maze of tunnels cut into the living rock by technology lost to the darkness of mankind's past, but to Keris they were as comforting as the pelt draped across his corded shoulders.

After parting ways with Vermundr just outside the doors to their Lord's chambers it had taken Keris a good half the distance to the training halls to calm his ire, the impudence of the Aurora Champion lingered still like bile at the back of his throat. He found himself thankful of the solitude as he willed the muscles in his neck to relax and turned to step under a rune-carved archway in the tunnel's stone flank. A rough hewn pier of stone soared out over a void that yawned in place of the chamber's floor and Keris paused for a heartbeat at the lip, the howling wind from deep within the Fang snatching at the silver-grey wolf skin with enough force to make the tail end snap like a loose sail in a tempest, before stepping off to plunge into the welcome darkness. The tunnels ran through the spine of the mountain, funneling the wind up their length with the force of a hurricane. He dropped like a gryfalcon stooping upon prey in the open ice fields, the sensation akin to battle arousal, but Keris' thoughts were turned to the words spoken in the war council as he adjusted his path with deft flicks of his outstretched hands.

The hard stone rose up to meet him with breakneck speed, the ever-present gale clawing at Keris' form as he cupped his arms to control his rate of descent. The muscles in his thighs bunched as his boots hit the cold stone with a crack of force, taking the brunt of his impact as he landed in a predator's crouch. As he moved out of the opening and back into the dark hallways of the Fang Keris felt his nostrils flare as familiar scents uncoiled on the wind's back. _A sense of cold, biting and with an edge of violence, rode with the scents. _

“The war council has come to a conclusion then?” The growl cut through the winds followed soon by its owner. Baldyr was not alone, Frostulfr and a fully armoured Iorek silently trailed the wolf guard champion. “What is the word?” 

Keris could feel the spirit within his mind shift as it acknowledged the presence of the Ice-Slayer before the older Wolf had even come fully around the corner headed for the lift next to the drop-tunnel with his packmates shadowing the Wolf Guard's steps.

Something in the older warrior's scent caused Keris to pause, the violence that marked it was as keen and storm-sharp as ever yet there was a fleeting emotion that Keris could not put a name to that hung about the Ice-Slayer, 

'Ice-Slayer,' 

Keris nodded greeting as he met the deep blue of the elder Wolf's eyes with the crystal blue of his own, 

'The war council has indeed concluded, Lord Blackman's choice has been made. Four packs will sink teeth into the throat of the greenskin hoard- Enkil's fangs, Leidolfr's and Mar's hunters,' 

Keris cut his eyes to his packbrothers,

'...and Vermundr's pack. The Stormcaller has stated he is to hunt with us as well.'

If the Wolf Guard had any feelings on this news, his face betrayed none of it. "And does Stormcaller lead our forces into this, or has another of the Guard been chosen?"

Keris shook his head as his gaze returned to the brutal features of the Wolf Guard,

'We are to be led by the revered Ancient Aldr,'

Keris did not try to hide the honour that coloured his tone,

'It is fitting as the oath we answer was sworn by the ancient himself.'

"Aye." The Ice-Slayer shifted slightly, the fleeting nuance of regret colouring the frigid scent-trace. "It is as it should be. You are to gather the rest of your pack then? You will find many of them being whipped about by the sons of Guilliman in the cages."

And like that, anything short of barely controlled anger was gone from the Wolf Guard. "Make sure you take this pair with you as well, unless you want the untried and the damned to wait out the fighting on Fenris."

Keris gave a nod to the elder Wolf's inquiry, though he felt a stirring of his wolfspirit at the mention of his packbrothers failing in the cages. The coarse hairs on the back of his neck bristled in response to the turn in his thoughts.

'I do not care for the timing of this call; the guardianship of the Fang will be tested by this oath and the sons of Guilliman are blindly imperious in their demands. That we have not leapt to their call like trained dogs seems to annoy their leader greatly,'

Keris gave a lupine grin, though there was little in the way of warmth to it,

'The fates of my wolfbrothers are tied to this wyrd and the pack needs this blooding, Ice-Slayer, you know that as well as I... though the lack of your blade-edge and fury will be keenly felt by all.'

"There are other matters which hold me here, ones that hold greater import than the chance to kill the greenskin menace." There was something within the tone of the Wolf Guard that caused the wolf in Keris' soul to stir. _Something had the wrathful Wolf unsettled, though the traces were as ephemeral as the tracks of a konungur across a scree of flintrock._

"Gather your packmates Keris, and see to it that they learn some measure of pain for failing as they have. Letting Guilliman's get goad and beat them so well." He said, turning to stride towards the lift.

Keris gave a grim nod, he had not missed the scent of blood that clung about the Wolf Guard's aura. The rich musk of Russ' blood and the sharp tang of an Astartes blood that Keris did not know,

'They will find the thrashing they received at the hands of the Auroras to be the least of their pains when I finish with their hides...'

Keris' voice was limed with the undertones of a growl as he started to turn towards the training halls before pausing to cast a glance back at the older Wolf, his tone changing to one of shrewd neutrality,

'One would wonder what would rouse the brood of Guilliman enough to feel the need to test the skills of Blood Claws. They were not the only ones to heed a challenge, were they Wolf Guard?'

"No, and who said they challenged your packmates." Baldyr's deep voice echoed from the cold stone walls, the massive Wolf never once turning around though his stride paused for a second. "Find your pack Keris, there is killing to be done. Do not keep the impatient waiting."

Keris gave a snort; his short fangs flashing in the darkness of the hallway and his voice carrying with the low growl of the wind as he turned back to his packmates. He had not missed the level of respect that the notoriously violent and aloof Wolf Guard had shown towards him,

'I will watch over them, Ice-Slayer, Russ guide your blade until we meet again.'

There was the blunt note of enmity in the body language between Iorek and Frostulfr, but time was short so Keris merely gave a nod to both before gesturing for them to follow. Iorek was already clad in his warplate, though it did little to disguise his packbrother's agitation from Keris' keen senses. The eye that stared back at him was blood red rimmed in the faintest hint of gold, a pale scar marking where the other had been before his packbrother had lost it in the fight for the genoratorium on the Fist of Russ months ago.

That the Ghostwolf had so far refused an augmetic replacement was a concern that lingered in the back of Keris' thoughts, however it was an issue he would have to broach when the time was correct.

-

Keris could taste the hostility that hung in the air before he had even passed under the arched doorway leading into the cavernous chamber of the training halls; disquiet niggled at his thoughts as he increased the length of his strides as the scents grew increasingly stronger.

The Training Hall chamber was vast; a natural cavern expanded on to meet the needs of the Wolves and though the stoneshapers had left the coarseness in the walls, the floors had been polished smooth under the tread of millenniums of Sky Warriors. The ceiling soared overhead, lost to the darkness beyond the reach of the glowglobes.

Some of the older Wolves of the great company were sparring in the cages, but Keris' attention was drawn to the source of the tension like steel shavings to a lodestone. Heimdall and Njord stood facing two larger figures clad in pale green and white, the bruised forms of Azahd and Hrothgar moving to join them as two more of the Aurora contingent spoke the rites to their armour as they redressed themselves.

Keris felt the wolf in his soul give a dangerous snarl at the words that reached his ears as he stalked across the remaining distance to where his wolfbrothers stood facing the Auroras, his cold gaze locked upon the Blood Claws before him and his voice loud enough to carry across the hall,

_*'Enough of this.*_'

Keris' voice was edged in the warning trace of a snarl as he stepped between the Auroras and his clawbrothers, the storm-grey pelt he wore ruffled like the hackles of a thunderwolf down his back,

'A warrior who enters battle with the belief that one fight's worth is less than another, that he will get another chance in the eyes of the AllFather beyond that moment, accepts defeat before the first blow is ever struck.'

There was no pity in Keris' crystal blue eyes,

'Are you all so _stupid_? We shall see just how thick your skulls _truly _are when each of you faces *me *in the cages for allowing yourselves to be baited into this foolishness! But that will have to wait for now... Lord Blackmane has called upon our packleader to join the hunt in answer to the oath of aid sworn to the Aurora Chapter, though I'm half tempted to see you four left here on patrols of the upper flanks for punishment befitting your foolishness!'


----------



## Deus Mortis

Azahd made a frantic swing with his blade to keep this damned Aurora away from him. Far to late he realized he had bitten off far more than he could chew. If he was honest, he was being demolished. Every sweep, every charge, every attack was countered with a deliberate slowness and dexterity that could be naught but the blasted Son of Guilliman showing off and milking the situation for every ounce of glory and showing this insolent pup what a fool he was for challenging one so senior to himself. Azahd was still on his knees, still feeling the thick, congealing liquid crimson trickling down his skin. The Aurora came in for another attack and Azahd almost know this one would end him, but was determined to defy the fates. His arm came up in a deflecting blow, and knocked his opponents most powerful strike aside. However, sadly the other blow which Azahd had not deflected rode the impact and the axe came across his chest creating a deep horizontal gash. 

Three strikes and it was all over. The shameful thing was Astartes physique should be able to start clotting wounds in a minute or so, and his nose had only just stopped bleeding. It had only taken a minute to get beaten by his better. *Crap* was Azahd's first thought. He was going to be absolutly murdered for letting down the honour of the Space Wolves like this, to Guillimans brood no less. To be honest, he was more worried about the beating Vermundr would give him when he found out. The Aurora, surprisingly, extended a hand to help him up. Part of him was annoyed at the offer of help, seeing it as degrading. However, a shard of empathy seemed to exist in his opponents face. One that hoped that he had taught a supremely arrogant marine that humility was always a virtue. Until he took the hand, then the shard disappeared and was replace by the lofty arrogance Azahd would have expected. Suddenly Azahd detested the victor of their match again and let a low decibel growl escape as he rose to his feet. 

Various members of the pack responded to the Aurora's baiting, but having done so once already, and having taken such a royal beating, Azahd was keen to not make more of an ass of himself than he had already. As the conversation heated up, a voice boomed from behind him.
*'Enough of this.'* *Here we go* Azahd grimaced to himself silently. Here was where the real trouble starts. The scars from the Aurora would seem paltry compared to the ones Keris would give him._'A warrior who enters battle with the belief that one fight's worth is less than another, that he will get another chance in the eyes of the AllFather beyond that moment, accepts defeat before the first blow is ever struck.'_ 

There would be no pity in Keris' crystal blue eyes, and Azahd was rooted firmly to the spot. He heard Keris' footsteps, but didn't dare turn round to meet his Fenrisian chilled gaze. _'Are you all so stupid? We shall see just how thick your skulls truly are when each of you faces me in the cages for allowing yourselves to be baited into this foolishness! But that will have to wait for now... Lord Blackmane has called upon our packleader to join the hunt in answer to the oath of aid sworn to the Aurora Chapter, though I'm half tempted to see you four left here on patrols of the upper flanks for punishment befitting your foolishness!'_ At least they would be heading off soon, where Azahd could vent his frustration and humiliating on some worthless greenskins. To some degree, he was glad this whole business was being rushed. Azahd knew as well as everyone else that if they had of stayed longer, Keris and Vermundr would have punished him and Hrothgar in a 'suitable' manner. However, it occurred to Azahd that just because they didn't have the facilities of the Fang didn't mean his packs leaders might not be more inventive with their methods...


----------



## unxpekted22

And just like that, the council was adjourned. He still had adrenaline pumping, his war body mistaking his current excitment of success at convincing so many of the elder wolves for a battle rush.

He and Keris parted ways, the pack had to be summoned and told of this great honor, but they were scattered throughout the Fang. A sharp hunger bit his stomach for a moment. The long hunt had not given him much to feast on, and he had been stolen away to the council before getting a chance to eat here. He knew some of his pack mates would be there and so headed in that direction by himself.

He admired the way his Lord bit back at the Aurora with such precision. What an honor it was to serve under such a great leader. vermundr decided he and Blackmane may ahve had a few things in common, at least. Both were promoted young, was the primary thing that he focused on. a multitude of clattering and all sorts of other violent sounds broke his focus apart and he picked up a run to get to the feasting hall.

The first thing that his dark pupils caught in their gaze was a single but harshly bright drop of red.

"Alrik....no" he thought, now staring inot the eyes of his packmate. He did not feel hatred for his brother, or really anything negative towards him other than the fact that such an action could ruin the success he had just achieved at the war council. He did not need more dishonor, especiialy one of this magnitude, placed upon his pack.

If he moved toward Alrik and the other blood claw, it may draw attention from others and he wasnt sure if anyone else had noticed yet. He took a heavy inhale of breath wide eyed, staring into Alrik's soul turning his head back and forth to say "no" without saying a word, before he took his footstep.

He looked away, knowing Alrik was still watching him, he simply made a brushing motion agasint his own throat to tell Alrik to wipe the blood quickly and keep his grasp on the wound covering it up so that it would clot. Such a small wound would clot quickly on a space marine, so he would only tneed to act like he was still holding the other blood claw's neck for a few minutes.

He looked around, "By The All father, so many elder wolves in here that may have seen that." he thought. He decided to break out the big news to draw as much attention to him as possible, and away from Alrik:

"_My pack brothers! We have been selected as one of the four packs in the Great Company of Lord Blackmane to accompany the Aurora marines back to their system, and bring war to the Ork Horde that plagues them. I dont know who started this fight, but I am proud of my pack either way for coming out on top. Come brothers, we must gather the pack once more."_


----------



## dark angel

There was a tumultuous crash, that reverberated throughout the hall, followed by a gentle tinkling of ceramic on stone. Alrik’s attentions, grim and fierce, sprung up from the heated hippocras, where it twirled colourfully in the sculpted flute. His hand was tighter upon the Flaying Knife, keen, black eyes scanning the surroundings. There, the thrower stood, wearing speckled furs over one shoulder, the rest of his body naked. Both hands were pressed into the stone table, the knuckles turned white through pressure. 

_The Wolf within lets out a mournful howl and prowls forwards, snout furrowing, fangs aglitter beneath midnight-dark fur. Small, calculating eyes stare on, in predatory awareness. _

He threw an insult towards the revered Long Fang, who remained silent as a Grey Hunter spat back a retort, eliciting four of the aggressor’s Packmates to stand. 

‘Sit down before you make more of a fool of yourself,’ Tyr said, gnawing voraciously on a leg of meat, before adding silently, ‘Let’s hope this continues, for their sake.’

‘A green-blood, one,’ Alrik said, eyes flickering over the instigator of the argument. ‘Who, I would believe, pisses grass.’

He stood, feeling the tension in his arms ease. The soreness was calming, though there was still a fiery ache, subconscious and insignificant. ‘Sit down, fool, lest I make you rue this day.’ 

Harsh laughter erupted from Alrik’s throat, booming as loud as thunder, but as sharp as lightning, when the other Blood Claw vented his opinions. ‘Brave boy,’ He spoke, sharing a knowing glance with Tyr, the man-mountain, who was still engorging himself on the meat and mead. 

The Long Fang’s reply was quick and blunt, his voice reminiscent of crashing glaciers, cracked and wise. The ensuing silence was unnerving, as the Blood Claw stood, chest-to-chest with the ancient Long Fang, and did the unthinkable. 

His hand connected with the older Wolf’s temple, sending him clattering over the table. Chalices, flutes and plates went skittering, landing amongst the corpse-still Wolf, who’s chest rose and fell shallowly. 

Alrik was between the Blood Claw and the downed Long Fang in an instant, his lips peeled back in a venomous smile, revealing his razor-edged canines. The Cretacian Blade, smooth and light-swallowing, came hissing free of its’ scabbard, twirling dexterously in the air between the two. 

‘Fine, time for someone to put you in your place, Firehawk; maybe improve your features.’ The Blood Claw said, through gritted teeth. He was tall and wiry, all whipcord strength, where Alrik was brutish and broad. A trio of rings glittered in his earlobe, hanging heavily. His nose was twisted, gnarled in some forgotten brawl. 

With an almost ignorant flick of his wrist, the Blood Claw threw a stone bench into the air, and towards Alrik. The Firehawk was quick, swinging his free hand into the bench, curled into a monstrous fist. When it met the bench, stone splintered and broke, a fine mist engulfing Alrik’s hulking, wide-shouldered form.

From it, the Blood Claw emerged, crouched low. A trio of punches were swung, each of which were nimbly deflected, accompanied by determined hisses from Alrik. 

The Firehawk smiled hideously, ramming the pommel of his Cretacian Blade into the Blood Claw’s cheek, eliciting a cry of agony. He went reeling, and Alrik was upon him instantaneously, plummeting into the other Space Wolf’s torso. 

Both went tumbling, crushing a table beneath their combined weight, cutlery and drinking vessels raining down on Alrik’s back. The instigator’s fist rammed into Alrik’s side with a crack, a black-purple smudge blossoming suddenly. Warm, putrid breath washed from Alrik’s mouth in a gasp of shock. 

‘That’s all you’re getting, bastard,’ Alrik said, ripping up to his feet, yanking the Blood Claw with him. His Flaying Knife was at the post-man’s neck, the wicked barb pressing into the soft flesh there, drawing a glob of rich crimson. His other arm went around the Astarte’s surgically enlargened chest, pulling him in close, so that his mouth met ear. 

Thin, leathery lips retracted over barbaric fangs, filed into cruel points. ‘Insolent, little, green-blooded bastard,’ he twisted the blade, placing pressure. A globule of blood grew around the oil-black tip, the acrid smell dancing into the Firehawk's nostrils. ‘Should I bleed you dry here, or later?’

_The Wolf’s maw opens, in a cruel mirror of a smile, and howls. It is oblivious, to the crimson tide in which it stands, lapping at his ankles. In his mouth, small and insignificant, is the torn form of a smaller canine, hanging limp from monstrously oversized fangs. _

Alrik’s eyes locked with those of another. Vermundr, his Packleader, wearing but little. For a moment they stared, Alrik’s eyes dark and tempestuous, Vermundr’s coal-black and calm. He shook his head, distastefully, and Alrik knew what he wanted. A warm trickle ran over his thumb, turning the skin crimson. Cruel urges coursed through him, to tear the Wolf's throat away, and fatten himself on gene-enhanced flesh and harsh, augmented blood. Battle was coming, and his lust was aflame, his thoughts and mood as black as the night. He, as with all of his brethren, was a monster. A murderer, a pillager; the ultimate instrument of war, borne out of fire and ice. 

And unlike the others, the whelps who had recently poisoned the Pack’s purity, he utilized it. Honed it, tested it - Perfected it.

Alrik's head bobbed, in agreement with Vermundr; this Wolf's day was in ruin, Alrik had destroyed his standing, barely breaking a sweat in the process. 

‘You bleed later, then,’ He whispered, sibilantly, drawing away the blade and with a feral kick, sent the instigator sprawling. He half-turned, locking eyes with the Marine, lips peeling back in a rumbling snarl. ‘You are worth no more than a lame foal, I am ashamed to call you brother.’ 

The instigator looked up at him dispassionately, clutching his neck, eyes hooded and vehement. 'Cross my path again,' Alrik warned, his voice thick with sadistic intent, dexterously twirling the flaying knife. 'And I _will _wear your hide as a cloak.'

His attentions turned back to the downed Long Fang, still laying amongst the broken table. He stalked towards him, sliding the Cretacian Blade back into his scabbard, still glistening. It made a wet rasp, a curious, hollow sound.

He smiled woefully, placing his hand in the void between them. ‘Need aid, oldtimer?’


----------



## deathbringer

“I do not hunt anything grimwolf. I sought solace and silence. Had to think. Yet I found none when this thing caught my attention. There is something here, can’t you feel it? Sense it?"

His lid closed slowly slipping over the blood red iris as he savoured the familiarity, the taste of kinship, embracing the feeling of being at one, in unison with another living creature. The scent filled him, a warmth stirring in his chest as he inhaled deeply pulling the scent within him to envelop him.

"I sense" he hissed, his words placid open ended fading into a contented growl

A bitter tongue, the snarl of an insolent pup disrespectful and hateful, sent his eyes flicking open, muslces tensing, the wolf's curled form springing to its feet hackles up, lips tearing into a rumbling snarl, long sabres of enamel glittering in the sudden light.

“But what is it to you? You did not seem too caring for any of us, unblooded, why so interested now? Nothing else to do?” 

The urge to lash out to slam the pup against the wall and dash has brains upon the wall, the feral urge to dominate, to enforce his standing burning within his mind. He repulsed it, his gaze level his eyes bored into the young pups a single long stride bringing him to within striking distance. 

"When a pup skids round cornors like a baby deer on ice, you assume it hunts something, badly, but hunts all the same. "

He stood an arm length apart eye boring into the pups perhaps an inch above him and he loomed, body stretching to use every millimetre his voice equalling the pups venom with cold malice

"Grim i may be yet i have seen and experienced things that you may never understand and by the Allfather's mercy, never will experience. It is a trait that can be excused, stupidity cannot. If making an enemy of the Firehawk has not worewarned you of the virtue of holding your tongue, your skull is evidently too thick for even the most obvious of lessons. You have done naught but tussle like a pup for the mother's teat, so like a pup I shall treat you,"

He moved past the other wolf striding slowly down the corridor eyes scanning the darkness yet he turned and snarled

"Grimwolf i may be, ghostwolf I am called. It was a name bestowed upon me by a wolf worthy of respect, use it in future"

He moved away into the darkness without fear, the familiarity a balm to terror to stealth, his footsteps slow and calm his eyes flittering over the corners, probing the darkness.

He could taste the scent its taste pleasant in his throat and his eyes narrowed as he quickened his pace, collapsing to his knees as his eyes fixed upon scratches in the stone. Recent.... fresh, their pray so close and he turned to alert the pup alongside him yet as he looked back both voice and markings faded away, a frown creasing Iorek's brow once more. What madness lingered in this place, what traces of the past held court in these ancient halls.

A sound behind them, the feral rage that laced the scent of the iceslayer teased his nostrils and he turned to meet the blazing blue eyes, burning hot flames in the near dusk

“Halls of our ancients are not the place for the wary; nor is seeking out the cursed and the damned. You would not like what you find, for some the eventual truth of things is a burden left in darkness for as long as possible. ” 

His eyes tilted towards his and Iorek met the gaze even as the ancient continued. Comprehension dawned in the rumours of what lingered in the depths of the underfang, the familiarity, the run of his feet.

Had he truly sought to see, see what would become of him, no what could become of him. The golden ring felt like a hundred weight upon him, pulling him down his gaze meeting the ground, the shame of his own fall a weight upon his shoulders.

Had he given up, was the fight over, was he to fail entirely, to fade until he committed the ultimate dishonour, to surrender to the wolf within.

“The council is likely near its conclusion; with me, now.”

Then the iceslayer moved and iorek paused browed laced with creases striding along in his wake, fingers brushing over the blank stone where the gashes had once been torn.

It was too keris he brought them, the sages mind elsewhere before he and Baldyr traded words of the location of their packborthers, brawls between the sons of gulliman and members of the pack of little importance and little honour, though the straightening of his brothers back and the rush of dissapointed anger betrayed the sage's own emotions.

Bitterness seeped in Iorek's own, the words of the Ice- slayer.... he was the damned, the lost.

He wanted to scream, to take out his pistol and place a round through the back of that great head, to in his damnation go down fighting, fighting those that judged.

Kill, place your jaws around his throat.

Yet that was true damnation, that was surrender to the damnation, to commit purest treachery

"If i am damned in your eyes then end it now, bastard, " he hissed as the ice-slayer dissappeared around the cornor and out of his vision even as his own feet tugged him after Keris without a word

Damn leash of heirachy, it tugged at his throat, a wolf should not be shackled and chained, he should be free to roam, to wander as he wished.

He was no dog, yet he was subservient to the leaders of the pack in battle and in spirit. 

Fucking leash.

His jaws snapped even as he followed his mind a whirlwind of feral anger and confusion. Coming upon the training cages to find his pack toe to toe with aurora, others bruised and battered as they clad themselves, sweat and blood dripping from wounds.

Keris was upon them in seconds his words hard and chastising, anger evident in those glacial eyes.

Folly, to fight against another astartes, to challenge another and test ones skills, to know where one compared against a warrior blooded and bruised on the field of battle.

Yet he would not compromise his brothers words, not let the aurora think their was doubt between the elders, let them think they were united, that all they had best was pups at play.

He had caused enough shame upon himself. upon the pack.

He stepped alongside keris his words a half laughed drawl

"Oh brother keris, you would give yourself all the fun of teaching pups the error of their ways? Do you not fear your arm will get tired from pummelling them all around the training cages, good job the allfather saw fit to bless you with a spare. Yet i believe you should allow brother alrik and brother tyr the chance to join in a little of the fun. I'm sure the firehawk would be all too keen."

He waited however til they departed the aurora's company, falling into step alongside his brother he met the icy gaze, the slightest traces of amusement fading from his eyes into dour inflection.

"I must admit i could not take part in your punishmet, for had the aurora bated my battered pride, I could not say with honestly I too would not have taken the bait. To my mind it is only through competition between warriors of greater esteem and experience that we learn. Even on the eve of your first blooding, I learnt much from my spar with the grey hunter, so long ago it seems now. The sons of Gulliman may have dishonoured the pups yet I am sure they have gained as much wisdom from how they move, block and strike, not to mention how to handle their choler, as any thrashing from you could instill."

His eyes became thoughtful, no trace of amusement in his voice

"Perhaps I too I need a little of your steel in the training cages, though unlike the whelps I will give you a few bruises in turn."


----------



## Nicholas Hadrian

[OOC, I apologize for my tardiness, college classes and bad sleep have been keeping me kinda drained and busy]

The fight had come so quickly, heated words had shot about like ammunition from a bolter.

Words that had inflamed the young Blood Claws, and resentment boiled over.

Iotki was getting to become very familiar with the feeling of resentment. In the form of booted feet. Two Blood Claws he held a passing recognition for had barreled into him, bearing him to the floor, much to his shock.

He could feel the two of them raining down a flurry of blows upon his body. This he would not stand for.

Waiting for an opening he seized the foot of one of the young warriors and upended him, sending him crashing to the floor. He heard a loud crack and knew his foe had gone down. Iotki did not envy the way that that Wolf's head would feel in the morning. Rolling to his side he stood up quickly, facing the other wolf-brother. He felt a snarl come to his lips, his teeth bared, wolf-like canines biting into his lip.

Then the world turned red.

Iotki vaugely recalled charging into the other wolf, his blood up, his anger raised, he felt his hand driving into the other Blood Claw's gut and hot breath on his face.

Then he went flying. His foeman had taken a blow that would have dropped any normal warrior, calmly lifted him up and tossed him onto a banquet table. Iotki felt the legs of the ancient table splinter beneath him, he sat up with a groan, Pulling himself backward and landing roughly on the stone floor. The table snapped up like a drawnbridge.

The Blood Claw was approaching him, cracking his knuckles as he did so. He bent down, seizing one of the shattered table legs, clutching it like a club.

Then an idea flashed in Iotki's mind.

Raising his hands above his head, forming them into fists he slammed them down on the end of the table closest to himself.

The far end of the table snapped up, more wood splintering from an impact it had not been designed to handle, and crashed into the Blood Claw's chin and propelled him backward, the makeshift club dropping from his unconscious fingers.

Satisfied, Iotki scanned the brawl, seeking out the embattled forms of his pack. He paused only to grab a long, shattered piece of timber and charged into the melee.


----------



## komanko

OOC: Totally useless, worthless post in my opinion but I had to write something after all... Sorry that it took so long.

He could see the anger in the ghostwolf’s eyes, he could smell the hostility rising. The urge to dominate was obvious, it reeked from him like the stench of the dead. A moment later it was gone, the wolf calmed himself down and then he spoke, mocking Frostulfr trying to raise is anger yet he shrugged it off, he knew his own worth and while he might be unblooded he was not as useless as a pup.

The Grimwolf stood in front of him eyes burying thick into his skull, his voice full of malice, equal to the venom that Frostulfr spat at him earlier. He told him that he had seen things, experienced them, things that Frostulfr by the mercy of the allfather will not experience himself.

For a moment he felt a ting of guilt, maybe he went too far? Maybe he was truthfully disrespectful to one who did commend respect? Yet that moment quickly passed when the Grimwolf finished his words implying that Frostulfr was stupid, and bringing back the incident with the Firehawk. He claimed that if this did not teach him to hold his tongue then he was probably to think skulled to learn from his mistakes and as such he should be treated like a pup.

This time it was Frostulfr who lost his senses, he snarled at the Grimwolf’s remarks and clenched his fists. He knew that if he would pick a fight with the fully armoured warrior he would stand no chance, he would simply have to let this mockery fly by. He could do nothing about it… 

He wanted to say something, he wanted to prove the Ghostwolf wrong yet he had no time, before he even thought of what to say the Ghostwolf moved forward, past Forstulfr. He turned around and watched, the Ghostwolf was scanning the corridor, searching, with no success it seemed.

“You claim me to be an idiot yet you completely ignore the fact that the Firehawk was the one who was acting like a child. I wished him no harm yet he attacked like a pathetic beast relentlessly seeking something to relieve its anger upon. Sadly all of you are acting like that, all of you veterans alienate yourself from us unblooded. I seek no quarrels with you but I do need to work with you as a pack and if you are all acting like mere children we would not be able to do anything together.”

He paused for a moment, “Think of it differently, we are supposed to be a pack of wolves, we hunt, we stalk, and we do it together helping each other. Yet we are not that, we are like many lone wolves hanging close to each other yet none bothers to help the other. In this way, when we will face the green hordes, if we will face them, we shall be picked one by one like a bunch of idiots, and this will bode ill on the pack altogether and not only on those who died.”

He stared at Iorek, in a way he was different, he was not like all the other pack members, new or old, he spoke the truth when he said that he saw things that none should experience, this one at least commended some respect. 

“Ghostwolf, I urge you, you don’t need to be kind to us unblooded but we do have to work as a pack, and to work as a pack we need to act like one…” He let these words fade, letting the wolf understand whatever he wanted from them.

Suddenly it seemed that the Ghostwolf had noticed something, collapsing on his knees and look on a cold blank stone. What was it that he saw there that Frostulf did not? He wanted to ask but before he could the Ghostwolf simply stood up a look of confusion on his face.

The look of confusion quickly changed as Iorek smelled something, Frostulfr smelled it as well, it was the smell of someone familiar yet not close, he smelled of barely contained anger, he was full of rage. The steps became louder and louder until finally he could see who he had smelled, it was Baldyr, a figure of might.

The Iceslayer spoke, his words mainly for Iorek to hear, the ghostwolf seemed to fall, like some terrifying understanding fell on him, he seemed weaker, his smelled of shame. It could not be the effect of the Iceslayer, it must be something else, something that Forstulfr did not know about. The Iceslayer then commanded them to walk with him. Iorek lingered behind for a moment yet then caught up, something was definitely troubling him.


They walked in a strange path, one that Frostulfr did not notice that he walked before. It seemed that he was indeed deep in thought if he couldn’t even recall how he arrived at the Hall of the Ancients. They turned around another corner when a new scent greeted his nose, a familiar one, when they turned around he saw that he was correct. Keris stood there, the mystical wolf, Frostulfr decided that Keris was probably the smartest of the pack yet he was still acting like the other veterans, alienating himself from the new additions to the pack, from the pups.

The Iceslayer spoke demanding to know what was the result of the council. Keris answered and his eyes lingered on Iorek and Frostulfr when he said that they would participate in the attack. Them and the rest of the squad that is. It seemed that they would be led by a dreadnought, by ancient Aldr, was he the missing ancient in the hall? 

A quick exchange of words, Frostulfr noted the important parts of the conversation but most was useless for him. Then the Iceslayer parted ways with them, Keris looked at them both and then nodded and gestured them to follow him. 

They made their way to the training halls quickly arriving to a scene of shame for the Sons of Russ. Most of those who participated in the fighting against the sons of Guilliman were beaten down, exhausted and ashamed by their loss. If they really took the bait of the Astartes they were foolish indeed. They should’ve known that those who came here were at least blooded unlike so many of them.

He looked towards where the gaze of Keris was set, he saw how their pack was facing the Sons of Guilliman, there was no time, there was killing to be done. Personal shame would have to wait for a different time, as long as it did not shame the chapter it should be endured.

Keris strode towards the packmembers and shouted at them to end this bickering. He stepped between the Guillimans and his pack. His words were harsh and his threats harsher. He showed no mercy and this was enough to subdue every inch of fighting spirit that was left in the clawmembers. None wanted to face Keris in the cages, none dared.


----------



## darkreever

Vermundr; As you turn and walk away, the Blood Claw Alrik had nearly taken surges up and manages to get in your way. _*“And what of the rest of us then!”*_ He snarls, the cut in his neck already clotted and forgotten. *“If only one claw is to go then I challenge you for that right, best me here and now or give up your place.”* Not that you need accept, but before you have a chance to respond another does so for you. One of the Grey Hunters gets between the two of you, lifting the Claw by the neck and throwing him to the ground. _“Once already you have proven yourself a fool, do not be so hasty to prove it a second time in front of your pack. The right of such a challenge belongs with the one who leads the pack, and last I heard it was lord Blackmane who was leading yours when the time came, not a lowly cur such as yourself.”_

And like that, the blood claw is paid no more attention and you continue to leave, noting that the three Grey Hunters and Long Fang are leaving as well. It is then that you recognize them, the Grey Hunters all members of Liedolfr’s pack and the Long Fang one of Enkil’s Fangs.


Alrik; The Long Fang looks up to you for a moment and then takes your offered arm, less from the need and more in respect of the gesture. _“He and his pack needed a good thrashing, but don’t let the lesson pass you by. Though there numbers were greater, you few came out the victors; experience and determination will be allies to you when it is the greenskins you fight.”_ He says to you, clapping you on the shoulder before turning to leave but stopping as the wretch you had nearly killed snarls a challenge to Vermundr. Of course, that challenge met with a less than fruitful end, and finally you were on your way.


Vermundr, Alrik, Krahl, Ulvbror, Yngvar, Tyr, and Iotki; With things in the great hall settled, you leave to armour yourselves before making to the launch bay for departure. It is not long before the Grey Hunters and Long Fang depart from you, their arming chambers located elsewhere from your own but you have no doubt that you will be seeing them again in the near future. Travel to the cavern that is your arming chamber goes without incident, and it is not to long before you enter and find your armour racks. Already there are others present and making ready, though the air is far from as pleasant from the rest of your pack. It is likely those who had gone to the training hall had troubles of their own and they did not meet with the same victory as your own.

[The wargear of The Pack is contained within the same chamber rather than within the personal chambers other more veteran warriors might choose. You all note that the coldness of things seems to be coming from Keris more than any other, which in itself is likely a very bad thing. Perhaps finding out from the others what has gone on, or telling of your most recent fight, might help things while you armour yourselves.]


Keris; The Aurora marines watch as you reprimand your packmates, one with a pair of blades sheathed across his back nodding at your words. _“The true test of a warrior is which battles he will allow himself to be drawn into and which he will be led into blindly. You will never know which fight will pit your life on the knife edge, and if there is falter, there will be no coming back to try again. We have seen your words put to truth many times, both recent and past, it is good that one of your squad can readily claim such experience.”_ He says to you before motioning for his battle brothers to leave.

_“Do not punish your brothers too harshly, for the error was mine. We are eager to return back to the fighting and it gnaws upon all of my brothers as you are likely aware with Namur. I allowed my own desire to take control of me, and in the end your brothers mistook our intentions.”_ He said, though you cannot help feel that the Aurora is keeping something back, or at least not telling the entire truth of what had transpired. It is almost as if he is mocking you, that you do not warrant the truth. You stare into his eyes for what becomes as ages, until it is he who looks away and makes his leave. For with the call answered, any welcome the Aurora’s might have received would quickly end.


Hrothgar; Your words stop the Aurora mid stride, and have enough of an effect to garner a measured response from him. _“You are the one who made the broad challenge without thinking on it, I merely answered and defeated you. Learn from your loss, do not sully yourself or tarnish the honour of others for your wounded pride.”_ He says, and then proceeds to leave and let you digest his words. Which is likely all the better considering how soundly he defeated you, who knows if anyone would have been able to help you if he had taken offense. 

You follow him from the cage, joining Heimdall in time to see the approach of Keris. Your packmates words force you to lower your head in shame, hoping that he had not heard your final comment to the Aurora veteran. It was made perfectly clear that despite the news of going to battle as you would be, Keris would not make this loss an easy memory to forget, and punishment would be all the worse if he had heard you.


Heimdall; _“And like many of your chapter, you take to insult and anger as the first response. You wear the black carapace of a full initiate of your chapter, but you walk about as a mere neophyte. Do not be so tempted to jump into the flames of conflict, a single small victory does not win the war.”_ He responds to you, features cold and almost devoid of life as he likely quotes from the codex astartes.

It is not long before you are joined by Hrothgar and Azahd, as well as an angry Keris and silent Frostulfr and Iorek. The former unresponsive, possibly trying to hide the faintest elements of a grin from not being on the receiving end of Keris’s venom; the latter, however, regards you and the others with a cold eye as he agree’s with Keris.


Azahd; You stand there with your head down, knowing full well that what Keris declares to be true no matter how you may feel on certain things. Despite the punishment that will come, you cannot help but feel a feral longing within at the prospect that you will be going to battle. A chance to test yourself and to correct the mistake you have made here coming to the fore above other thoughts. Words from the leader of the Aurora marines drags you back to the here and now, and for whatever reason, perhaps wounded pride or a general dislike, you cannot help but feel there to be some hidden meaning or judgment hidden just beneath the Aurora’s words.


Iorek; From the parting with Baldyr, you travel to the training hall in silence. That silence, however, comes to an abrupt end when you enter the training hall, the tension in the air coming from your packmates and a group of Aurora marines. Keris reacts first, anger lacing his promise of punishment for such foolish actions. But the leader of the Aurora group soon speaks up in defense of your packmates. However you quickly get the feeling that he is holding back or altering the truth. Finally the Aurora’s make their leave, likely to return to their own ship in orbit and make ready to leave the space about Fenris.


Frostulfr; Anger you may feel towards someone like Iorek, but ultimately there may be a level of truth in what he says. Yes the pack may act divided at times, but was it not a whole when you hunted the razor-ursid? Did your brothers not come together and help each other when it was needed most? There is no mistaking the void between that of you and your untested packmates and the five more veteran warriors, but are your words entirely true?

You think on this as you travel with Keris to the training hall and feel a measure of relief at not being on the receiving end of Keris’s wrath. With luck, no one noticed the barest hint of a smile that had tried to cross your features. Turning your attention from your brothers to the Aurora marines, you watch two of them finishing returning their armour to its place on their persons and stand beside the pair in front of you. It is an impressive sight to behold, but when the leader of them speaks you cannot help but feel a measure of mocking in his tone.


Keris, Hrothgar, Heimdall, Azahd, Frostulfr, and Iorek; With the Aurora marines gone, there is little more to be done in the training hall. You turn to leave and note the presence of the Grey Hunter Mar the silent, he motions his head in the direction the offworld warriors had gone and a motion from him is enough to indicate that whatever you might have felt was off by the Aurora leaders words was not just your imagination. He soon turns to others within the hall, gathering members of his pack to tell them of what has been decided and to make ready.

No need to waste any time, you quit the training hall for the location that is your arming chamber. Travel is without incident, or much in the way of comment, and you arrive to discover yourselves the first of the pack in the vast cave like chamber. It is not much longer before Vermundr arrives with the rest of your packmates, and your Claw made whole once again. Unlike you though, they arrive with a more victorious and proud air about them.

[Might be a good idea to inquire what has transpired with the others to find out why their own mood is better than your own. In addition to donning your wargear, with the exception of Iorek who is already armoured.]


All; It takes longer than you would have liked, or perhaps it simply feels like it has taken longer, but at last you are armed and armoured in your war-plate and ready to leave for battle. You make haste to the uppermost levels of the Fang, to the launch bays and thunderhawks that will take you to the vessel *Hunrodr* and from there the Gorden Worlds. Learning of what each other has done since arriving in the Fang has had a myriad of responses, some positive and others much less so.

But at long last talking is over and you come into the launch bay from which you had arrived in earlier. Other Space Wolves are gathered, those of Enkil and Liedolfr making final checks on gear as well as the armoured bulk of the revered *Aldr* who is already being attached to the bulk of one transport. You spot the unmistakable form of Njal Stormcaller, clad in his own power armour, as well as those of Gunnar Orkbane, the wolfprist Sigurd, and lord Blackmane.

Gunnar nods at your arrival before turning to speak with Njal on things. Lord Blackmane and Sigurd, on the other hand, walk over to you; one with a slight smirk on his lips the other something akin to a snarl or controlled anger. _“I look forward to hearing a mighty tale of your deeds upon your return from ending this greenskin menace.”_ Lord Blackmane says, grasping Vermundr’s fore-arm in the process. _“Hunt hard and well for those of us who cannot fight by your side this time.”_ Sigurd growls before speaking directly to Keris, _“And remind any who need it who you are and why you fight.”_

_“Come now Ragnar, do not hold them forever or Aldr will get mad!”_ Gunnar calls out from the top of one of the thunderhawk ramps. Lord Blackmane gives a genuine grin at this, his fangs pulling at the sides of his mouth in the process. _“He is right, off with you to your vessel!”_ Your lord declares, he and the priest banging an armoured fist against their chests. You cross the distance to the thunderhawks, noting that the green and white Aurora vessel is already gone and the one in which Gunnar entered is starting to take off.

You find places within your own transport, discovering that you share it with the rune priest Njal. The ancient warrior looks beyond many of you, eyes piercing your very being to rest upon Alrik. _“When we have made transition to the warp you and I must speak Firehawk, you will find me upon the bridge at that time.”_

Getting secured and prepare to launch from the Fang you are rocketed into your grav couch from the transports takeoff almost as soon as the assault ramp closes, the pilot bringing the thunderhawk into a steep climb as it escapes the atmosphere. You spy the *Fist of Russ* hanging in orbit, signs of repair still going on even now. The thunderhawk lurches to the left and you see a trio of smaller ships, two are frigates of the Space Wolves and one a slightly larger light cruiser of the Aurora chapter.

[Within minutes you shall be touching down on the ship *Hunrodr* where you will see the thunderhawk carrying *Aldr* and the Long Fangs land as well. True to his word, Njal is gone for the bridge as soon as he exits the thunderhawk. ]


[Cutting things a little short, as some of you will likely notice. But worry not, transition to the warp shall begin soon. As always, if you have questions feel free to PM me or find me on MSN messenger. Do not be surprised if there is more here tomorrow.]


----------



## Nicholas Hadrian

*Blood Claw Iotki*

"Keris? Brother?"

Despite his usual insensitivity, his penchant for pranks of both the laughable and cruel variety, even Iotki could feel somthing was wrong.

They had left the hall in almost complete silence, some merely doing so to keep from laughing out loud.

Until of course, they rejoined their pack.

Their humor seemed tainted, sullen. No chatter, no excitement, no claps on the back, congratulations or admissions of honorable acquittal, despite the invouluntary and reactionary nature of the brawl, it had been a bout well fought, suitable for a tavern-song in Iotki's opinion, though, many things that others would call acts of dishonor were suitable for tavern-songs in Iotki's opinion. That was half the fun of tavern songs.

They had all armed themselves in a silence that seemed almost sulking, like they were all children that had been disciplined by an angry parent. But then, he supposed they were in a way. He could vaguely recall hearing some of his Pack-brothers speaking to each othe in low voices, though he could make none of them out, no-one wanted to break the silence it seemed.

Iotki rushed to clad himself in his mighty power armor, feeling it's machine-spirit, a friendly, protective presence as ever, wrapping around his enhanced form. He felt his Black Carapace interface with it, his second skin once again merging with his body, the body of a Space Wolf, one of the Emperor's finest, a proud Son of Russ. Despite the cold feeling in the arming room, he felt some pride at that.

He had managed to arm himself before most of his pack-mates had, not entirely unintentionally and rushed as fast as he could from the discomfort in the armory. He wanted himself as far from Heimdall as possible. Avoiding the aura of discontent that Keris projected was simply a bonus.

He could feel his lost eye throbbing. Guilt was a painful thing.

As he waited in an antechamber for his brothers he pondered Keris' foul mood, attempting to occupy his mind of guilt, and his hands of trickery.

He wondered what had so raised his pack-mate's hackles. He grinned for a moment at the irony of Keris having hackles, or indeed for the apropos aphorism fitting so well to his Pack-brother.

As the rest of his squad joined him, the entire pack making their way to the summit of the Fang, he made a desiscion.

Their audience with Blackmane and the Stormcaller done, they loaded into the thunderhawk, pulling the webbing tight to secure themselves. Iotki made sure to locate himself next to his surly brother.

"Keris? Brother? Is something wrong?"


----------



## Scathainn

[OOC: It only took me a month but at least it's finally done. I couldn't have had the family troubles I've been having at a worse time but at least that's over with.]

It all happened much too fast for Ørrgrimr.

One minute, he was hunched over the table with the Firehawk across from him, knife in the splintered wood, venomous jests hanging in the air like a putrid fog. The next thing he knew, the world around him spun as a heavy goblet connected solidly into his head. The wolves around him bared their teeth and brawled like animals. Dazed by the solid blow to the head, he noticed an Elder, one of the Long Fangs, lying on the ground with blood dripping profusely from his face. _A shame we have sunk so low as to dishonor our elders like this,_ Ørrgrimr thought, and he quickly rushed over to the old brother and attempted to help him up. Before he could do so, however, the gnarled veteran snarled and swung a mighty fist at him. He managed to narrowly avoid the blow before the veteran was pulled away by a burly Blood Claw he did not recognize, his eyes manic and his fists flailing.

He’d have none of that.

With a single solid kick he sent the other Claw sprawling, then jumped on top of him. The two struggled on the ground for a brief moment before Ørrgrimr put the other Claw into a headlock, cutting off his oxygen. Even one of the Adeptus Astartes can only hold his breath for so long, and after a few minutes of clawing madly into Ørrgrimr’s arm, the other claw finally passed out cold. By the time he had done so, the hall had gone quiet again, with the fight over and the warriors leaving the hall, muttering curses to each other under their breath and licking their respective wounds, both to their persons and to their pride. The tension in the air dissipated slowly as the Blood Claws left to arm themselves for the coming engagement, leaving Ørrgrimr standing by himself awkwardly for a few moments, the heavy Blood Claw’s throat still locked in his arms.

Shrugging, Ørrgrimr let the young Blood Claw slump to the ground and exited the hall to the Armourium, to obtain his arms and armour. As Ørrgrimr hustled to join the other members of his pack, his arm brushed against the Firehawk’s accidentally. The macabre warrior gave him but a moment’s glance before narrowing his eyes and pushing past him. “I’m still ready for that wrestle when you are, friend,” he called after him, smiling with his broken-teeth grin. “You as well,” he added, nodding to Tyr as he walked past, “as it seems our brother Alrik’s stick up his arse is making it difficult to grapple.”

Once in the armourium, he quickly suited up into his armour and hefted his bolt pistol and chainsword. He gave the bladed weapon a brief whirr, almost giddy with the anticipation of being able to use it in battle. With great haste he made his way to the Thunderhawk, and quickly boarded and searched for a seat. Scanning the rows of Astartes looking for a spot on one of the grav-couched, he spotted a suitable one. Slowly, that broken grin spread across his face again. One day his habit of making jests with the wrong men would get him killed, but if it were today he would die happy. With an almost palpable air of boisterous swagger, he walked deliberately over to the furthest grav-couch and seated himself next to the one he should have the most reason to hate. He couldn’t have grinned wider if you paid him with all the gold in Holy Terra.

“Quite a fight, eh Alrik?” he asked, easing himself into the mag-belt of the grav-couch. “You’re quite the fighter, I noticed. Shame I didn’t have the chance to test those skills out more personally.”


----------



## unxpekted22

And as his true brother, Alrik did as he had hoped and removed his blade...even better the same blood claw with the cut was still in such a frustrated state he barely seemed to notice the severity of Alrik's slip.

It took Vermundr half of the envious marine's statement to realize he was being challeneged, too consumed by relief that none of the older wolves in the room seemed to take notice of the blood that had been drawn in a more severe manner than that produced from say, a punch to the nose.

In response to the blood claw who had already been beaten once, mere moments ago, Vermundr simply raised an eyebrow and tilted his head back just a bit. He had no intention of accepting the challenege whatsoever, about to to decline the idea outright but not having to say anything. One of his older brothers, something he would never have expected a short time ago, stepped in on his behalf. By Russ, all of this was beginning to bloat his head far too quickly. Such respect, such honor, while so young and new to the great company. It was enthralling.

On the walk toward the arming chamber, half of his pack behind him with multiple victories of different natures among them at once, he could no longer stop the ego from rising within him. A lavish smile spread across his lips as he strode in front of his succesful pack, but said nothing. He wanted nothing more than to be inside of his power amor once again. It was time to earn even more honor for himself, and kill even more enemies of Man.

Already inside, he found the rest of his pack. His smile left him as he the cold scent of keris's mood caught his nose. He narrowed his eyes and looked over the others who had come from the training cages. They reeked of shame and regret. Vermundr snarled....he actually snarled, as he looked at them, these of his pack he barely knew. Had they brought more shame to his pack? He had worked hard enough already to get rid of any consolation between his pack and the word shame ever since they had left Hecutor.

The lights here were not necesarily bright, but their armor segments gleamed all the same, so many brothers donning their armor at once filled the air with shades of blue and grey flashing this way and that. Each piece clamped on and fit tight, the smell of sacred oils soon covering up all the scents of his brothers, taking over all that he could smell. Once the final pieces were finished, his shoulder pouldrons which seemed to almost double his width, he moved to Alrik's side and spoke to him silently though not caring much if any of the others heard.

"_I am not angry at you my Brother, but please, dont let that happen again. Putting those fools in their place is one thing, but damning us all is another. Regardless, I look forward to joining you in battle once again on the Aurora homeworld, or whatever planet our feet may fall upon in the Gorden worlds._

He then turned to face the majority of his pack, speaking loudly now, _"This is a proud day for our pack brothers! I trust you all look forward to fighting the filthy greenskins in the Gordon worlds as much as I do. Upon our travelling, I will be speaking to all of you individually. I regret to say I hardly know some of you at all, and with only four packs on the ground once we get there, it is important that this changes. I expect all of you to make sure you know those guarding your back as best you can."_

Finally, Vermundr would make his way to Keris, asking what transpired in the training room.


----------



## Euphrati

The Ghostwolf spoke, a cold mirth colouring his tone, and Keris cast a fleeting glance of subdued acknowledgment to the wan features of his brother's scarred face before focusing back upon the blooded warriors that stood in a loose group.

_Shame._ 

The scent-taste was a bitter tang on the back of Keris' tongue as his packmates averted their eyes and lowered their heads in submission to his wrath. Out of the edge of his vision, Keris caught the slight nodding of the marine who bore the twined swords upon his back; the older Astartes offering his own words of experience. Keris finally turned to face the warrior-cousin of the Aurora Chapter as he motioned for his battle brothers to make their leave, the unfamiliar scents of the Auroras betraying a frustrated boredom that skirted upon veiled irritation.

The speaker continued and Keris could feel his wolfspirit's sense of disquiet intensify. Though the warrior's words were self-despairing, there was the shadow of a sardonic undertone to his clipped voice that caused Keris' ice-pale eyes to narrow almost imperceptibility in challenge as they met the sea-green of the Aurora's gaze. There was a long moment that neither warrior moved, locked in a sparring match as decisive as the ones fought in the training cages. _Two apex predators, different in aspect and background yet related distantly by the brotherhood-kinship of their genetically forged progenitors, silently testing the will of the other._ Keris could taste the measure of unease marking the warrior's scent a fraction of a heartbeat before the Aurora dropped his gaze and turned to follow after his brothers.

_Remember this lesson well when next we meet Aurora, son of Guilliman, my fangs may be short in years but the strength of my will is eternal._

Keris' eyes tracked the Astartes' movements for a moment longer before he too turned back to his packbrothers with a gesture to follow his path toward the vaulted door, noting the presence of the Grey Hunter Mar the Silent. The moment Keris' attention focused upon him the elder Wolf's dark eyes flicked from the Claw to the direction in which the green-clad warriors had taken their leave, his gesture speaking without the need of words to confirm the niggling sense of unease that seemed to hang in the air about the Aurora Chapter brethren. Keris gave a grim nod in return before continuing to lead his wolfbrothers deeper into the heart of the Fang where the pack's arming chamber lay.

Iorek fell into step at his left, the single red eye that met his gaze was rimmed in the faintest halo of amber-gold and the trace of the wolf was a hauntingly feral musk in his brother's scent. As Keris listened to the low tones of the Ghostwolf's voice the fur of the storm-grey pelt down Keris' back shifted gently with each liquid movement of his corded muscles underneath, his stride predator- easy as they stalked through the twilight of the passageways. 

'In or out of the cages, Ghostwolf, I have always welcomed your company brother. I will hold you to your words, though any bruises will be well earned.'

Keris' smile was brief, but genuine, before his features took on a serious cast once more. 

'Grey Hunter Heimdal's pack was not chosen in this oath, Iorek, yet his wisdom will be there with our pack for _you _carry the knowledge earned from his hand. Knowledge earned through blood and pain,' 

His tone was low and somber,

'I do what I must to ensure that the pack does not fail in its duties to Russ and the AllFather, but I take no pleasure in the fact that some lessons _must _be understood with blood and pain. It is the way of Russ.'

Keris was silent for a moment, his eyes darkening as he continued,

'We are not like our cousin-brethren who have allowed their true purpose to be clouded and their blood-lines to become thin as spring ice. Fenris is unforgiving of such weakness within her sons. The Wolf King rejected the muzzle that his brother shrouded in the title- Codex Astartes. Guilliman's sons have never forgotten that. They look upon our ways and believe us unrestrained, easily incited and dangerous like a wild animal ever straining to slip its leash. They are correct in part. We _*are *_dangerous...'

Keris' crystal eyes reflected the low light of ancient glowglobes set into the carved knotwork of the archway leading to the packs' arming chamber with a feral luminosity,

'But to be so requires a discipline far greater than any they could ever comprehend.'

-

Keris gave a grumble of discomfort as the cold pain of his armour's neuro-spikes locked into place within the bio-interface sockets that ran down his spine. There was a brief moment of disorientation as his body integrated with the systems of the battleplate before the familiar strength of its war-spirit coursed through Keris' thoughts. Partway through armouring Keris had noted the rest of the pack enter the chamber led by Vermundr, the air about them was one of victory though it quickly cooled as the Wolves went about arming themselves. Whatever had taken place in the feasting hall had apparently come out in the pack's favour unlike the events in the training halls. 

The mood in the arming chamber was somber. Even the huskarls that stood nearby, ready to assist in machining closed armoured torsos or fitting auto-reactive shoulder guards in place, knew well to stay quiet when such moods took their Sky Warrior masters. Keris rotated his wrist after locking the gauntlet into place, the servos giving a low growl at the movement as he secured the silver-grey wolf pelt across his shoulders and reached for where his weapons hung on a nearby rack. Ime’Ta's hilt felt warm in his grip, the ebony teeth glinting as Keris fastened it in place upon his hip across from his pistol. Blackmane's gift of Grey Hunter Kjarl's chainsword had touched him deeply and Keris had honoured the blade with a tenacious regiment of training until he became intimate with the blade's weight and balance in his hand.

Vermundr's voice broke over the subdued murmurs of the pack members still blessing their wargear, his words clear and focused on the fights that lay ahead of the newly re-forged Claw. Keris nodded a greeting as his packleader stepped to his side, his voice was cold as his eyes turned pointedly towards where Hrothgar, Heimdall, and Azahd stood nearby.

'Tell your packleader how you _allowed _yourselves to be baited like blind whelps still wet from their mother's screams and then routed in the cages by the haughty sons of Guilliman, _Blood Claws_.'

Keris gave a half-snarl as he shook his head in disgust,

'Not only in full view of Grey Hunter Mar's pack, but also Champion Baldyr... I have already spoken to the IceSlayer and by his word have been charged with seeing that the pain of their failure is a lesson not soon forgotten. Each will face me in the cages aboard the _Hunrodr _until *I* tire of beating some sense into their collectively empty skulls.'

-
(ooc- will add a second post to finish off the update but wanted to give the others a chance to react before moving ahead.)


----------



## Serpion5

The fight was over, in no small part thanks to the arrival of Vermundr. Had things gone much further Krahl was afraid to think what might have come of it. It was not so much fear of injury or fear of inflicting injury, but these rifts always had the potential to divide the packs on a semi permanent basis if not quashed as quickly as possible. He knew this, but not yet did he have the voice to silence the others. One day perhaps. 

If anything, his quick involvement in the fight had put those days even further into the future. But he had already acknowledged that he was a might too young to be aspiring to any real form of leadership just yet. For now he would just have to live with his leader`s and his own disappointment. There was still a score to settle with his own packmate as well...

The transition from the Great Hall to the arming chamber was uneventful save for one quickly dismissed Blood Claw who attempted to challenge Vermundr. The young wolf`s arrogance seemed a harsh indicator of how Krahl himself had come across earlier, brash and with barely a handful of active brain cells in his head. That was put from Krahl`s mind as he assembled his armour upon himself piece by piece. He mostly performed the task by himself, only requesting aid from a huskarl briefly to make the final connections to his power pack. The feeling of being within his power armour again was one he had relished before and it had lost none of its allure now. The sensation it brought was intoxicating but even one as impulsive as Krahl was knew better than to let that power get the better of him. 

He controlled this. He decided where this fury was directed. He brought death with it... 


During all of this and as they travelled to the thunderhawk bay, Krahl had noticed the air of coldness about, and it was not just the Fenrisian atmosphere. Though he was aware of what had the others had done, he dared not risk Keris` wrath by bringing it up again. At best, he might meet the older wolf`s eyes with a questioning glance, and let him speak at his own discretion...

* * *

As he entered the hangar where the thunderhawk waited, he was awed by the presence of some of the chapter`s finest. Here, he knew, was the kind of example he aspired to. Krahl watched with a measure of envy at the familiarity with which Ragnar Blackmane himself spoke with Vermundr despite not hearing the words himself. The bustle of readying astartes and the din of the huskarls seeing to their own tasks obscured the specifics of any conversation that took place, as well as his distraction upon noticing the presence of Njal Stormcaller and even Brother Aldr. 

Krahl hastened himself, doing his best to keep out of the dreadnought`s sight in case there were any traces of ire left from earlier. Assuming the Ancient remembered him of course, but those who had lived such long lives generally had memories to match. Only when his pack had followed the chapter`s elite on board and he had strapped himself in did Krahl begin to relax again. 

Ironic, considering where they were headed...


----------



## dark angel

The Space Wolves clasped wrists, with thick, callused fingers. Alrik Firehawk let out a low hiss as he hefted the Long Fang onto his feet, his lips twisted into an ugly smile; of concentration, effort and lust. 

Around them, the brawl was dying down; Vermundr’s Pack emerging victorious. Tyr had fared well, wrestling with two others, and now standing above them, triumphantly. Of the others, Alrik cared not - They consisted of the younger ones, the wild, dishonourable brethren. Vile sycophants, battle-hungry fools; untested metal, each and every one. 

‘He and his Pack needed a good thrashing,’ The Long Fang spoke, in a glacial voice, slow and measured, but nonetheless filled with power. ‘But don’t let the lesson pass you by. Though their numbers were greater, you few came out the victors; experience and determination will be allies to you when you fight the greenskins.’ 

The Firehawk nodded shallowly, lips rippling back over his pearly fangs, as the Long Fang clapped his shoulder and stalked away; each movement springy and calculated, his eyes unwavering from the other Blood Claws. 

The Blood Claw, who’s neck Alrik had perforated, stood, bellowing a challenge to Vermundr. His neck was an angry pink-red welt, the blood having congealed and crystallized in the wound, essentially healing it. For a moment, Alrik’s hands were at the Flaying Knife; prepared to drive it through the Blood Claw’s hearts. All he needed was Vermundr’s word, or the merest of nods, and he would be upon the idiot. 

‘Insolent whelp,’ He hissed, a low, menacing grumble arising in his throat. ‘Raise your hand, and you will lose it.’

Around him, the tension renewed. Astartes stiffened at the prospect of violence, that was their life - To serve and protect and more importantly, - To kill. They were reborn, biologically engineered and physically augmented; until they towered, living statues, carved into perfection by gene-splicers and arcane machinery. 

The intervention of a haggard Grey Hunter, who struck the talkative Claw onto his back, ended all promise of bloodshed. Despite himself, Alrik sighed, disappointed; life was tremendously tiresome with a lack of violence. 

And so, they made for the Armorium. Alrik’s pace was quick, taking long, powerful strides. Something brushed alongside his arm, a gentle, tickling sensation that sent a shiver along the Firehawk’s back. 

His large, leonine head swung about, locking eyes with the fisherman - Ørrgrimr. When he spoke, Alrik’s eyes narrowed in contempt, hueless, predatory orbs, filled with potency. 

Rather than speak, or lash out, the Firehawk continued onwards, his steps more hurried now. Only once he reached the Armorium, with the stench of bodily fluids and lubricants, did he halt. 

His own armour was there, suspended in the air, amongst a shimmering field. It was polished to the finest of standards, a glittering, lifeless form; the chest plate mirror-like in sheen, the helm a fierce rendition of Váli’s forever-snarling face, with cold and depthless claret eyes. 

He bade Keris and Iorek nods, when they entered, gathering his Chainsword and Boltpistol from their safety cases. Keris was a storm, the air around him heavy and acrid; his annoyance writ upon his patrician features. Iorek remained melancholic, his sole eye staring onwards, the other a angry, red whorl of scarification. 

‘Thrall,’ Alrik spoke, in a voice of thunder, calling to the nearest of aids. ‘Your assistance is required.’ 

The man, young and proud, clad in a leather jerkin, nodded. 

Alrik stripped naked, replacing his clothes with a simple, black bodysuit; studded with interfaces. Slowly, between the thrall and the Posthuman, the armour was disassembled and reassembled, each plate locking with Alrik’s enlarged form. Neural interfaces and false-muscles gave life to Alrik’s armour; transforming it into a second skin, as durable and alive as the flesh encased within. 

He flexed his fingers around the hilt of his Chainsword, with a pneumatic whine, twirling it dexterously; testing the weight, as he tossed it from left-to-right and back again. He checked the firing mechanisms on his Boltpistol, ushering a prayer to the Machine God; and then another, this one louder, to the Allfather. 

Vermundr berated him, though there was a hint of kindness, of appreciation, in his words. Alrik did not speak, running a metal finger over his leathery cheek, tracing the contours in his flesh. Imperfect, impure, destroyed, a murderer, - That was Alrik Firehawk, a true Astartes; not like the sniveling whelps which surrounded him, save, of course, his original Packmates. 

Only the bear’s-head helm remained, resting on a podium, beautiful in all of its’ iridescent self. Alrik gripped it, like a mother would a babe, for an instance, before lowering it over his head.

For an instance, he was shrouded in darkness, his breath misting within his helm; and then, - It exploded into life. Every sound was amplified, every colour brightened. Confirmation runes cascaded past his eyes, each blink-clicked away dismissively. 

Holstering his Boltpistol and slipping his Chainsword into a Wolf-hide scabbard, Alrik was amongst the first to be armoured. He did not tally, did not banter; merely complying to his needs, armouring and preparing. 

‘Thank you,’ He spoke, to the thrall, when he was done. His voice was rendered a mechanical growl, heavy with static, turning his Native Fenrisian into a sonorous boom. ‘I need you no longer.’

The man bowed deeply, before moving off, seeking to aid another of the Space Wolves. 

Keris spoke, his every word furious, righteous, intelligent. Alrik listened dutifully, tilting his beast-visage helm, a cruel smile peeling back his lips. 

‘Let the children be children, brother,’ He spoke, mirthlessly, his voice carrying across the chambers. ‘The Orks will weed out those not strong enough. Their kind will never learn,’ He gave the barest of inclinations to Frostulfr, venom in his voice. ‘Why waste your energy on these pitiful fools?’

He fell back into silence, having said what was needed, the baleful smile still tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

‘I shall be at the Thunderhawks, brother Keris,’ Alrik said, before leaving. ‘If you wish to discuss this matter further, you are welcome to seek me out.’ 

And with that, the Wolf departed, stalking through the hallways. Mortals and Astartes alike shied away from his path, weary of the blue-grey giant. A fully-armoured Astartes was a tremendous sight, a walking tank; each and every weapon an extension of the limb and in turn, every limb was a weapon. Alrik was akin to a bull mammoth, advancing onwards inexorably, each step unfaltering, rapping an impatient tune on the hilt of his Chainsword.

When he neared the hanger bays, he halted; deciding that it was only right to await the remainder of his Pack. It was a short wait, before the Pack came padding at his heels, clad in armour and pelts, tall and erect. For the newcomers, this would be their first off-world transition; their first feel of the Warp, at the niggling within your soul, the dark urges which it sent, coruscating through your mind. It was an humorous prospect, but one that made Alrik’s choler rise. 

The corruptions and depravations of Chaos was the true danger; growing and growing, cancerous, gnawing at the minds of good-hearted individuals. Had the Arch-Traitor Horus not once been the favoured of the Allfather, the brightest and most prodigious of his Sons? Had the Alpha Legion, Alrik’s cousins one-and-all, not been great and proud warriors, and yet on Hecutor they had murdered in such undignified manners, striking from the darkness?

When they entered the hanger, the cold winds of Fenris rushed against them. Alrik’s armour thrummed, a whiney, static-laden sound. His blood-red eyepieces locked on Njal Stormcaller, the all-powerful Wolf Priest, for whom Alrik felt only envy and an unnatural distrust. And yet, deep down, there was a kinly bond, that the Firehawk had towards all his brethren, though to varying degrees. 

Blackmane, Sigurd and Gunnar Orkbane were also present, the latter clad in his baroque Power Armour. Few words were spoken, some in jest, though Sigurd remained stern and prickly a he spoke directly to Keris. 

‘His protégé,’ Alrik whispered, coyly, watching the pair with his coal-black eyes. ‘A fitting path, brother.’

They were to traverse the Warp aboard the _Hunrodr_, a frigate in the service of the Space Wolves; a pup next to the ancient, monstrous _Fist of Russ_, which Alrik knew, was undergoing repairs and refit in orbit, after the devastating damage dealt to her in the battle for Hecutor and the following campaign against the Orks. 

Alrik clambered aboard their allocated Thunderhawk, his armour turning a bright, cherry-red in the lights. He took the seat closest to the cockpit, scanning the surroundings - His eyes falling on one power-armoured figure, furs and fetishes adorning his broad form, - Njal Stormcaller. 

Both looked at one another, before the Psyker spoke, in his deep, rasping voice. 

‘When we have made transition to the warp you and I must speak Firehawk, you will find me upon the bridge at that time.’

Alrik’s face twisted into a bewildered sneer. ‘As you wish, my lord,’ He said, after a moment of silence. ‘I will abide.’

Ørrgrimr took the seat next to him, grinning distortedly; his teeth splinters. 

‘That was no fight,’ Alrik spoke, when the fisherman was done, wetting his lips. ‘Fight a war, brother, and you may earn the honour to spar with me, though,' He smiled wickedly, eyes aglitter. His gauntlets became monstrous fists, thrumming voraciously. ‘I will break you.’

'Never worry, Packmates,' He called, his voice thunderous in the oily confines; addressing the newcomers directly. 'Should the Thunderhawk suffer a catastrophic failure, our mother-world’s atmosphere will rid of you.’

His laughter was sonorous, mechanical and vehement. And, most terrible of all, - Genuine.


----------



## unxpekted22

"You and Alrik duking it out with them about _Hunrodr_ on our voyage would be a good start I think," said Vermundr, his voice husky and seemingly dry, despite the heavy amount of vapors in the room, the change from hunting the ursid in the cold air of Fenris for so long and coming back so suddenly into the atmosphere of the Fang probably being the cause. 

His wandering eyes soon flicked by to Keris's, which were still staring intently at him, the last shameful words from his mouth still appeared to be culing over his brother's lips. Vermundr's own eyes narroed at his mind's odd way of suddenly focusing on other problems when faced with such a potentially large one. Better not make a habit of that, he thought.

"Once On the Gordon worlds, War will help shape us all as it always does." He said this mainly to Keris, but to everyone else still around as well. MAny of his pack had already begun moving out fo the room and onward toward the hangar bays. 


Once in the hangar, His eyes went straight to the hulking form of Aldr, their commanding officer for this mission. He knew practically nothing about this soul, but being one of the ancients of the chapter, he couldnt imagine having a problem trusting in any of his orders. More battle experience than his Lord... 

If there were any Space wolf to study and learn from in terms of how to lead a mission, he couldnt ask for a better candidate. 

Suddenly a strong grip upon his forearm drew all of his attention to Lord Blackmane, _“I look forward to hearing a mighty tale of your deeds upon your return from ending this greenskin menace.” _ He could only nod in return for a moment. A rushed response gurgled in his throat, " _I will my Lord."_

With Gunnar's declaration and his Lord's reply, He and his pack were off to the Thunderhawk, His hearts rushing and the moments passing by too quickly. He almost felt sick to his stomach, as if he may never see the Fang again. Fortunately for almost any space marine, home was also on the battlefield.

Njal and the Wolf Guard were inside first, Alrik and some of the others in his pack before him. He took a seat in the center, intending on staying quiet in prayer and meditation during the short trip up to _Hunrodr_.


----------



## Lord Ramo

Heimdall turned as Keris made his presence known, berating him and his pack brothers quickly. In fact Keris was furious with the blood claws threatening to fight them all in the cages due to his pack being goaded into fighting with the Aurora Marines. Heimdall barely held back a snort of derision at Keris' words. Keris was acting as if he was a grey hunter, when in truth he was a blood claw just like them. Heimdall kept his gaze and expression even, he was not ashamed of the words that he had said to the Aurora's, in fact he still stood by them.

If Keris had been in the same position then he was sure that he would have accepted the challenge, in fact he reckoned that all of his brothers would have done it. So for Keris to get on his high horse, even though he wasn't the Packleader, and still just a blood claw was almost laughable to Heimdall. 

Heimdall decided however to stay quiet, there was no point in splitting the squad further over pride. He fell into step behind Keris and the Ghostwolf, walking through the halls in silence, though he kept his gaze level. As they arrived at their arming chamber he could see that the rest of the pack were already there, preparing themselves and arming themselves for the coming campaign. Wordlessly Heimdall moved to his arming area, relief flooded him as he saw his prized weapon laying there ready for him.

Heimdall with the help of some of the chapter serfs began to armour himself, slowly each piece of armour was fitted into place. While this was happening Keris spoke to the packleader before turning and asking the Blood Claws to explain to him their "shame". Heimdall just shook his head at this, continuing to armour himself. If he said anything he only risked furthering the gap between the older blood claws and the younger ones. For now he would stay quiet.

Finally all the pieces of armour were put into place, he took his flamer up and held it, pistol at his waist and combat knife the other side. He was excited to finally get off of Fenris and head out to fight the enemies of the All-father, even if he had to endure the punishment that Keris planned for them, he cared not. He made his way past his brothers, ignoring them all as he headed towards the embarkation area. He thought to himself as he walked, Keris was right in a way, but not the way he had intended. 

Heimdall had prided himself on his ability to think things through, and to be able to control his words and actions. However he had failed to do that in the sparring room, and for that he hated himself. He would do better, he vowed it. He took his place with the rest of his pack on the thunderhawk, awaiting the trials ahead.


----------



## deathbringer

His brothers eyes glittered as they met his own, his smile an open palm of kinship as they fell into step. A reminiscent echo of the familiarity he used to hold, the brotherhood and camaraderie they had felt before his world had turned upside down,

'In or out of the cages, Ghostwolf, I have always welcomed your company brother. I will hold you to your words, though any bruises will be well earned. 'Grey Hunter Heimdal's pack was not chosen in this oath, Iorek, yet his wisdom will be there with our pack for you carry the knowledge earned from his hand. Knowledge earned through blood and pain,' 

His brothers voice became low and somber, the slightest tinge of tension, the weight of a burden that he alone carried

'I do what I must to ensure that the pack does not fail in its duties to Russ and the AllFather, but I take no pleasure in the fact that some lessons must be understood with blood and pain. It is the way of Russ.'

The glacial eyes tinged with rage, the darkness of the aurora's words, the condescension and disrespect behind icy calm fresh in his brothers mind

'We are not like our cousin-brethren who have allowed their true purpose to be clouded and their blood-lines to become thin as spring ice. Fenris is unforgiving of such weakness within her sons. The Wolf King rejected the muzzle that his brother shrouded in the title- Codex Astartes. Guilliman's sons have never forgotten that. They look upon our ways and believe us unrestrained, easily incited and dangerous like a wild animal ever straining to slip its leash. They are correct in part. We are dangerous...'

Glittering certainty, like the morning sun of fenris, proud and majestic swelled in keris's voice, though his voice rolled with the slightest tinge of melancholy

'But to be so requires a discipline far greater than any they could ever comprehend.'

The silence stretched as Iorek's mind wondered the words, the wolf within too paused in his slumber an ear rising, the single golden eye but a narrowed slit as it too pondered lazily upon his brothers words.

His own voice sounded coarse and unrefined yet they slipped across his tongue in a low rumbling snarl

"You speak with me brother, one for whom the wolf's leash is frayed, held by a thread, in danger of snapping. I feel the primeval rage that ripples within us as keenly as any wolf can and terror coarses through me that one day I will be unable to hold it back, that it will envelop my humanity. Perhaps you are right, the sons of Gulliman do not know how dangerous we are, how disciplined we have to be."

His voice rose his own pride at his place amongst Fenris's finest swelling to the fore

"Yet perhaps they do. They my snarl and cast insult like pups, call us barbaric and undisciplined, sneer at us down their haughty noses. Yet where do they come when they cannot hold back the time, not to the sons of Dorn, nor to Khan's wildriders, they come to the wolves of Fenris."

He let out a little snarl

"The pups may have allowed them to assuage their egos, given them a tale to snarl through shamed lips, yet in doing so they have shown that even the youngest hold the quality that our primarch held in abundance, that makes us the most deadly of the all father's angels. We do not back down, we will meet each and every challenge with stoic determination and feral rage. We are wolves, nothing can escape our hunt."

His voice too turned somber

"Teach them to hold their choler and pick their battles as you will, but do not beat that fire from them brother. For some battles you cannot win but you go to them anyway because you must. It was not misplaced anger that lead me onto the sorcerer's blade, that cast me into the red dream, though the stormcaller believes otherwise. I knew I charged to my death that day, yet better mine than the stormcaller's, that is the fire that embodies the sons of Fenris, that is the reason they call us and that is the reason that we will succeed where Gulliman's stiff backs have failed."

His face was set yet it broke into the smallest of smiles as he turned upon Keris, his brothers face impassive for a moment

He had missed this
______________________________________________________________
Others armoured, blades sliding into sheeths even as he crouched upon his haunches his armour already in place the shamed scents of four masked by the throbbing rage of Keris.

Across the other side, Vermundr's scent was cool and calm, the others that accompanied him, scented of victory, even enough to mask the firehawks smouldering anger as he cast him a nod before slamming his sword into its sheeth and striding from the room, one of the others following him, desire for cohesion seeping from his pores.

Better to try to make friends with his armor than the wolf encased within.

Keris's words cut across the air, his purpose clear even as the packleader touched upon the bitter rage

'Tell your packleader how you allowed yourselves to be baited like blind whelps still wet from their mother's screams and then routed in the cages by the haughty sons of Guilliman, Blood Claws.'

His words continued seeking support, the packleaders cooperation in the inflection upon the I, yet Vermundr seemed unconcerned, dismissive of the behaviour of his pups.

Such weakness, unwilling to discipline his own pack, to hold those that had strayed in line, to allow Keris to inflict his judgement, every moment he seemed to find his feet then loose them once more like a wolf upon ice. Did the iceslayer sense that too, placing the duty upon Keris to inflict discipline rather than turning to the pack leader. Was Vermundr's grasp slipping, his influence amongst the elders waning? 

Perhaps he was not aware of the import, yet how could be so blind. Would he cast yet more shame upon himself?

The words were slipping from his tongue, cold and dry, high enough to slice through the air

"Since when does the heart of the pack have more authority than the head?"

He met the packleaders gaze with icy intensity, his gaze not designed to be challenging but a spur, a lance to the packleaders pride

"Aye the wolf guard deigned brother Keris with the responsibility to teach these pups to handle their choler yet does the packleader not desire to respond to the shame these pups have inflicted upon us."

_"And that you would have inflicted had you not chosen to stride the depths of the fang" snarled the wolf within with an icy drawl._

Iorek forced it away with a snarl

"Allowing the sons of Gulliman to roll them over and tickle their bellies like tame dogs?"

He made a final thrust a last ditch gambit

"Or does our packleader deign to allow others to fight his battles for him?"

__________________________________________________________
They strode to the ship as a group, the mood subdued and eager haste rippling through the wolves, the scent of blood but a hairsbreadth from their nostrils, they stalked.

Soon the unblooded would become blooded, his own hands further soiled, though he could only hope to cleanse the stains from his own reputation.

It was what he needed, a good solid campaign, to show his skills to the elders, reinforce his place and begin to cleanse his shame. Aye no vengeance would be found for Njoror here yet his time would come, or would it?

In a galaxy so great would their paths ever cross again or would he go through life unsatisfied, lingering upon a vendetta that could never be fufilled.

It was a brothers oath to another brother, it could not go unsated, could not be forgotten or cast aside. They were met upon the top levels of the fang, the smell of diesel and smoke an acrid bitterness to the eagerness he felt to be gone.

Their lord stood before them, clasping forearms with Vermundr even as the wolf priest had words for brother keris, Alrik finding the stormcallers ear with hurried words and a leering smile.

Protegee's and their mentors and he had no one.

He had hoped to find Morgan, not as a mentor, though the golden eyed wolf scout intrigued, hoped to find someone to aid him with the wolf within, some advice, some comfort that he could overcome this, that the wolf could be beaten, could be driven back.

That he was not doomed to.... all father protect.

Brother Tyr stood alongside him even as the ascended the ramp, his great bulk clad all in armour his face contemplative, stoic and loyal, a mountain that could not be displaced. He turned to his brother with grim contemplation, desperate to distract himself from the 6 that spoke before him.

"What happened to you brother? Your scent suggested we had defeated the ork menace single handed, yet still we find ourselves encased within this contraption . What mighty feats did you accomplish on your return to the fang, or has the ale merely gone to your head?"


----------



## G0arr

*Yngvar*

Yngvar smiled. It wasn't the fight, it wasn't the reaction of the elder wolves, it was the pack. For a brief moment it felt like they were more than individuals. It felt akin to their battle with the razor ursid. Instead of each other's throats they were faced with a common threat. In relative silence they left the Great Hall, and proceeded to the arming chambers.

The arming chamber seemed cold. It was not the temperature but the mood within. Much of the feeling seemed to come from Keris, but it was mirrored from the others who had never reached the Hall. Still the smile did not disappear as he moved to his small alcove and reached within.

Piece by piece the young blood claw assembled his armor. As the neuro-spikes slid into the sockets within Yngvar's own flesh he felt the rush of cold. Without the power of his suit enabled it all felt unnatural. The armor was bulky and unwieldy. With a loud clank the pack attached, and a gentle hum sounded throughout the assembled suit as power brought it to life. In an instant the bulk seemed to disappear, the weight lifted. Yngvar tested his 'new skin' flexing and moving joints. The spikes no longer felt like foreign things stabbed into his flesh. They were as his own living nerves sending his will into the armor which in turn obeyed the commands. More parts were brought, and locked. Gauntlets slid into place and the blood claw flexed his hands. Without resistance the armor moved. Yngvar flexed his arm and watched it. As one muscled and machine acted. Something brushed against the cermite. Yngvar knew the sound without looking. An aged spearhead, a dead warrior's final weapon. A lifetime ago it was his.

Yngvar reached into the rack and pulled his weapons from their place. The first was a simple combat knife. It was sheathed on his hip. The second was a pistol. Compared to the spear he had held during their trial this weapon held immense power. A single shot could have slain the ape trolls. The young bloodclaw whispered a prayer as he snapped a fresh clip into the weapon. "Now whole shall we bring death to my enemies, and the enemies of our brothers." The mag plating snapped the bolt pistol to his hip. Still the workings of this armor amazed him. The final weapon was a many toothed sword. There was a slight whine as the trigger was pressed sending the teeth into their deadly motion. With a clank the sword snapped to the empty hip plating.

Armed and armored Yngvar stood. Still a slight smile remained on his lips. With his helmet tucked beneath his arm the bloodclaw turned with the others for the walk to the hanger. 

The meeting with Lord Blackmane seemed to end so very quickly. The pack took their places. Yngvar locked his weaponry into place before securing himself. The mood here mirrored the one as they were preparing. Finally the smile disappeared.
As the engine whined to life a voice boomed through the interior of the craft. _'Should the Thunderhawk suffer a catastrophic failure, our mother-world’s atmosphere will rid of you.’_ Then came the laughter. Yngvar glanced over. 

"If that be the case I hope it would do so sooner rather than later," the young bloodclaw replied in a rather joking tone as he retrieved his helmet, "My final moment would be a joyous one seeing the world I call home, instead of seeing your haggard face." As he finished, Yngvar clamped the helmet into place.

A sudden rush of air met him as lights danced in his vision. Some time ago they had seemed so foreign, now it seemed as natural as his oversized physique or the skin he wore. Icons represented each of the pack mates. Others displayed for the chainsword, and bolt pistol he had held earlier. The machine spirit held their existence still.

Outside there was inky blackness spotted with light. It was clearer than the coldest night sky. Yngvar watched with amazement. It was the first time he had seen this for himself. The sight was beautiful. Against the stars there was a small grouping of things, ships. Floating in silence was the Fist of Russ an immense cruiser, but from here it seemed like some child’s toy placed in a calm ocean reflecting the night sky. The craft turned toward three smaller vessels. Slowly they were turned from dots to full ships. Two of the ships held the markings of the Sons of Russ. The largest had the symbol of the Aurora Marines, one that he had seen now only twice.

With a loud clank the thunderhawk landed. Almost immediately the rune priest that had rode with them disappeared. Yngvar removed his helmet as he stood. The others were preparing to disembark. As they did the young bloodclaw freed his equipment, and quickly turned to catch Hrothgar before he could leave. Another had approached Keris and questioned him already. 

“Hrothgar, brother would you accept this,” Yngvar reached into a pouch that appeared out of place on his own belt. From it he pulled a broad stone spearhead attached to a talon by a leather strap. On one side of the stone was a symbol resembling a tooth; the opposite having a symbol for a great beast, an Ursid; and a single word ‘Fenris’. “For the forging of our brotherhood, and the first trial we have faced together. While greater things we shall do this one was the first.” He held out the charm awaiting his brother’s response.


----------



## unxpekted22

Vermundr had ignored Iorek's taunt at first, his mind too preoccupied with other recent thoughts. As the rest of his pack slid past through the doorway of the arming chamber, the white haired blood claw steppd up to his face, intent on clawing through his increasingly victorious legacy and smashing down any pride he was finally beginning to feel about his pack, and his position as its leader.

The ghost whisped past him as well a moment later, followed by Vermundr's quick turn of heel and following of the pack. 

Vermundr's eyes were sealed tightly in the dim red light of the transport. Bit by bit, his brows furrowed deeper. His stone face became sharper in some places, only to appear more creased in others.

He had waved his light blue gauntlet through the air, "Bah!" he had muttered. He was still in a good enough mood to wave it away as 'Iorek's usual distaste'.

His confidence, momentarily reignited with the brightest of flare's as his Lord grasped him in a warrior's handshake.

His silent form, intent on meditation and prayer on the rise to _Hunrodr_ was quickly displaced. Iorek would be pleased, no doubt.

The _Lord_ of their _great company_....gripped his arm in....blood claw....

Yet still, such disrespect. His short patch of brown hair likely rose to its full height, an annoying, unwanted display of emotion so often out of a Space Wolf's control. Hardly one to be overcome by his wolfspirit, unlike his _brother_, he calmed himself enough to give away emotion by appearance before speaking. Iorek's head was turned toward Tyr as Vermundr made his voice known, cutting through the transport and the armored warriors within.

"Its as if you have always believed yourself a psyker, Ghostwolf. From day one, you have claimed to know what goes through my mind. You speak of my role as head of this pack, and Keris's as the heart, but since when does the pack's _reject_ have authority to do or say _anything_ outside of battle? Despite your hatred for me, I stayed by your side while you slept fighting with your wolfspirit, wanting nothing more than to see you regain consciousness. I have kept you alive through the devious plots of heretical traitors and a horde of greenskins already! Our superiors side with me more and more, continuing to place more honors upon me. Still, you disrespect me. What on Fenris makes you think, that I have no intention of responding to our brothers' shameful actions myself?"

He half spat, half laughed next, before shaking his head and speaking again, 

"I do not even consider the actions of our pack brothers shameful. They are blood claws just like us, and so they acted as such. I do not intend on hammering out the fire that burns within each of their hearts, for it is that fire we each hold within us as blood claws, as wolves of Fenris, that makes us so formidable on the battlefield. This is likely why the Aurora marines have come for our support, because we are willing to take on a challenge in the face of overwhelming odds, or even defeat. We _never_ back down from a fight, just as I will never back down from _you_ or my position as this pack's leader without one."

"I will have Keris and Alrik take Azahd, Heimdal, and Hrothgar to the cages, but not because of their decision to fight, but because they _lost_. The fact that they would be beaten from the start matters not, they will be disciplined for losing regardless. This leaves me open to deal with any bigger issues in the pack if I must, such as _yourself_."

Time had gone quickly with such words, and the transport vessel shook from its docking procedures.


----------



## Euphrati

Alrik's voice was a rumbling, vox-laced growl of words. The tones belligerent and ursine as the snarling facade that graced the front of his battle helm. Keris felt the fibre-bundles along his forearms twitch in response to the sudden flush of cold anger that burned through his veins, his armour reacting to the increase of his heart rate by priming for combat. It took an effort of will for Keris not to cross the armoury and tear out Alrik's scorn-laced tongue from between his broken fangs for the insolence he continually displayed concerning the new members of the pack. Keris' voice was a warning growl through clenched teeth even as the surly Wolf turned to stalk towards the landing bays,

'Because they are _Vlka Fenryka_, Firehawk. I _need _no further reason than that to stand by their sides in the face of Hel or to ensure their oaths are remembered in the times between.'

Crystalline eyes never left his packleader's features as Vermundr looked over the arming pack as he considered Keris' words before responding. There was moment of weighted silence in which Keris fought to keep his expression neutral as his eyes flicked in the direction Alrik had taken, 

'The Firehawk's humours are unsettled, I would caution against placing Alrik in the sparring cages with any of the new blood...'

Yet before he could continue Iorek's scent flared like stirred embers and the Ghostwolf's low voice cut over the noise of the pack making ready. Icy blue eyes turned to regard the pale features of his brother with a weighted carefulness, though Keris held his tongue as he attached his battle helm to its mag-lock on his hip and fell into step at his packleader's side as Vermundr turned to make his way toward the launch bays. _The wolf in his soul echoed his caution, a wariness of past events uncoiling as Keris awaited his packleader's reaction._

The launch bays were cavernous hubs of activity, echoing with the readying of the chosen packs. The space was thick with the odor of machine oils and the acridic tang of promethium, yet beneath the chemycal bite of the air currents Keris could sense the distinct note of battle arousal already laced in the scent-trace of the Wolves preparing to board their crafts. Keris' eyes tracked beyond the crouched shadows of the Thunderhawks where the faint sheen of atmospheric screens covered the open bays. 

Out beyond that thin veil the Fang scrapped against the void's edge like a spear thrust into the galaxy's depths. Stars burned brightly against the ebony darkness and Keris could feel the echoes of an unwavering duty from the wolfspirit deep within his soul; a smoldering longing for the eternal hunt. 

_This is who we are, what we were forged for._

The powerful form of Lord Blackmane was flanked by the presence of Wolf Priest Sigurd and Rune Priest Njal as the Claw entered, watching over the readying of the packs with the head of his Wolf Guard. Gunnar gave a nod of acknowledgment their direction, but continued his conversation with the Stormcaller as Lord Blackmane turned to approach the pack with Sigurd shadowing his steps. The Wolf Lord's humour was an undeniable force, his charisma palatable in his words as he looked over the Blood Claws before him and clasped Vermundr's forearm. Sigurd's words carried a different importance before his gaze met Keris' own and he spoke directly to the young Wolf though his words were intended for the pack as a whole to hear. Gunnar's voice cut across the bay, a note of sincerity in his humour concerning the wrath of the Ancient. Keris gave a nod of respect and acknowledgement of the purpose he felt in his soul to his Lord and the Wolf Priest,

'As long as a single one of us still draws breath, the enemies of the AllFather will know the fury of Russ. Until our paths see us home again,'

Keris clasped his fist to his chest over his primary heart, the tenacity of his will burning with a cold fire in his gaze before he turned to stalk up the ramp and into the darkened hold. The familiar twinge of discomfort stirred within his gut at the closed confines of the craft's steel-wrought walls, something that Keris endured with a muted growl of disquiet as he took a seat across from Vermundr with a nod to the presence of the Stormcaller's choice to share the Thunderhawk's voyage with the pack.

The growl of the engines echoed his own as the Thunderhawk powered from the bay and into the void. Keris glanced out of the nearby viewport to see the proud bulk of the Fist of Russ, her flanks still showing the shadows of wounds taken in the assault of the Traitors. The Thunderhawk's pilot shifted his track, angling the gunship's path towards the waiting forms of the gladius class frigates- Hunrodr and Raudulfr; though both ships showed modifications to their original template designs from hundreds of years of hunting in the name of Russ. Beside the two grey-flanked vessels, but slightly apart as if reluctantly enduring the others' company, hung a slightly larger light cruiser clad in the pale green and white of the Aurora Chapter.

A shift in scent drew Keris' eyes back to his packleader with a snap as Vermundr's voice cut through the growl of the engines. The words were laced with challenge and force and Keris felt his muscles tighten in reaction to the possible danger of the moment as his attention focused upon Iorek in the red-lit interior. The Ghostwolf's scarred features flushed with the tinge of colour at the bite of the words before becoming ice-pale, his gauntlets clenching the armour of his thighs with enough force that the servos whined with strain and his scent burning on the back of Keris' tongue with barely contained feral rage.

'Vermundr Iron-Vengeance, Iorek Ghostwolf... you will *both *remember the oaths you have sworn to your Lord and each other. _Now is not the time nor the place for this_.' 

Keris' crest of raven-black hair bristled in response to the silent snarl of threat from the wolf in his soul; Iorek's blood-red gaze was focused upon the air in front of him like a predator in prey-lock, his jaw drawn so tight the muscles twitched slightly with exertion.

'Vermundr, you accepted Iorek back into your pack and forgave him of his sin, would you re-nig on that choice now and name him reject for offering council, even though it was perhaps ill timed? The past cannot be changed Packleader, and no honour ever comes from re-opening old wounds. I would speak with you both upon this later, once we have made the translation to the warp.'

Keris' husky voice was low and firm, his hand resting gently on the release to his restraints as his eyes focused upon Iorek's pale face,

'Ghostwolf, _*look at me*_ Son of Russ.'


----------



## unxpekted22

Vermundr made to stand, gripping one of the overhead rails as he did so, his rugged voice rumbled again.

"Council and insult are two very different things Keris. I am done with talks over such things at the moment, I am through being criticized by my pack before I even voice my opinions, and I am through with any of them still wanting to believe our Lord hasn't yet made me the permanent leader of this pack. I reopened no wounds. I thought he and I were fine, until he made the decision to speak to me in such a manner in front of others no less."

While he spoke mainly to Keris, Vermundr kept his eyes honed on Iorek's face as he stared straight ahead of him into Tyr's broad chest. His own face remained stern, readying himself for any retaliation the Ghostwolf may spring. Despite his body making preparations, the adrenaline rushing into his bloodstream and the sudden acute awareness of his battle axe's weight at his thigh,he knew in his mind the decisions Iorek was more likely to make. One was to stay quiet and let his innner rage build further until he forced himself to believe he cared about nothing and acted much like an automaton when it came to battle and his other holy duties. The other was to plot against him, waiting for the day when vermundr would need his help and Iorek would be the only one who could save him...

It mattered not. Not for a second did Vermundr believe he was ripping the pack apart again, if anything he was making it stronger. No one in his pack would undermine him. In battle, his orders could not be questioned. No matter how inexperienced he may have been, a pack not working together would die much faster than one with at least some kind of order. Iorek had said he would follow Vermundr's orders, sure. But cooperation without respect was a lost cause. He almost regretted the 'reject' statement, but then again, Vermundr was quickly being filled with the idea of Iorek being a pathetic individual.

"But speak with him if you must," Vermundr said to Keris.


----------



## deathbringer

Reject

Vermundr's spiteful words were lost in the echoing depths of that single word. 

Reject.

So that was how he was seen, the packs reject. He flushed, felt his cheeks tinge with the slightest of rouge, shame burning a deep seering mark upon his features.

Then the rage came, a feral hateful rage, not from his own soul but the very depths of the wolf within, a wild hatred, bestial and uncontrollable like the storms of fenris. Loathing cascading through his soul, the wolfs teeth bared, its single eye seering as it pounced forward a desperate hateful lunge for Iorek's mind, to bring him forth, to pounce upon his accuser, to tear out his throat, feel his blood upon his tongue, hot and delightful tinged with the thrill of the kill, of vengeance.

He was moving forward his body jerking forward,yet the lunge was met by and arm, a strong arm, a human arm clasping the muzzle of the wolf with grim determination, humanity versus beast.

"This is my mind beast, I shall not shame myself further. I am not the damned yet."

The thought was unbidden a single strand of humanity manifesting itself into grim determination, that clasped the wolfs muzzle.

Talons streaked bloody ruin across his hand yet he clung on even as a dull throbbing ache streaked across his mind, his own hand clenching his thigh, squeezing tight drawing the lowest squeal of irritation drowned in the howls of his thoughts.

"Kill, avenge, beware the reject"

Jaws wrestled free, snarled words between half clenched teeth, a single claw flashing to tear at his conscious thoughts, met by a second gauntlet of iron will,

"This is my mind beast, mine"

A long shrieking howl almost burst from his lips yet his jaw clenced tight, body tensed, quivering as his muscles trembled under the exertion of remaing motionless, his eyes fixed upon the corporeal form of the wolf he wrestled with, muscles straining , jaws snapping and snarling tendrils of drool streching in long thin strands between yellowing rotting teeth.

"Let the hate flow, you loathe him, you long to rip his throat out and feast on his entrails, we have the power, he cannot stand before us"

Certainty flooded his mind and he forced the wolf back, slamming him against the walls of his mind

"I do not hate him, i doubt him as a packleader. He sits and allows others to lead for him. We are wolves, part of a feral heirachy, authority and respect is bought through dominance"

He was forced back slammed against the opposite wall by a sudden surge of driving ambition

"Then dominate, take control"

He staggered backwards winded, his body lunging a little more once more, ambition driving him worth met by a sudden certainty. Chains, thick shackles snared round the wolfs neck and it gave a low yelp as it struggled pawing at its throat, the iron chains, becoming a straining leather leash

"It is not our path,"

The leash became iron wants more and Iorek let out a savage backhand, nails leaving bloody streaks over the wolfs muzzle, a whimper of pain slicing through his mind

"It is my path is to dominate you"

The eyes unlocked, moving to find the glacial eyes of brother keris, the slightest of triumphant smiles, a fleeting flash of pearly white teeth. His scent tranquil, his rage icy not seering, eyes as cold and cruel as the winds of fenris as they slipped to the iron gaze of Vermundr

"You must be reading my emotions upon the aether packleader, yet you are mistaken for the embers of my hatred became ashes long ago. Respect is mutual brother Vermundr, yet you demand it from atop your pedestal, whilst others endeavour to earn it. Blackmane believes you a leader and i will follow you til the end as i swore to do, yet i am not a dog upon a leash trained to follow and obey. I am a wolf of Fenris, trained to hunt and destroy, to find weakness and exploit it."

His gaze bored into Vermundr, a single finger raising to point at his eyes, the nail inches from the rim of gold

"My challenge lies within, the feral urges of the wulfen stir within me, threaten the very essence of my humanity. That is my path. To dominate the wolf and bend it to my will or loose myself forever within its snarling jaws. Yet I have a second purpose, that no amount of rejection can deter me from."

He gave a hollow laugh

"Would you have reacted so strongly if brother Keris had spoken those words, or brother Tyr. Nay. I am your first challenge Vermundr, for you can snarl and snap all you like yet I will question your decisions as i see fit, and you will knock me down as you always have. Scoff and reject me all you need, yet to become a packleader, in more than just name, you need the reject as much as you need the sage council of brother keris or the savage rage of the Firehawk."

His voice was casual, his eyes filled with an unspoken mirth

"So what is the packleaders decision, will he dominate the losers or the reject or allow brother keris to do his work for him?


----------



## komanko

OOC: I know its an half assed piece of crap but I had to move it on or I would have never posted. Sorry about it, just having trouble with Frostulfr. Yes, I know I ignored what was happening on the thunderhawk. So again, I apologize for the half assed work.

No time was wasted after Keris’s harsh words. The rest of the pack was ushered from the training hall, they all quickly moved on, especially those who earned Keris’s ire. They all wanted to put this behind them as quickly as possible.

Frostulfr didn’t move quickly he still was busy with thoughts. It was all too possible that he was mistaken, all too possible that his anger was misplaced. Though the pack acted as a divided body in this time of relative peace they did work together when they were under immediate danger, they worked together while they hunted the Ursid and also while they faced the trolls who ambushed them.

He smiled when he remembered how Keris shouted at the other bloodclaws, beneath his anger he was teaching them, in a way he did care for them although it did not show all too well. He will need to reevaluate the relations in the pack, he might have misjudged some of the older members. He will watch, he will pass his judgment after the campaign would be finished.

And like that he put those thoughts behind him. There was no need to dwell on the past, only look forward for the future. With hope he quickened his pace and moved on to catch up with the rest of the pack which moved towards the arming room.



He stood up, his armor finally upon him, he was made whole again. He looked around and saw that everyone else was already inside their power armor as well. He picked up his axe from where he left it leaning against a wall and attached it to his left hip, it would be easy to draw with his right hand like that. He checked his bolt pistol, it seemed perfect, he could find no defects about it and as such he quickly holstered it on his right hip together with his combat knife.

As everyone stood to leave he gave a last look at the room, he imagined the fang, its impressive size and beauty. It would be a long time until he will be back in here. He nodded to himself and then followed the rest of the pack towards the launch bay and the thunderhawks which resided in it.

As they arrived in the launch bay they were spotted by Lord Blackmane himself who moved towards them accompanied by the priest Sigurd. The lord came closer and grabbed Vermunder’s forearm after saying that he will be awaiting to hear tales of their mighty deeds. It seemed that high hopes and expectations were upon this quarrelsome squad.

After that Blackmane dismissed them and they made their way to the thunderhawks. Everyone took a place and it seemed that they shared the transport with the rune priest Njal as well, he addressed the Firehawk and insisted that they had to speak after they made transition into the warp, of what they were to speak he did not state and that was not important to Frostulfr, it wasn’t his business.

With a final look back Frostulfr fastened himself and awaited the departure, he knew that it would be one of many he would experience. Soon they will be onboard the mighty vessel Hunrodr, soon they will set out to smite the greenskinned menace from the stars.

He awaited the departure eagerly, he felt an unnatural desire to prove himself in the eyes of those veterans who were part of this squad. He would show the Ghostwolf that he was more than a pup. He would show them all, and hopefully with the rest, he would earn a place in the pack. An equal place.


----------



## dark angel

'Keris does not govern this Pack, Iorek,’ Alrik spoke, in a cool, mirthless tone. Both of his monstrous gauntlets had seized the leather-bound hilt of his Chainsword, pressing the tip into the deckplates, his bear’s-head helm tilted towards the milk-skinned Space Wolf. ‘Aye, he is the heart and soul, the binding to the tome, - But it is Vermundr who is the head.’ 

Coal-black eyes flittered between Keris and Vermundr, looking for reassurance. One of the sage’s hands had fallen upon his restraining harness, a somewhat worrying potent. The Packleader was standing meanwhile; his stance aggressive, his tone ill-tempered, but he truly believed himself to be correct in his assumptions.

Alrik was distinctively neutral, a sardonic smile breaking his horrific countenance, his fangs glittering gently within the icy confines of his helmet. 

‘Bite your lip and accept his word, boy,’ Alrik said, inclining his head at the cyclopean Wolf. ‘You will only come to regret the consequences. We have both been in this situation once before, I don’t want to let Vermundr win again,’ Hollow laughter crackled from his teethed mouth-grille. ‘We go into war, against the odiferous green-skins, I do not need to worry about petty backstabbing and power struggles.’

His bear’s-head helm swung about, depthless, blood-red eyepieces locking with his Packleader’s dark, tempestuous eyes. 

‘Vermundr,’ His voice was heavy with regret, with sincerity. ‘You have allowed Keris to intimidate you, back you into a corner,’ His tone stifled, vehemence bubbling in each word. ‘You have reacted badly, sit, calm yourself. Do not worsen the situation further. Had we not forged our oaths anew upon Hecutor? Stop this petty squabbling, both of you. For the sake of the Pack, of our wellbeing and our honour.’‘


----------



## Euphrati

Keris closed his eyes as he took a measured breath; tasting the scents of his wolfbrothers that filled the Thunderhawk's hold as he faced the one choice he had hoped to never have to make. A choice that, once made, could never be undone. Never had he felt so alone in the company of his packbrothers; this was a path only he could walk and it did not come without pain. The wolf in his soul stirred at the thoughts. Keris could feel the ancient wisdom in its judgment that uncoiled inside him; _no Son of Russ was ever truly alone for he carried a legacy within every beat of his hearts._ 

_I do what I must._ 

Crystal blue eyes, the colour of a glacier's heart, opened slowly. The grav-harness released with a metallic clack of retracting hydraulics, lifting free as Keris rose to his feet in one liquid movement. The intensity of challenge was clear in his stance; every muscle in his body was rigid with the controlled power of battle-urge and focus unwavering he closed the distance that lay between him and Vermundr.

_Some lessons must be understood with blood and pain._

Keris' fangs were bared less than the width of a dagger blade from Vermundr's face, his fists clenched at his sides and his voice tinted with a deep-chested growl,

'Is there truth to their words, _*packleader*_....?'


_A pack is only as strong as its leader._


----------



## unxpekted22

Vermundr let his eyes fade away from the Ghostwolf. Iorek had managed to calm himself and give an intelligent answer. This was satisfying, even if they still made some of his own words toward Iorek seem out of place to the new packmates. He was satisfied because Iorek made him realize something he hadnt thought of before.

The firehawk, sitting in his dark corner, finally spoke up not defending either of them. But something he said had Vermdunr almost about to laugh. Was he serious? He had let Keris intimidate him into a corner? His brothers thought that _Keris_ was a threat to him as packleader?

Keris would never try to usurp him, it wasnt in his nature. Reacted badly? Hardly. As he turned to voice these opinions of his he was taken aback by seeing keris lift from his grav-seat and confront him, snarl on his face and hands in fists.

At first, Vermundr's face was as if he were in a bad dream, unbelieveing of what he was seeing. His most respected brother and his favored packmate finally taking the sides of his whiny brethren. 

But, he knew Keris well, he would never betray his oaths. It was clear no one wanted to listen, so they had to be shown. Some of them would likely hate him for this nonetheless. It was fortunate for all present that Vermundr had realized this so quickly while staring at Keris's glistening white teeth. His face began in a confused rage, ruined by thought of ultimate betrayel, to a calm deep sigh with his eyes closed...and finally, Vermundr's nose crinkled, his fangs appeared and his iron hand gripped the neck guard of Keris's armor. His other hand came up in a fist, slamming square against Keris's nose drawing blood instantly with a spatter. As Keris's head flew back he kept his hold upon the neck guard and with a roar he lifted the sage from his feet and slammed him down upon the decking with a crashing sound of cermaite that was anything but glorious.

Lifitng himself up from the hardest thing that he had ever done, he spoke to all in his pack, "When I said I was through talking about this, I meant it. Now get out of the transport, and onto the _Hunrodr_."


(ooc: this was done with permission)


----------



## darkreever

All; With a groan of metal scraping against stone, the thunderhawk touches down within the hold of the *Hunrodr*. The main ramp drops with a hiss of equalizing air, and you leave the confines of the transport to the expanse of the launch bay. Your senses are greeted by a mixture of grease and sweat, with a slight undercurrent of blood, and you watch chapter serfs and an array of supplementary servitors already at work to secure the thunderhawk before the frigate makes for the warp. There is a shudder and the cracking of stone indicating the release of *Aldr*, the vox system of the ancient dreadnought letting loose a mighty growl before the lumbering form stalks further into the ship. 

You are not needed here, and so make way into the depths of the *Hunrodr* to the area that will make up your arming chamber for the duration of the campaign against the greenskins. With a lurch and the wailing of klaxons, the frigate begins to turn as it starts traveling further away from Fenris in order to make warp transit.

[Well, those were some tense words and actions from your packmates, have you any thoughts on that and do you make them known to any of your brothers? You all find the arming chamber swiftly enough, traveling along the central spine of the ship that connects the most vital locations, allowing for faster travel rather than the time consuming one over the veritable labyrinth of the auxiliary passages and corridors. In three hours time the Hundrodr transits to the warp, and shortly after that you begin the rigours of training within the few practice cages aboard the frigate.]


Keris; Even hours after the _Hunrodr_ enters the warp, the hairs on the back of your neck remain on end and a feeling of foreboding permeates your being; however that is not the only source of the unease you feel, not with Vermundr to occupy yet more of it. Like the rest, you began for the practice cages to take your mind off any other worries, in addition to imparting some, if any, of your experience in fighting orks. The initial bouts were of no consequence, the Ghostwolf dueled with Krahl and then Iotki, and then you against both Frostulfr and Yngvar. Where Frostulfr had an edge in strength, he lacked in any skill and was quickly defeated, while Yngvar lasted much longer. Though he had come close, Yngvar did not defeat you in the end and for his actions received a broken nose.

 Alrik fought against Heimdall and Njord next, though everyone could see the air of distraction surrounding the Firehawk which would lead to him being defeated of all things. You had thought he would lash out, either verbally or physically, but instead he merely left the cages in silence. Likely to see out Njal as he had been told to do when time permitted. Vermundr took up where Alrik ended, fighting and quickly defeating Heimdall and Njord before moving on to fight with Azahd. The duel between them lasted nearly as long as yours against Yngvar despite his earlier loss in the Fang, but like your younger packmate the result was the same. Ørrgrimr is last to fight, but it quickly degenerates from practice of any kind. So fueled does Vermundr become by an anger that his blows become wasteful and overbalanced; to the point where Ørrgrimr places a good uppercut and throws his pack leader to the floor.

Vermundr rights himself in an instant, and is on Ørrgrimr, laying down blows like a madman. He quickly smashes aside any defense, one particular hit even knocking your younger packmate out for half a second before another one brings him back to reality. As he hits the ground, you are deactivating the field around the cage, knowing what will happen just before it does. Vermundr does not relent, instead pressing on and moving to strike again before you lay a hand on his shoulder. When Vermundr turns his head, your knuckles find a home in the center of his face and send him pack with a snarl of pain. Others move to take the half conscious Ørrgrimr from the cage, for it seems time that you dueled with your pack leader.

 [The content of the fight I leave between you and Vermundr, the same applies to the duels with Frostulfr and Yngvar. No weapons, simply hand to hand and unarmoured; you may very well have to beat some sense into Vermundr, unless he can beat submission into you. This is not the end of the update for you, there is more below.]


 Vermundr; Once the frigate makes its jump into the warp, you are eager to try and find some sort of release from the building tension. And so you lead your pack-brothers to the training cages; at the very least some fighting might help ease your mind as well as let you and the others make sure that everyone has some knowledge for fighting the orks in the coming weeks. The _Hunrodr_ is a small vessel, compared to the Fist of Russ, and as such has less to offer in the way of training. For now though, a single training cage is enough and though you had intended to fight first, it is Iorek who bars your way and takes the lead fights.

It is insulting, but you allow it without a show of displeasure; and before long the Ghostwolf has fought both Krahl and Iotki. Where the joker was soundly defeated in a minute, the ferocity that beats within Krahl allowed him to last for nearly twice that length. Despite the other feelings warring within you at this time, it lifts your spirits a degree to see a younger warrior of your pack cause that much trouble for someone with more experience.

 Keris stepped into the cage next, followed by both Frostulfr and Yngvar. Perhaps it was from Alrik’s actions, but Frostulfr did not last nearly as long in fighting as he should have, though Yngvar gave a much better account for himself. If you did not know any better, you would swear that had the duel gone on another minute it would be Keris on the ground and not Yngvar. But you would truly have to know no better for something like that.

 Alrik quickly takes Keris’ place, brushing past you almost in a way of defiance. Had your actions aboard the thunderhawk not been enough? Were you being ignored in favour of Keris? Try as you might to put such thoughts from your mind, they lingered like the end of a storm. Like Keris before him, the Firehawk fought two at a time, taking on both Heimdall and Njord as you had told him to do while on the thunderhawk. This time though, it was the older and more veteran blood claw who found himself defeated. There was a silence at this sight, and grinning from the victors, as Alrik unsteadily got to his feet. You had expected him to act, to lash out, but instead he left the cage, offering no one a word. You knew of what the rune priest Njal had said to him and that was where he likely went now.

With no desire for Keris or Iorek to take your place dueling, you enter the cage and take up where Alrik had left from his defeat. Despite initial victory, you dashed any hopes for a second bout of such things; neither warrior remained on his feet after more than a minute against you. Their exhaustion washing over you, a testament to what Alrik was capable of even when distracted. The sight of them brought back a similar memory, of a pair of inexperienced blood claws sprawled and bloody before a veteran grey hunter. Azahd fought with you next, the thought of what you would have to do with him and the others in these coming days taking your focus partly from the fight. It nearly cost you a blow to the midriff, something you were able to block before delivering a knee to Azahd’s exposed thigh and sending him to the ground.

Last of the warriors left of this round was Ørrgrimr, and though he offered you a measure of respect, your mind was already elsewhere. That your leadership might again be in question, of others seeing weakness in your choices; no amount of distraction would be able to silence such thoughts forever. So unfocused on the fight were you that the blow which would floor you was completely unseen. And so, to the ground you went, and that is when everything took on a shade of red and your limbs felt as though they were on fire. By what right did the others have to question you, to challenge you?

You were aware of your fists connecting with something, but you could not focus on the object of your anger nor would your body respond to your commands. That is until a powerful hand grabbed your shoulder and you turned to see who it was, only for an explosion of stars to erupt before your eyes and send you back a couple of steps. The haze receded, and you spied others helping a half conscious Ørrgrimr to his feet and out of the cage, with only Keris left with you. Of course he had acted, taking charge and once again being the opposition to you.

[As you can tell, not all thoughts are your own; something deep within is nagging at you and clouding some of your judgment. Be that as it may, the next opponent for your duel stands before you; ready to either knock sense into you or be beaten into submission. As you fight him physically, keep in mind that the wolf within you, that which clouded your mind before, would very much like to do so again.]


 Iorek; Travel from the thunderhawk to the packs arming chamber passes by without much notice from you, as lost in your thoughts as you tend to be. Transition to the warp though, that makes a noticeable impression. Without warning, an unseen force like a tide pulling you towards the ocean is gone and it takes every ounce of control you possess to not stumble to the decking where you stand. For the first time in months, the wolf within is silent, almost banished from your mind. Its attention is no longer upon you, but rather the malign spirits drifting about the great ocean of the warp.

Of all sensations, this one is a strange one, to be apart from the thing you have been warring with all this time. It is eventually replaced by another as you and the rest of the pack begin to fight and train within a practice cage within the heart of the _Hunrodr_. You take the chance to commit to the first fights, the first against the vicious and glory seeking Krahl. To your eye, his attacks are sloppy and slow, but that comes with experience; when it is either you or the enemy who will breath in the next moment. The hunt for the Ursid was a lesson of this, but it is much different when it is but you alone to fight.

Despite his strength and speed, Krahl displays an over-eagerness in his attacks which leave him open to counter; something you take full advantage of and ultimately put him to the ground for. As sore as he might be for losing to you, there is no shame in it and you take on the next of the pack without a word. Iotki steps in next, though the duel can hardly be called one given how quick it ends. Perhaps half the time that it took Krahl, though with more restraint to both his actions and his attacks; as if he were afraid of something or simply unsure. In either event, the fight takes a minute, an impressive thing in that for battles are won or lost in seconds.

You step from the cage and pay little heed to the further bouts, your inward thoughts even blinding you to the defeat of the Firehawk, though you do notice his departure. At that site, something instinctive draws you to act similarly, to leave the practice cage and seek council, almost as if your wolf within is beckoning you to something elsewhere on the ship. It is not to long before you find yourself on the bridge of the _Hunrodr_, a chamber extending a hundred meters forward and more than half that wide. Large armaglass windows dominate the front, all shut by slabs of stone against the warp without. As awe-inspiring as the site itself is, it is a different sense that draws your attention.

A scent, one nearly impossible to place but known to you from another time. It is one that you had been seeking on Fenris, but was not available to you when needed so much. Looking about the bridge, it is then that you spy the wolf scout Morgun, sitting upon a raised dais dominating a portion of the bridge. _“So another of our ilk walks upon my vessel’s bridge.”_ The scout declares aloud, lifting off his throne and striding towards you. _“How do you fair against your wolf Iorek Ghostwolf?”_

[I do hope that you were not expecting to see Morgun. At any rate, it seems that though your inner wolf may be diminished here in the warp, it is not gone completely and has enough care to direct you towards one who is more in control of his own spirit. For this conversation, I would say speak with me and we shall work it out for you.]


 Alrik; Despite your words to Vermundr, they are not the last spoken from others, and the reaction of Vermundr to Keris comes as a shock even to you. You had expected something when Keris had gotten in Vermundr’s face, perhaps even for him to back down; but he did not for all that such an action was worth. The remainder of the flight from Fenris to the frigate was short, ending with the lot of you traveling to the arming chamber that would be yours in the coming weeks and then to a practice cage after the _Hunrodr_ made transition to the warp.

 Iorek and Keris dueled with others first, but you paid those fights no mind. Your thoughts returned to the tundra of Fenris and what you had seen after beating Frostulfr. You wanted so much to speak with Njal, and barely noticed as you stepped into the cage with Heimdall and Njord. Your mind did return to the present, in time for you to duck attacks against your chest and head before delivering a low kick to either counter or force your opponents back. Despite their being two of them, you were bigger and stronger and none could deny that, and so what blows they did land caused minimal damage while even the barest of connections from yourself did more.

You delivered a chop to Heimdall’s back, sending him staggering close to the cage side before his body seemed to change before very eyes. It had become green and bulky, no longer were the two of you upright but instead speeding along the ground. Your arms were again armoured, this time in a deep black and you held the ork-Heimdall close to the moving ground. Then everything returned to normal and you staggered away from Heimdall as if you had been struck, before a sharp pain laced across your face and you were on the stone floor.

In your hesitation from whatever ‘that’ had been, Njord had seized an opportunity and taken it. You slowly get back to your feet, grunting in assent to this and make to leave the practice cage. Training or not, you needed to meet with Njal to find out more of what is happening to you.

[That was a strange one now wasn’t it? You shall find Njal in an upper level of the ship, towards the communication arrays. PM me, and we will work out the details of the conversation you shall have with him.]


Krahl; Travel from the arming chamber to the training cage goes without much incident, you are able to maintain yourself without trouble during the actual transition into the warp unlike others. Once at the cage, you and Iorek duel first, no armour and no weapons. Though Iorek may be slighter than you in build, you possess the advantage in both speed and strength. However try as you might, the Ghostwolf manages to dodge or deflect far too many of your attacks though responding with few of his own. You force him across the cage, nearly to one wall before he rolls under you, kicking out and throwing you into the energy field surrounding the metal. With a yell you pull free, dodging a punch to your head and taking Iorek in the middle, back to the center of the cage.

[Despite what you can do, Iorek ultimately bests you but not before taking a few hits himself. Your left side is on fire from connecting with the energy field; nothing lasting, more an annoyance. You continue to watch the other fights and enter the cage right behind Keris to help him stop Vermundr, ultimately helping to haul Ørrgrimr from the cage.]


 Iotki; Krahl gives a good account of himself, but in the end does not defeat Iorek, and all to soon you find yourself facing the one eyed Ghostwolf. The scent he gives off is different now than usual, but no less unsettling. You have heard what others have mentioned of him, that he bears the curse of the wulfen within him. If that is so, then why does Vermundr keep him around? You are not given long to ponder this though, for Iorek soon launches himself at you and you are put on the defensive. Almost at once you are wrong footed and pay for it with a punch to your temple, disorienting you though you remain able to block a follow up punch and then deliver a kick.

All to soon though, the Ghostwolf gets the better of you and you find yourself in much the same position as Krahl before. Rolling onto your side, you spit a mixture of saliva and blood onto the stone before regaining your feet and leaving the cage. Iorek follows you out of the cage, with Keris, Frostulfr, and Yngvar taking places within.

[There is no secret the fact that Keris is a good fighter; one of if not the best in the pack. But truly he must show off like this? Two at a time? You are stunned when Vermundr beats Ørrgrimr as he does, unable to act right away for some reason. That Iorek could show the restraint he did, cursed as he is, while Vermundr acted with such violence..]


 Frostulfr and Yngvar; After the losses of Krahl and Iotki at the hands of Iorek, you enter the cage with Keris. Unlike the others though, you enter as a pair to take on your more veteran pack-brother. Where individual might proved not enough against Iorek, perhaps the combined efforts of two of you can win out the day against Keris. With a nod to one another, you circle Keris before both coming after him, timing your attacks to be close, though not perfectly in unison. This lack of unity, it is enough for Keris to counter, going after Frostulfr to keep you both divided in actions. Maybe it is the earlier injuries, or perhaps Keris is just that good, Frostulfr does not last very long against this prolonged attack and finds himself smashed quite heavily to the ground, blacking out for a minute before Yngvar’s bulk lands on top of him.

Falling on Frostulfr, however, is not the end of it for Yngvar; springing back to his feet and narrowly dodging a knee intended to keep him down. Rolling around the fallen Frostulfr and attacking Keris, Yngvar lashes out with an elbow and catches a glancing blow, but it is a bad hit and leaves his own arm pained. Try as he might, Yngvar cannot get back up to his feet, and is forced to dodge and give ground with every move until finally his body is to fatigued to keep up the fight and he takes the next hit right across the chest.

[Frostulfr, are your injuries still persistent with you or were you just that outmatched in this fight? In either event there is no shame to be had, for if it was injury than your goal in these next day’s must be to fight through such pace. Yngvar, you get back up slowly, noting the fatigue evident about Keris’ features. There is no surprise as to how good a fighter he, but that you managed to get him into a state like that, and nearly on your own? Must be pretty impressed with yourself all things considered. You are in the cage right alongside Krahl to help Ørrgrimr to his feet.]


 Heimdall and Njord; With the failure of yet more of your pack-mates to best your older brothers, you face off against Alrik. He is greater than either of you in size or muscle, and though he lacks the experience of those Aurora warriors there is no doubt this will be anything short of a challenge. However despite knowing that, Alrik’s attention does not seem to be entirely on the here and now. Without giving him a chance to act first, you launch forward, one of you aiming for his head and the other his chest. The Firehawk halts the attacks, and delivers a kick of his own to force you back.

His greater size affords Alrik the advantage of range, and his strength allows him the luxury of glancing blows still causing decent damage to either of you. In a bout to distract Alrik, Heimdall intentionally oversteps himself, taking a blow full on from Alrik that nearly takes him into the side of the cage. For a second, Alrik’s arm is on his head forcing him ever closer and there is the brief fear that the Firehawk will dash him against the energy field. But the hand is gone a moment later, and there is an audible crack of flesh meeting flesh.

 Njord had taken advantage of Alrik’s hesitation when he backed away from Heimdall, sending the larger wolf to the ground. And like that, they had beaten Alrik; of everyone so far Heimdall and Njord had defeated one of the older blood claws. Before either of you have much chance to recover from the fight with Alrik, Vermundr is in the cage and coming for you. Your bodies are bruised and battered, and neither of you last more than a minute combined against your pack leader before he is standing over you.

[Alrik rises with little more than a grunt and then leaves not only the cage, but the area entirely. Did you do more than just beat him in combat? Was the damage to his pride more than he could bare at this time? Do you care at this time? Especially Njord, who can honestly say that between the two of you it had been his fist that ended the fight, though not without Heimdall taking the distracting blow. Not that your victory is very long lived, not when Vermundr gets done with both of you. You don’t manage to land any damaging blows of your own against him, but he definitely did not defeat you in single hits.]


 Azahd; Soon even Njord and Heimdall are out of the cage with bruises of their own to lick. Not that they don’t have reason to hold their heads high compared to some of the others. Distracted or not, Alrik was beaten in the cage and by less experienced Wolves no less. You enter the cage, cautiously walking the perimeter to see how Vermundr will act. He advances on you with a calm and cold efficiency, forcing you to act or be cornered by your own devices. In that you strike out at him, but the blow is awkward and you are thrown across the cage with minimal effort. You regain your feet in time to dodge a flurry of blows, cuffing Vermundr off the chin to give you some breathing room. 

You notice that Vermundr does not seem to be entirely here, and move to take advantage. Perhaps you simply lacked the speed, or maybe Vermundr had baited you, or maybe he just recovered fast enough; whatever the reason, in the end Vermundr dodged your punch and delivered a hit of his own. And face first onto the floor you go, cursing yourself for not besting Vermundr. Slowly at first you get back to your feet, leaving the cage and passing Ørrgrimr in the process, murmuring something to him, low enough that only he hears it.

[Did you see a weakness in Vermundr that you were unable to exploit? Perhaps a jab at Ørrgrimr, knowing that he will be beaten soon? Whatever you said to him, it is left for you to choose the exact wording.]


 Ørrgrimr; And at long last it comes down to you to duel, and you pass Azahd to enter the cage. He murmurs something to you, and regardless of what he says you cannot help but smirk at it before inclining your head to your pack leader. The two of you lay into one another, you’re not able to land more than the barest of blows against Vermundr but you do keep away from the bulk of his own attacks. At one point you even manage to feint him and jam an elbow into Vermundr’s side. You quickly follow this with a blow to the head, and send Vermundr to the ground in triumph. It cannot be argued that your pack leader might have been fatigued while you were fresh, but you are not the one on the ground right now.

Movement out of the corner of your eye is all the warning you get of something wrong, before a fist seemingly of steel rams into your shoulder and sends you staggering. You turn in time to take another punch, this one to the chest just below your throat before a third one takes you on the ear. Vermundr is unrelenting, laying in blow after blow without bother to pause; it’s all you can do to remain on your feet, let alone strike back at this berserker. So intent are you on dodging what punches you can, the low sweeping kick catches you completely by surprise and to the ground you go. But it does not end there, as Vermundr lays in with more blows and you can feel your fused ribcage crack.

Just as you feel everything start to go black from the pain, it ends and hands drag you back up to your feet. Looking through blurry eyes, you see Keris with his back to you, Vermundr standing opposite him and a trickle of blood trailing from his lip where he had been struck. You try to turn your head from side to side, see who is helping you remain upright, but all your greeted with are new bursts of pain.

[Well that was rather painful, however despite the fair number of superficial injuries you are not hurt so bad that you have to leave the area. At least not before watching this next fight, if you feel the need to leave at all.]


 Keris; You stand there for a moment before falling down to one knee. Your jaw feels broken, but you can tell from testing it that your mouth is fine. You stare into Vermundr’s eyes, a degree of anger coming from your own orbs but nothing beyond what should be considering your pack leader’s actions against Ørrgrimr. With a growl of effort, you stand back up and turn away from Vermundr, if words and fists have not been enough at this point than you do not know what else you can offer.

Leaving the cage, your body recovers the more you walk away. You do not know where you are going, but you need a place to be alone and think, or at least find somewhere to gather your thoughts. You take corridors at random, and eventually come to what would be an observation dome. The dome itself is sealed, for to gaze into the warp would be to invite insanity. With a heavy sigh, you allow yourself to sit on the ground against one of the walls, the cool piping good against your battered flesh.

* I have seen such a look before, many are those who need the wisdom of another and know not where they can turn.*

[I would put something here, but that final line rather speaks for itself.]


 Vermundr; You roll off your back and onto your arms, panting hard from your fight with Keris. Shaking your head clear, you glare back at Keris even while he begins to return to his feet. Not wanting to be outdone, you struggle to do the same; but Keris is done, turning his back to you and leaving the cage. A look about the chamber and you see the others just staring, you growl for them to leave you; let them heal a little before going at this again perhaps, think about what it is you are going to do in the meantime.

Movement from the cages entrance brings your head up, though not quite fast enough. A powerful hand grabs you by the neck, hauling you onto your feet to stare into the aged eyes of Enkil. He pushes you back a step before slowly walking around you. Unlike you, he is still armoured, and his scent is clear that he is far from happy. _“How long do you plan to lead a pack Vermundr?”_ He asks you at length.

[Obviously your fight with Keris needs to occur first, but after that speak with me for the conversation with Enkil.]


 All (except for the obvious, since you’re not here); For some of you, it’s time to celebrate fights that were good, and for at least one of you it’s time to get a couple drinks in you to dull the remaining pain about your body. You head to the main hall of the _Hunrodr_, a large chamber fifty meters across and just shy of forty wide with long tables running up and down the length. It is a place normally used by members of the crew, but they are all busy at this time. You grab food and drink, gathering around one of the tables, joking with one another or speaking of what just happened.

 [Definitely a chance to speak your thoughts to others, and hear what others think. You are the only ones in this area for now, though whether that remains as is, we shall see.]


----------



## Euphrati

The blunt scent of shock assailed Keris' sensitive nose as Vermundr's confusion showed openly upon his features, the dark eyes of the packleader locking with Keris' own crystal blue. In that brief moment, as Vermundr hesitated before closing his eyes and sighing in halfhearted acceptance, Keris felt the wolfspirit in his soul snarl with unbridled fury. 

It was all Keris could do to keep from returning the reluctant blow when it finally came, the copper-bite of blood and pain mixed with the sharp burn of kill-urge that flooded his senses in response to the rage in his soul. His breath came in sharp pants through blood-pinked teeth, muscles trembling in the screaming desire to fight back as Vermundr's gauntlets closed over the lip of his gorget and the Wolf hurled him bodily to the diamond-etched floorplates of the Thunderhawk. He could still taste the unwillingness in Vermundr's scent-trace and fought the need to spit, every hair bristling erect as Vermundr stood over him, forcefully swallowing down the bitter burning of acid as the Belcher's gland in his mouth twitched in response to his unconscious desire. 

_Do you think this was only show, that I would not sacrifice my own honour and challenge you in right if that is the path I must walk to ensure the pack does not fail the Allfather and Russ?_

Vermundr's words seemed frustrated, hollow, and for a breath none of the pack moved. Keris pushed to his feet; a silent snarl dark on his blood-flecked features as he pushed past the others to stalk down the ramp without a backwards glance, ignoring the congealing lines of crimson that ran from his nose down his chin. His scent was thick with potential danger, though he kept his tongue silent. No words were needed to express his disappointment.

-

His wolfspirit shifted with wary unease and Keris suppressed the keen longing to pace the length of the training chamber in a restless prowl. He had felt the hair on the nape of his neck bristle as the Hundrodr had forced its way out of reality and into the unreality of the sea of souls and had given voice to a low growl of displeasure. He knew the disquiet well having endured it before and had come to recognized the tint of ancient memories to the foreboding that caused the wolf that shared his soul such agitation and had the distinct impression he was not the first to find loathing in the journey through the realm of madness.

_Maleficarum._ The word surfaced upon his thoughts as his crystalline eyes followed the powerful shape of the Firehawk as Alrik stalked from the training cage. It was plain to all present that something troubled the burly Wolf, something weighing upon his attention to the point he had seen defeat at the hands of Heimdall and Njord. There had been a moment in the fight when Keris had tasted something he never thought to sense in his boorish wolfbrother's scent- _doubt_. 

_Listen well to the Stormcaller's words, Firehawk, and find your path brother._

Keris' thoughts had been on more than the unreality through which the Hundrodr sailed at the side of their sister ship and the vessel of the Aurora Marines. The events in the Thunderhawk had weighted heavily upon his mind as the pack had made its way along the spine of the ship to the area that would serve as their arming chambers and individual den-cells. Upon return to Fenris and the rebuilding of the pack with the new blood, Vermundr had been still unwilling to step fully into the role placed upon his shoulders. _The pack senses it, senses the hesitation and the uncertainty. Vermundr leads this pack in name only and it seems that he alone is blind to the truth of it. We are weak because of his weakness. _

Keris turned his gaze back to the training cage as Vermundr took up the place vacated by the Firehawk in defeat. Alrik was not the only older member of the pack whom had chosen not to linger around the cage; the Ghostwolf had also strayed into the shadows of the ship like his namesake after trading blows with the new bloods. The feral note that marked Iorek's scent seemed somewhat blunted since the encounter in the Thunderhawk though the others in the pack still showed unease around the pale-skinned Wolf.

Keris had remained after his bout, watching the strengths and weaknesses of the pack from the edge of the cage's perimeter. He had faced Frostulfr and Yngvar both before the Firehawk had taken to the cage with Heimdall and Njord, the few blows he had received from the pair were already fading with his advanced biology's potent healing abilities. Frostulfr had fallen quickly and Keris had concerns about the lingering damage that Alrik might have inflicted to the Wolf, but Yngvar had shown some innate skill that saw him lasting much longer than his packmate. However, he too had joined Frostulfr on the sands of the cage's floor in the end with blood dripping from a broken nose. Keris had given his endurance a curt nod of acknowledgement before stepping out of the cage and leaving the pair to drag themselves to their own feet.

Keris had come simply dressed for the bouts. He stood, arms crossed over his bare chest, in comfortable, storm-grey breaches bound at the waist with a knotted cord and calf-high elk hide boots. The torq around his neck rose and fell slightly with his breathing; the dark runes carved in the pale bones standing out in the cold illumination of the training hall. The runes for justice, vengeance, and the mark of Morkai amongst others present.

Despite besting Alrik, Heimdall and Njord found themselves knocked to the cage floor in quick order by Vermundr. Azahd stepped into the cage next, the younger clawmember lasting nearly as long as Yngvar had earlier but that ending suddenly as a vicious strike from Vermundr smashed him to the sands on his face. There was something in the packleader's blows that caused the back of Keris' neck to tense, a note of frustration that had shifted into unfocused anger that tainted his scent and movements.

Ørrgrimr was the last to fight, stepping into the cage with Vermundr as Azahd hauled himself out. The cage locked shut with a clang, the electrical field contained within the bars humming to life, and within the space of a breath the first blows had already been thrown. Ørrgrimr's reactions were quick enough for him to avoid taking the full brunt of Vermundr's strikes for the majority of the fight, though Keris felt his wolfspirit stir in unease at the somewhat unfocused look in the packleader's eyes. A quick feint saw Ørrgrimr driving an elbow into Vermundr's flank, followed by a solid impact of his fist upon the packleader's head.

Ørrgrimr's scent held a keen note of triumph, but Keris' eyes were locked upon Vermundr as the Wolf surged to his feet with rage burning in his eyes. Ørrgrimr was caught blindsided by the first blow, taking the second high on the solar plexus and the third to the head in the time it took the first impact to register; the younger clawmember barely keeping on his feet under the barrage of blows from Vermundr. 

Keris was already reaching for the rune to disengage the training cage's field when Ørrgrimr hit the sanded floor, the Wolf's legs swept out from under him with a sharp kick from Vermundr. The packleader was on him in an instant, the muffled crack of bone drawing a snarl from the wolf in Keris' thoughts as he forced his way through the lifting hemispheres of the cage and caught Vermundr's shoulder before he could lunge again.
His wolfbrother spun around, rage etched across his features and his scent thick with kill-urge only to meet Keris' fist as he pistoned it into Vermundr's face and sent him back on his heels for the few moments it took the others to drag Ørrgrimr's semi-conscious form out of the cage. The blow had done little damage to Vermundr, but it had the desired effect of focusing the packleader's attention onto a new target. A target whose rage burned just as hot as his own. The cage clanged shut again, locking the two inside. 

_I will not allow this pack to fail, if the price is my honour and blood then so be it. I do what I must._

The fight that followed was nothing like the bouts that had happened previously. Both Keris and Vermundr moved with a speed and instinct that would have left an un-augmented mortal unable to follow their blows. Many times a strike would be made at the expense of taking another; Keris smashing a knee into the flank of Vermundr at the cost of taking the other Wolf's fist to his jaw with a blossoming explosion of pain, every strike was followed by a vicious counter strike. 

Keris could taste the wildness in Vermundr's scent and met it with cold anger, that the packleader would let himself become so unbalanced that he had come close to severely maiming one of his own pack was unforgiveable. Keris rolled with a flurry of blows, his own anger coming to a head at the events that led him to this point.

_Why have you refused to accept your path, brother? Why have you remained set to follow and not lead in truth?_

They were both beginning to tire, ignoring the pain of impacts that would have killed lesser men ten times over. Vermundr threw a crossing punch but misjudged his weight and that was all the opening Keris needed. He grabbed Vermundr's wrist as he twisted aside, he brought his elbow down into the exposed back a millisecond before bringing his knee up into his packleader's abdomen. Vermundr crashed backwards to the sand and Keris stepped back, his breathing a mixture of harsh pants of anger and snarls of exhaustion. 

His right knee went into spasm where Vermundr had landed a sharp jab to his inner nerve cluster and buckled under his weight, but Keris forced himself back upright with a growl. Vermundr had rolled to his front and was struggling to find his feet again as well, the packleader's dark eyes still held the remnants of anger and Keris met it with his own cold gaze though he was done with the fight and after a moment turned to stalk away with a slight limping gait from the opening cage.

_You must choose to become the leader of this pack or refuse it and allow another to take your place. I cannot walk this path for you, Vermundr._

-

The _Hundrodr _was a sleek void hunter, her low growl rumbling along her length like distant thunder across the iceflats. Keris took another side-passage at random, the bruises and wounds he had taken in the fight with Vermundr healing with his rapid metabolism's gene-forged potency. The raw, torn skin across his knuckles had already scabbed over and the limp from nerve damage had subsided a few corridors back though the disquiet in his soul was as blade-keen as it had been when he walked away from the training cage. _He felt as if he stood between two paths of duty, unsure which to take, two worlds that called to his soul but that were as apart from one another as the time of Ice and Fire._

The open, vaulted doorway to a vast observation dome stood in front of him and Keris stepped through it with a quiet sigh of the weight upon his thoughts. The irising shutters were closed against the madness of the warp, throwing the room into a pall of deep shadow, and Keris pressed his back against the icy framework and slid down onto the decking with a low grunt. The void-chilled metal felt good against his bruised, healing flesh and the cold helped to focus his thoughts upon the choices that lay before him. Crystal-blue eyes closed as Keris leaned his head back against the ship's superstructure, feeling the beating heart of her warp drives as a low throb in his bones.

_I have risked my oaths in order to keep them._

The voice that broke the silence of the chamber was powerful even at a lower volume and Keris head came up as his awareness suddenly registered the massive bulk cast in an even deeper shadow across the chamber from him. Keris slowly stood and, for a moment, a trick in the dim lighting made the shadow seem as if it held a Wolf leaning against the wall in silent contemplation. Keris bowed his head gently to the words, an acknowledgement of brotherhood and need.

'I have accepted the weight of being the one sought for wisdom by my own brothers, but you are right brother-ancient Aldr... to whom does the healer turn when the wounds he sees are greater than himself?'


----------



## Serpion5

*Krahl*

He had been harboring some troubling thoughts between the surface and the arrival onto their spacecraft, and these troubling thoughts continued to plague him as he prepared himself for sparring. As joyous as he was to be wearing power armour again, he knew that donningit had been for the convenience of moving it aboard the ship and making sure nothing was left behind rather than one of genuine urgent need. 

He had departed the docking bay at the earliest oppurtunity, ensuring that he did not impede the path of Brother Ancient Aldr as he made his own way deeper within the ship. Krahl had removed his armour and stowed it within short order, so now the only things to do were either eat or spar. And he had seen to his hunger prior to departure. Even as he made his decision he felt the ship they had boarder shift ever so strangely. The transition to warp space had just passed and their journey was underway. 



As he made his way to the sparring cages, he could not let his mind rest easy. There was dissent, however minor, between the pack leader Vermundr and the seeming second in command Keris. Krahl had developed a strong sense of respect for both of these warriors, more so than the more reclusive and violent elder members of the pack. True, both had berated and struck Krahl in the past, but there had been purpose. Despite the younger wolf`s pride, perhaps arrogance, he was not so foolish as to simply ignore the lessons of an obvious superior. Though he knew neither of them shared a particular fondness towards him, he at least knew they had the decency to teach him his errors, rather than simply respond to his flaws with threats of violence and even death. 

His memories momentarily flashed back to the dispute with Alrik. 'Hmph.' In hindsight, if he had been given more time to think on it, he would not have offered himself in the sparring cages so hastily. Still, he would not back out of that now, and if it was to happen here then so be it. 

As he walked the final corridor before the cages, he brought his thoughts back to the pack leader... leaders... 

Both were fit to lead in Krahl`s opinion. But tradition and pack law stated that only one could be the true leader. 


His thoughts were put on hold as he entered the chamber. Rather than be late as he had imagined, Krahl was in fact early enough to partake in the initial bout! Making no attempt to hide his eagerness, Krahl entered the cage and squared off against Iorek, the one they called _Ghostwolf._ 

_Ghostwolf, an interesting and fitting title for this one._ Krahl thought. Initially the bout went well enough, both of them were easily able to hold their own, and it became apparent that Krahl had an advantage over the older wolf in both speed and strength. As the fight wore on over the next minute, Krahl sought to press these advantages and increased the output of his attacks. Iorek had done reasonably well with dodging and deflecting, but seemed to making little headway with attacks of his own. It should have been easy then.

What happened next came as a shock, quite literally. During one of Krahl`s combos, in which he had almost forced the older pack member into the corner of the cage, Iorek dodged and rolled low, getting behind Krahl and knocking him into the energy field to which he was now so close. He hit the field and a jarring pain jumped up his left arm and across his whole body, causing him to leap back with a yelp of shock. After this, he conceded the fight, and stepped aside to allow the next combatant to face the Ghostwolf. 

He gave a curt nod to Iorek as he left the cage. It had been a good match and one that he would be happy to retry. Not because he wanted to win, but because Iorek had done what few others had done. He had shown Krahl his weakness, and made him pay for it. 

As Krahl settled alongside the rest of the pack spectating, he took note of how they fought. His interest was piqued when at last Keris and Vermunder had their respective bouts. Keris had fought first, against both Frostulfr and Yngvar. He had triumphed as Krahl expected amusedly and the bouts continued. 

Vermundr had fought soon after against the younger Orgrimmr, and it was here that things began to escalate. Orgrimmr was a surprisingly capable opponent, proving able to penetrate Vermundr`s defences and land a telling uppercut to the pack leader, flooring him instantly. Krahl smiled, impressed. But this soon became a look of concern as Vermundr righted himself and immediately retaliated. Krahl had not known the pack for all that long, but he knew enough to recognize genuine anger when he saw it. 

Keris had already spied the danger and moved to intercept, powering down the field and intercepting Vermundr`s attack with one of his own. 

Whatever happened between the two was largely lost on Krahl despite his earlier concerns. He rushed in straight after Keris and to Orgrimmr`s side, lifting his fellow packmate and helping him to his feet and from the cage with Frostulfr`s help. 



'What a bloody mess.' Krahl growled, finding himeslf a seat and sitting down with those of the Claw who had come here as well after the bouts. 'I certainly hope someone else sees what I do, or else I`ll think I`m going mad.'

He took a long swig from his tankard before turning to Orgrimmr, noting with an impassive expression the bruises that had formed around the astartes` face. He seemed well enough however, so instead he turned to Frostulfr and asked his question again. 

'I know you and I are both relatively new to this, compared to them...' He began. 'But it seems damn messy when two of the most veteran pack leaders are at each others throats. What tears me the most, is that I honestly could not choose one over the other. The answer should be more apparent shouldn`t it? And yet, I find myself bloody torn between their leaderships. Tell me Frostulfr, what are your thoughts?' Though he knew he couldn`t expect much more in the way of experience from his packmate, he at least hoped an alternate opinion might clarify the situation a little more.


----------



## unxpekted22

The thunderhawk docked, and its living contents disembarked in a disgusting silence. The deed was done and the test over, but he had succeeded, at least. He didnt back down and showed he was willing to put even the beloved brother Keris in his place. Keris's scent smelled of fury, but it didnt surprise the pack leader that Keris was angry at his brothers for having to show them that Vermundr was in fact the ruler here. Such a messy turn of events. Keris brushed past everyone into _Hunrodr_. The scent of dissapointment he had in his pack was clear as ice.


The frigate was so much less spacious than his Lord's vessel. Everytime he entered the main corridor he could see seveal other wolves from the four packs walking up and down it, as well as the usual servitors to fill up the place. He noted this as a crouching, limping figure hooded by a blue-grey cloak strode past him, clicking its metal tool hands beneath the torn ends of the cloth as it did so.

Soon the sirens were blaring and his hearing became filtered to numb the noise as the frigate began its shift into the warp. Vermundr openly growled and a shiver went down his spine. That cold uncomfortable feeling a psyker gave off was omnipresent during such travels; unavoidable.


They hadn't been in the warp for very long, and already he and his pack were making ready for the training cages on board, where his newer pack brothers would be punished for losing to the Aurora marines. The matches would be unarmored and hand to hand of course. He removed his own armor despite not knowing if he would actually be fighting. He figured after the lessons were taught, perhaps he would merely get some practice in early. He needed to lose some tension after the obnoxiously tight thunderhawk flight. Something was snapping at him in his mind, as he sat on a metal bench in part of the armor room. He put a hand through his messy cut of a mohawk on his head. Normally he kept a couple strands braided, but he couldnt bother himself to do so now. He simply left it be as his teeth held tight and his eyes stared at the unforgiving floor. He gulped as if an insatiable hunger was growing fast within him.

A snap again, black fangs chewing the air in front of him with dripping saliva. By Russ, normally he felt off when travelling through the warp but this seemed like more than usual. He stood up, intending to walk it off as he moved toward the training chamber but as his blood rushed to his standing legs his mind rushed to memories he hated. Iorek's rage filled words, calling him a liar and a fool, undeserving of his title as pack leader. Alrik's mocking laughter filled his ears. Baldyr's cringing face snarling at him. The newer members seeing him slam Keris to the ground, hating him for his actions, soon to be biting at his title as well; a pack of wolves circling him not leaving him alone. He had done nothing wrong but they were hungry and jealous and ridiculous. This was madness and they were leaping on him, chewing on his arms and flesh and his fist crashed into his armor storage unit.

"_No,"_ He breathed, chest rising and falling, eyes dark and narrow with his fist still resting in his knuckle dents, "This, is mine." 


When Vermundr arrived to the training chamber, sand was already being kicked up wildly by Iorek and Krahl. It was a good match, and Vermundr found himself impressed by Krahl as well as the next opponent, Iotki, despite both their defeats to the Ghostwolf. Keris went in next and fought well as he had expected. Alrik...was barely trying. Vermundr's lips parted open while his arms were crossed over his bare chest. _You could easily rip them to pieces firehawk. What will they learn from this? But his thoughts would change nothing, as Alrik's mind as clearly in another place and left the room without a word.

"Phuh" said Vermundr with a dismissive hand in Alrik's direction, and stepped into the cage himself. It was clear they were tired, even from Alrik's half-assed performance. Vermundr finished them both quickly. He remembered hearing some of his old packmates before their mission to Hecutor talk about how two of them took on Grey Hunter Heimdal. Here he was now, seeing it from Heimdal's view, how extraordinary. Lingering thoughts and distractions that continued on caused him to slip up against Azahd, sharply bringing his focus back to bear. No more mistakes in front of the pack! he thought, as the soon defeated Azahd left the cage, making room for Orgrimmr.

Orgrimmr landed a blow on him, too good of one, for it put him to the floor. His eyes turned to the younger wolf's face, you wont take anything away from me! his thoughts roared as he charged his opponent, and all the stress built up inside of him from the day Lord Blackmane made him pack leader came loose on the poor soul beneath him.

His rage was nearly a blind one. Before he knew it, it was keris's face he was looking at and not the bruising features of Orgrimmr. He couldn't recall Orgrimmr being taken out of the cage, or the force that stopped his pummeling upon him, but there he was, Keris. Keris. Keris

"KERIS!" He yelled the name as they continued the back and forth blows. He could feel his blood pulsing behind his eyes, his sweat drip and the sand stick, his body taking blows and his giving them, but they were all so minor compared to the adrenaline pumping rage. But eventually, who knows how long it had been, a force hit him hard enough to bring him down again. It didnt take long for him to turn from his back onto his hands and knees, but standing seemed impossible for a moment. His hands gripped the sand which simply flowed back out through his fingers. He couldnt hold on to anything. No one could. His dead pack mates couldnt hold onto their lives, The Aurora marines couldnt hold onto their own homeworld, Iorek couldnt hold his tongue, Krahl couldnt hold his eagerness, Alrik couldnt hold a care for anything, and now he couldnt hold his leadership because Keris couldnt even keep his oaths.

A thin strand of Vermundr's acidic saliva went from his mouth to where it bubbled in the sea of sand as his lips formed a shuddering word that stabbed his heart. A voiceless exhalation of the word, "betrayal". He turned his wrathful eyes to his pack brother, who in turn...left the ring. 

Looking around now he saw several of the others still present, and staring.

"Leave." he barked. It was all he could muster. When the room was no longer filled with staring eyes, his senss finally started coming back to him, as did some of his strength, enough to stand at least, but by Russ was he tired. So much so that the hand coming at him couldnt be stopped and was enough to knock him back several steps.

“How long do you plan to lead a pack Vermundr?” Asked Enkil of the Long Fangs.

The Long Fang pack leader's scent was clear, he was not happy in any regard to what he had just witnessed. Like a son trying to come up with a lie to his mother when put on the spot, Vermundr tried bringing his thoughts fully back to himself as quickly as he could manage. Instead of making the situation seem anything less than it really was, Vermundr simply went for the truth. It had suddenly become clear anyway.

"Until our Lord, or my death, demands otherwise." He let this linger for a moment.

"I have never tangled with my wolf spirit in such a manner, forgive me brother, for I can see I have gone too far here. My intentions are to be a just pack leader, full heartedly. But I feel my pack brothers have never given me the chance... from day one they have not welcomed me as their packleader, scorning me to the point, it seems, that I have begun to become what some of them have claimed of me since we fought the Alpha Legion together: a power hungry tyrant who will do anything to achieve leadership. I respect you, brother Enkil, espcially since you are the leader of your pack as well. You have been doing so for much, much longer than I; so I ask for your guidance. Be it physical, verbal, or both, I will take it."


"I have served the chapter for more than three centuries, many of those as a leader of wolves." Enkil began, pacing back and forth for a moment before continuing. "My brothers hated me for that, to have been honoured with the chance to lead."

"A long time ago I doubted myself, found my brothers hate to be more than my commitment and it would go to cost us three. I was chosen, the path of my pack is my responsibility, punishing those within falls to me. Your brothers think you unworthy, and if you meander about than perhaps you are. You alone must take the reigns of your pack, no one can do it for you. Now answer me this, are you a power hungry tyrant?"

"It seems when I haven't been, my pack brothers only force me to become more so. So, perhaps I should be. I have given Keris too much room."

"It feels like betrayal Enkil, the brother I thought would always stand by my side, lashing out the greatest to take my position. I cannnot say I am sure how to respond to his actions."

"Don't be thick, Keris supports you as best he can. Think of what he is willing to give up for you; sacrifice his blood and honour so that you can show who leads your pack."

"Listen to me well, and from it realize the disservice I do by telling you this: Keris is another test for you." Enkil says, stopping before Vermundr but not meeting his gaze

"That is what I thought about our troubles aboard the thunderhawk, that he was trying to help me show who leads the pack. I assume though, that you mean to say he is a different kind of test? one that cannot be solved through physical domination."

"Keris is possessed of an unbreakable will and loyalty, the priests have their eyes upon him. These qualities, and others, make for a natural leader; and worse a rival. Keris is a test for you, without trying he can overshadow you, lead the pack, but you are its sworn leader and so you must be the one to do it.Your test is to become like that, inspire your brothers and know how to unleash or tether them. Think, why does Keris oppose you now?"

"There are too many responses I can give to that. Therein lies the problem. But, it was I that our Lord chose to promote to this position, not him. This causes me to believe I must have something that Keris does not."

"And there is nothing that has happened now to bring it about? Nothing has happened to you or your pack? Nothing like being goaded into foolish duels?"

"Surely, it was my decision to reprimand Iorek for his insults to me, believeing that was being a strong pack leader. This caused Alrik to say I looked like a fool in front of my pack mates which ultimately led to me beating on Orgrimmr by mistake. Looking upon it now, all of those events come from one thing, Me not having any real control over my pack.... When you became leader of your pack, did your brothers already think of you as a liar and a fool? It was a lie to Iorek that ultimately got Lord Blackmane's attention on me for leadership. But, my brothers have never forgiven me for that."

Enkil remained silent for a minute, and then gave out a sigh before backhanding Vermundr and sending him to the ground. "Warriors of your pack were foolish enough to be led by the nose by the sons of Guilliman! They let pride cloud what little judgment they possess! And when this was made known to you, you shrugged it off, intent to let others, to let Keris, do your job as leader of this pack. If he is willing to step up and teach your packmates to use their heads than why shouldn't he lead?"

That was a hard hit. Vermundr thought as Enkil spoke over his fallen form. The impact of that blow was much clearer than those in his brawl.

"The path of my pack is my responsibility, punishing those within falls to me. I alone must take the reigns of my pack, no one can do it for me." He managed to say, repeating Enkil's own words. "Not a tyrant, but an actual leader."

"When the time is right, you must speak with Keris apart from your pack; for those words between you are not for the ears of others. Now get yourelf up and tend to your pack.Even the greatest of Russ's Wolves find themselves affected by the empyrean in different ways. Your wolf was able to vent your fury, hopefully in time you will master such a thing."


And with that Enkil had left the cage, and subsequently the room altogether.

Vermundr took this opportunity to just lay down, with his back in the sand and looking up toward the ceiling, breathing. He closed his eyes and muttered one last thing to himself before falling asleep, "What if you were still here, Kjarl. What if-"






((....:russianroulette)_


----------



## Euphrati

Then speak your mind to me blood claw, and we shall see what council these old bones can give.

The dreadnoughts voice was a low vox-snarl, yet somehow the undercurrent of ancient wisdom was laced through the words. Keris crossed over the expanse of the observation deck towards the shadow that held the massive bulk of the dreadnought, stopping within easy distance to converse without intruding upon the other Wolf's space. He knew the vox relays of the revered ancient could pick up the sound of a pin dropped decks above, but there was a comfort in the presence of another that Keris could not deny. 

'Did you know the Grey Hunter Kjarl?'

Aldr's vox unit growled out after a moment. No, I never knew a grey hunter named Kjarl.

Keris gave a nod, accepting the statement and shifting to lean against the ice-chill of the conduits that ran down between the shuttered viewports,

'He was my pack's mentor until he fell to the hands of the Traitors of the Hydra on our first call as a full pack to the murder-make.'

Keris felt the chill of the metal at his back and altered his stance slightly to ease healing muscles,

'There were none of the elder Wolves free to take up his place in the wake of his death, so Lord Blackmane chose to name Vermundr packleader. He knew such a choice would not sit well with the pack as there was already discord within and, in turn, ask of me a personal oath to guide and support Vermundr within his role. I accepted that oath and my packbrothers have come to look to my wisdom and guidance, though the mantle of leadership is worn by Vermundr.' 

'I have done what I can to guide him, yet he hesitates when he *must *be sure. He seems blind to the nature of his own pack, their humours and the kin of their inner wolf. Words have done little to his device. No *true *Son of Russ chooses to lead from behind his brothers, to allow others to do his job for him, yet demand the pack's allegiance. He is leader in name only.'

'I have risked the oaths I have sworn in blood and honour, yet I fear that my very _presence _in the pack is a threat to his leadership.'

Aldr remained still for a time, a deep growl emanating from within his armoured form at the mention of the Alpha Legion. 

Such a foolish thing, to elevate someone so untested. The dreadnought finally said. This packmate of yours, Vermundr, he has led you from afar at all times? He has never risked himself for his pack then?

Keris turned the thought over in his mind for a moment before answering,

'He fights with the pack but not at the fore, not as the one to challenge the foe and draw first blood. I hold bloodoath and have faced the Serpent that cut the thread of Grey Hunter Kjarl, taking his hand before he fled. Iorek Ghostwolf faced the wyrd-tainted star-cunning one that sought the Stromcaller's thread. Nor did Vermundr seek to take the razor-ursid in the oath-hunt with the new bloods to the pack that Lord Blackmane set upon us.'

Keris gave a growl of frustration,

'I do not understand the uncertainty, his hesitation; it is _anathema _to Russ' blood.'

Have you ever heard of Vaer Greyloc?

Aldr rumbled, turning his massive frame and slowly pacing around the chamber. Keris watched as the dreadnought moved; the predatory stalk of a hunter keen even in the massive body clad in ceramite and totems. The timeworn rune *Jner*, pride, was etched upon one of his piston-driven legs and glinted in the few barely-lit glow-globes that were scattered around the room's cavernous berth. Keris' blade-keen memory called forth the knowledge of the sagas he had learned,

'Greyloc... was Jarl of Twelfth, the Great Company left behind to guard the Aett when the whore-sons of the Red Sorcerer sought their deaths at our hands a second time.'

That is how some recall it yes. Aldr's voice was the low rumble of thunder as he spoke, not once breaking in his stride while he did so. I met him before his end, fought with his warriors against the hated Sons of Magnus.

There were many who called him a ghost, distrusted him for his ways. He, a jarl, did not always fight from the front and without him Fenris would be lost. Do you believe your own wolf lord always fights from the front? That he blindly seeks the greatest immediate threat?

The ancient's voice filled the chamber as he moved, finally stopping in his stride mere meters before where Keris stood. The growl of the engines within the mighty bulk of the dreadnought was enough to drown out even the distant base thrum of the ship's plasma reactors. Keris gave the dreadnought a measured gaze, the lack of scent-trace causing him some degree of difficulty reading the ancient's mood,

'It is said by the sagas that Lord Blackmane is *always *first to set foot on, and the last to leave, the battlefield.'

Keris gave a faint lupine grin before shaking his head,

'He is cunning and has the blood of the berserker in the murder-make, but victory does not always mean fighting from the front of the battle lines. Yet, a pack needs a leader *willing *to do so when the need calls for it.'

And you believe yourself such a leader then? You who took the arm of a damned traitor and stand before an elder of your own chapter without fear. Tell me blood claw, what has this Vermundr done in his time? Is he even half the warrior that you are?

Without warning and before Keris could give voice to an answer, the dreadnought turned away again, striding into the darkness for a moment and then back out to continue speaking.

This body of mine affords me many things, but I need none of them to see the conflict in your soul and in your eyes.

I offered you what wisdom I could give you, but so far I have given you little. My body, my true body, was taken from me long before it should have. My pack-mate was many things, rival amongst them, but like Vermundr he was made leader of my pack.

We fought against the thrice-damned Eldar on some Russ benighted world, and I thought him a coward for holding us back and for hesitating. In my anger, I disobeyed him and charged, my pack following me in my wake and, because of me, we were ambushed and all of us killed. My haste opened up our flank, nearly costing the battle; and in its end they found me amongst all my pack barely alive. I was returned to life as you see me now, in part as punishment: to live nearly eternal knowing that I amongst a dozen live because I was a fool. Listen to my words, know that those who lead us must do it without fear, if I had not acted, confronted my leader instead, then my pack might have lived.

Aldr's voice was low, little more than rasping from the speakers.

If you truly believe him unsuited to lead you, challenge his right and let Russ decide. You have your oath to your jarl, but you swore oaths to Fenris and Russ first.

The wolf in his soul stirred, the urge to pace the dark a sharp need as his muscles twitched and Keris felt the hair at the nape of his neck bristle as he pushed off the wall to stalk the length of the chamber once before stopping, cold eyes locked on Aldr's towering bulk.

'It is not my wyrd to lead this pack,'

Keris pulled back his lips in a low snarl of vexation,

'I have shed my blood for it. Offered my honour to Vermundr so that he might become the true leader he *must *be so that the pack can stand as one before the omens cast by the runes. I am marked by the wolf priests yet I wear the colours of a blood claw.'

Keris paused, feeling a sudden weight of his oaths and the duties that called to him,

'I carry the direct legacy of Skja Sun-Eye.'

I know the story of Skja, his tale is of a warrior unlike many others. Do you know how his life ended? Aldr asked, something curious in the vox distorted voice.

Keris felt the wolf in his soul give the faintest of whines as he sought for words against a mouth that had suddenly gone dry. To hear one of the revered ancients speak of the time when Russ bestrode the stars was a gift, but to know of a legacy that beat in his very blood from the warrior who fought against the darkness of those days choked his voice with quiet awe,

'I was told it was by his sacrifice that the Wolf King reached Sol with his fury when he did...'

In that he did, he led the fight against the Alpha Legion who had sought to waylay Russ and the Lion from Terra. It was said that Skja stood against Russ, for though he fought alongside one of the Thirteen companies, he began his life as a Wolf Brother. Skja knew that whoever took to the field would not see life beyond it, and chose to sell his life for others.

I am no seer, no priest. I do not know what your fate is to be, but I do know that it was the Alpha Legion who ended the life of your ancestor, who ended the life of your Kjarl. Were I to guess why you have not been taken by the priests, then it would be so that you and your pack brothers can put an end to what has gone on for millennia.

Keris fought to swallow, a sudden sense of unconscious tightness rose from the scar where the gene-seed had been implanted deep within his muscled chest. Skja had not only been a wolf priest but also a Wolf Brother of Russ; the warrior-kin of the Wolf King that had stood at his side when the Allfather himself blazed across the stars to first set foot on Fenris. His thoughts cut through a storm of churning emotions; pride and honour rose alongside a frozen tempest of rage as the memories of his fight with the Serpent in the heart of the Fist of Russ uncoiled in his mind. The realization came with the howling of crimson-tinted hatred from the wolf in his soul. _Ten thousand years ago, in the days that the galaxy burned with the first flames of betrayal, the warrior whose' legacy he bore within his flesh had stood in sacrifice against the same face of the Great Enemy._ 

Keris felt the burn of kill-urge running like the molten heart of the world forge in his veins, his muscles twitching with the need to hunt. He was silent for a long moment, diamond-edged will of duty meeting the rage of his blood-legacy.

'We have all died once, only to be reborne into something more that we ever were as men. From that moment forth our lives belong not to ourselves, but to the Chapter and the Allfather. We are bound by oath and honour, for it is our sacred duty to stand between humanity and the Darkness that would see it twisted and destroyed. _Our duty unto death_.'

Keris took a slow breath, his voice calm and low even with the need that pulsed through his core with every heartbeat,

'For every Son of Russ that falls in battle, there are a thousand others that stood by his side and called him brother and their sacrifices are no less than his own. We carry the weight of a duty to all who have come before us on our shoulders. I thank you, Ancient Aldr, for the words you have shared with me. I will do what I must for my packbrothers to see that their oaths are *never *forgotten. If that requires my own honour and blood, then that is the price I shall pay for Russ and the Allfather.'

"Very wise words for one so young." A voice like waves crashing against the side of a cliff grunted from within the darkness. Slowly a figure became visible, walking from the shadows that had concealed it and into the faint light. 

"'Do what you will for your packbrothers.' One does not make such a claim lightly, or without the will to back it up. But do you truly mean those words with your every fiber Keris the blood claw?"

The newcomer asked, standing beside the armoured bulk of Aldr and folding aged arms across a chest swathed in pelts. The face was lined with scars of both great age and thousands of battles. Keris answered without pause, his crystal eyes turning to the face of the Wolf that had just made his presence known. Grey eyes, aged and enduring as the very stone of the Fang itself, locked with his gaze,

'I would not have spoken them if I did not mean them with my very soul, elder, and I question the honour of _any _Son of Russ who would not give his last drop of blood for his wolfbrothers and our sworn duty.'

"You are possessed of many talents Keris the blood claw." The newcomer said with an approving nod.

"A fury kept within its place, unquestionable loyalty to your pack brothers, your lord, and the chapter, unbendable faith, and bravery that could put many to shame."

"You stand before a venerated ancient, humbled but un-cowed. You stood before a brother with determination as your shield to bring him forwards to a light. You even now stand before me, one you do not know, unafraid."

"I am Odaajn Lightwalker, tender of the flesh upon the Hunrodr, and I find truth in the words spoken to me by your priest Sigurd. You are a warrior who has walked to the brink; will you turn from it now or plunge forward?" Odaajn asks, his eyes seemingly boring into your soul.

Take heed young blood claw, Aldr rumbled, destiny or not, every choice has its price; make sure you understand what you are paying.

Keris did not turn his eyes from the scarred face of the _Hunrodr's _fleshweaver, feeling the weight of the path that had been placed before him. The venerable ancient's words hung in the air and Keris dipped his head in understanding to the words of wisdom. _To stand forever apart from his brothers as the eyes of Morkai- ever watchful of both flesh and soul, walking by their sides but never again within the bonds of a pack._

'The wyrd cares not that we are ready for the trails it places before us, yet it is up to us to stand unbowed before them despite the costs. It is not hardship itself that defines us, but our actions when faced by it that echo through eternity. I will accept the cost of my path willingly.'

"Then raise your head and look upon us, Keris the priest. Walk freely this path and know that you will never again tread another." Odaajn said, and the chamber filled with the hissing of pistons as Aldr's legs moved the ancient to his full height.

"In time you shall be made to know the first of your trials upon this path." Odaajn continued, "But for now see to your brothers."

Keris straightened his stance, his icy-bright eyes reflecting the low lights of the glow-globes with a will as unbreakable as Fenris herself, his fist clenched tight to his chest over his primary heart. 

'For Russ and the Allfather.'

With that, Keris turned and paced from the chamber without fear or regret in his soul to seek out his wolfbrothers and take the first steps down the path of his calling. 

_My pack no longer, but my brothers until the Wolftime._


----------



## Nicholas Hadrian

*Blood Claw Iotki*

[OOC, Sorry about the wait, wasn't aware you guys were waiting up for me and finals have been keeping me kind of busy and screwed up.]

The tension had been so thick the ride to *Hunrodr* that you could have cut it with a knife.

So tense in fact Iotki was sure it would snap and hurt someone.

He was also pretty sure that someone was him.

He had spent the ride in silence, listening in on the petty squabbles of his pack. Keris had spent the ride silent as well. Sulking, Iotki thought, though about what Iotki had no concept.

But at the moment he was considerably more concerned with something else, his pack brother Iorek.

The Ghostwolf moved fast, too damn fast, his speed suddenly becoming legendary, even among the Astartes.

The fight would have been embarassing had it been anyone else.

Or at least so Iotki would claim hours later at the feast-table.

Moving faster than a bolt of lightning Iotki found himself furuiously trying to fend off his pack-mate. He caught a strange scent, one that permeated the cage. It almost seemed reminiscient of the smell of Fenris Wolf.

In less than no time at all Iotki found himself being bourne to the ground, caught under the weight of his frenzied brother, his own reflexes, enhanced to superhuman levels seeming sluggish in comparison.

In a moment he saw stars. His addled mind breifly wondered why he would be outside the ship before reality came rushing back in the form of the Iorek's other fist. Iotki intercepted it, pushing the fellow Bloodclaw off him with a kick.

Iotki spun about, standing as quickly as he could, just in time to be slammed into the energy cage with the force of a train. He screamed in pain, desperately trying to force off Iorek, before collapsing, spent. Iorek let him sink to the ground.

He paused only to spit a gobbet of bright crimson blood onto the stone floor before leaving, allowing the next challenger his due.

Collapsing on a stone bench to watch the next match, Iotki paused to let his enhanced muscles re-knit themselves, enjoying the regeneration that only comes with being Astartes.

Tired and spent, Iotki stood to commentate to the matches, adding in his own jibes, insults and off colour jokes, perhaps to the amusement of the gathered Bloodclaws.

He drank well that night, in celebration

[OOC: Sorry, too fried to give real conversation, but, I hope this can move the story along for you guys, I've got a month off to re-charge my batteries so I'll probably be more active then.]


----------



## dark angel

He watched quietly, unmoving, claret eyes fixated on Keris and the Packleader. Within, his twinned hearts played a staccato against his reinforced chest bone, his lips peeling back distastefully. 

The Firehawk leaned forwards, feeling the restraining harnesses tug on his power-armoured form, locking him in place. It happened in seconds.

Vermundr surged, one massive hand seizing Keris’ gorget, the other bunching into a powerful, thrumming fist. It swam through the air, rapidly, hammering into the sage’s face. There was an audible crack, followed by a serene patter of blood upon the decking. 

With a tremendous roar, Keris was off his feet, held aloft for a second, before plummeting into the metallic floor. The resounding clang was deafening, even when dulled out by the bear’s-head helm.

Alrik smiled ruefully, leaning back, slumped petulantly in his massive throne. Vermundr spoke once more, anger and betrayal lacing his speech, though the words were lost to Alrik’s tempestuous brooding. This situation, it was bitterly familiar. It was a game of regicide, being played out with different pieces.

‘You go too far, noble Vermundr,’ He whispered, shutting off his communication systems with a dismissive blink-click. ‘Even an alpha has his shackles, remember that.’ 

***​
‘Aye, brother,’ I speak, my voice a deep, unsettling snarl. I lean in close, gauntlets still latched unto Keris’ massive pauldrons, lips hovering above the icy-eyed Blood Claw’s ear. ‘Russ did fight alongside the Imperial Guard, but I am not Russ, am I?’ 

I am Alrik Firehawk, Son of Fenris, Blood Claw of Lord Ragnar Blackmane, and I will not be humiliated by my brothers. And yet, this is wrong. I have laid hand upon Keris, using my brutality to force the Claw against a wall, spitting venomous words. 

When Keris speaks, his words are calm and calculated, brimming with wisdom. Helmless, Keris eyes shine glacial blue, contrasting heavily against my own, those dark and envious pits. Where I am tall and broad, he is all whipcord muscle, taut and on edge. 

The stench of the Governor’s Palace stings my nostrils. Hecutor is a strange world, on of unfamiliar scents and half-constructed cities, a mining world by name and trade. I hate it, but alas, I do not hate Keris. 

He stands besides me always, a brother; a Packmate. What I have done, it reeks with wrongness, oozing from my every pore. Keris has done naught but care for me, keep my best intentions in mind. And I repay him with vehemence and bunched fists, a snarl rippling forth from between my soft, untouched lips. 

Brother does not fight brother. I will not allow myself to repeat this. 

***​
The Thunderhawk drifted into the Hunrodr’s hanger bay, gliding effortlessly across the deck, painting a huge, bird-like shadow on the stone-metal floor. When the transport landed, the resounding clang rung through Alrik’s ears, ebbing and flowing. 

He was amongst the last to step from the Thunderhawk; sliding his Chainsword into a wolf-hide scabbard, with a deep, metallic rasp. He bade the Stormcaller one last glance, eyes narrowed distrustfully, hand fingering the hilt of his Chainsword. 

Across the hanger; the Dreadnaught Aldr was disembarking his own Thunderhawk, huge and hunched. Runes shone brightly upon the sarcophagus, amid bundles of great, colourful furs. The entombed warrior let out a tremendous howl, amplified by inbuilt vox-enhancers, carrying across the hanger deck and throughout the Hunrodr herself. 

‘A fate worse than death,’ Alrik spoke, to himself, eyes narrowed distastefully. The fibre-bundles in his gauntlet tightened minutely, pushing his fingers into a crushing fist, as he traced his Pack’s footsteps, pacing predatorily. ‘I shall not fall so low, never.’ 

***​
The armouring chambers were loud, filled with clangs and grunts. A pair of milky-eyed Servitors stood in attendance to Alrik, unscrewing each segment of his plate, while a thrall performed the proper rites. 

Alrik lent his own rasping voice to the rituals, intoning a prayer to the Machine Spirit, gently disengaging his left gauntlet, with a pneumatic hiss. Only his legs and right arm remained armoured, the rest of him naked, perspiration beading his crag-like torso. Several of his Packmates were already leaving, clothed and ready.

Vermundr had decreed that the Pack would spar. The older members would stand toe-to-toe with the newcomers; though Alrik cared little, he had more pressing matters than dancing with green-bloods - 

- _He stood, above the bloodied form of Frostulfr. The Cretacian blade, black as night, was soaked in the rich, coppery blood of the Space Wolf; punched into the child’s neck, carving apart the gene-seed embedded within. His eyes were empty sockets, framed by pained crowfeet, Frostulfr’s lips peeled back in a betrayed, noiseless cry_ - 

- The transition into the Warp came and went, with a shrill blaring of klaxons. Shutters were locked in place, the Gellar field activated; for to stare into the Warp was to invite madness. 

The Firehawk paid it little heed, fearless and uncaring; his mind filled with delusional conceptions that he would halt any denizen of the Immaterium, with blade and bolter. It was a whimsical fantasy, nothing more and nothing less. 

All war ended in one singular path - _Death_. 

***​
Out of his second-skin, Alrik wore a simple set of elk-hide breaches; a salt-and-pepper pelt thrown messily over his broad, muscular shoulders. 

The training cages were filled with pained grunts and exasperated gasps yet each as lost to him, blurring into one formless tirade. Iorek and Keris went before him, the Ghostwolf and the Sage making short work of their quarries, their movements cruel and vengeful. 

When it came to Alrik, he stood uncaringly; his mind wandering back to Njal. Beast within; beast without - He hungered, for bloodshed, for truth, for the thrill of battle. 

And yet, the prospect of bludgeoning Njord and Heimdall, who already stood in the arena, ravenous and brash, was distinctively unentertaining. He stalked onto the stone, tossing away his pelt, as the force-barrier electrified, shimmering simplistically in the background. 

He was savagely majestic, standing there; skin pulled taut over bioengineered musculature and reinforced bones. Alrik’s face, twisted into a sadistic smile, was stony; save for the rippling of scarification. 

_I should not be here - Njal awaits, - And yet I am forced to dance with these dimwits.._

..The Blood Claws were upon him as soon as his thoughts abated, a flurry of punches and kicks hurtling towards his upper body. Despite his size, Alrik twisted nimbly, avoiding the swipes; before falling into a crouched position, one leg arcing out. 

He would be on the offencive, as the pair stumbled back from his kick; he was darting forwards, swinging left and right, catching blows upon his simian form. The jolts of pain were petty, lasting but a scarce several seconds. 

He parried and punched and kicked, gibbering inanely, the flickering image of Frostulfr’s death-mask returning to him. A minor distraction..

The Firehawk backhanded Njord, almost dismissively, sending him stumbling away; before his abyss-dark eyes fixed on Heimdall. In the confusion, his Packmate had spun, and now held his back to the brooding Alrik. 

The punch was tremendous, the resounding slap echoing through the confines. Heimdall stumbled forth, and - 

- _Heimdall changed. His skin darkened, turning a deep, mossy-green. Piggish eyes, set within a primal face, all jutting fangs and overextended brows, stared up at Alrik in malice. 

The Firehawk was once again armoured, though his plate was a light-devouring black, his gauntlets wrapped around a huge, trunk-like throat. Beneath the pair, the ground hurtled past, a blur of reds, yellows and greens; of a hundred flowers, aflame. He pressed the Ork’s head lower, a brittle laugh resounding from parched lips and _- 

Collapsed. He lay, on the stone floor, eyes twinkling. The lights of the arena shone down upon the Firehawk, framing his imperfect face. A sharp, ebbing pain resided in his face; familiar and yet not, as though he had been struck. 

With a grunt, he pulled himself back unto his feet, bidding Heimdall and Njord a venomous glance, and left. 

Vermundr stood in the doorway, looking disappointed, hostile and worse still, _ashamed_. Alrik paid him no heed, as he brushed past rudely, lips peeled back over his snaggletoothed fangs. 

***​
Few crewmen wandered the hallways, all working away attentively at their duties. Glassy-eyed servitors and monstrous Astartes stalked through the abandoned vessel, their footfalls thudding deafeningly; overbearing the distant beating of the Hunrodr’s heart. 

Njal Stormcaller would be at the communications node, along the central spine of the hunter-frigate, a nerve cluster of advanced auguries and vox systems. 

Already the Son of Fenris had memorized the internal layout of the vessel; filtering through his memory of ship classes and a wall-bolted schematics. Weaponless, Alrik’s fingers clenched and opened over an invisible hilt, longing for his blades and bolter. 

His only weapons now were his mind and body. And one of them was doubtlessly broken, though whether it was to an irreparable state, he knew not. 

Only the Rune Priest would, or could, tell him that. 

***​
The journey was short, Alrik’s movements swift and surefooted. No-one stood in his way, not thralls, servitors or Astartes; each steadily filtering around the Firehawk, who vented an air of aridity; his every gland producing hostile pheromones. 

When he reached his destination, he took a moment of clarity. Beyond the blast doors, lay his destiny; the defining answers. He took a deep, metallic breath, laying a hand besides the runic seal which opened the doors. 

‘This is it,’ The Firehawk told himself, quietly, his breath misting before him, clinging to the surface of the door. ‘My questions will be answered,’ He swiped his hand over the pad, and the door opened with a whoosh of displaced air. ‘Or else..’

The Firehawk turned the corner, his senses repulsing at the depth of the smoke and sweet, sickly incense. The room was terribly spartan, save for the cherry-red braziers and a tremendous grey pelt, far older than Alrik, emboldened by strange, sorceress runes.

"Alrik Firehawk." Njal spoke, though his eyes remained shut, seated on the floor, still clad in his grey-blue armour. "You have questions for me, concerns."

‘Aye,’ Alrik spoke, his voice cold, edged with curiosity and beneath that, anxiety. He eyed the Rune Priest with apprehension, his coal-black eyes narrowed, tempestuous slits amongst red-tinted scar tissue. ‘That I do.’ 

A moment of silence passed, the Firehawk tensing, wetting his lips with his tongue. ‘On Fenris, I saw something. Unworldly and treacherous, like nothing I have witnessed before. Kin-slaying, sire, an act of murder. I fear it was precognitive. It was…’ He paused, snorting. ‘Unnatural.’

"And you saw it again, or something similar, not to long ago as well?" Njal asked, opening his eyes to regard Alrik, otherworldly light playing in their depths.

He pursed his lips, avoiding contact with the Psyker’s eyes. ‘I did, though it was different - Garbed in black, I was, struggling with a Greenskin. I do not understand, this.. Madness..’ 

"Possible futures, strands of fate that will never be. These sights you see, do you believe them to be you?"

‘Nay,’ The Blood Claw spoke, the word carrying between the pair. ‘Honourless and bloodthirsty I may be, but I am no brother-killer,’ His hands flexed open-and-shut, before he finished - ‘Aye, I am ill-tempered, but the blood of the Space Wolves will not colour my hands.’

"Many have said such a thing in the past and loved to break their words, would you allow your brother Iorek to suffer the terrible fate that awaits him should the wolf within take over?"

‘_That is different_,’ Alrik said, his voice a low, venomous whisper. ‘In that case, I would fulfil my duty. But what I saw, it was wrong - I felt spite, and my gauntlets were not my own, - They were ocean-green and mazarine, the colours of the XX Legion.’ 

"Think back to what you saw, was it more than just your hands that were not your own?" Njal questioned, Alrik’s thoughts wandering back to the image of Frostulfr. 

The snow was a sickened, ashy-grey; the plants shriveled and brown. A rain of embers and ash, a dance of crimson-orange and clamorous grey, drifted above him. A patina of industrial waste had formed on Frostulfr’s pained death-mask, burying his features.

‘It is not something I dwell upon, Rune Priest,’ Alrik sneered, acidic bile rising in the back of his throat. ‘But yes, you are correct. The landscape was odd, touched by industrialization. No, I dare say it was not upon Fenris which I stood.’ 

"You have glimpsed the possible, seen what may very well be. Despite what you have told me, I can find no trace of the ether within you Alrik Firehawk." Njal said, opening a pouch at his side and taking out a handful of bone and stone fragments. 

Upon each, a rune was carved, some glittering a glacial blue, as though acting on a presence beyond the senses of normal men. The Rune Priest cast his totems before him, watching as patterns formed, before beckoning Alrik closer with one gauntleted hand. 

"Tell me what you see." He spoke. 

Alrik’s eyes turned towards the runes, scanning each with equal scrutiny. No shamanistic vision took him, no further glimpses into what could come; mere nothingness, save for a single word which ebbed in the back of his mind - _Failure_. 

At his sides, his hands became monstrous, scarred fists. ‘I see nothing, Stormcaller,’ He said, the words slipping off his tongue effortlessly. ‘Nothing..’

"Nor do I." Njal admitted, standing up to his full height after scooping the runes back up. "What you have seen, it speaks nothing of you. It was nothing at all."

‘No, this is not true,’ Alrik spoke, sharply, shifting uneasily. ‘I cannot accept that what I saw was nothing, - _I will not _- I turned to you for guidance, Rune Priest, exposed my flank to my pack-mates. I will not return until my desire is sated.’ 

"You cannot read the runes Firehawk, there is nothing there for you. What you saw on Fenris, and again here, they are moments in time that have not occurred, may not occur."

"They possess no meaning, for they are only a moment of time; nothing more can be gleamed from them."

‘Then,’ Alrik said, his lips peeling back in a rumbling snarl. This was not what he had expected. ‘There must be an explanation, beyond that which you offer. Why have none of my erstwhile brothers suffered similar experiences?’ 

He stepped closer, feeling the electrical buzz of the Rune Priest’s armour. ‘Why must I be tormented so?’

"You stared into the heart of a cruiser and walked away with only burns. Russ and the Allfather show you favour Firehawk, but not everything they show us is of use in a way we know."

"I tell you what you have seen was nothing, because with only a moment in time it is nothing. There is no way to know if what you saw has happened, will happen, may happen, or may never happen. It is to early to tell, if at all."
Njal said, placing both of his armoured hands on Alrik’s broad shoulders. 

"You sought me for guidance Firehawk so heed my words. These things you have seen are not of you, and for now you must accept that they are nothing at all."

The ceramite was cold on his bare flesh, heavy upon his muscles, a burden. ‘Then what am I, Stormcaller? I am purposeless, I have no pre-designed fate, no role fits me amongst the Pack. I am looked upon with abhorrence, ill-respected, unappreciated. I am but a joyful warrior-king.’

‘Keris, Iorek and Vermundr are gifted in that essence - I, however, am not. Am I to remain pathless?’

"The only one who believes you are without a path is you Firehawk. Just because it is not laid out at your feet already does not mean that you do not possess a path. You are a powerful warrior first and foremost, never forget that."

"Vermundr leads, Keris inspires, and Iorek fights a battle within; do you truly believe you have no path of your own? For their strengths, you possess within you the spirit of a warrior born."

"You, Alrik Firehawk, walk the path of a champion. You lead without leading, inspire without inspiring, and take the fight to your enemies no matter who they might be. The Ice-slayer walks a similar path."

‘What good is that,’ Alrik said, breathing deeply. The acrid stench of smoke clung to his lips and nostrils. ‘When I find myself bested against green-bloods, by a cowardly blow nonetheless.’ 

‘I fear no enemy, Stormcaller,’ He said, his voice growing heavy. ‘Let them come, with blade, fang and talon. Rejection. I fear rejection, abandonment. Once I cared little, spat the names of my brethren, questioned my oaths..’

‘Those embers have since guttered out,’ The Firehawk admitted, turning his head aside. ‘But the divide is still there - Is it truly wrong that I question the words of my superiors, when I believe them to be wrong and unjust?’

"Is it wrong..no. But they would lead, not you; it is a burden unlike any you have faced Firehawk. Unless you have faced the choices they have, who are you to judge them? To weigh the value of the truth against a lie knowing what it will do."
"You say you were bested, then go back and win; lest you desire your path to be at an end."

‘Very well, Rune Priest,’ Alrik said, nodding shallowly. ‘A champion I shall become,’ A wicked smirk painted his scarred countenance. ‘But first, I must attend to some business. There are a pair of Blood Claws in need of a thrashing, if I do recall correctly.’


----------



## Lord Ramo

Heimdall stayed silent in the transport. He did not approve of the obvious divisions in the pack, and couldn't believe how the older marines made it so much more complicated with their constant bickering. He was reminded that they were all just blood claws, even the older ones who lorded it over the younger members of the Claw.

Heimdall kept his face blank as Vermundr beat Keris to the ground, it was ridiculous how the older wolves reacted, he was worried by them to be honest. As the thunderhawk touched down on the deck Heimdall followed the others out, knowing that they were heading to the cages to fight. It would be the older wolves vs the younger wolves, and he knew that he was going to loose. They did have the advantage of having more experience than them, and that was crucial in a fight.

He and Njord would be facing Alrik, and Heimdall knew that they would loose. Alrik seemed to him to have no boundries, and had both the strength and range to beat them both into submission in one fight. However Heimdall would give his best, and he was sure that Njord would do the same. 

They leapt into the fight, but their blows seemed to flow of off the giant claw like water. Alrik came at them non stop, and Heimdall could barely keep up. However he came up with a plan, overstep his next hit, distract and Njord can flank and finish him off. Heimdall made his attentions clear, far over stepping what any claw would have done, and Alrik punished him with a staggering blow. However he kept Heimdall very close to the surrounding energy field.

Lucky for him Alrik seemed to come to his senses for a moment, and Njord hit him, forcing him to quit the arena. Heimdall snarled in anger, mostly for the fact that Alrik was willing to put him in an energy field for a moment. However he knew this wasn't over, Alrik would be back to take his vengence on the two of them. He would fight Heimdall waiting, eagerly.

Next Vermundr stepped into the cage, and Heimdall saw everything as a blur. The packleader moved with such speed, such rage that Heimdall didn't even get a proper hit on him. Luckily he didn't go down on the first hit, lessening his shame only slightly. Heimdall turned, leaving the cage and heading out of the way. He had spent a lot of his training days trying to master his anger, but the fight with Alrik kept bringing it bubbling to the surface. He had only lost control of his anger once, on a fellow recruit that gave him a scar, having to be dragged from the cage. Next fight with Alrik he wanted to keep his temper under control.

He moved to the quiet feasting hall, taking a seat and some mead, he sat with the others, though he did not say a word. He was watching, like he always did. Waiting.


----------



## Scathainn

The Thunderhawk touched down with a metallic groan in the hangar of Hunrodr, and Ørrgrimr disembarked with the words of Alrik in his head still. He could still remember the intensity of his eyes, the cruel smile on his face, the haunting yet terrible beauty of his face.

“That was no fight…fight a war, brother, and you may earn the honour to spar with me, though.” He paused coldly, wetting his lips. “I will break you.”

With that, the elder Claw slunk off, leaving Ørrgrimr sitting slightly nervously on the mag-couch. His jests had been merely humerous, but the frigid tone of the Firehawk sent shivers down his spine. Shaking his head, he continued into the bowels of the ship. As he walked, there was a sudden rocking of the frigate, followed by a lurching motion. Immediately, he felt the tinge of despair and madness upon his soul, indicating they had entered Warp travel. He knew now that the perils of Chaos hung outside the ship, screaming and gibbering as the almighty instrument of Russ streaked through the cosmos. “What dinna’ kill ye’ makes ya stronger,” he muttered, his thick coastal accent sluggish with the dreadful presence of the Warp.

He needed to clear his mind, and the practice cages were the perfect place to do so. Ørrgrimr smiled with broken teeth; a good brawl always managed to lift his spirits. He stepped into the fighting cages giddy with anticipation; his opponent was Vermundr. He had talked to the elder pack-leader little, but his reputation preceded him. Ørrgrimr pounded his fist into his chest three times, a common sign for good luck in a brawl among the coastal tribes, and Vermundr nodded begrudgingly in return. Evidently, the elder brother’s mind was on other things.

The fight started fairly defensively; it was all Ørrgrimr could do to keep the furious pack brother’s blows warded. But he tired quickly; soon, his strikes became slow, sluggish, predictable. His body was slick with sweat as the two panted around each other, probing at each other. Vermundr threw a right hook, but the punch was wide and slow. Ørrgrimr used it to his advantage, and with a grin slammed his elbow into the side of Vermundr’s ribcage. As Vermundr howled in pain and rage, Ørrgrimr followed with a snapping punch straight to the face, sending Vermundr sprawling. The elder brother toppled and Ørrgrimr stood over him, panting and triumphant. 

“Aye, brother,” he spat, panting for air. “Ye’ve got a lot of fight in ya, that’s fer sure. Shame that lil’ tap hit ye’ down there so quickly, I’da wanted it te’ go on a bit mahr.” He grinned that stupid broken toothed grin again, and Vermundr snapped.

Leaping to his feet, he slammed his fists into Ørrgrimr at a frightening speed. Animal roars came from the elder brother as the wall of fists continued, unrelenting and without mercy. Blows to the shoulders, ribs, head, and finally feet brought him to the ground. With one final cry, Vermunder slammed his fist into Ørrgrimr’s ribcage, and inside of him he could hear his ribcage crack.

Slipping in and out of consciousness, Ørrgrimr barely noticed the other wolves around him. Of course, being the idiot he was, he began to chuckle, punch-drunk and nearly unconscious. He spit out a splintery piece of a tooth as he laughed. “Now, that’s morra like it, brother,” he laughed, as the other wolves helped him to his feet to watch the rest of the fights.


----------



## komanko

OOC: Going to ignore the previous update as in the thoughts about it, Im going to try and start anew with Frostulfr to somehow get attached more to the character.

The thunderhawk metallic walls groaned as they scraped against the stone floor of Hunrodr’s hangar bay. After a minute or so the thunderhawk settled in completely and with a hiss the main ramp dropped open. Hunrodr’s recycled air felt much cleaner than the one inside the thunderhawk, it felt clean without a hint of tense anxiety, anger and hate. Frostulfr did not know how much more he could take from the constant bickering of the older wolves. It seemed like he was missing some point, he could not understand for all his life why were they only concerned with showing their might in the pack, he sighed, the future holds the answer for this, and he shall wait and see, maybe after his blooding he would understand.

For now he would see solitude, he did not wish to hear more of the bickering of the older claws. He wished only for silence, the constant arguing was upsetting, he never imagined that the sky warriors themselves bicker and argue on the same thing as mere humans did. His choice of words stopped him, why would he refer to them as mere humans? It seemed that his short stay with the Space Wolves changed him, he no longer saw himself as a human though he could not decide if he was more or less.

Such thoughts did not matter now, he scratched his chin and moved onward with the rest of the pack, they had no place in the hangar bay, nothing for them to do there. Suddenly a massive shudder and the sound of cracking stone filled the hall, Frostulfr’s attention quickly shifted from himself and his packmates to the large menacing form of Aldr, the mighty dreadnought let loose of a strong low growl and then stomped forward into the depths of the ship. Like them, he had no reason to stay in the bay.

The ship wailed as it set off, for the first time of his life Frostulfr was making his way to another planet, something which he never experienced before, something completely new. He was eager and anxious to arrive already thought thoughts of his packmates constantly plagued his mind and made it nigh impossible for him to immerse in this first off world experience. Without another thought he moved forward towards the arming chamber, training will soon begin.

The hours have passed quickly, soon Frostulfr found himself in the training cages, both he and Yngvar were to work together in order to take down Keris. Keris had the upper hand experience wise and probably even physically. Yet they were two, they had numbers on their side. He stepped inside the cage, Yngvar was waiting for him inside along with Keris. His thoughts were still troubled, he simply could not understand the pack’s behavior. This thoughts kept him from being fully focused on the fight ahead.

Frostulfr quickly stretched out and wiped some sweat from his forehead, he was nervous, he knew Keris was a strong warrior and he doubted his own ability to fight against him, this thoughts of self doubt and his general nervousness only contributed to him being less focused. 

Nodding to Yngvar they both began to circle around Keris, thoughts still raced through his head as Yngvar lunged forward, Frostulfr followed striking just a moment after Yngvar, each strike that Yngvar initiated was slowed down by Frostulfr’s unfocused fighting. Each deadly attack became a sluggish ill coordinated one due to Frostulfr’s failure. Anger began to boil inside him clouding his judgment, a small mistake from his side and Keris penetrated his defenses like a raging tornado, hurtling blow after blow, hammering at him like the crack of thunder. In but a moments time Frostulfr succumbed to his knees, exhausted and defeated, one final blow sent him sprawling on the floor, blacked out.

Suddenly Frostulfr’s consciousness was thrown back into reality as the sheer mass of Yngvar crushed into him knocking out the air from his lungs. Blinking several times he saw that Yngvar quickly got back to his feet. He was determined to not go down without a fight, unlike Frostulfr… Such a shameful sight that was and he had only himself to blame. He could not ignore his thoughts while fighting something which made it nearly impossible to fight. Always distracted never focused…

He watched Yngvar fighting against Keris, each moment when Yngvar stood still made Frostulfr more and more ashamed, at a point he nearly wished to see Yngvar beaten down harshly yet the vile thoughts were quickly banished from his mind when his conscience kicked in. He watched eagerly to see who shall win the conflict while ignoring his own shame. After a short while it ended, Yngvar defeated as expected yet still he lasted much longer then Frostulfr did…Barely picking himself up Frostulfr stumbeled out of the cage like a young pup with his tail in between his legs. Such shame…

He sat down and watched the rest of the fights yet none of them compared to what happened in the last fight. It seemed that Vermundr simply snapped at a point and unleashed all of his anger on the unexpecting Orrgrimr, the young blood claw was quickly smashed down against the floor, blow after blow came hurtling at him without mercy. Frostulfr wanted to stand up and move to help the young blood claw yet he couldn’t, his legs trembeled with exhaustion as he tried to stand up and he knew that even if he would make it inside the training cage he would be of no help.

Yet it seemed that Keris had the same thoughts in mind, without a moment’s hesitation he disengaged the training cage’s field and went inside smashing Vermundr in the face and sending him reeling back. At these moments while Vermundr still recovering others quickly took Orrgrimr from the cage. He seemed in bad shape but Frostulfr could not tell if the man was severely hurt from where he sat.

The battle against Orrgrimr quickly turned into a full scale war which Keris and Verumdr were its leaders, both battled fiercely, their movements barely seeable, each hit but a blur in sight. Frostulfr had to use all of his senses in order to actually understand what was going inside that cage. Finally it seemed that Keris was the victor although none of them was really victorious, both were battered and broken yet each too proud to admit defeat.

More hours passed while Frostulfr was recovering from his injuries, he was completely exhausted and ashamed yet even pain could not dull the stream of thoughts which was constantly moving in his head. The fight between Keris and Vermundar only seemed to strengthen his fear, the pack was more divided then it seemed. Yet with a bit of luck some mead and friendly companionship might be able to dull out his fears. When he saw other Blood claws heading towards the main hall of the Hunrodr he decided to join them.

Food and drink flowed constantly in the main hall of the ship. He could smell happiness around there, the sound of laughter always in his ears. It was in a way a place of serenity although it was nearly completely full.

Frostulfr looked around while drinking from his tankard, everyone seemed to be talking without stop yet none really spoke of serious matters. It seemed like no one wanted to trouble himself about such things in such a place. As he was looking around he heard one of his claw addressing him, it was Krahl and he was asking him for his opinion. It might be a good opportunity to unload some of his thoughts about the situation as such he decided to indulge Krahl with an answer.

“I don’t think it’s a matter of choosing…” Frostulfr began saying, he then stopped and quickly decided how to continue his words. “Both Keris and Verumndr are more experienced then us and while it seems that Keris is the spiritual leader of this pack, Vermundar is the real leader.” For a moment he kept quite uncertain if his next words will really be true when the time to decide would come, if it would come. “If it would fall to me to decide I shall side with Vermundr, my loyalty is to the chapter and to its leaders and if they deemed him worthy to lead then I shall follow as happy or unhappy as I would be.” He sighed, he was so unsure himself…

“No, the answer shouldn’t be apperant. Both Keris and Verumndr are great men, both of them should be respected. Each of them leads in his own way, each of them affects the pact in a different way. Each choice you make, each choice I make, they all affect the pack as a whole. I’ll admit and say that just like you, I am also troubled about this. This endless infighting cannot be good. But yet again I shall repeat, from my point of view, my loyalty is to the chapter and the chapter alone. I believe that the choices that it makes are the right ones, yet still, I hope that we shall never have to face such a decision…”


----------



## deathbringer

The dull thud of metal on metal reverberated through the air as Vemundr lashed out at the sage and Iorek tasted Keris's raw rage upon the air, felt his muscles tense as he held himself from fighting back from compromising the very essence of his words. Yet as always his strength was unwavering barely a sound coming from between tightly pressed lips even as he was thrown bodily to the ground. 

Iorek was up, belt unclipped in a flash, hackles raised ready to strike. Yet the blood red eye was locked, not upon the packleader and his prey but upon the obsidian slits of the Firehawk. 

Aye the relationship had been strained by binding oaths and bitter argument yet their was a bond of kinship, a subtle entertwining of the souls that held them together. The sage lead the Firehawk even as the beast watched his back.

A single movement from those long limbs and Iorek would be upon him casting him to the ground, this was a necessity, to interrupt was to ruin all that Keris was trying to reinforce.

Vermundr must meet the challenges and crush them.

He must. Yet the Firehawk's words were mocking laced with mystery and Iorek sunk back to his seat with a low snarl, his fingers gently caressing the palm of his gauntlet, blood pounding, a deafening drumming rumbling in his ears.
________________________________________

Thoughts swam through his mind, some mundane some poignant, his feet carrying him amongst the others, eyes unfocused, their loping shapes before him blurred as if they lingered upon the fringes of his vision. The wolf snarled, twisting and curling, tinged by unease, eye rippling around though it seemed to focus upon something he could not see, seemed to focus upon spectres that danced within the dull glow of the ships lighting.

Then it all changed, his whole body seemed to weaken, a great ocean opening up before him, a sweeping wave or irresistable mass drawing him forward, his legs were collapsing even as he resisted, held himself upright, eyes widening even as he forced himself fully upright with a snarling gasp of exertion, the wolf in his head......

Was gone, its imprint upon his mind, but the lightest of shadows in the midday sun, flittering on the very edges of his subconscious, its attention elsewhere, the emptiness peaceful, yet haunting hollow and echoing ,like a mother loosing her child to wars brutal grasp.

So long had he tried to drive the wolf from his mind, yet now it was gone, his mind seemed too quiet, too empty, unnatural.

The slightest of feral snarls slipped from his lips, desperate to disturb the echoing silence, to fill the void in his mind.
___________________________________________________
He thrust himself into the cages, pushing others aside, something to distract him from the emptiness to take his mind away to stop himself dwelling upon the void that had been torn within him. He turned his mind upon his opponent as he slid into the cage, the tall broad form of the glory seeker, the one that had almost bundled Alrik ingloriously into Russ's halls.

He was bigger, stronger and faster, the bulging muscle of his physique stole his breath for a moment as he studied them, the comparison to his own worrying, a startling testament to his own inferiority, to the necessity for training, for effort and exertion.

His eye closed briefly, as he tasted the air drank his brothers scent in deep, searching for something to help him overcome the beast before him, to turn what genetics had given his brother to his advantage.

It sprung to him in the very depths of his scent, a feral desire oozed through his pores, the scent clogged in his nostrils and the snarl became a smile.

His stance slipped seemless into defence hands raised even as Krahl padded forward, the eagerness peaking even as he pushed his advantages looking to take the older brother apart.

His smile widened even as his brother pounded against him, the moves so obvious, without guile or subtlety, his ever desire simply upon inflicting pain, on ended the duel, leaping for the throat even when the hamstring was open.

Strokes came with ease, their path slow and tawdry in the heat of battle his blood high, his mind swallowed by adrenaline even as he waited, allowed the newblood to push and push til the opportunity arose. He was hemmed in, yet the glory seeker over extended and he slid away, rolling low, a casual kick slamming the bloodless into the energy field. 

He closed quickly, his strike eager yet for all his predictability in attack, his brother was still faster, a quick dodge allowing him to escape, yet now he closed, attacking the weaker side and his brother soon conceded.

A victory, yet not a telling one, a painstaking reminder of his flaws and his eye moved away to the empty training cages, to the benches and booths that the ghostwolf would haunt in the time to come. He was slow and weak, so much to do, his quarry would not make so many mistakes.

So much to do.

Yet now another entered the cage, the young wolf's scent hesitant, he came warily upon an irked wolf and paid the price, Iorek pushing forward upon the younger wolf, striking hard and fast, irritation and unease at the previous bout driving him upon the offensive.

He was faster and stronger a flurry of blows sent the younger wolf to the mat, though it did little to sooth the doubts within him. Doubts that set him aside and eventually drove him from the cages.

His feet wandered a path he did not know, his mind fixed upon the form of Krahl, of the speed and strength he did not possess, but he must possess, if he was to succeed, to cross blades with his brothers killer. A traitor, cursed by dark gods with millenia of experience in battle, and he the hunter was slower than a new blood.

He must train.

Doubts were wiped away by awe, his feet treading tentatively upon a place he knew not, yet even as his whereabouts became apparent his voice was stolen by its magnificence. Great windows clasped shut by stone dominated the chamber, a ringing sense of power rippling through the very room, the vibrations of the ship seeming to echo around its halls though the chamber seemed motionless, immovable, words slipped from his mouth

"the congregation of the power to destroy worlds all amassed at your finger tips"

The power of motion and destruction all dancing upon the fingers of...

"another of our ilk walks upon my vessel’s bridge.” 

The low rumbling of a familiar voice, a most welcome face placed atop the command throne brought a broad smile to his lips,even as the blood red iris fixed hungrily upon the features he had sought so long.

“How do you fair against your wolf Iorek Ghostwolf?”

The smile faded, the light dimming as his eye hit the floor in solemn reflection, voice reaching out, part statement, part a plea for information

"Do we ever truly know? I would say better yet the golden halos in my eyes shout of false hope."

anger rippled in the undertones, resentment, that he had looked for help and found none

" I searched for you upon Fenris, honoured brother, i searched for the answers. I sought to destroy the wolf within when i slipped into the red dream, when the sorcerors blade cleft me in twain. Yet i think i found answers where i would never have dreamed to look, from the one that set the wolf within wild with feral rage."

His voice became tinged with certainty and he met the steely gaze

"I know now i can no more destroy the wolf within than i can extinguish the stars with my bare hands, I must dominate it, as my pack leader must dominate me."

The light returned, glittering with certainty, underlined by a dim hunger, a boy holding up the prize of his first hunt for his fathers approval

"There are many who have tread such a path Ghostwolf; but to dominate your spirit is to make it your slave. And no creature, no true wolf, can abide to be ruled over in such a way and it will always fight with you for control."

The scouts eyes moved away over the workers below him, his voice suddenly low, an edge to his question, the subtle leash of certainty in his voice

"When you slept, you fought with your spirit. What was the outcome of that battle?"

Iorek's eye narrowed fixing upon the scout even as he stared into the bowels of the ship

"i bested it and thus became it"

Silence rolled and he went on his head tilting, the certainty fading into hesitant silence

"i beat it through the feral rage that it personifies and thus i did not beat it all"

Memory swum within Morgun's voice, the gold of his eyes an echo of the past

"And then the gold in your eyes became greater, for you took a step towards it taking you. When your spirit comes for you, fighting it only plays to its nature. You must never lose yourself to the fury Ghostwolf."

curiosity bit, the words blurting before he could stop them, trailing off into terrified silence

"did you ever"

The silence cowed Iorek, stretching over him, his mind forseeing a feral rage, yet he could not tear his eyes away, could not withdraw the question, he had to know

"Yes, yes I did."

he forced back a gasp even as the scout drove on, words rendered lyrical by memory, his saga rolling in dulcit tones, underlined by sorrow and woe.

"When I was younger, a weapon without a purpose or another to turn to, the curse came to me and I fought it every step of the way. I had forsaken my pack, because who amongst them could understand me and how long before they turned on me? The priests came for me, to make use of my skills as a scout."

The golden eyes met his, the glare of an older wolf upon the pup that gambled at its feet

"My travels have taken me far and wide, and through those travels I discovered a way to become more than just the master of my spirit."

The words were curious, eager, he drunk in the knowledge his voice suddenly lilting slightly teasing,

"and what other mastery have you gained wolf scout? what has solitude taught you?"

His mouth opened to speak more yet he fell into silence, eyes moving away to study the subsystems below with a casual eye, ears straining for the scouts next words


"My spirit and I are one and the same, it can no longer dominate me because it is me, but the path to such a thing, it can not be shown, not by one like me."

Dissapointment glittered, the answers, the mentor he longed for, so suddenly torn away.

Yet he had found his own answers, had he not found them...

His voice became low, solemn, his confidence rising with every syllable

"i sought answers brother scout for i knew not what i must do, i was lost alone and frightened. Yet now i seek advice, for if i was to walk down your path, my hand clutched in yours i would become a pale imitation of you. I am a wolf not a dog, and my wolf has its own path, where it takes me i do not know, yet for the first time i see an end that is not filled with the defiling dishonor of my soul. You give me much to think on brother scout, and to ignore your sage advice would be as foolish as ignoring the fangs of a kraken."

Fear of disrespect held him silent for a moment yet he plowed on meeting the scouts gaze

"yet our journeys will be different, even if i find myself hoping they will end in the same destination"

The scouts words were neutral yet the tint of warning burned within them

"You are not the first to say such words, just take heed to the dangers of this path Ghostwolf. In the end, there are those who have turned away from it for it is easier to be consumed."

the golden eyes locked upon him, weighed him, strained with the import of his advice

"When your spirit comes for you next, you must be ready to duel with it but not dominate it. Make its attacks useless, show it which spirit is the greater."

"You will have to do this over and over, wearing away at your spirit until finally you will take the fight to it, and in that make your wolf spirit one with you."

Fear seeped through him, the weight of the words spreading in a grimace over his face

"and what happens if you take the fight too early?"

the question hung in the air

"If you go for your spirit to soon then it will consume you. To go after your inner wolf, you must venture deep within, to the core of your soul where the spirit resides. You venture to a domain your own but not, it will hold the advantage."

His tone lightened yet the eyes remained fixed, cold as ice they held him motionless

"But for you Iorek Ghostwolf, such a thing is many many years from now. There are more important things to focus your mind on. What of your pack, how do they take you?"

"whether they push me to the outside or solitude draws me away i know not. I am the packs reject"

His eyes dropped low, shamed, chastised, the brand of his title a red flush across snow white skin, the flush fading away to leave a wan smile

"Grimwolf they name me yet strangley i find solice in the role. " 

"Aye, it is the curse we face; to be the rejected ones, the outsiders. We possess within us the chance to be more powerful than many, but it is a fine line we would walk for it."

The scout turned away yet he turned back, his words heavy with import

"But do not go searching for rejection where it may not lie. Take heed from me Ghostwolf, there are those amongst your packmates who stand beside you as a brother. You did not earn your name yourself; never forget that." 

Keris would stand by him, yet.... the words burst from him

"aye but for how long will they be packbrothers, already they are marked for paths, keris is held in the keen eyes of the wolf priests, vermundr strides in the wake of the wolf lord and even the stormcaller glides the tempests of the firehawks rage."

what of his path, what would happen to him... yet the scout was moving away to the dais, his words comforting yet final even as he settled his bulk upon the command throne

"Return to your pack Iorek Ghostwolf. We shall speak again, of that I promise to you."
________________________________________________________
The words of Krahl and Frostrulf floated from the feasting hall, weary scents and the taste of fresh blood had led him their yet the words tore his own thoughts away with a low snarl.

In 3 strides he was at their table a single kick sending it skidding to leave a gap within the benches upon which the new blood sat. He strode between them, eye sweeping round them even as they sat, some caught by surprise, evidently not involved in the words he had heard. Food and drink halfway to their mouths yet he took them in, eye glittering with the savage fury of a fenrisian storm.

"Their is no choice to be made brother Frostulfr, no sides to be taken, no decisions to worry your thick skulls over. Brother Vermundr was charged to lead this pack by the authority of your Lord and will remain thus."

he whipped round to fix his glittering upon the other newbloods 

"Perhaps you mistake brother Keris's actions as a quest for leadership. If you see it thus, you are as stupid as you are hideous. Brother Vermundr is the head of the pack, speak more of two leaders and only one gauntlet will close round your throat quicker than mine, the iron grip of brother Keris himself."

His voice became low and filled with a fervent light a grim smile lighting his face

"For all Keris's charm and charisma, you have not seen Vermundr Iron Vengeance in battle, for he is as capable as any warrior I have ever known, his axe sure and his mind swift. I am honored to fight by his side and to follow his lead, for beneath the .....infighting,"

his voice spat the last word a glare of pure venom shot in Krahl's direction 

"There are bonds that bind us and soon will bind you alongside us, the bonds of blood shed in the Allfather's name, oaths of honor sworn in battle and in memorandum."

He let out a low snarl and his hands clenched in fists face twisting in a deep snarl

"So come, he who wishes to test the oaths made between the packs reject and its leader. Step back into the cages with me and I will show you the true weight of a space wolfs oath in the force of my left fist."

He stepped to view them all his fist resting gentle in the cradle of his right arm, anger pulsed through his blood.

Let them come, he would show them pain.


----------



## darkreever

{So funny story, I actually posted this thirteen or so hours ago but a crashing of my router didn't let it go through. I just went the entire day under the assumption that the post was up, only to see that it never happened. So for anyone, especially Euphrati, who may have logged on today in hopes of seeing this, my most humble apologies I should have double checked.}

Iotki, Ørrgrimr, and Heimdall; Iorek’s words in the hall, or rather him kicking the long table, snap your heads to the older wolf. ‘There is no choice to be made’ those words ring the loudest from Iorek’s declaration, and you notice the hulking Tyr nodding in agreement. It does make sense, Vermundr is the leader of this pack, and anyone else would have to challenge him for his right to lead. There would be no siding with him or Keris; if Keris wanted to lead, the way of Russ is, after all, not democracy.

You are not given much chance to comment, as Vermundr enters the hall and looks to each of you gathered here. His body is even more battered than when he had you leave the training cage, and there is something in his eyes that you do not care much for. Like an anger held in check, something possibly borne of terrible or bad actions. But you don’t get long to contemplate on your pack leader’s appearance, as he starts to address all of you something rocks the ship and he nearly loses his footing. There is a shrieking of metal before the _Hunrodr_ violently shakes for a second time, and then the hall is banished to darkness for a split second. Red warning lights give the chamber a nether-worldly gloom and klaxons begin to blare, something is wrong!

[Though you don’t get much time to say anything towards Iorek’s words, you can say something, or at least build up your own opinion of it. You have now missed out on any reaction to the fight of Vermundr and Keris, something I would very much suggest you not do in the future. After the ship stops shaking, you spring to your feet and look to Vermundr for his orders.]


Iorek, Krahl, and Frostulfr; the table from which you both sit around is violently kicked away, your drink and food sent crashing either into you or down to the cold metal decking. Iorek is there, where the head of the table had been before he kicked it away. His single eye glares to each of you in turn, seeking challenge in the wake of his words. To the surprise of everyone, it is Frostrulfr who rises to it, at least before Krahl, assuming he would have.

Vermundr soon enters the hall, forestalling anything else with a single look. After the beating he gave Ørrgrimr and then took from Keris in return, he might very well be the last one you want to find yourself fighting. Your pack leader remains silent, and just as Vermundr opens his mouth to say something to you all something rocks the ship, causing both Iorek and Frostulfr to fall to the ground. There is a shrieking of metal before the _Hunrodr_ violently shakes for a second time, and then the hall is banished to darkness for a split second. Red warning lights bathe the chamber and klaxons blare out a warning, something very bad has happened.

[Looking for your thoughts here, and any responses to what Iorek said. Frostulfr will take the Ghostwolf up on his challenge of a fight, there is just something about him that you cannot get around, some deep seated hate that festers within you. Krahl may also choose to fight Iorek in the cages, but if he does so it is more to fight another with experience, he does not get the same feeling about Iorek that Frostulfr does, though there is something off about the Ghostwolf that he cannot figure. This actually comes as a surprise to you Iorek, of the pair you had expected Frostulfr to back down, or at least that was your initial thought. Then you remember his thickness in regards to Alrik, and it seems less surprising. When the ship throws Iorek and Frostulfr to the decking, Frostulfr manages to recover fairly quickly while Krahl manages to remain as he was; in the end you all turn to Vermundr for his orders.]


Vermundr; You quickly drift away from consciousness, your body wanting to turn its attention within and not passing up your choice. Slumber, however, is far from peaceful. You constantly shift through scenes of death or failure, of *Kjarl* being killed and *Sydornis’s* head tossed to your feet. Of the cracks within your pack, of Alrik’s direct challenge to you; at one point you watch a white furred creature tearing out the throat of a Space Wolf, but cannot make out who it is.

Then with no pretense of warning, something sends daggers of pain into your flank and you are returned to the physical world, or at least the _Hunrodr_. Pain explodes into your side for a second time, followed by a barely coherent snarl of rage. You just barely manage to make out the word ‘disgrace’ before an aged fist cracks you across the temple and strong, calloused hands haul you to your feet. You push away from whoever this is, your vision clearing in time for you to duck another punch aimed at your head, and that is when you get a good long look at who the limb is attached to.

The warrior before you is an ancient wolf, scars and battle long since passed making up the contours of his face. Standing in front of you is the priest of the _Hunrodr_, the ships master flesh-weaver Odaajn and he is anything but pleased. _“Beat one of your own senseless and then lie on the ground like a babe? What leader of warriors are you Iron-Vengeance?”_ Odaajn spat, circling your tense body before speaking again. _“You act an unrestrained fool once already and it has cost you, more than you may realize. And here you can be found dozing in a training cage! Leave here Iron-Vengeance, see to what remains of your pack and make sure they know their place.”_

Though you bristle at the wolf priests words, his scent tells you more than enough. As a pack leader you must know when to pick your fights, and this is certainly one to not be picking. You find your pack in the _Hunrodr’s_ feasting hall, Keris and Alrik not amongst their number, and with but a glare you silence all gathered. Thoughts race across your mind, what are you to do about Keris and should you look to Ørrgrimr about the injuries you instilled upon him? You come to a decision, and make to act on it, but before you do something rocks the ship and forces you down to a knee. The frigate lurches to the side before power seemingly fails and warning klaxons ring out.

[Something is wrong, seriously wrong; a chiming in your ear preludes a quick vox message from one of the servitors aboard the bridge. It warns you of a breach, that a portion of the geller field had weakened and something got through. Whatever it is, the location is two decks above your current position, you and your pack must deal with this.]


All of the above; Vermundr barks orders to the lot of you, and you respond with a swiftness born from a true son of Russ. He leads you up two decks, past terrified serfs fleeing from something they should never encounter. You come into a long, wide corridor designed to connect the communication relays of the ship to the central spine. What greets you here sends a cold shiver down all of your spines, perhaps three dozen crew writhing in various agonies on the deck as ‘things’ pick them apart. Knowledge buried deep within your skulls tells you that these are daemons, a motley assortment of gnashing limbs and wicked claws. No two are alike, and the red lighting only serves to enhance their fearsome visage.

They take notice of your coming almost instantly, two of them making a screaming noise that scratches at the back of your eyes, before the lot of them charge you.

[There are maybe ten of these things, which would be grouped together and classified as furies. None of these things are going to be easy fights, likely requiring two or three posts before they can be defeated. Each has some form of claw, talon, or teeth capable of tearing your flesh and only Vermundr is armed with more than his hunting knife. Three of the furies leap at Iotki, one crashing right into his chest but being cast aside before he has to engage with the pair. Another two come for Krahl and Vermundr each, and the rest of your are more fortunate and are only beset by a single daemon. You are given free range to describe the appearance of the daemons, but their major actions (like if a hit kills them, stuns them, or similar things of that nature) are not yours to control.]


Keris; You walk away from the observation dome with equal measures of determination and confidence, you have chosen your path without regret and there will never be any turning back. As you walk the darkened corridors, you pass by a number of work gangs about their business before happening upon Alrik. A look at his posture tells you of a pent up frustration, or at least of something not going the way he would like. He see’s you, halting in his own wanderings for but a moment before continuing onward. There is a smirk on his face, one that only works to contort his visage into even more of a beast.

You already know there was something concerning the Firehawk when you were in the thunderhawk, and there was also what happened on Asaheim before the storm and that he may have sought Njal; about it. Do you seek the source of this from Alrik, or let things be for this berserker brother of yours? The two of you make your way through the ship, the observation dome being located near the bridge meant that your path took you up a number of decks from the training cage. A violent lurching tosses you against a bulkhead, quickly followed by a terrible shriek and then the corridor loses power. Warning’s go out, and you hear the sound of mortals crying out in terror at something.

Alrik; Despite what Njal did say to you, it is frustrating to have no true answers for what you saw. How can they be nothing, and more importantly why did you lie to Njal? Movement from the corner of your eye takes you back to reality and you turn to see Keris, and only then realize that you had been on the move without really thinking on a destination of some kind. You stop for a moment, but then continue on, it’s not terribly important. Keris quickly catches up to you, and you notice the deep bruises on his flesh; did he fight some of the others again in your absence and had they truly given him that much of a beating? Must have been everyone at once or something, you think to yourself with a smirk. 

These thoughts do not last for long, as the _Hunrodr_ shakes suddenly and Keris is thrown to the side. You stumble forward, only barely catching yourself from going face first into the ground before you are engulfed in darkness and sirens ring out. There is a terrible scream of horror from further down the corridor, though the confines make it harder for you to judge actual distance.


Without a word, you both rush down to see what has happened. The tertiary corridor you had been traveling down venting into one of the primaries, bringing about a measure of red light and a sight most unsettling. On the opposite end of the corridor you can make out Wolves doing battle with things that hurt the eye to even look at, and the fighting is not in your chapter brothers’ favour at nearly two to one. Alrik takes a single step forward before movement on the ground makes you aware of serfs writhing at your feet. Some begin to stir, having gone mad at what they saw and attacking the nearest living beings: each other and, more importantly, you.

There are just over two dozen who get up, some realizing they each have a small knife on their person, but most just going at each other with tooth, fist, and boot. Alrik is rushed by eight, a ninth jumping in and stabbing out of the eight in the back though he continues onward. Three come after Keris, who easily bats one aside and takes another look at the melee down the hall, quickly realizing that it is Vermundr and the others fighting against daemons. A look from Alrik is all you will need, he tears the flaying knife from the scabbard at his side and tosses it to Keris before driving a fist into the sternum of the nearest crazed serf.

[Keris you catch the knife with ease, ignoring the pain in your muscles before rushing to the aid of the others. You assess the fights, that Krahl and Vermundr are each locked in combat with a pair of daemons and Iotki is fighting off three at once. You quickly see that Vermundr has his axe, and so is less of a priority to aid. Do you help Iotki against his three, forced into a deadlock he might soon faulter with, or Krahl against his pair, one ripping a chunk of flesh from his shoulder?

Alrik, it might pain you to give Keris the knife, and there might not be much glory in taking on these serfs, but you know that only one of you needs to clean this up. Besides, insane or not these serfs know you’re the bigger threat, that’s why so many rushed after you right? It will take you at least two posts to wipe out the eight in your immediate reach, though more may come for you. These serfs are simply maddened mortals, to you they are pushovers.]


----------



## Serpion5

*Krahl*

What Frostulfr was saying was cut off as Iorek approached the table. The greeting died on Krahl`s lips as Iorek`s foot lifted the table and hurled it across the room. The drink and food splattered to the floor as Iorek thundered his input on their discussion. He finished his tirade with a challenge to the both of them, but it was clear that it was Krahl he expected to rise to the bait. 

No, not this time. Krahl would not succumb to his hot headed ways again, he would not fall into the trappings of being the ignorant blood claw they expected him to be. He remembered before his initiation, when he had seen the great Lord Blackmane himself and immediately aspired to be like him. Leaders were not born of rashness.

Frostulfr leaped to his feet first, with Krahl rising slowly afterward with a soft smile. Before Frostulfr followed up on his short temper, Krahl took a breath and issued his reply to the ghostwolf. 

'You speak to me as if I presumed to make the decision myself Brother. What would possess you to think that even _I_ could be so naive?' He paused and shook his head. 'No, I simply meant to imply that I had my own doubts regarding a change in leadership.' 

Krahl was about to add a snide remark to the Ghostwolf`s ability to hear when the sound of footsteps stopped him. Vermundr had also entered the hall, and stood with the others of the pack. Krahl returned his gaze to Iorek as he waited for whatever decree Vermundr may issue. He briefly considered taking Iorek up on his offer of a second bout, but dismissed the idea. His technique would not change in a few hours and there was little real incentive to placate the older pack member. 

Whatever may have happened next was forestalled as the ship suddenly lurched violently to one side. Iorek and Frostulfr both were hurled to the ground while Krahl barely managed to keep his footing. Immediately he turned to Vermundr as the warning klaaxons began to blare. 

In that moment, as his instinct had kicked in, he realized there was no choice. Not yet. Keris was not even a consideration. 

Vermundr was indeed the pack leader...



For now...


----------



## unxpekted22

He hadn't actually meant to fall asleep, but rather to simply close his eyes for a moment, take a few breaths and be on his way. Apparently his body had other intentions. Though an astartes needs little sleep to function..._perhaps another effect of the warp,_ thought Vermundr, _Along with those dreams._ 

The dream sequences he had in his short but heavy slumber were quickly fading already, fleeing away from him. This, Vermundr noted was odd as well, something he had never realized before. His enhanced memory refused to let him forget any details of his past as a marine. He could close his eyes and relive any memory he wished since waking up on a bed of the wolf priests' as a new being of man. Yet, his dreams still fluttered.

As he walked towards the small feasting hall, bruised and battered, the clearest pieces of his dreams were ones that came from actual events. There was Kjarl's death, for instance. However, he had not actually seen the Wolf die, only his remaining melta-scorched lower half. His mind decided to try and make up what it had actually looked like as he died and it had tried several different approaches and angles. Another dream piece which possibly came from the recent troll encounter, with a visage of white fur and the torn throat of a space wolf. Then there was Sydornis's head, thrown at his feet by the alpha legionnaire he had ultimately defeated soon after. Still, the sign of failure to protect his pack outweighed his victory, if he were to be honest with himself. 

His packmates never seemed to realize how much he truly tried to protect them, how he cared about their lives. Thus, the reason he never led like an average blood claw. Several times on _Hecutor_ he ordered his pack to keep cover or fight from a distance where it was safer, rather than charge foolishly to their deaths. More than one of his pack were angered by these decisions, barking back their discontent and even charging the enemy despite his wishes, Keris the first of them, actually.

He had only ordered them to charge in two types of situations. One was when there was no other way, when they faced certain death from afar by staring at several heavy gun turrets behind a weak shield of cover or by being on the opposite side of a bridge from the same weapons with no possible way to get around them. The other was when he was absolutely sure none of his pack would die by doing so, such as a handful of heretical humans blocking their path. Though, thinking back, he had made mistakes in that as well as he remembered some of the wolves by his side going down from a few lucky las-shots. Surely that meant there was a better way to get around the obstacle.

It was _war_ though, _battle_. Perhaps what was _really_ weak about him as a pack leader was his inhibition to accept the death of his brothers. Maybe the wolf priest hadnt smacked him hard enough after all when he voiced his uncomfortable concern at seeing some of his brothers die as soon as they exited from their drop pods. Certainly, as Lord Blackmane's hand upon his shoulder intended to convey, not all of his packmates' deaths were of any direct result from his decisions. It would happen, and it did happen, again and again. Still, it was hard to accept their deaths.

It was his care for their lives that also led his hand to punish, and his voice to scorn. But his packmates hadn't seen through that either. He couldnt do anything about their discontent with him and his position as leader, and he couldnt protect them in their foolish protest from the elder wolves. Iorek berated by Baldyr, and Alrik by Sigurd.


This is what made him a better leader than Keris, he thought to himself further. Thinking upon it now, it seemed clear that Keris never cared for his brothers as much as he should have.

It hurt to breathe, as he walked, with the still fading bruises on his ribs from the hands of the flesh-weaver. 

Keris cared only for himself. His personal revenge for Kjarl took precedence over all else. That oath in itself made Vermundr's face cringe. _As if Kjarl didnt mean as much to the rest of us. I would have loved to end that traitor's life. In fact, if it were I he came to in the engine room of our Lord's vessel, it probably would have happened. _ Somehow they had all let themselves believe that Keris truly deserved the kill more than the rest of them.

_"He dies by my hand."_ Keris had said, charging the chaos marine. Vermundr paused in his steps, pondering those words for a moment. He then took hold of his battle-axe from where it was tied to his waist, rather than maglocked as it would be upon his armor. He raised it up underneath the ship's artifical lighting and stared at the blade's edge remembering the stain of Chaos blood upon it, lodged in the neck of his traitor opponent while his bolt pistol blew the bastard's head into bloody pieces across the decking. 

Iorek and Tyr together defeated their single opponent. Alrik and Keris failed to kill Kjarl's killer but did defeat the demonic one, though again it was two against one since Kjarl's killer had retreated. He had been the only one alone to face the wrath of a legionnaire aided by unholy gifts.

Vermundr let go of his axe so he could form a curled fist, and whispered with a growl, _"When we see them again, he dies by *my* hand_." His eyes were narrow, and sincere as their glare met the blank wall beside him. He continued on his way.

Upholding his oath to Lord Blackmane had surely been nothing but a burden to Keris. He wished to be pack leader just as Iorek and Alrik had at one point. Everything keris had done, his kind words, his sage-ways, his helpful guiding... all manipulation. He had done it so well; Vermundr had to give him that. He never missed an opportunity to call out Vermundr in his mistakes in front of the others, and won over everyone's adoration in the mean time. All lies for his own selfish gain and desire to progress faster through the ranks of the wolves than anyone else, probably to even try and outdue their Lord's legacy. His brothers just didnt get it, it was so easy to see his mistakes when they happened after the fact, but none of them were the ones who had to make the decisions. None of them had led a pack before, but keris always acted like he had.

"_Gah!_" Vermundr cried out in disgust, this time meeting the blank wall beside him with an already bruised fist. 

When his pack made it to the generatorium and the presence of Kjarl's killer was known, Vermundr had made the choice to let his brothers charge freely. But it was clear that Keris would have done so regardless of Vermundr's orders. He could see it now, keris hated being constrained by the laws of a pack, and thought himself better than the rest: the most deserving of any kill he wanted, the best tactician and the best fighter, leaping whenever he saw fit despite his pack leader, the highest authority in the pack to scold the others on space wolf law and code, the most adorned by their Lord and elders. Or so he thought at least, but it was still their Lord who apppointed him to pack leader instead of merely giving him an oath to uphold, and it was he who defeated the alpha legionnaire alone and bested Alrik Firehawk in the cages. It was he who led his pack through an alpha legion trap meant specifically for the blood claws' demise, and kept his alive while others had perished.

He suddenly remembered Njal's words to Alrik and the rest of them speaking of Vermundr, "_his orders bear the authority of the wolf lord just as any order you would receive from a grey hunter or member of the wolf guard leading you. Do not presume that you know any better; many a mighty warrior have done this in the past, like the arch-traitor himself did."
_


Keris was full of himself, and would probably leave the pack given the first opportunity to do so.

Vermundr was the pack's leader, and cared for his position very much. It had never been easy to deal with his pack's negative opinion of him, but he never left them and never surrendered his position. He wanted nothing more than to lead his pack to the greater status of grey hunters. Too many Wolves kept picking out the small details to make him feel like a bad leader. He fell asleep in the training cages for a moment, so that made him a bad leader? Stupid. He lied to Iorek so he wouldnt get himself killed only for his pack, Baldyr, and others to to call him untrustworthy and again, a bad leader? Nonesense. 

Though, when he turned the corner to the feasting hall and saw the physical damage he had done to Orgrimmr, his face went from anger to sadness and his hearts sank. He had spent the whole walk down the ship believing he cared for his packmates yet went into a blind rage upon one of them, turning his inner anger onto one of the new blood claws. His lips parted, his tongue intent, lapping for apologetic words.

A crash and rumble sent his shoulder into the open doorway and his body down to one knee as Klaxons blared tunring everything to chaos. From the lapping tongue instead came a quick and sharp bark of orders for his brothers to get on their feet and follow him to where he felt the impact had come from, hearing it more clearly from the entranceway of the feasting hall. 

His feet pounded upon the stairways as he climbed, his pack filing up behind him, though none of them knew what to expect. Vermundr's only wishes for it not to be a hull breach were anything but granted when the shades of nearly a dozen enemies came to view in the hellish red flaring of the klaxons, ripping through the mortal crew. The shapes, swiftness, and sound of their screams let him know they were demons. When they charged at his pack he knew they were furies. 

_"Furies!"_ he yelled to his pack, _"Rejected demonic souls with no hell to go home to! No true objective in their black hearts! Meet blind fury with that of the Wolves! Be sated when you kill these beasts, knowing that no dark gods stand behind them ready to give them life again."_

The very next sounds were that of combat blades and Vermundr's axe meeting fearsome teeth and claws, along with further eye scratching screeches. He found his back up against that of Krahl's while blocking blow after blow. Through the demonic limbs he saw multiple eyes over a dog like snout, quivering muscle beneath blood red skin. A second one came at him as well, he and Krahl now both facing two demons each. Long ragged talons scratched and stabbed, long limbs trying to reach around the swings of his axe. They fought with a wrath boiled up inside for who knows how long, and the cage fights and discipline he had recieved shortly before weren't working to his benefit. One wide swing caused both his attackers to back away for just a moment.

"They are smaller than the Fenrisian Trolls brothers!" he roared trying to encourage them, even managing a bold laugh stereotypical of many a space wolf. However, his laughter was met with a splash of his brother's blood crashing against his face, and the sight of three Furies on Iotki. He glanced a couple more astartes on the other end of the corridor but didnt have time to make out who they were with the return of fanatical lashing limbs filling his vision and focus. It was time to put his thoughts to true meaning. He would protect his brother in most need of it. So far, Krahl had proved to be a stronger warrior than Iotki, and three on one with these things was just too much for one wolf to handle. With a new determination having risen inside him, and his wolf spirit still coming off its leash, he made what was intended to be a final strike against one of the Furies upon him. He would slash his way to Iotki's side even if it meant his flesh being scraped away in doing so. 

_Not this time, none of you are going to die this time._


----------



## Euphrati

Keris caught the scent-trace riding the recycled air currents the moment before his eyes came to rest upon the scarred aspect of the Firehawk as he made his way past a group of grey-clad bondsmen going about their duties in seeing to the ship's constant needs. Alrik's stance was tense, frustration riding his scent though the bellicose Wolf paused momentarily as he noted Keris' presence in turn; a macabre twist of his lips implied a smirk before the larger Wolf turned and continued along his path. Keris gave a low snort of exasperation; Alrik's mannerisms had become increasingly belligerent even for the notoriously brusque Son of Russ, though Keris had gleaned a few fleeting hints that something was troubling his erstwhile packbrother enough to cause possible issues if the 
older Wolf did not resolve his humours soon.

Keris lengthened his stride, feeling some of the healing bruises in his body announce their presence with a dull aching he chose to ignore, and closed the distance between him and Alrik in short order. He fell into silent lockstep with the larger Wolf for three full strides before the palm of his hand impacted solidly on the back of Alrik's skull.

'The _Firehawk _bested by an un-blooded member of his own pack with hardly an effort in the training cages!'

Keris gave a sharp growl of displeasure that melted away into a look that spoke openly of his concern,

'You are not yourself lately, brother, and you look as if Morkai himself pissed on your boots.'

‘Speak for yourself, _priest_,’ Alrik shot back morosely, a lupine grin of delight flickering on his lips as he traced a hand over his scalp. Dark eyes slipped over Keris' features, lingering over the bruises and scabbed over wounds. The Firehawk chuckled savagely, crossing his arms over his huge, slab-like chest before he continued. ‘By Mydgarden, you look worse than I.’

‘But, alas, brother Keris,’ Alrik grunted, the ghost of a smile pulling at his scars, ‘I have my reasons. I fear that I am suffering from some form of malady,’ the burly Wolf's words were punctuated by a derisive snort. ‘Not even our esteemed brother and lord, the Stormcaller, could offer me answers.’

‘My mind was elsewhere,’ The Firehawk's bluster was as thin as spring ice, his voice dropping into a harsh and cruel whisper. ‘Lest the Blood Claws would lay broken at my feet, you know as much. I’ll make them rue the day they felled me, Keris. They will pay the headman’s price.’

Keris took Alrik's words in silence for a moment, eyes the colour of ice cut from the heart of a glacier narrowing ever so slightly and one dark eyebrow rising at the Firehawk's choice of epithet in his retort. _Though you know it not you name me well, my Brother. _

'Answers must be _*earned*_; it is not the way of the Stormcaller to lay them at your feet, Firehawk. If you found his words of little aid then perhaps the only malady you suffer is that you are not ready to listen,'

Keris paused, listening to the lock-step of their stride and recalling the cryptic messages offered to him by the Rune Priest Njal more than a year prior that he was only recently coming to grasp in part the meanings held within the words, 

'The runes do not lie, though the truth in their messages can be as elusive as a Thunderwolf's growl on the winds of a raging storm.'

Keris gave a low snarl of warning before continuing, 

'You were bested because your humours were unchecked and remain so even now. You are a danger not only to yourself but also your packbrothers, Firehawk, skill means *nothing *if you lack the focus to use it!'

‘I am no mortal, Keris,’ Alrik glowered, his muscles tensing as his hands bunched into fists before dropping to his flanks. ‘Answers should be instantly attainable. These petty waiting games grow tiring. If I am to fight, to murder and ravage, I must be at one-hundred percent fighting capacity. I must be perfect.’

‘I sought the Stormcaller for aid, he directed me upon another path,’ Alrik wetted his lips with his long, sinuous tongue. His remaining top fang glittered coolly as it flashed into view briefly. ‘I am chasing stars,’ He said, with a mirthless grunt. ‘It is time that I stop and ask myself - Who am I?’ 

‘With each breath I take, the answer becomes ever-more elusive. My path is undefined, unless I heed the warp-dabbler’s wise pronouncements. Do I accept my fate with open arms if it would mean the betterment of the Pack, or do I remain a selfish child?’

‘Tell me, my wisest of brothers,’ Alrik's growling tones were laced with an inquisitive overtone, something akin to need. ‘What am I?’

*'You *are a breath away from finding my boot so far up your arse that you will be able to lick the grit from my sole with the back of your tongue, Firehawk...'

Keris' voice was dangerous and low,

'You are a warrior of the Aett, a Son of Russ, and also a blithering _fool_! The answers to the questions you seek lay within your own thick skull, not from the lips of another! You alone must choose your path and walk it, Alrik, *none *can do so in your stead!'

Keris gave a coarse snort of irritation,

'You claim that the Stormcaller bespoke you a path already, yet I can taste it on your scent that you are unconvinced of his words. Why is that?'

‘I walk a fractured path, Keris,’ as Alrik spoke his words were accompanied by a shallow nodding of his head and Keris suppressed a thrill of disquiet that traced up his spine as a memory surfaced upon his thoughts. The Firehawk's words were eerily similar to ones that Keris himself had shared concerning his own thoughts regarding the pack and Alrik in particular with the Wolf Priest Sigurd when Iorek lay deep in the Red Dream. ‘One intertwined with others, a webbing of opportunities. I mistrust the warp,’ The Firehawk's lips peeled back with a coarse sound. ‘The Stormcaller speaks cryptically, I did not fully understand him. Nor did I tell him everything.’

‘I lied, Keris. I do not know why. There was something, a nagging in the back of my head, a persistent throbbing. It hummed a sole word - Failure, - I could not tell Njal that. I will not.’

Keris felt his blood run cold at the words spoken by his brother's lips, the wolf in his soul baring gleaming fangs of frozen rage in his heart as the Wolf at his side continued to speak. 

‘I have learned little from my past trials and tribulations. I offer no salutations and no words of appraisal to our younger brothers,’ His voice trailed off as Keris felt an ache within the core of his soul at the callous indifference that he saw etched upon his brother's features. ‘Few of them will survive, you know this as well as I. We are lucky, blessed by the Allfather. These newcomers are cut from a different meat, their songs will not be sung.' Alrik's hands flexed in discontent as he pushed on, 'the difference between me and you is that I see the world for what it is, accept that I am little but a gene-enhanced warrior. I respect and adore you, Keris, but my nature forbids anything but cruelty, but ignobleness.’

Keris wheeled suddenly on the larger Wolf, rage held in check by the barest of margins and colouring his scent with warning,

'I should tear out our tongue for such words, Firehawk; you dishonour yourself and the blood of your wolfbrothers in a single breath! They are sons of Fenris, warriors of the Rout, and for that reason _alone _you will show them honour as blood-kin you snaggle-toothed cur!'

Keris' accented tones were undercut with a snarl that rose and fell sharply with each breath he took through his bared teeth, though there was the edge of guarded wariness to his next words,

'The Stormborne carry the living wrath of Fenris' soul in their hearts, the fury of the worldforge burns bright in their veins. You *dare *to speak falsehoods to the Stormcaller himself and think he does not sense them upon your soul? Until you have overcome your own stupi...'

The cold face of a bulkhead interrupted Keris' words with a blunt impact as the ship yawed violently and without warning, nearly casting Alrik to the decking on his scarred face before the Firehawk managed to catch his footing again. A shriek of metal trembled through the soles of his boots and Keris could sense the Hunrodr's pain in the growling tones of the warship's throbbing engines before the corridor plunged into a blackness punctuated by the howling of sirens. Mortal screams of terror echoed from further down the corridor's length over the klaxons' wailing and, without needing a word between them, Keris joined the Firehawk in bounding strides that saw them down the length of the hallway to where it spilled out into one of the main thoroughfares.

Bodies littered the floor of the corridor and Keris could taste the foul scent of the warp a moment before his eyes picked out the familiar outline of Wolves as they were beset by a hoard of nightmare spawn in the red heartbeat of warning beacons. Alrik took a single step forward before pausing, the bodies on the decking suddenly writhing and clawing their way upright with cries of madness and frenzy: bondsmen and women, their mortal minds broken by the brief exposure to the tides of the Empyrean. Keris instinctively backhanded a man that lurched, fingers twisted into claws and frothing spittle drooling from lips pulled back in a tortured snarl, gibbering at him back to the decking with a wet snap of bone; his eyes locked upon the Wolves doing battle down the length of the corridor. The biting smile of an axe flashed in the Hel-red lighting- Vermundr's axe. 

The wolf in his soul bared its fangs in the unspoken desire to stand and fight beside his brothers. That the path he walked now would set him apart from the only pack he had ever known was a sacrifice that he had paid willingly. _It was for them, and every son of Fenris through whose veins coursed the blood of Leman Russ, that his devotion ran so deeply he was willing to endure the pain of walking by their sides but forever apart from the bonds of the pack._ 

_My faith to temper the blade of their rage, my strength to uphold the path of their devotion._

A glance of Keris' glacial-blue eyes was all it took; for all that they were different in aspect, he and Alrik had fought and bled at each other's sides and the bond forged in the fires of battle was as unshakeable as the roots of the Fang itself. The Grey Hunter's flaying blade, bestowed to Alrik by Blackmane, flashed in the strobing lights as the Firehawk tore it from the sheath bound to his leg and tossed it into the air with a flick of his wrist and a low growl of farewell; Keris was uncertain if the sentiment was addressed to him or the blade itself as Keris deftly snatched it out of the air.

The two bondsmen that assaulted him still were smashed aside in as many beats of his hearts, ribs fractured under the impact of a sharp kick that sent the taller of the men into the wall with a dull impact of flesh upon unyielding steel. The other collapsed choking upon his own blood as Keris brought the flaying blade across his throat in a single, efficient strike as Keris turned to sprint down the corridor in the direction of the embattled pack with a howl of battle upon his lips from the wolf in his soul.

Vermundr's axe played about the packleader as he fought off two of the warp-fiends, Krahl facing the same though the dark play of blood marked the younger Blood Claw's shoulder as one of the daemons found purchase within his flesh. Yet it was Iotki that Keris turned his attention upon as the Wolf was beset by three of the spawn; flipping the blade of the flaying knife around so that he held it in reverse grip, Keris snarled his hatred towards the gibbering warpspawn that seemed to flicker in and out of focus as if reality itself was abhorrent to its presence.

'*Filth*! Your blasphemy upon this vessel's sanctity ends *now*!'

The abomination that lay in Keris' charging path was something that had been torn from the nightmares of the warp's guttering tides- a vulture's head turned with a snap to display a shark's jaws that bristled with jagged fangs slick with phosphorescent bile. The spawn's body was covered in tattered patches of oily feathers of a sickly greenish-ochre hue; its limbs darkly scaled and backwards jointed with crimson talons the colour of dried blood that curved from twisted digits. 

The aches of healing bruises were forgotten in the rush of kill-lust that flooded through Keris' veins like the cold winds that coursed through the heart of Asaheim as he smashed headlong into the fiend, fanged edge of the flaying knife aimed to sever the tangled thread of perverted existence and send the twisted warp-trash back into the jaws of Hel that spawned it.


----------



## dark angel

‘I am the champion,’ He whispered dimly, stalking through the hallways, casting dark glances in the direction of idling thralls and lobotomized servitors. Even unarmoured, Alrik Firehawk dwarfed such beings, massive of shoulder and thick of chest, his fierce countenance locked in a perpetual grin. ‘I am the fury of Wolves.’

He was wandering, aimlessly, through the strobe-lit halls; a pillar of Fenrisian muscle, ice-cold, surrounding a webbing of unnatural organs and toughened bone. 

‘I am a Son of Fenris,’ He grunted, turning a corner, tracing a finger across the glass-smooth metal, eyes narrowed distastefully. The distant vibrations of the Hunrodr’s heart ran along his arm, tingling his senses. ‘And a liar.’ 

The Firehawk’s mind drifted to the word - Failure - And his teeth clenched upon a thin, malicious lip. 

He snorted dispassionately, before it turned into a mirthless growl. ‘I am no failure, nor shall I ever be. I am the Firehawk, the Allfather guides my blade. Failure is an impossibility.’

***

The Wolf rounded another corner, eyes dancing along the expansive, bare corridor. One of his brothers occupied this one, his favourite brother, the prodigal son. Keris.

His stance was awkward, pained even; and Alrik quickly attributed that to the extensive bruising upon his whipcord body. Despite his best intentions, he grinned selfishly; eyes narrowed in a vile grimace. 

'The Firehawk bested by an unblooded member of his own pack with hardly an effort in the training cages!' Keris snarled, his voice brimming with displeasure. His face contorted, as the war-sage stared into Alrik’s coaly eyes. _'You are not yourself lately, brother, and you look as if Morkai pissed on your boots.'_

‘Speak for yourself, priest,’ Alrik spoke, morosely, a grin of delight flickering on his lips as he traced a hand over his scalp. He scanned Keris, eyes surveying the large, blossoming bruises upon his brother. He chuckled savagely, crossing his arms over his huge, slab-like chest. ‘By Mydgarden, you look worse than I.’

‘But, alas, brother Keris,’ Alrik said, the ghost of a smile upon his lips. ‘I have my reasons. I fear that I am suffering from some form of malady,’ He admitted, in confidence, snorting. ‘Not our esteemed brother and lord, the Stormcaller, could offer my answers.’

‘My mind was elsewhere,’ The Firehawk said, his voice dropping into a harsh and cruel whisper. ‘Lest the Blood Claws would lay broken at my feet, you know as much.’

‘I’ll make them rue the day they felled me, Keris. They will pay the headman’s price.’

‘Answers must be earned; it is not the way of the Stormcaller to lay them at your feet, Firehawk. If you found his words of little aid then perhaps the only malady you suffer is that you are not ready to listen,' Keris spoke, icy-blue eyes narrowed. 'The runes do not lie, though the truth in their messages can be as elusive as a Thunderwolf's growl on the winds of a raging storm.'

His Packmate growled, a low, cautious rumble. 

‘You were bested because your humours were unchecked and remain so even now. You are a danger not only to yourself but also your packbrothers, Firehawk, skill means nothing if you lack the focus to use it!'

‘I am no mortal, Keris,’ Alrik cast back, hands bunching into fists, sidling back down to his sides. ‘Answers should be instantly attainable. These petty waiting games grow tiring. If I am to fight, to murder and ravage, I must be at one-hundred percent fighting capacity. I must be perfect.’

‘I sought the Stormcaller for aid, he directed me upon another path,’ Alrik wetted his lips with his long, sinuous tongue. Between sun-kissed lips, his fang glittered coolly. ‘I am chasing stars,’ He said, with a mirthless grunt. ‘It is time that I stop and ask myself - Who am I?’ 

‘With each breath I take, the answer becomes ever-more elusive. My path is undefined, unless I heed the warp-dabbler’s wise pronouncements. Do I accept my fate with open arms if it would mean the betterment of the Pack, or do I remain a selfish child?’

‘Tell me, my wisest of brothers,’ The Son of Fenris said, an inquisitive tint to his words, as the pair carried along the corridor. ‘What am I?’

'You are a breath away from finding my boot so far up your arse that you will be able to lick the grit from my sole with the back of your tongue, Firehawk...' Keris' voice was dangerous and low, 'You are a warrior of the Aett, a Son of Russ, and also a blithering fool! The answers to the questions you seek lay within your own thick skull, not from the lips of another! You alone must choose your path and walk it, Alrik, none can do so in your stead!'

The Blood Claw, wise and just, snorted. 'You claim that the Stormcaller bespoke you a path already, yet I can taste it on your scent that you are unconvinced of his words. Why is that, Firehawk?'

‘I walk a fractured path, Keris,’ Alrik said, nodding shallowly. ‘One intertwined with others, a webbing of opportunities. I mistrust the warp,’ His lips peeled back, a snort erupting from his nostrils. ‘The Stormcaller speaks cryptically, I did not fully understand him. Nor did I tell him everything.’ 

‘I lied, Keris. I do not know why. There was something, a nagging in the back of my head, a persistent throbbing. It hummed a sole word - Failure, - I could not tell Njal that. I will not.’

‘I have learned little from my past trials and tribulations. I offer no salutations and no words of appraisal to our younger brothers,’ He trailed off, changing the conversation. ‘Few of them will survive, you know this as well as I. We are lucky, blessed by the Allfather. These newcomers are cut from a different meat, their songs will not be sung.’ 

‘The difference between me and you,’ Alrik said, wringing his hands. ‘Is that I see the world for what it is, accept that I am little but a gene-enhanced warrior. I respect and adore you, Keris, but my nature forbids anything but cruelty, but ignobleness.’

The sagely Wolf wheeled on him, a torrent of vitriolic words spurting from between his lips, lost to the din within Alrik’s tempestuous mind. 

He smiled uncaringly; a glint of malevolence and enjoyment in his coal-black eyes, tongue tingling with unsaid words - And fell. The noise was tremendous, a terrible rending of metal and stone, and the burly Astartes was tumbling forwards, legs swiped from under him. 

One immense hand shot out, grasping at a coolant pipe, arresting his fall. Darkness enveloped the pair for an instant, before the klaxons began their shrill song, crimson light flooding through the halls. 

With a snarl of disbelief, Alrik leapt back into movement, bounding off down the hallway, his brother hot on his heels. 

Superhuman physiques made short work of the journey; leading them into one of the arterial corridors, where along the way, inchoate things battled with half-naked Space Wolves; their forms shifting and shimmering in and out of existence, launching baleful attacks at the honourable Space Marines.

The Firehawk stepped forwards, intent on sating his battle-lust, when a strangled, pained groan filtered to his ears. Upon the ground, lying in various states of death, were thralls. One severed the throat of another, sawing viciously at the woman’s neck, blood gushing down over his grey-blue cloak. 

Alrik spared the moment little thought. Dexterously, he yanked the Flaying Knife free, twirling it playfully over his fingers, and launched it through the air. Keris caught it deftly, the two brothers sharing a knowing glance, and set off. 

‘Farewell,’ He spoke, morosely, as he watched his brother charge away; destined for glory. ‘I’ll want that knife back.’

Eight men, glassy-eyed and hook-fingered, turned on the Firehawk. He watched, incredulously, as a ninth attacked the back of one, froth colouring his lips. 

‘You are of the Warp,’ He growled, ramming his fist into the first’s torso. There was an audible crack, as the chest bone fractured irreparably, and the thrall fell away, dead. ‘And that is where you shall return.’ 

A second, handsome and saturnine, whipped forth. Alrik was fast, darting to the side, hands shooting out. Thick, calloused fingers seized the man’s neck and scalp. 

‘Bless the Allfather,’ He intoned, twisting. A wet, blood-slick splinter of bone erupted from the possessed man’s throat. The Marine dropped the corpse, hands dripping red, unceremoniously. This was foul work, honour-killings, out of mercy and pity.

When the third and fourth came at him together, Alrik spread his arms wide, and howled.

The third drove his knife into Alrik’s torso, until it was halted by reinforced bone-structure, hilt-deep. 

A moment of peace passed. Alrik’s deep, booming laughter sounded. 

‘That’s all you are getting, little wyrm,’ He said, snapping the former serf’s arm at the elbow, before dashing his skull with a ungraceful backhand. Bone fragments and offal spilt. 

Alrik broke the fourth’s spine, lifting him up and dropping him over a huge, ossified knee. 

More were rushing him, crazed and bloodthirsty, though the Firehawk cared little. 

They would all die, one way or another. They would pay the butcher’s bill.

His eyes narrowed, his lips peeling back in a snarl. 

His desire would be sated.


----------



## Serpion5

*Krahl*

The ship was not showing any signs of being overrun, so thankfully whatever managed to trip the alert had been prevented from receiving reinforcements. Krahl was close to Vermundr as the pack leader led the way to where they were needed most. Two decks up they ran, no time spared even to arm themselves such was the emergency of the situation. 

It was in the corridor of the ship linking the central line of the vessel to the communication node. It was here that they encountered beasts from the pits of hell. No two were alike, no two bore the same wingspan or claws, the only feature they shared was a directionless, futile hunger. Krahl was given pause as he stared at their prey...

Prey? For the first time in his years as a Son of Russ, the term somehow didn't seem... accurate. Prey feared the hunter, even the wolves of Fenris knew when they were cornered. There was no fear in the eyes of these things. For the first time ever, Krahl was given some insight into what it felt like to be... 

Prey... 

But he did not stop running, he couldn't. He was cornered now like all prey was, not physically, but metaphorically. What would happen if he turned back now? Shame? Defeat? To die fighting was an infinitely preferable choice, and even as these thoughts passed through his mind his stride did not once falter. Thw words of Vermundr bellowed from beside him filled him with the exact mindset he needed. 

*'Furies!'* The pack leader bellowed. *'Rejected daemonic souls with no hell to go home to! No true objective in their black hearts! Meet blind fury with that of the Wolves! Be sated when you kill these beasts, knowing that no dark gods stand behind them ready to give them life again!'*

Krahl laughed as he impacted the first of the creatures that had tried to charge him. The creature was large, but not so large as to give an astartes charge any true hindrance. It was reminiscent of the faceless creatures he had heard described by an elder wolf in the feasting halls during his early days at the Fang. He fended off a flurry of frenzied strikes at the cost of superficial damage to his forearm before a second creature rushed him from the side. This one in contrast to the first had a fearsome visage of blood red eyes and row upon row of needle like teeth. Thinking on his unarmoured feet, Krahl rolled with the impact and managed to thrown the pair off balance. 

Taking the advantage, he hammered his fists into the head of the faceless one before ducking a swing from the second and uppercutting its torso. The daemons were infuriatingly resilient and it seemed as thought its wounds if any were as superficial as the scratches it had inflicted upon his arms. 

At the edge of his vision he noticed more arrivals. He glimpsed behind him that Vermundr was faring well, being the only one of them to have a weapon. The newcomer was Keris, and Krahl noticed the older wolf surveying the situation even as he raised his knife. His eyes panned over Krahl and rested elsewhere, but beyond that Krahl did not see.

That split moment of lost focus cost Krahl as he felt a set of jagged needle teeth bury themselves into the flesh of his shoulder. He twisted, snarling as he brought his fist up to beat the thing's skull where it rested. It tore away of its own accord, taking a chunk of the wolf's shoulder flesh with it. 

Blind fury seized him in that instant, and he launched himself forward A part of him, some primal vengeful part he had hoped to quash under self control, came back to the fore of his mind. The thing seemed to reel in surprise as Krahl lost himself to that moment of ferocity and impacted the creature with his unwounded shoulder. Taking the first oppurtunity he could, he grinned in savage irony before flexing his jaw and biting down on the daemon's shoulder in revenge...


----------



## Nicholas Hadrian

A bad day had just gone to worse.

Iotki, already, aching, breathless, spent and spitting blood from his bout in the practice ring, was now engaged with anathema. 

A daemon, a creature born of the warp from the raw shaping of mortal emotions. Three of which were now very much concerned with trying to rip his head off.

Why couldn't things ever be simple? No sooner than had he time to catch his breath than Iorek had stormed in with a sour look on his face, smashed a table and then, before he could even speak, all hell broke loose. Literally.

Now here he was, half-naked but for a loincloth and a hunting knife, fighting a creature that would have given him pause even were he fully armored with a whirring chainblade in one hand.

Iotki roared a battle cry in the name of Russ and charged forward, only to be bowled over by one of the leaping horrors. He could feel its hot breath on his neck. He felt his vision turn red as one last conscious thought swam into his mind.

_"Why can't things ever be easy?"_

With an almost detached interest he saw his body throw the creature aside; throwing himself at the other two, driving his shoulder into what might have been the sternum of one, were it possessed of anything resembling human anatomy.

He could hear Vermundr shouting to the pack, Iotki’s ears barely registering what he assumed to be a rallying cry. He could hear the roar of his own blood pumping through the enhanced Lyman Ears.

Then reality came rushing back when he noticed his suitation.

The daemons before him, that part of his mind, built up by the teaching engines of the Chapter, identified as Furies had begun circling around him. trying to distract him.

He eyed the two daemons and saw two of his pack-mates trying to cut their way to him. They wouldn't get here in time.

Wait a minute.

Two?

Iotki could feel a presence moving behind him.

"Why can't things ever be easy?" 

(OOC: Unexpekted, Euphrati, hopefully you can get me out of this situation. Since Euphrati brought it to my attention, Italics means it is a thought while in quotes, otherwise it is muttered under his breath.)


----------



## Lord Ramo

Heimdall stared down at the food in front of him, his mind completely elsewhere. The bout with Alrik dominated his thoughts and all of his attention. The way in which Alrik had held him, close the the edge of the training cage troubled him, the way Alrik had looked at him before looking elsewhere. Something had affected Alrik deeply, but Heimdall would be sure he would not bring it up with the firehawk. 

He was no fool, as he already knew he wouldn't stand against the firehawk. He wasn't looking forward to the inevitable return of him, he wasn't afraid, but he wasn't stupid either. His thoughts were interrupted by the Ghostwolf, stepping foward and sending a table crashing with a kick. The surprised members of the pack around it looked surprised for a moment as Iorek spoke. While Heimdall did agree with what most of Iorek said he still believed that there was something wrong with the pack.

*"With all respect Ghostwolf, I agree with you mostly, however you must admit yourself that there are divisions within the pack."* He said simply, standing as he did so. He had no appetite to eat and saw it as pointless to remain there. He turned to the door to see the pack leader standing there, only just arrived. Before anyone could say anything else the entire ship shook, as if something had impacted on it.

But that was impossible they were in the warp? He thought to himself before Vermundr barked orders for them to follow him. Heimdall followed without question, it wasn't his place to question orders and query them, he was to obey. 

They rushed through the corridors, up the stairwells as they headed to the sounds of crashing up above them. Heimdall pushed his way through terrified serfs, rushing in the opposite direction to them. He didn't pause to look at them, but could tell by the looks on their faces that it wasn't because there was a hole in the ship. Something much worse had happened, only seeing it would tell them what it was.

As they turned a corridor the pack stopped as they saw what caused the commotion, and for the serfs to flee terrified in the other direction. Heimdall drew his hunting knife as he looked at the daemon things in front of them. Though he had never seen them before, his mind told them exactly what they were, being told by those that had trained him about them. The gibbering daemon things spotted the pack, leaping up from the corpses of the serfs and crewmen that they had been defiling.

"Furies!" Vemundr yelled to his pack, "Rejected demonic souls with no hell to go home to! No true objective in their black hearts! Meet blind fury with that of the Wolves! Be sated when you kill these beasts, knowing that no dark gods stand behind them ready to give them life again."

Heimdall snarled as a daemon closed with him, leaping forward to stab at it with his hunting blade, fangs bared back. The daemon moved with blinding speed, leaping at his chest, knocking him back. Heimdall rolled to his feet, swiping with his blade at the daemon face at it leapt to take out his throat. His blade met the claws of the daemon, a hideous mass of red flash and long claws. Its head was narrow, its teeth sharp and stained with blood, whilst its eyes were a deep red. 

He launched a fist at it, knocking it back far enough so he could stand and take the advantage. Leaping forward like it first did while he was trying to recover. The daemon was quick though easily getting back on its feet as Heimdall slashed at him, dodging the blow before bringing its teeth down onto his knife arm. Heimdall grappled with the daemon, throwing it off him and slicing along one of its arms, severing a claw at the end. 

The two opponents stood, staring at each other, snarling. They were both animalistic, Heimdall looking like a wolf, a true space wolf as he leapt forward, the daemon mirroring him. Heimdall's plan was simple, knock the thing onto its back and stab his blade into it. Things were never that easy, he knew that for a fact.


----------



## deathbringer

Eyes were fixed upon him, and his eyes strayed for the features of a face of an elder for momentary assurance of the burning anger the raged through his body, seered through his very flesh, his nostrils flared as he drank in the air, the rush of oxygen a sudden elixir.

The gentle nod of brother tyr made his back straight even as words shot back at him, yet it was the scent of challenge that brought him forward to lock eyes with....

Momentarily abashed he had expected the blood thirsty gaze of Krahl, a second bout, a chance to train against an opponent physically stronger. A welcome challenge. 

Yet it was the angular features of Frostulfr that tore his lips into a snarl, the scent of challenge a spur to his aggression, the wolf within rising to stand hackles raised nose to the wind.

His jaws snapped together, a small smile spreading the only achknowledgment to the young wolfs challenge, before he whipped to Krahl's whose words were scorning,

'You speak to me as if I presumed to make the decision myself Brother. What would possess you to think that even I could be so naive?

he paused with a sorry shake of his head

'No, I simply meant to imply that I had my own doubts regarding a change in leadership.' 

Iorek let out a low snarl of contempt

_"Your performance in the cages suggested a certain childish naivety. You had me all ends up, you are stronger and faster than I, your physique shows as much , yet you attack like a puppy in a laundry basket, frantic and vicious, desperate for the kill, until he gets his head stuck in the sleeve."_

yet his words were overruled by another and his attention flittered to one who had been embarassed in the cages, his words tentative and without weight

"With all respect Ghostwolf, I agree with you mostly, however you must admit yourself that there are divisions within the pack."

Iorek met back with a sharp snarp his gaze boring into the young wolf's features

_"There's a division between my arse cheeks, doesn't mean its something you need to worry yourself with."_

He turned to the group as a whole

_"Do you believe this is just this pack, do you believe that the wolf lords live without divisions and quarrels, rivalry and disagreements? It does not mean a weakness within their leader or a glory seeker within their ranks"_

His eyes slid back to Krahl, his voice so suddenly calm

"Whatever doubts you have, quash them for they are unfounded and unnecessary, Vermundr leads and he will lead you to battle, to bloodshed, to glory. That is all you need know."

His words had barely died away when the packleader entered, battered and bruised his appearance took him by surprise, the words dying in his mouth at the packleaders expression. That of death and hatred, something twisted and malicious glinted in his eyes, yet if faded, dwindled and died as he looked upon the pack.

What thoughts haunt your head packleader, what twisted misgivings boil in those eyes.

Who could he talk to, iorek and keris were the issue.The firehawk must be persuaded....

It was a sudden jolt that sent him to the floor, the ringing of klaxons in his ears even as he struggled to right himself, the world seeming to lurch beneath him, causing a low gasp to burst from his chest, the wolf upon its back scrabbling and scrambling as they struggled for a foothold.

They were lead up decks, wordlessly by Vermundr, the trot brisk and easy, the eyes of the younglings eager with excitement and Iorek felt his own soul burn with eagerness, like a deer stretching its legs to run free across the plains. His knives slipped into his hands, the long thin knives he had taken against the trolls

They turned into a corridor and all became clear, the wield that held them from the maw of the warp had buckled allowing madness to spill within, daemonic twisted creatures, charged as the wolves did words from their leader outlining the evident need for death and destruction, to force back these horrific daemons of the warp.

His eyes locked upon a creature of vivid blue and black yet another stepped ahead of its brethren and its eyes lanced into him. Deep eyes of souless evil and malice, lightening stripes of purple slashing across blood red, its mouth opening to let out a high pitched scream of hatred that gnawed at the base of his neck. 3 long talons upon each hand raising high and Iorek met it with a low snarl knives raising they met and Iorek ducked low below a sweeping talon, to push up into the chest of the daemonic creature the force of charge knocking them both backwards, a mass of limbs slashing upon thin air and snarling jaws.

They seperated and held eachother, the wolf within's snarls echoed his own eagerness sent him edging forward with a low rumbling growl matched by the daemon's high cold laughter.

"For the allfather" snarled the Ghostwolf as he leapt forwards knives slashing towards the creatures broad chest.


----------



## darkreever

Iotki; Pain flares across your back as talons tear into your exposed flesh, a keening screech deafens you in one ear and its all you can do to move your head to its side and avoid having a portion of your face ripped off. The other furies advance on you, before something larger than either crashes into the furthest of your attackers. That is all the thought you are able to give to that daemon before the second one lunges at you, it claws and teeth glistening in the red light. Without much thought, you let the weight of the daemon at your back force you face first into the ground, so that it is level with your oncoming attacker. The daemons collide, and the one on your back is hurled free, taking with it strips of your own flesh.

Getting your feet beneath you, you spring at the sprawled furies, landing a devastating punch to the closest one’s beaked face and ramming your knife into the second one’s sternum before tearing it out the side in a spray of blood. The first fury rakes your side with its claws and then scrabbles away from you to avoid a counter while the second simply mewls in pain.

[The fury before you is all but finished, even now it has begun to lose form; and in moments it will be hurled back to the sea of souls where it belongs. The second fury eyes you warily with eyes of hate, its limbs dripping with your blood. Your own body screams in pain, but you block it out knowing that to succumb will end you. This fury is wounded and weakened, you will be able to kill it in your next post, do so and discover what has become of your third attacker, or seek out another daemon to defeat.]


Keris; Before the fury has any chance to react, you are upon it and not a moment too soon. In the brief instant before you are locked in your own fight, you watched as one of the daemons latched onto Iotki’s back and went for his head with the other two about to capitalize on this. Caught by surprise, the closest of the pair had no chance to do anything but take the flaying knife right in the center of its back. With a sickening crunch and pop, you plunge the blade all the way to the hilt before twisting and ripping it free, but despite that the thing does not die, it does not even fall. Your next blow becomes a counter to avoid the thing’s mad swipe for your face, and because of that you nearly lose your own blade.

You trade blow for blow with the fury, your initial strike slowing it down enough to let many of your stabs find purchase while you are able to block the worst of any potential retaliatory damage.

[Since the first, all of your connecting attacks have been causing greater levels of damage to this thing and it has begun to slow down. In a desperate attempt, it will come at you low, attempting to skewer you through its talons. It will not succeed, and for that you will take its head off.]


Krahl; Like a piston your jaws clamp down on the daemon’s flesh as you bite deep. Your reward is a wash of its otherworldly ichor spewing into your mouth, an oily wrongness that instantly forces you back, retching at the taste despite yourself. The fury takes one step forward before you smash it back with a fist, your own animal rage taking over as you pummel the thing again and again. 

You grab it by the throat, ignoring the wild lashes of its claws and the minor cuts they are causing to your outstretched limb, and instead you ram it into the side of the corridor, crushing piping and venting steam. You do this three more times before the daemon lets out a shriek of pain and you let go, but it does not fall. Instead the fury is held up by a section of piping through its chest.

[Just as you turn to engage the second fury, it jumps onto your chest, its own claws raking your face; and forcing you towards its dieing counterpart. You have an arm between you and it, and that is the only thing keeping the fury from burying its fangs in your face. Your blade arm is free, get this thing off of you and finish it, lest you suffer the fate the first daemon did.]


Vermundr; You swing out with your axe, actually taking a fury by surprise; the blade of your weapon biting deep of its mid-section and hurling it to the ground. However the second one is uncowed by this, ducking under your swing and lashing at you with a gangly arm. It moves faster than you can follow and you are forced backward two steps when the blow connects with your throat, nearly crushing your windpipe. Strength leaves your fingers and it is all you can do to maintain a hold on the shaft of your axe, not that the second Fury plans to give you any chance to recover. Instead it tackles you at the waist, and both of you fall to the ground in a tangle of flailing limbs.

With spots in your eyes, you grasp hold of the fury with your free hand, hauling its patchy head into the pommel of your axe with a wicked crunch. Pain blossoms in your abdomen where one of its legs digs deep into your flesh before reinforced bone halts any further damage.

[Well that didn’t really work out to well now did it? This thing does not weigh as much as you do, and so you should be able to get it off with no issue. The blow to its head dazed the daemon for the moment, finish it and move on. You will quickly see that Keris has come to the aid of Iotki when you were waylaid, and that Krahl is being forced against the wall by one of his own attackers.]


Iorek; You and the fury meet head on, literally; your reinforced skull impacting against the warp enhanced structure of the daemon’s. It crumples to the ground, limbs flailing out as it slowly regains its wits, while you simply stagger to the side, nearly falling to a knee. But you prove the better, regaining your senses first and stamping a booted foot into the thing’s neck, shredding the thin skin holding the daemon’s head to its body.

You do not have any time to scan for a new target though, the wolf within you flares up at something new and even worse than the daemon. With pure animal instinct as your guide, you turn about and discover the source in time to see Alrik thrown across the corridor by a massive hulking creature: a spawn.

[It will take more than just Alrik to kill that thing, don’t just stand there! This thing will not be beaten easily, though it does appear to be rapidly decaying. Take care when fighting this one.]


Heimdall; The fury comes at you again, this time overstepping its mark. You sidestep and slash across its back, exacting a toll on its good claw arm and making the limb useless. It whips back around to face you, seeming to lose balance and nearly topple over. You waste no time, hurling your blade into its chest and cracking it where a person’s temple would be. With your other hand you pull the blade free, stabbing it twice more in the neck before the daemon can respond or counter. You kick it to the ground, watching it in its death throes. Movement out of the corner of your eye alerts you to the possible threat of more fighting, but when you turn all you see is Iorek running from the others. 

[Do you follow the Ghostwolf’s movements or ignore him and look for another fury to kill? If you turn, you will see the spawn and Alrik regaining his feet, but if you do not then instead you will go to Iotki or Krahl’s aid.]


Alrik; The remaining four men come charging at you, or rather three of them do and the fourth one falls to the ground in a fit of seizures; one less to be ended. One of these three has a large metal bar gripped in his hands, and when he swings it at you, you stop it with one hand. Pulling him in, a knee to his sternum ends the mortal before he even has a chance to realize what happened. It is only after you quickly dispatch the other two that something large lumbers up from behind you, and you barely have a chance to roll forward before a thick limb crashes into you and sends you flying across the corridor painfully. Getting an arm beneath your battered form, you look up to the sight of a true monster shambling at you. It has no head, but three maws coming out of its belly on stacks. Two of its seven limbs end in wicked scything bones while the rest are a motley assortment of stumps and ragged claws. Even hunched over as it is, the thing is at least to heads greater than you.

[This thing is a spawn, the last flaps of skin falling off of its naked form holding tattoos marking it as the eighth man, the one who did not fall to your hand. Its movements are awkward, and you can tell from its scent that its life is but a short one. I do hope you kept the metal bar, but regardless you tear the knife from your side, holding it in a reverse grip. You will not be able to outright kill this thing, despite its body already beginning to die.]


----------



## Scathainn

By the time Ørrgrimr regained consciousness outside the training cages, he was lying face down in a puddle of drool and blood, with a dull, pulsating pain inside his skull and klaxons blaring all around him. He lifted his head slowly, massaging his temple as the fluid on his face slowly dripped back onto the floor. For a brief moment he was completely bewildered. The last thing he could remember was watching the fight between Vermundr and Keris as he lay on the bench nursing his broken ribs and slipping into unconsciousness. As his brain slowly but surely began to piece things together, he was assaulted by a torrent of different thoughts.

_What happen’d? I thought I was on th’ bench…

Where’d everyone go?

Why’s everything red? What’s that noise?

Klaxons…somethin’s wrong.

Thass’ the warp intrusion code…great.

Fethin’ daemons.

By the Allfather, me ’ead hurts. Today of all days._

Once he had regained cognitive thinking ability, the comedy stopped. Even Ørrgrimr had to remember that he was still one of the Adeptus Astartes, and it was time to help his brethren. He stood to his feet, wiping the blood and spittle off of his face. As he strode out of the training cages, he realized he must have been thrown off the bench when the ship was breached by the daemons, and the force of his head hitting the ground was just the final push necessary to bring him into a stupor. But that was irrelevant now. Now it was time to do his duty as a Space Wolf: to protect his packmates for Russ and the Allfather.

Frantically he hurried to the upper levels of the deck towards the hall, where he knew most of the rest of his packmates would be. As he ran up and down the various hallways and stairwells of the ship, he noticed the hurriedness of the servitor-thralls bustling around the ship as well. He managed to pick up that, as he suspected, there was some sort of warp breach that the servitors were desperately trying to contain. He could hear gibbering noises as he passed close to parts of the ship; evidently it was in these places that the burning energies of the Warp were eating away at the vessel.

As he rounded the last corner to enter the hall, he first noticed the scent of blood. Stale, maybe a half hour old. Then he noticed another smell, one totally alien to him. It smells utterly foul, like a foul mixture of rancid milk, burning flesh, and the smell of a burst cyst. Despite never smelling it before, he knew immediately what it could only be. Daemons.

And sure enough, in the rear end of the hall was his packbrothers, fighting a group of horribly twisted monstrosities. Each of his bretheren was facing a daemon on their own, each one more horrifying than the last. There were several corpses of thrall-servitors strewn about, and the daemons had evidently been picking at them before taking on newer, fresher prey. All but one, that is.

This last daemon was stripping a fleshy thrall clean of meat, dozens of tiny taloned arms tearing off strips of flesh and feeding it into one of its many mouths. A hideous, bloodshot eye opened up and looked straight at Ørrgrimr. With a slow deliberate motion, the creature turned around, stuffing the last bits of meat into its mouths. Every movement made was accompanied by a series of hideous cracking and popping sounds; Ørrgrimr realized with horror that it wasn’t urning around, but it was reshaping its flesh and bones to face towards him. The creature’s dozens of mouths dripped slimy, blood-mixed drool onto the deck, and at least forty small arms flailed around wildly while three larger ones supported its two tiny legs. Hundreds of eyes opened and closed all over the daemon’s body as it debated what to do with Ørrgrimr, and four tiny wings fluttered impatiently. With a gruesome snapping motion the creature’s chest reshaped into an enormous mouth and issued a bloodcurdling screech, spraying blood and spittle everywhere, before loping fast and directly towards Ørrgrimr.

Ørrgrimr had four seconds to think before the creature attacked.
_Reshaping body. No way I kin’ break its bones.
For that matter, how th’ell am I goin’ ta pin the fether?
But it’s slow. I kin’ dodge it ifn’ I’m wise about it._

He drew his hunting knife and girded his stance. “Come at me, then,” he muttered, before the horrifying daemon crashed into him.

Dozens of limbs tore at him as the creature fell on top of him, hundreds of mouths forming, snapping, disappearing. Bracing his hands on the deck, he kicked upward, forcing the creature off of him and pushing it back. Standing back to his feet, he watched the creature simply reshape itself off of the floor. A huge chitinous arm swumg out from the daemon before Ørrgrimr stabbed it, then pushed it away. The creature howled as its bright pink blood dripped onto the floor. The metal sizzled where the liquid touched the ground. _Acidic blood._

With a roar, Ørrgrimr ran forward and delivered a sweeping kick into the beast, but it simply reshaped itself out of the way to avoid the attack. Ørrgrimr did not halt his attack however; he pushed forward with a flurry of fists, elbows, and knees. He could hear the creature’s fragile bones snap and reshape with each it, and every blow he landed was awarded with a chorus of shrieks. Suddenly, a fleshly mass protruded from the creature’s body and latched onto Ørrgrimr as dozens of mouths chewed on his flesh. He howled with pain and struggled to free himself from the toothed arm’s grasp, but to no avail. With desperation he realized he had only one option left. Grabbing onto the creature’s flesh for leverage, he ignored the pain of teeth chewing his hand as he plunged his knife into the creature’s arm and severed it completely. The arm lost grip of Ørrgrimr and the creature howled as the limb fell to the deck and he pushed the daemon away with a kick.

Nothing happened for a few seconds as the daemon skirted back, eyeing Ørrgrimr with hundreds of eyes warily. Ørrgrimr grinned that stupid grin of his for a second before noticing the arm out of the corner of his eyes. It was moving.

Turning to look at the arm, he noticed with horror that it began to reshape itself. The severed arm popped and snapped, twisting and convulsing. Finally with a shudder, the arm reshaped itself into a tiny miniature daemon, maybe the size of his helmet on his armor. Dozens of tiny spiked legs held it aloft as it stared at Ørrgrimr with bloodshot, pulsing eyes. At that instant he could see both daemons assume an expression he could only assume to be a smile, as dozens of mouths spread into wide rictus grins.

_Oh feth._


----------



## dark angel

This was child’s-play, a pathetic display of superhuman ferocity; a snapping of limbs and spilling of blood.

Even as the Firehawk tossed away the limp corpse of the fourth attacker, more darted towards him; froth colouring their lips, snow-white flesh shining in the crimson flood-lights. 

One stumbled, fell, face contorted in horror; glassy-eyes drifting on Alrik for a scarce second, before the deck rushed up to meet his face with a clang. The man convulsed violently, clawing frantically at his collar, blood oozing from his nostrils. The Space Wolf snorted dispassionately, eyes drifting back to the three remaining attackers.

The first clutched feverishly at a large, metal pole; lips parted in a gibbering cry. He swung it, intent on shattering Alrik’s skull, despite the immensity of Alrik’s gene-enhanced form. 

One huge paw gripped the length of the improvised weapon, muscular talon-like-fingers seizing the cold metal. With a remorseless sigh, the Astartes yanked the man in close, arching a knee through the air. The chest bone crunched, the solar plexus mashed. The possessed thrall slumped onto his knees, his last breath escaping in an inane curse, and died. 

A blade whistled through the air; glittering blood-red, a menacing omen for a mortal. To Alrik, it was a cruel jape, a meaningless and pointless gesture; as he stepped aside nimbly, bringing the pole up in a tremendous backhand. It met the thrall’s skull with such intensity, a barbaric display of power; that her head snapped back, blood and brain-matter erupting from the ruined forehead, the body cart-wheeling away.

The final opponent came at him within seconds, though Alrik’s sights never wavered from the battle along the hallway; where Hel-beast and Space Wolf duelled, spilling vile ichor and invigorating blood upon the deck, roaring litanies of hate.

With a callous grin, Alrik’s free hand snapped out, fingers weaving around the possessed man’s throat. He hefted the being into the air, abysmal-black eyes meeting those dead, wet orbs. 

The Space Wolf brought the thrall in close, swatting away the man’s knife with the pole, fingers snapping irreparably. Alrik’s teeth shone hauntingly. 

‘My appearance,’ He grumbled, sniffing the air; an utterly inhuman gesture, loud and humoured. ‘Does it frighten you?’

A fist connected with the post-human’s jaw. Alrik’s gaze never faltered. His grin broadened, putrid breath washing over the possessed thrall’s face, misting in the cold. The scarification upon his cheeks tightened, twisting his face horribly. 

Once again, the thrall lashed out, fingers dragging across Alrik’s throat. Fingernails snapped, drawing a trail of blood. The Firehawk repaid the possessed man duly. 

With a saturnine chuckle, he thrust the pole through the man’s gut; until the viscera-smeared tip burst from between the man’s shoulder blades. He lowered the man onto the deck, pushing the corpse from his new-found weapon with one foot. 

His senses tingled. Something loomed behind him; and the Space Wolf dove forwards, though he was too slow. 

Something large connected with his back, slapping wetly against skin. Breathless, shocked and hateful, Alrik hurtled through the air; smashing into the opposing wall with a great ring. He fell to the deck ungracefully, landing hard, grunting.

He propped himself up on one arm, spitting acidic bile beneath him; sizzling on the deck. His other hand reached out, clutching at the blood-soaked pole, dragging it in close, as he faced the monstrosity which had floored him.

Huge and hunched, like some ancient simian, a creature from the darkest of nightmares stood above Alrik. It was headless; though a trio of huge, fang-filled maws sucked at the air in its torso, each releasing an odd, wailing screech. A pair of large, curving bones glistened bloodily from the man-thing’s original sockets; while another five sprouted from the beast’s ragged form, each ending in a forest of rending claws. 

Alrik was on his feet in moments, twirling the pole theatrically. His other hand dragged the blade from his side, with a wet slurp. Blood pattered the floor, though Alrik’s face bore no indication of pain, merely his cruel grin and wild, frenzied eyes. 

‘Aren’t you beautiful?’ He hissed sardonically, launching a devastating riposte, breaking away boney growths on one of the thing’s limbs. ‘Come, Daemon-spawn, dance with me.’


----------



## deathbringer

A great crash as the two entities came together, a behemoth, creation of the emperor, a righteous reinforced skull coming against the corrupted and twisted torso of the daemon and it bounced away with a dull thud of impact, smashed to the ground even as Iorek reeled. Sinking to one knee his recovery was almost instantaneous though his eyes blurred and brain rattled, the world seeming to swoop around him, his eyes suddenly thrust upon different planes to his body in a distorting melee of blues and blacks. 

Yet the daemon was prostrate upon its back, still reeling screaming and Iorek pounced his eyes locked upon magenta skin below the angular jaw and the broad chest, foot bludgeoning through the air to sever the thin wiry neck. A long crow of triumph resounded amongst the thud of his foot upon the decking even as the head rolled away locked in a scream of dazed anguish

The sweet taste of victory was momentary, a riled snarl of hatred resounded from the wolf within, shattering the silent peace of his own mind, such comfort suddenly removed by the wakened beast riling within. Bitter corruption touched his nostrils and he felt the back of throat seered the hair upon the nape of his neck suddenly erect, to attention. His limbs were moving, facing twisting into a disgusted snarl of bitter loathing as he beheld the spawn of chaos, a human soul riddled with the corruption of the warp, its madness shaping its form into a sculpted mass of flailing limbs. 

He was moving even as it sent alrik tumbling away with a casual flick of one of its great stubby limbs, His brother was dazed and he was tearing forward sprinting through the melee of combatants even as Alrik began to rise. The spawn was looming a great mass of sinuous limbs above a hunched torso towering above his brothers form. Danger radiated from his, the wildness of a barbarian laced with the physical dominance of an astartes. He raised the weapons in his hands, a storm of blood spattering to the deck below, puckered scar tissue revealing where a cut had recently slashed his superhuman frame. 

Sardonic words lashed out to the spawn, delighted glee rippling with madness in his wild eyes. A lightening strike forcing some of the boney growths away, the body already seeming to decay and dismember, the spawn seeming to waste away before them even as he moved to stand next to the firehawk. The gellar fields must have reactivated, the beings waned and waxed, cut off from the surge of the aether. Time to strike. Blades coming up, his legs slid forward to spring the slightest of grins spreading across his features

"Your ego knows as few bounds as your brutality Firehawk. Yet the day I allow you to face a fiend of chaos unarmoured and alone is the day i sup mead in the halls of russ. It dances with us."

He met the firehawks gaze with a smile, laced with challenge even as he was pushing forward, arcing wide, ready to duck or slash sinuous tentacles he expected to lash at him with the knives. His gaze was fixed his mind focused aiming to push within the beasts guard, within the curling flex of thoise coiling tentacle, to sink blade into the decaying flesh. In his head the wolf howled its delight to the heavens, a ringing cry of defiance against the corrupted denizens of the aether.


----------



## Serpion5

*Krahl*

The taste of some foul daemonic ichor touched Krahl's lips as he mimicked the creature's own attack. It caused him to stagger back and almost retch, such was the overpowering wrongness of the daemon's blood. Sputtering a quick curse he made a mental note not to try that again. The recoiling daemon began to advance again, but Krahl was in no mood for games anymore and beat the creature back with a rain of heavy blows, not relenting and not allowing the creature even a moment's respite. 

But then even this was becoming tedious. Seizing the abnormal being by its throat, he slammed it heavily into the wall of the corridor. Paneling seemed to bend under the force of the impact and one of the daemon's wings was crushed under its own body. The wolf ripped the creature back before slamming it into the wall again, feeling the wall paneling buckle even further. Once more he repeated the attack before releasing it from his iron grip. Rather than slide gracelessly to the floor as he expected, it simply slumped where it was, suspended by a broken piece of piping embedded through its torso. 

The grin on Krahl's face at this comical sight was short lived, as he was struck from the side just as he turned to face down the second of his adversaries. Its cold eyes glared into his as it swung its claws wildly. It scored a lucky hit against the blood claw's face before Krahl raised an arm to defend himself. It latched onto his wrist and began to bear its weight down on him, threatening to impale him atop the first of its kin to die, the impaled fury even now beginning to dissolve from realspace and free up the deadly jagged pipe that had slain it. 

Krahl dug his heels into the floor, pushing back but still losing ground slowly. His blade was still sheathed at his thigh, why he hadn't thought to draw it yet was something he would dwell on at another time. For now, it was his best chance of avoiding the messy fate he had inflicted upon this daemon's companion. He allowed himself to lean back slightly, bringing the daemon's abdomen within effective stabbing range. The two of them staggered as Krahl attacked, he because of the daemon's weight and the daemon itself in shock. In that lapse, the wolf was able to regain his footing first and barreled the stunned fury to the ground. 

Planting a heavy foot on its chest, he reversed his grip on his weapon and brought it down in a brutal stabbing motion, impaling the thing's chest. He twisted his knife with a grunt of contempt and rose, kicking the daemon from his weapon into a suitably undignified heap.


----------



## unxpekted22

Catching one of the demons in the chest so squarely, he had to admit, actually came as a bit of a surprise. He was swinging more to make room so he could get to Iotki, rather than actually hit anything. In fact, taking the time to pull the blade from the fury was enough time for another to stop him from reaching his goal entirely.

Vermdundr was forced to step back in the direction he had started from, a multi-jointed arm moving as fast and ferociously as the blade of his axe until a brick like force slammed into his bare throat. A sickening cough sound with no breath to back it up came out. One free hand instinctively gripped his throat to protect it from further damage and as a futile attempt to soothe the pain. His instincts were short lived and ignored, as he needed both hands to take on this demon, especially with hardly any breath in his lungs to do so. He wasn't sure he could speak anymore as he was toppled to the decking, more wrestling now than battling. His second hand came in to use slamming the Fury's head into the blunt of his axe. A crack of skull and demonic ichor splattered about him, but the demon wasn't finished yet.

Vermundr felt utterly disgusted at the feeling, of his hand having gripped such a foul being's head. It had been of cold skin and the most tangled, slithering patch of hair he had ever handled. His disgust at the warp thing fueled his anger enough to get over the throbbing pain in his throat. His hands were already dirty, so he gripped the thing's whipcord shoulder and threw it off with surprising ease. He turned over with it bringing his axe to its throat, one hand behind the tip of the axe blade, the other on the shaft just below the blade, and pushed the blade through the demon's discolored throat, decapitating it with a guillotine motion.

The battle continued on around him, a few new bodies lay on the floor, none of his own yet...thank Russ. Keris some how, and of course, had come to the aid of Iotki. he would have to think on how he felt about that later, but the midst of a brawl with demons was no time to ponder or scowl at fellow wolves. He turned back to Krahl, who had finished of one demon but was struggling with the second.

This would be the demon he killed next. Unguarded, the beast's back was a wide open target for his axe.


----------



## Lord Ramo

The daemon, hissing and snarling at Heimdall readied itself to attack him once more. In response Heimdall took a wide stance, knife held in one hand, while his fangs were bared back, snarling a little at the daemon, trying to intimidate it to leap at him. Heimdall was confident he could win this fight, and almost leaped forward himself to take it out once and for all.

He restrained himself however, and waited for it to lunge at him. He didn't have too wait long, the thing launching itself at him, only for him to dodge to the side. The daemon tried to turn, but overextended itself, and seeing this Heimdall leapt into action. Heimdall slashed his blade across its back, snarling triumphantly as he drew blood from it in one deep cut. He had damaged its claw with that strike, and made the limb useless to use, making it much easier for him in a fight.

The daemon, blooded and wounded, twisted to try and reach him, to attack him. However in its desperation all it managed to do was start to fall as it lost its balance. Again seeing an opportunity Heimdall, with a howl threw his blade, moving forward even as the blade sailed through the air towards its target.

The blade buried itself, almost to the handle in the things chest, it howling in pain even as Heimdall launched his attacks on it. Where he knew a persons temple would be he delivered a powerful hit to it, listening to the cracking sound even as he did so with grim satisfaction.

He quickly, with his spare hand, pulled free the knife from its chest, causing a rush of blood as well as extracting another howl from his opponent, one which was very short lived. Heimdall brought his blade up, stabbing his opponent in the neck once, and allowing its blood to seep from its wound, before plunging his knife back into its neck.

The daemons howls of pain and fear were cut short, and it could only gurgul now, its blood seeping from the wounds that he had inflicted on its body. Heimdall, with a look of victory, the excitement and adrenaline flowing through his veins, kicked the daemon over and howled in triumph, the daemon could do nothing but spasm on the ground before it died. 

Heimdall caught movement out of the corner of his eyes, and turned to see the source of it. The Ghostwolf was running away from the others, at speed, a most unusual event. Heimdall was positive he wasn't fleeing from the battle, the very thought alien to him. He followed Iorek's movements until he saw the intended target.

Alrik was fighting a chaos spawn, a huge monstrosity that the Ghostwolf was obviously going to help him fight. Heimdall, unsure if they could take it down, even though believed in their abilities to fight decided to try and help if he could, regardless of the consequences. He knew Alrik probably wouldn't like him to, or just wouldn't care, the same going for the Ghostwolf really, but thought it would be best if he helped them.

Mind made up, Heimdall broke into a sprint as he headed towards the spawn as well, allowing the rest of the pack to fight the daemons.


----------



## Nicholas Hadrian

*Iotki*

Pain. A whole lot of pain.

Iotki could feel his back being shredded, these daemons are tenacious, no sooner did he doge one blow than to have another lunging at him, claws and teeth dripping foul ichor, another grappling onto his back, bearing him to the ground.

On second thought, this could work. He was level with the diving fury now, just a bit lower…

Excellent, for all that they were raw Warpstuff given form, and with teeth and claws capable of ripping apart the hull of a Leman Russ, they didn’t seem too smart, letting him simply knock the other off with his new “friend”. 

Now all he needed to do was survive the next few minutes.

He rolled under, scrabbling for his knife. He could feel his back had been shredded. He stood up, just in time to bring a smashing right hook into the beak of one, seizing the side of its head and bringing it twisting around to crack against the skull of another, perhaps snapping its neck, though it was difficult to be sure.

A twist, a flourish and a spurt of blood, his combat knife sprouted from the chest of another, his hand holding it. He seemed to be fading in and out of the blood rage now, a haze of red alternatively blurring his vision and sharpening it. All-Father, his back hurt.

He could see his foe already melting back into raw protoplasm, slowly losing its form as it melted back into the raw stuff of Chaos.

Now he turned to the next fury. It was eyeing him, it’s red, piggish eyes glaring at him, it’s neck twisted at what he was sure was an odd angle.

Perhaps he could use that…

He and the daemon circled each other, neither trying to give the other any hint of their intentions. It’s head snapped forward, teeth closing an inch within his face, Iotki chose that moment to strike, bringing his knee up, slamming it into the creature’s chest, it let out a squawk of pain, dropping for a moment, and falling right into Iotki’s waiting arms.

He looked down at the beast, and with a grim smile, twisted its neck in a direction even a daemon would have difficulty coping with. Iotki dropped it to the floor, its form already fading. He roared in victory and spun to face another daemon, let the entire Warp face him!


----------



## Euphrati

The Wolves around him fought with the ferocity of their gene-sire against the abominations of the Warp's fetid tides and Keris could taste each of their scents, potent and vital, lacing every breath that filled his lungs. Each was unique, each one a warrior borne to a world where every moment was a test of survival. They stood against their foes without fear and armoured only in hatred; each carving his own saga out of the perverse hides of the Great Enemy's minions with a fury that echoed through the howls of the wolf-spirit in Keris' own soul.

Keris knew them all.

They were his Wolfbrothers; their life-threads bound to his own through the blood and oaths they shared and he would fight and die by their sides without pause. It was from the unbreakable devotion to that bond of brotherhood that Keris drew the strength to accept the price of his oath; his armour would never again bear the markings of a single pack, _*for he would belong to them all in turn*_. _Forever outside the pack, yet always at their side- a living reminder of the oaths they all shared._

The flaying knife scythed through daemonic flesh like the bow-edge of a skiff through open water, drawing a piercing shriek from the fiend's fanged jaws that echoed in Keris' ears. With a snarl Keris jerked back sharply, corded muscles in his shoulder bulging as he twisted hard on the hilt of the borrowed blade, and was rewarded as he felt the hard popping of corrupted bone under the wet rip of warp-spawned flesh. Ichor, putrid and black with a vile sheen that rippled maddeningly like rancid oil on water, hissed and spat from the jagged wound in the daemon's back before it pattered upwards towards the arched ceiling in raw defiance of the bounds of reality as the fury wrenched around to face him with a scream.

The fiend lashed out towards his head in a wild swipe of its scaled limbs and Keris' next strike became an improvised parry; the jarring shock of the blade's edge as it grated against the jagged curve of dark talons threatened to disarm him and Keris gave a growl as he further tightened his iron grip on the hilt. Each scything attack was met and returned in kind, the gaping wound in the warpfilth's back making its frenzied assault sluggish and ineffective in doing more than extending its perverted existence for more than a few scant heartbeats longer.

The fury shrieked and lunged low, eyes rolling wildly in desperation as it bled stinking ichor from the deep bites of the flaying knife that riddled its torso. Keris saw the attack coming and twisted aside with ease, his fist arching downwards in a crushing blow to the fiend's spine as it dove past him. The impact sent the warpspawn to the grating with the muffled crack of its ribs fracturing when it met the cold steel. Keris was on it before it had a chance to rise; his free hand clamped down over the fury's skull, fingers hooked deep into its eye sockets, and elk-hide boot planted firmly in the center of the twisting abomination's fractured back, 

'*Die*...' 

With a snarl, Keris yanked back with all of his weight; feeling the fury's body thrash and spasm under him as its skull came away from its body with the wet pop of separating vertebrae and its essence was hurled back to be swallowed whole into the tides of the warp.

Even as he cast the corroding skull away, Keris felt his wolf spirit bare its fangs in hatred as a burning scent assaulted his senses. He spun with a growl, fangs gleaming wetly and eyes pinned with battle-lust, to see the bulky weight of the Firehawk tossed through the air like a skiff on the bow-crest of a kraken's surge. The bellicose Wolf was on his feet in an instant, his muscular form trembling with the need to do violence as he gave a goading twirl of the pipe he held at his side. Keris could taste Alrik's blood on the air currents and fought the burning urge to hurl himself at the warp spawn, _the wolf in his soul frothing in kill-lust against his will_.

'Russ' eyes are on you, Firehawk! *Prove you are worthy of his gaze!*'

Keris turned back to face the remaining furies, a rolling growl of challenge and hatred uncoiling from deep within his chest as he smashed one into the wall with a backhanded blow before pressing forward to beside where Vermundr sowed death with axe and fury. Keris slipped in behind where the packleader fought, guarding Vermundr's back even as he placed his own back to the other Wolf without hesitation. It mattered not that Keris still carried the bruises of standing against Vermundr in the cages no more than a mark before; his faith in the Blood of Russ was without doubt and his trust in his wolfbrother absolute. His voice held a constant and unyielding devotion underpinned by the growl of battle-lust,

'Go, brother, fight at the head of your Claw and leave these pathetic warp-chaff to me.'


----------



## unxpekted22

Just as Vermundr was about to make his strike at the Fury's backside, he had room to notice the large spawn causing havoc at the other end of the hallway, three of his brothers already engaged with it. This is when Keris's voice came from behind him as well. It was clear his pack brothers could use the support of his axe blade against such a menacing foe and as much as he wanted to kill the next Fury in front of him he knew Keris could dispose of it just as easily. So, he turned his heels and made for the chaos spawn himself. he could smell the power of the warp fading already, in the furies, and even faster so in the spawn. However, a second was all it took to end a life, even that of an astartes if circumstances were unfortunate enough, and he himself had seen such circumstances many times before already.


----------



## dark angel

‘It matters not the warp-thing dances or not, brother Iorek,’ Alrik said, his voice a venomous rasping; sharing a nod with his crimson-eyed comrade, launching a brutal uppercut, driving back another of the creature’s decaying limbs. ‘I should hope that you do not intend to pilfer another of my glories, Ghostwolf.’ 

His lips peeled back over pronounced canines; one a splintered ruin, broken in twain in the hold of some distant, long-destroyed Ornithopter. He growled mirthlessly, eyeing up the snow-skinned Space Wolf; once his enemy, now amongst his closest of companions. A murder-maker, a demi-god, a humourless, cyclopean bastard.. And by Russ, a great warrior. 

Knife in-hand, still coated in his own, glittering crimson; Alrik launched his attack, pivoting masterfully on his foot, weapon arcing out. Once, twice, thrice. 

The creature’s rotting flesh parted, deep gouges carved in its Immaterium-grown flank. Thick, oily blood gushed out. The monstrosity did not flinch, merely marched on, inexorable, as Alrik rolled away. 

His lower arms were coated in warp-stuff, and for a moment he imagined faces amongst the liquid, screaming euphorically; longing for Alrik’s divine spirit. He flashed a grin at Iorek, lifting up his left hand, sodden. 

‘The abomination bleeds, brother - And if it bleeds, then it dies, too.’ He ducked beneath a blow, twirling right theatrically, bony limbs gliding an hair’s-breadth from his face. ‘Know this, abyss-beast,’ He sneered, his scarred visage twisting balefully, his every word a loud, sonorous growl. ‘When I am done, I shall wear your skin upon my shoulders and fill my drinking-horn with your blood.’

He paused, spiting acidic bile on the deck. It fizzed and popped, the hyperactive enzymes eating away at the flooring. 

‘You are not a worthy foe of the Firehawk.’


----------



## darkreever

Ørrgrimr; 

As if someone had smacked you in the back of the head, the world stops spinning and your eyes manage to completely regain focus. Now completely out of your stupor, you see that the torn off arm of the daemon is simply losing form, removed from the body sustaining it on the ship. The daemon you had been fighting is not advancing on you, but instead keeping its distance and letting out mewling whimpers of pain. You do not give the creature another second to make a move, tearing the hunting knife from about your person and ending the creature’s life with multiple stabs ending with you smashing your elbow into the creatures back to shatter its spine.

With a high pitched scream the fury is hurled back to the warp, and not a moment too soon. The clarity remains, but almost all strength leaves your limbs as you look around to see that the fighting is over. Though you remain standing, it’s all you can do to remain on your feet.

[You miss the fighting against the spawn, but do turn your body in that direction to see Iorek and Heimdall coming to help you. Though normally you would never ask for such help, and your packmates would not give it without being told, in this case your body would prefer differently.]




Alrik; 

The beast before you rears up on its back most legs, warp infused muscles the size of your torso bunching up even as they begin to decay. With an effort, the creature lunges at you, forcing you to dive to the side and roll from its bulk. As it crashes to the decking a sinewy tail whips for your head only to be blocked by your forearm and slashed with the blade in your other hand. The weapon was made for the hands of a serf, and so is tiny in your own hand, but the blade is made to the same standard as your own hunting blade and does the job of lopping off an entire foot of tail.

Not giving the spawn any respite, you surge to your feet and rain blows down on the creatures side, breaking one of its many legs in the process before a massive arm barely catches you in a desperate sweep. For a second time in less than a minute you are hurled back across the decking, keeping your eyes on the spawn while your body does the work of turning throw into a manageable fall. Even as you do this, another hurls itself on top of the spawn, Iorek Ghostwolf having seized the initiative and jabbing his own blade deep into the creatures back.

With an otherworldly wail that makes your teeth ache, the spawn lashes desperately at Iorek, but the Ghostwolf manages to dodge the slowed attacks. So engrossed is he, however, that Iorek fails to notice that the beasts wild moves have drawn it in close to the side of the corridor. You get back to your feet and sprint for the spawn, your only thought to keep it from smashing Iorek into the wall. Ducking a mad swing of a limb, your shoulder connects with decaying muscle, but in the end does nothing. Half a breath later something else rams into the spawn, and you find yourself looking down into the struggling face of Heimdall as he mimics your own move.

The combined momentum from the two of you proves more than enough to halt the spawn, and even enough to bring it off balance. The beast falls to its side with a wet popping sound as four limbs rip from their sockets with sickly brown bone showing beneath.

Though beaten, mortally wounded, and bleeding life by the second, the spawn is still not ready to give up; so maddened by the energies that had created it, the thing was likely to stupid to die when it should have. And with a new, and likely final, burst of energy it surged onto what legs remained, ramming both you and Heimdall with bone club nubs. The thing pins you against the hard metal piping of the wall, your hands clawing at the bony limb, for the muscle was now all but gone, and only just keeping it from crushing your bone-plate ribcage.

Heimdall on the other hand was drive to the ground in front of the thing, where it brought up its other arm to crush him like a bug. The enormous limb came down, only to be cleaved off by a fourth warrior. The energy behind the arm pinning you to the wall vanishes instantly, the spawn backing away from Vermundr and the kiss of his axe blade. Like you, your pack leader allows the thing no respite and advances on it, meeting the other arm with the shaft of his weapon and breaking the bone.
Its energy spent, the spawn slumps to the ground, Vermundr ending its existence with a chop of his axe into the stump of flesh that had been the neck of the man it had once been. A final shudder marks the end of the creature’s life and it becomes like a mound of rotten meat, and even that slowly begins to lose solidity.

[The kill itself might not have been yours, but take much from the fact that you had fought the spawn the longest armed with only a piece of piping and the blade of a mortal. Make your way to Keris and retrieve your knife.]



Heimdall; 

Without wasting another moment you are sprinting towards Iorek and Alrik as they square off against the hulking monster that is the spawn. Alrik and Iorek attack the beast, the Firehawk moving in first and drawing its attention while Iorek circles it and attacks when a weak point is found. Even as you run, the sight of the pair fighting this thing in such a manner brings a savage grin to your lips. Iorek Ghostwolf and Alrik Firehawk are almost complete opposites, this you know, but to see them fighting together with only banter being spoken; to know that these are the packmates who have your side is most gratifying and it would do well for you to repay that fact.

Iorek attacks the spawn from above, driving his blade into exposed muscle and tearing away great chunks of rotting flesh in the process. But to late he realizes that the spawn has moved towards the side of the corridor in an attempt to smash him against the unyielding surface. Alrik seems to realize this danger just as you do and hurls his weight against the creature. Knowledge granted to you from the learning machines fires off in your mind, and you see that the Firehawk’s mass alone will not be enough to stop the thing.

And so you lend your body to Alrik’s cause, driving your shoulder into putrid flesh and keeping the beast from getting any closer to the wall. Your efforts then meet with greater success, as your combined momentum topples the spawn. Pain lashes across your shoulder from where you connected, the spawn may be dyeing but it is still tough, and the pain robs you of just enough focus that you are too late to avoid a clumsy swing of a massive arm. You are driven onto your back by the force of the blow, and before you have any more chance to react the limb, a nub of bone easily the size of your chest, rises up to end you.

But it never gets the chance, and instead crashes to the ground next to your body after being taken off by the axe of Vermundr. Your pack leader meets the other limb with his axe, breaking bone against adamantium reinforced steel. He wades in close to the spawn, blocking wild attacks before embedding his axe into the thing and finally killing it.

Though your body is sore, you get back to your feet and move to where Iorek fell when the spawn tipped. You offer him a hand just before Vermundr tell the two of you to go to Ørrgrimr’s side. Looking at your pack-mate, you notice his body swaying from side to side, only just managing to remain upright.




Iorek; 

Without another word shared between you, Alrik attacks the spawn with blade and bar. He rains blows upon the beast, driving it mad with fury and calling its attention solely on him. This allows you the chance to circle its flank and seek out a weakness of some kind. Ducking under the sweep of a long and sinewy tail, you jump upon the spawns back and plunge your knife into decaying meat; immediately having to take hold with both hands or risk being tossed off.

Tearing the knife free, you stab it several more times while shying away from clubbing sweeps and crazed grabs. The spawn bucks several times to try and take you off, but every time you maintain hold and tear free yet more decaying matter. At the last second you realize that the spawn has come close to the corridor wall, and can only have done so to shatter your body against the stone and metal. With no time to get away, you bare your short fangs in a snarl, only for the spawn to pitch onto its side.

Losing your footing on the spawn, you push off just as the thing begins to fall over, only barely avoiding being pinned under its mass and likely crushed. As you start to clamber to your feet, the ravaged tail of the spawn smacks into your forehead and sends you back to the decking with stars in your eye. There is a bright flash of pain and everything returns to focus; the spawn’s tail now embedded in your arm in an attempt to keep you on the ground. You cut the thing with the knife in your free hand, ripping the rotting appendage from your arm in time to witness Vermundr deliver the killing blow.

Heimdall soon offers you a hand back to your feet, soon followed by Vermundr growling for the pair of you to help Ørrgrimr who from the looks of things can barely stand. You turn your head for Alrik, but he is already advancing on Keris, likely to get his weapon back or perhaps to boast or something.



Vermundr; 

Not needing any more indication, you run off after Heimdall to fight the spawn with Iorek and Alrik. You can already see Alrik goading it with blows from a bar of metal before Iorek takes to it from behind and above. But though their plan allowed for Iorek to get at the spawn where it could not fight back, the thing tries to make him a smear against the corridor wall if not for the intervention of Heimdall and Alrik to pitch the creature over.

Even as it hits the ground though, the beast attacks the pair with the remnants of its fore-arms, pinning Alrik to the wall with one and smashing Heimdall to the ground with the other. Try as the Firehawk might, he cannot break free from the powerful arm, but he is the lesser priority of the pair. Heimdall is given no time to react before the second arm is rising above him to smash down.

With a growl of anger you lash out, your axe kissing flesh and bone alike before parting it like fresh meat. The massive forearm falls from the spawn, rolling off your shoulder and back to land beside Heimdall rather than on him. A cry of pain is your reward, and almost soon after you are forced to meet the second arm with your axe. This one coming in for a tight sweep, only to again find your axe there to meet it and shatter the bone.

The thing makes a keening wail of pain, attempting to back away from you though its body is ravaged and losing life fast. You advance on the spawn, dodging or blocking blows before delivering a kick to some mound of flesh and then burying your axe deep within where a normal animal’s neck would be. With a final shudder, the spawn falls to the ground in a heap, already losing shape and becoming incorporeal.

A buzzing precedes the booming voice of *Aldr* as he speaks through the vox bead built into your ear. *All pack leaders and priests to the strategium now. Have your packs patrol the ship for signs of further damage.* He says before the link cuts off and you are left to survey the corridor. Without further ado, you tell Iorek and Heimdall to give Ørrgrimr a hand and for the others to arm and armour themselves before you set off for the strategium on the bridge.

[Before you go, you need to have someone leading the pack in your temporary absence; Alrik and Iorek are amongst the most senior and experienced so choose one of them. When you do go, you quickly get the feeling that you are not alone and soon discover that Keris is with you, though you do not know why since he is neither a pack leader nor a priest.]



Krahl; 

Amazingly, the daemon moves from the crumpled heap that is its body, thick purplish blood gushing from the wound in its body as it tries to claw its way back to you. The thing is dead and just doesn’t know it yet; a fact you are more than happy to make it aware of. An angry glee powering your stride, you kneel down and slide your knife into the back of the daemon’s neck, ripping it out from one side and tear the barely connected mass of warp flesh free from its body.

Almost instantly the fury loses its failing battle to remain on the ship and becomes like oil, seeping from between your fingers and leaving a greasy stain where it had touched your flesh. Looking up, the fighting is at its end, and its only now that you see the decaying hulk that was a spawn of the warp dead at the feet of Vermundr, with Heimdall, Alrik, and Iorek nearby.
The Firehawk advances on Keris soon after the spawn’s death and Vermundr’s attention appears to be elsewhere for a second before he growls something to Iorek and Heimdall and making towards the bridge of the frigate.

[As you survey the damage before you, for the daemons and spawn all melt into oily sludge, you do notice the ravaged form of Iotki to your one side. His body is riddled with already scabbing slashes. Like you he had been forced to defeat more than just a single daemon, do you have any words for him and the fact that he managed to fight them off as well?]



Iotki; 

With a wet popping sound, you twist the second daemon’s neck until its eyes become dull and glaze over. Its claws, which were raking your flesh, lose strength and sag against their own weight before sloughing off the scaly body of the fury. You let go of it, and the daemon hits the decking hard, its neck at a ridiculously odd angle even for a being of the warp.

Scanning the immediate area, you notice only one remaining threat; and that one is being dealt with by half your number. You begin to allow your body moments of laxity, only for your inner spirit to rage at such a notion. There is still trouble about; there is no reason to let others do the work! From this you make to run after the others, but despite the feelings of your spirit your body is still ravaged from the damage done by the furies and you can do little more than push your body forward.

You feel eyes on you, noticing the larger form of Krahl looking at you, his own body slick with the greasy blood of the daemons he had been fighting. Movement out of the corner of your eye alerts you to the approach of Alrik towards Keris.

[You can move, its just not the easiest task in the world. Do you have anything to say to Krahl? You know that he also was attacked by multiple daemons and seems to have come out on top.]



Keris; 

Though badly wounded, the final daemon comes back at you again. Its moves are laughably slow, and you can see it fighting to stay on the ship at this point. You sidestep a lung, kicking in one of its leg and shattering its spine with a stomp. The fury soon becomes nothing more than an oily ooze puddling around your boot. Looking around you for another daemon to kill, you find that there are none left and that the only things standing around you are the bruised and cut forms of The Pack.

An inhuman cry of pain snaps your neck to its source, where you watch the spawn pitch over onto its side and Iorek roll from atop its back to somewhere out of sight. In an instant the beast smashes Alrik against the wall and holds him there while clubbing Heimdall to the decking before trying to end his life. Your start forward, already knowing that you will not make it in time, only to witness Vermundr jump in and take the spawn’s arm off midway. The limb hits the ground, only just missing Heimdall, and not soon after the creature stops holding Alrik in order to try and attack Vermundr with its remaining arm.

This attack is also met with the axe, splintering bone and sending the thing reeling back on weak legs. Vermundr gives the spawn no time, moving in for the kill and avoiding blows to waylay such a fate. The pack leader, though, is not to be denied this and kills the spawn with a final chop of his axe. You watch all this, your own inner wolf giving a growl of contentment to see him acting in a manner more befitting of a pack leader.

The moment of broken by the voice of *Aldr* in your ear, calling for all pack leaders and priests to make way for the strategium on the bridge while the rest of the Space Wolves continue to look for more possible signs of breach. You are about to turn away and see to Iotki but for *Aldr* to speak final words to you alone. Alrik comes to you, an ugly smile across his twisted face and wanting his knife back. You return the weapon to its rightful owner before following in Vermundr’s wake, your former pack leader not noticing your approach right away.

[*Aldr’s* final words to you are a reminder that you count as one of the priests now. *All priests, both young and old in body*, are his words to you. You can tell that they were spoken privately, for there was no reaction from Vermundr and not even he would be able to hide that. As the pair of you make way to the bridge, you can sense a measure of confusion from him about your presence.]


----------



## unxpekted22

Vermundr could have vomited as he watched the spawn writhe and die completely; dispersing into warp-black evaporation and tainted blood. He forced it back down into his gut and found relief, finding no dead Wolves as he surveyed the damage. Still, such vile degradation of their vessel...

He found the most injured in an instant and barked an order he barely heard to the two Wolves by his side, to aide their brother. It was Orgrimmr, and he couldnt help but feel somewhat at fault. Orgrimmr was in anything but top condition to fight demons after Vermundr had beat him senseless in the training cage. Nevertheless, he was't dead and that's what mattered most.

He wanted to give his pack a cheer. He was proud of them, really, but couldnt get himself to say so. Besides, a buzzing sound in his ear was taking his attention away.

*"All pack leaders and priests to the strategium now. Have your packs patrol the ship for signs of further damage."*

It was Aldr.

To be formal to his new commanding officer he replied, though simply, "On my way."

He turned to look down the hallway where the majority of his pack was currently standing and ordered them as Aldr instructed, "I am called to the strategium. With the possibility of more enemies still on the ship, make your way to the armory and don your wargear. Afterward, begin a patrol for damages."

Which lead him to the next decision he had to make, someone would have to take the lead during his absence. He knew first hand that it would be one of the brothers he had known the longest: Keris, Iorek, or Alrik. A for Keris, well...just how many reasons _could_ he think of right now that made him an invalid candidate. 

So, Iorek or Alrik. The Firehawk had moved away from him and was currently asking Keris for his blade back. The fact that he seemed aloof and apathetic towards the pack since the mission began didnt make Vermundr feel comfortable with him taking the lead. So, he looked toward the Ghostwolf, currently helping Orgrimmr. Iorek's head seemed clearer than ever, despite the whole 'pack's reject' incident. It took no more time at all for Vermundr to come to terms with the brother he trusted most to lead his pack.

He began walking toward the strategium and Iorek, both being in the same direction. When he came to Iorek he stopped beside him telling him of his decision loudly enough so the rest of the pack understood as well, "Iorek, Until my return, the pack is yours to lead."

He continued his fast-paced stride towards the strategium, but found it odd when he heard a pair of footsteps in his wake. His eyes stared forward down the hallway still, but his nostrils flared, the scent telling him who followed. Though the individual was clear, there was something else still hidden.

He turned his head first, then his torso, and finally his feet, "Keris, only pack leaders and priests are called to the strategium. You are to go with the rest of the pack, now return to them."

It surprised him how successful he was in staying calm while saying so. He was stern when he spoke but let no anger show. He was eager to get to the strategium and honestly didnt feel like being angry again at the moment.

This time when he turned around to continue on his way, his body turned as one.


(oops forgot: The new update format gets a yes from me. Personally I hardly ever have a problem reading the entire update and enjoy doing so, actually. But from a GM perspective I can see how it is beneficial. Besides, this way if anyone still _wants_ to read the whole update there is nothing stopping them from doing so.)


----------



## Serpion5

*Krahl*

Even as it left Krahl's boot, the decimated fury flailed like a rag doll trying to stand without bones. Its claws grasped at nothing as it tried to bring itself to assault the blood claw while Krahl looked on it a mix of disgust and amusement. With finality he leaned down and slit the creature's neck, ripping its head free in the same motion. 

With that the daemon finally had the decency to die, its body dissolving like some kind of viscous oil. its head vanished from between Krahl's fingers and he shook his hand in revulsion despite there being nothing left. 


It was no that Krahl saw that there were more than simple furies causing trouble, one of the unfortunate crew members had been warped into something no longer human, and lay slain before Vermundr and three others of the pack. 


Krahl took a further look around, seeing that the fight was over, and noticing now that most of the pack had only fought a single foe. A short distance away, he caught sight of Iotki surrounded my several slain carcasses. 

Movement behind Vermundr caught Krahl's attention and he noticed Alrik approaching Keris with what might have passed for a smile on the Firehawk's face. 

_I wonder if he's still up for that spar?_ Krahl thought to himself, watching impassively as the two exchanged words before Vermundr seemed to react to something and made to leave. Moments later Keris too turned and began to walk away in the same direction. 

_A meeting of leaders._ Krahl told himself. _How I look forward to that. _

Unable to keep the smile from curling his lips at that thought, he turned back to Iotki, approaching the unsteady warrior after a moments recomposure. 

'A rough encounter.' He noted, offering his hand to the smaller space wolf. 'But still, look who won out in the end eh?'



--- --- ---

(ooc: I give a yay. :so_happy: )


----------



## Euphrati

Vermundr did not hesitate, bounding away even as the warp-twisted fury screamed and thrashed in blind rage. Its movements were pitifully slow and Keris could sense its desperation in the frenzied attack as the horror's very form unraveled around it, wavering on the cusp of reality like a corrupted pic-feed as the daemon lurched forwards with a strangled shriek. It took little skill to sidestep the flailing, outstretched claws and deliver a bone-crushing kick to the fury's malformed legs sending it to the decking in a mewing heap. The heavy impact of Keris' heel ended the abomination's vile existence with the muffled snap of fracturing vertebrae; the remains dissolving into a foul puddle of goo the instance the tainted essence of the daemon was cast back into the warp's tides.

Combat-arousal coursed through Keris' veins with every beat of his hearts as he turned away from the spreading smear of filth; seeking another target and giving a growl of approval when his cold gaze was met only by the bloody forms of his former pack.

Keris spun, teeth bared and borrowed blade held at the ready, as a shriek of otherworldly pain echoed down the corridor. Crystalline eyes locked on the massive form of the daemon-spawn as it pitched sideways to the floor, the wright-pale blur of the Ghostwolf's form tumbling away into the shadows from where he had been locked to the fiend's hunched back. The warp-beast reacted with frightening speed, righting itself and smashing Alrik into the bulkhead's face to be pinned in place by a taloned grip while another limb bludgeoned Heimdall prone at its side. The wolf in his soul howled in rage and denial as Keris saw the blow that would sever Heimdall's lifethread arch down towards the Blood Claw and knew he would be unable to act in time to stop it.

Fenrisian steel, hardened in the heart of the Fang by the Iron Priests, met and parted Hel-spawned flesh with the force of a Thunderwolf's bite. 

The limb flopped to the decking by Heimdall's head with a grotesque slap of severed meat as Vermundr brought his axe around for another sweep; the Packleader pressing forward to position himself between the downed member of his pack and the flailing spawn.

The daemon screamed in agony, releasing its grip on Alrik to lash out against the vicious bite of the axe's smile. Warp-tainted bone shattered as Vermundr met the attack in kind and the spawn reeled back with the fury of his assault. Keris gave a low growl of fulfillment, feeling his wolfspirit's approval echo across his thoughts, as he watched Vermundr press forward through the daemon's desperate thrashing to deliver the killing blow with a final down sweep of his arm.

The moment was broken as the booming voice of Aldr issued from the voxbead in his ear, the last words of the ancient seemingly delivered to him alone as Vermundr turned away without a glance after ordering the pack to arm themselves before patrolling the other decks under Iorek's watch. Keris gave a curt nod to himself as he noted Alrik moving towards where he stood and stepped forward to meet the burly Wolf halfway; though some of the pack had suffered wounds, none were beyond the scope of their transhuman anatomy to handle in the short term.

The Firehawk sported the dark crust of a scab over a wound in his flank that appeared to be made by a blade, the laraman cells in his blood already working to knit together the damaged flesh with every passing moment. Alrik's scent was dark and storm-sharp, a scowl drawn across his scarred features. The encounter seemed to have only drawn a darker shroud over the bellicose Wolf's mood as he reached out to take back the flaying blade that he had lent Keris earlier. Keris chuckled at the coarse nature of the larger Wolf, meeting Alrik's black gaze as the larger Wolf's grip closed around the hilt of the blade. His tone held the elusive note of concern underpinning the thick fenrisian accent,

'We will speak on these matters _later_, Firehawk, for now temper your humours and see that the others heed Vermundr's words.'

Keris gave a nod towards where the Ghostwolf stood before turning away to follow in Vermundr's wake. His stride was powerful and sure, the cooling heat of kill-urge still lingering in his blood as he closed the distance behind Vermundr's lengthened steps. Pale pink lines traced across Vermundr's broad back; the fading remains of the wounds from the troll's claws that Keris had tended only hours before. In another Terran day even those faint marks would be gone, leaving no trace of their presence. It did not take the packleader long to register footfalls behind him and Keris could read the undercurrent of confusion in Vermundr's scent as he turned to speak. There was a degree of careful control in Vermundr's tone and Keris felt the sense of pride in his brother deepen even as he met the packleader's gaze with eyes the colour of a glacier's heart,

'I remember a time when you welcomed my company at your side, Vermundr Helfang.'

Keris' voice was a low rumble, soft-edged with an unmistakable melancholy that lingered in the crystalline depths of his gaze as he continued forward,

'We shed first blood at each other's sides as wolfbrothers, and I have worn the markings of your Claw with a pride that words cannot begin to express, brother. Yet, we each must choose to walk our own paths when they call us. Your pack and your Chapter need _you _to be who you truly are, Packleader, just as much as they... _as you_... need me to be who I truly am.'


-
(ooc- I'm going to actually cast a nay to the spoiler tagged text. I always read the entire update, so I ended up having to open all of the tag anyhow and it actually made the post longer than it would have been without the tags on my screen. It also seems to interrupt the flow of the post, chopping up sections and forcing the gm to have to repeat text for each of the characters that it applies to in their own tag.)


----------



## dark angel

The stench of the Immaterium; sweet and cloying, hung heavily on his nostrils. This flesh-thing, this corpse-beast, reared up on impressively strong legs. Muscles glistened beneath a paper-thin layer of skin, clamorous and flaking. A huge limb darted forwards, impossibly fast; but, then, this was a creature of impossibility. The Firehawk tossed himself leftwards, allowing the taloned arm to glide overhead, pipe and blade clutched against his chest. 

It thudded back onto the deck, mouths roaring soundlessly. A tail, long, sinuous and barbed came over one massive shoulder, intent on Alrik’s heart. The Astartes grunted, bringing his pipe-bearing arm upwards. The tail connected with a wet slap, skin and muscle sloughing away. The superhuman twirled his pillaged serf’s-blade, before bringing it gown in a glittering arc. It was tiny in his hands, but nonetheless potent. 

It carved through moldering hide, snapped hollowed bone; and burst from the other side. Foul-smelling blood pattered the deck, followed immediately by a thump. The severed tail wiggled once, reaching onwards with bloodlust, before shriveling away. 

Soaked in perspiration and blood, his face twisted into a horrifying war-mask, Alrik stood effortlessly and launched forwards. Blade and pipe worked in unison; hammering and stabbing, until one of the behemoth’s legs broke in twain, bone erupting from putrefying flesh. 

He never saw the limb that sent him careening away; until it struck his chest and face. Alrik did not flail, did not cry out; instead he kept his hunter’s-eyes on the beast, wide and vengeance-longing. Astartes physiology worked with him, twisting his body; so that he landed on his shoulder, rolled, and was surging back onto his feet. 

The Ghostwolf, snow-white flesh and blood-red eye, plunged his blade deep into the thing’s slab-like back. Warp-birthed mouths released a loud, keening wail. Alrik’s temples throbbed, his fangs dragging across one another, as his cyclopean brother ducked and weaved, avoiding bone-crushing blows with relative ease. 

Obliviously, Iorek was backing away; and the creature was lumbering after him, convulsing violently as it did so. 

‘No,’ Alrik breathed, and was flitting forwards instantly. He pushed one shoulder out; breathed in, so that his body hardened. He connected with the beast, pushed it back half-a-step, and ground to a halt. ‘For the Fallen..’

He felt a ripple, heard another grunt and impact. His head swung sideways, meeting eyes with one of the younger Wolves; the one who’s head he had attempted to shatter, Heimdall. The spawn halted, swayed, and collapsed. The sound was sensational, a wet tearing, oily liquid spilling forth. Pitted, scarred bone showed in the ragged gashes. 

In the throes of death, the creature launched back onto its remaining legs, a huge, club-limb sweeping through the air. Alrik met it with a grunt, as it pushed him against the cold wall, his hands grasping at twisted, horrible bone. The pressure being applied to his chest was immense, though Alrik’s counteractions were stronger; his biceps burning with effort, his trapezius bulging. 

At his feet, Heimdall lay, one of the chasm-spawn’s arms held in the air; ready to pulp the Space Wolf. Alrik squirmed, attempting to dislodge himself. The bone-arm came down, on Heimdall’s prone form, and rolled through the air. Alrik was dropped, and he went onto his knees, watching Heimdall’s chest rise and deflate, his breath misting over his lips. 

Vermundr was there, axe swinging; looking ever-the-warrior, pushing the beast back. He sheered away the thing’s limbs, before bringing the smile of his axe across the thing’s stump-neck, ending it. It slumped over, slipping apart in a pile of offal.

Alrik stared onwards, incredulous. He had been robbed of another victory. And yet, within, his wolf-spirit was jubilant; he had faced the spawn longest, he had beat it back, held his ground. In reality; despite it being Vermundr’s axe which had felled the thing, Alrik Firehawk had sapped away its energy. He had weakened it. He was the catalyst. 

He left Heimdall to his own thoughts, standing, marching away brusquely. He turned his head away from the Packmaster; snorting derisively. The Pack divided before him, sidling out of his way. 

‘Keris,’ Alrik said, feigning shock. His face was set-in-stone; as he locked gazes with the wise Blood Claw. He outstretched one massive paw; making his intentions known. He was here for the blade, nothing else. ‘You still draw breath. I am glad.’

The ice-eyed Wolf handed over the flaying blade, and spoke;

'We will speak on these matters _later_, Firehawk, for now temper your humours and see that the others heed Vermundr's words.'

‘Always so terse,’ Alrik grunted, as his brother marched away, in the direction which Vermundr had disappeared. He ran the serrations of his blade along his thumb, until a orb of blood shone, and nodded. ‘_Good_.’

He spun on his heel, rejoining the Pack. 

‘You know _nothing _of victory,’ He spoke to Krahl, grinning hungrily. In his midnight-dark eyes, there was a murderous glint; and in his hand, a murderer’s tool. ‘Do not pretend otherwise. This was naught.’ 

‘As our hero-in-making, Vermundr, has spoken - We must obey.’ He grumbled bitterly, slipping Kjarl’s blade into the hide-scabbard with a _thuck_. ‘You and I should go ahead, Iorek. These fools will slow us,’ He gave a dismissive wave to the new-bloods, before stepping closer to his one-eyed Packmate. ‘If the vessel’s integrity is compromised, I want my Chainsword and Boltpistol in hand. Gauntlets, vambraces and greaves should suffice. We armour ourselves in faith, ceramite will not protect us from the Warp’s predations.’

*** 

(I'm going to side with Euphrati on this one - I like to read the entire update, the spoiler tags just helped to complicate matters.)


----------



## unxpekted22

Vermundr listened to his brother speak behind him, still following him. At first he clenched his teeth in annoyance that Keris had not simply listened to his command, returning to the rest of the pack as stated, once again thinking he was better than the rest of his wolf brothers.

His anger was resolved, however, some nostalgia seeping in. He and Keris _literally_ shed first blood together on their first off-world mission, fighting side by side through a crowd or rioting heretics. And he _had_ welcomed Keris by his side, until very recently.

The words scratched at his mind when Keris said that he had worn Vermundr's pack marking with the greatest of prides. Some more of his twisted words. Though, the way keris was saying them now, it was as if he actually _believed_ in what he was saying.

When his brother was finished speaking, Vermundr waved his hand in the air while continuing to move forward, "Pah!...None of us who went to Hecutor have always worn these pack markings with pride, not you, not even myself." He turned around again to face his follower, "Don't lie to yourself Keris."

He turned again, making his way to a pair of sealed doors and opening them from a panel on the wall. "Until recently I did welcome your company, but I have since come to understand much about your character that I had overlooked before."

"If you wish to follow me to the strategium, then so be it. The others can still look after themselves."


----------



## Lord Ramo

Heimdall rushed over to the ongoing fight between his packmates and the foul spawn that plagued the corridor. He could see the two wolves moving in opposite directions whilst they attacked the beast, splitting its attention between the two of them. Heimdall smiled ferally as he rushed towards the fight, he couldn't help it at the sign of the two packmates fighting side by side.

Whilst both Alrik and Iorek were packmates they were both so different from one another, as was the way they went about attacking the spawn. It was amazing to see them work together, and if he and his younger members of the pack earn the respect and trust of these older members then one day he might fight alongside them like that. For now though he would have to prove himself.

He watched as Iorek attacked the spawn from above, his blade sinking into the flesh of the abomination before seemingly getting stuck there, Iorek hanging onto the blade. However Heimdall saw what the spawn was trying to do, as did Alrik and Iorek, though Iorek was too late. 

The spawn moved towards the walls of the corridor, intent on crushing Iorek on the wall between its bulk and the unmoveable wall. Alrik leapt forward, using his bulk and weight to try and stop the spawn from going through with its plan, slowing it down as he did so.

However it was painful obvious to Heimdall, from knowledge implanted to him, that Alrik alone would not be able to stop the spawn, and with a feral snarl he leapt forward, shoulder first as he drove it into the putrid flesh of the spawn, stopping it from moving any closer to the wall. Heimdall was glad to see that the combined mass of two astartes was enough, and in fact the two of them managed to push over the spawn.

However Heimdall could feel pain lance through his shoulder, and lost focus for a second as he wondered what was causing the pain. Heimdall looked from his shoulder to see one of the dying spawns arms handing straight for him, and it knocked him flat onto his back. 

He looked up to see the limb was made out of bone easily the size of his torso, and that the spawn had raised it with the intent of crushing him underneath it, even if it died in the process. Heimdall snarled angrily at the limb, angry that he was laid low by an abomination, and that he had barely started his service to the All-Father, but content in the knowledge that his packmates would avenge him.

However the limb suddenly fell severed, next to him, and Heimdall could see the form of Vermundr as the pack leader saved his life with his axe, before ending the life of the spawn with a powerful blow. Heimdall nodded his thanks before he stood, body sore from the fall and his shoulder charge into the thing as he offered his hand to Iorek to use to get to his feet.

Once Iorek was on his feet Vermundr ordered that the two of them to see to Orrgrimr's side, his brother being badly injured in his fight with the chaos filth. Heimdall moved over to his brothers side, helping him remain upright as he awaited to see what would happen to the pack next.


----------



## Euphrati

Fury, white hot and incandescent like a star going nova, engulfed Keris' thoughts as his stride faltered for a heartbeat. Crimson tinted the edges of Keris' vision, a howl of unfettered anguish tearing through his soul. _It felt like a dagger had been driven through his primary heart._

His body reacted before his mind could shake off the sheer blow of Vermundr's words, lunging forward to shoulder the other Wolf into the durasteel sheeting of the bulkhead beside the open doorway. Keris grabbed Vermundr by the shoulders and spun his brother around to face him, muscles trembling and breath coming in harsh, growling pants as anger and soul-deep pain denied him words for a long moment.

'Never... _once_.'

The words were barely a whisper forced through clenched teeth. The next were roared with every iota of strength and power that Keris' enhanced lungs possessed.

*'NEVER ONCE!'*

Keris' fist hit the unyielding metal less than a blade's width from Vermundr's head with an impact that echoed through the ship's superstructure; the rich, metallic bite of Astartes blood filled the air as the healing wounds on his knuckles re-opened under the brutal treatment. Keris did not even acknowledge the pain of the blow. 

'_Never once_ have I *lied *to you.' 

Every word was edged with heartache,

'You are a _fool_, Vermundr. It is not in the markings themselves that my pride endures, but in what they signify! In the _cost _with which wearing them comes! We carry the debt of all who have come before in the wisdom we have been given, *that *is the cost of our oaths.' 

Keris pushed away, muscles twitching and eyes hard as pack ice,

'_"Honour whatever you ask of me in return"_ - those were the words Lord Blackmane offered for my oath to guide your path as pack leader. I accepted the weight of my oath to you, the lifedebt of Hunter Kjarl, and asked *nothing in return* save that the blood of our fallen wolfbrothers be repaid in kind. I have risked my blood and honour, *my oaths*, for you and ask _nothing in return_ save that you remember the oaths *you *have sworn in the name of Russ and the Allfather. I do what I _must _not because I wish you to fail, Vermundr Helfang, but because you are my brother and it is my duty to see that you _*do not fail*_. I have accepted my path and now wear the black of Morkai, brother, that is why I answer the call of the Ancient.'


----------



## unxpekted22

It is only natural to get angry back, when someone is yelling in your face. It was difficult for Vermundr, being an atsartes from the feral chapter that he was, not to be filled with rage in return. To look past the anger and find the words both in his ears and throat. His instinct was to push the similar sized wolf back and then some, gaining the edge over him and showing who was the stronger...he could get back at keris for the training cages... no one was around, and his back wasnt turned this time.

He shook his head as he shouldered Keris away from him, turning back to walk through the doors. He knew another physical fight right now was a bad idea, unnecessary and only harmful, but instinct was hard to ignore. Being crushed by Aldr's giant metal hand would be the only true result. Quite simply, the Wolves had much more pressing matters to deal with. No time would be wasted dealing with what they saw as a petty quarrel.

His thoughts from earlier started coming back to him. A liar would _always_ say that they never lie. How could he _possibly_ know keris's true intentions. He had gotten to where he was by speaking in such ways, he could have been doing the same thing now.

Keris's last sentence about joining the priests made impact. When, in the name of Russ, did he find the time since being on this ship to suddnely go from being in his pack to being a wolf priest? That question aside, had he not said it to himself that Keris would leave the pack given the first opportunity? And what again with this physical and verbal berating? 

_Full of himself. Better than the rest of us! He really just doesn't know how to follow orders! Thats why he had to get out! Good, no more taking over as packleader, no more dealing with him, out with him!_

But by all that was good and holy did his wolf spirit seethe and bristle. He turned slightly and was astonished at how far he had walked since passing through the sealed doorway. He found himself moving in the opposite direction, straight back to keris at an even faster pace.

"I dont know if you really are a priest now or not, but as _ridiculous_ as I find the idea to be for a fellow _blood claw _to be promoted to such, it shouldn't much matter to me, _should it_?! You have _always_ acted to your own heart's content and done as you have wished, _despite me!_ Now, let's get something straight... If someone calls me a _fool_, one more time, there will be *Hell* to pay! *I'm sick of it*! I am the *best* blood claw in our Lord's entire Great Company!" 

Letting his hands emphasize his sarcasm for a moment, he continued, "But by _all_ the _Lords_ who have passed through the Halls of Russ, _'he's a fool'_."

"I need no reminder of my oaths keris, and I've had a hard enough time dealing with the issue of good wolves dying under my command and figuring out how to stop it from happening in the future, to deal with any more of this infighting! How can I concentrate on being a worthy packleader, when everyone has been too busy yelling their dissent from the start! Iorek learned, and so should everyone else!"

bah, he had really hoped to just walk away to the strategium and not say anything. Too late for that, might as well not stop now.

"Just know this keris. If we _ever_, come across Kjarl's killer in the future-" But he did decide to stop now. There was no need for this. Kjarl's killer was nowhere near, and there was no guarantee they would ever cross him again. As much as they'd all like to think otherwise, he knew that, and the rest did too. But, there was the possibility that Keris really was just trying to be a good brother, and although he stood by most of his other statements, going to this would be causing pain and anger...just for the sake of causing pain and anger.

"Don't even think about brawling with me again now, or Lord Aldr will crush us both. If I have any logic left in me at the moment I would say we forget about this for the time being, or at least until we are sure there aren't any more daemons on this ship."


----------



## deathbringer

Blade and bar rained down upon the spawn, flesh spattering upon the ground, where it oozed over the grooves in the corridor even as it retreated, the mass of milky whites and flaming daemonic pupils rolling and writhing within its twisted skull. 

He was running, spritning round it, ducking to avoid a scything, blow aimed to bludgeon his head from its shoulders, deft spin allowing him to avoid a curling tendril destined to hook his left leg from under him. His sheer agility, the sheer power stored in his corded muscle left him breathless, the deft ability to turn twist, react and anticipate, making the wolf howl in his soul, the long delighted howl of the hunting wolf.

A breathless laugh left Iorek's lips, even as he twisted and leapt lithely over an appendage, the knife slashing into the decaying flesh, great chunks thudding to the deck even as the beast began to writhe. His body was a ragdoll yet he hung on, deft twists of the knife lossing more decaying matter, boring down towards its gnarled spine, agonised unintelligible shrieks battered his eardrums burst from its slack lips and suddenly they were moving backwards.

The bulkhead was rushing towards him and he snarled, bracing for impact, legs struggling for purchase against the spawns broad back. Then it toppled, and he pushed himself away, leavingthe knife still lodged in its decaying flesh its hilt descending upon him as its mass plummeted towards him,crushing, crude yet deadly and he rolled away, desperately regaining his feet eyes searching for a weapon. A tendril struck him between the eyes and he was rolling disorientated, he struggled to rise yet the world was still moving, floor and ceiling suddenly a blur of images. 

Panic flared, the wolf snarling at his disorientation, as he struggled to right himself, legs finding ground only to find himself forced down pinned by a great force, a sharp pain in his arm making him grunt with anguish, feeling a rush of endorphins , eyes locking upon the appendage protruding like a gross mutation from his arm.

Twisted and chaotic it oozed crimson decay and Iorek grabbed it with bitter hatred fingers pressing through the muscular decay snapping through distorted bone and the limb convulsed yet the pain was met by a wall of hatred, the wolfs bared teeth and Iorek's steeled resolve forcing the agony away..

The limb severed in his hand and he howled in triumph as her tore the appendage from his arm preparing to rise even as it toppled. Its vanquisher emerged from behind its bloated corpse the packleader fully armoured and caked in crimson vitura, a demigod of war, axe scything buried in the bloated creatures neck.

Heimdall was standing over him ,a hand offered to Iorek to aid him to his feet. A flash of irritation, a desire to knock the hand away, to assert his dominance, but what use was there in macho posturing.

They had been blooded, perhaps justr a skirmish but blooded all the same. They deserved a quarter, not an inch but a quarter, a hint of respect.

He took the hand as he was hauled to his feet surveying the scene with practiced eyes, lingering upon the swaying Ogrimmir battered and bruised and he moved forward to place an arm under his shoulder,nodding as Heimdall took the other, Pausing only to tear his knife from the spawns limp corpse sheathing the sopping blade at his side he moved to join the group ignoring the grumble or grateful protest from they battered unblo... no not unblooded, they had been blooded now, battered and bruised by the twisted denizens of the warp.

His words were soft, meant merely for the one he clutched and the one that had lifted him to his feet.

"You have spilt first blood."

His words were a low hiss

"Righteous blood that will forever stain your hands, a reminder that you pit your very soul against the enemies of the Allfather. You have sent foul denizens of the aether back to their daemonic realm. Embrace the emotions you felt, hold them to your souls, seek the purest beauty of a true hunt"

He swallowed weighing his next words, let them feel the bond but they most not feel they had earned their place, they must be kept hungry, kept wary

"I call you brothers now for their is a bond of blood between us, both of us have fought, danced along precipice of death,"

he paused again, brow furrowing, staring into the distance, at Krahl close by a wounded Iotki

"yet I am not honoured to do so."

He nodded to himself, looking upon them for the first time with steely eyes

"Honour is earned, this was duty."

A voice floated from behind him, the retreating voice of the packleader

"Iorek, Until my return, the pack is yours to lead."

The import paused before striking Iorek with a hammerblow that sent his mind reeling and he turned to stare at the tretreating back of the pack leader, eyes wary, even as he dissappeared from view, followed closely by Keris.

He cried reject then handed him the reigns, what madness possessed his brother, what riddled his brain, was this an apology or an insult.

The wolfs hair was on end, nose upon the air as if to catch his brothers trailing scent yet Iorek tasted nothing but purpose.

Fuck the politics he had been tasked to lead so he lead, already the Firehawk approached surly and bloodstained an angry snap at Kjarl

‘As our hero-in-making, Vermundr, has spoken - We must obey.’ 

he grumbled bitterly, his blood still up, the theft of his prize victory still heavy on his mind.

‘You and I should go ahead, Iorek. These fools will slow us, if the vessel’s integrity is compromised, I want my Chainsword and Boltpistol in hand. Gauntlets, vambraces and greaves should suffice. We armour ourselves in faith, ceramite will not protect us from the Warp’s predations.’

He stood across from his brother even as the pack collected around then, Heimdall still supporting the wounded Ogrimr.

"Are you a moose, Firehawk?"

His lips were thin though his eyes sparkled with mischief even as he interjected refusing his brother the chance to retort

"Do you run when hunted leaving the wounded and the lame to be picked off by the hunters?"

His voice was a snarl, eyes loosing their mirth becoming blood red pools of anger

"No"

His answer reverberated

"You are a wolf. A pack hunts together, as one, perhaps the strongest lead, yet they are together none the less"

He took a step towards his brother, yet it was a calm step arm outstretched to clutch his brothers shoulder.

"You are a wolf of Fenris, a warrior of blood and honour, you defend the weak amongst the emperor's flock and punish those that stray without passion or mercy. Personal glory comes to the worthy, to strongest, they need not hunt for glory follows their step. Beware not to become what you chastise, for did Kjarl not endanger you as he struck for personal glory? Would you do the same to your wounded brothers?"

His voice swelled with authority as released Alrik's shoulder

"Wherever we go, we go together."

He had bween given no orders and Ogrimmr's strength seemed to fail, though the cuts seemed shallow, his body would take care of it, the presence of his armour would speed the process. Vermundr had given him no orders, no update on the presence of the threat within the ship, he was blind and voxless.

He needed his helm, or a vox beed, some way to gage the situation was a necessity and thus he bowed his head in ascent

"However I agree with you brother, we are blind and wounded, we shall run to the armoury, the cocoon of their armour would aid our wounded brothers recovery as much as time ever could."


----------



## darkreever

Keris and Vermundr: Navigating the red lighted corridors, you both stalk silently towards the frigates bridge. The tension and anger, so thick is it, could likely halt the ancient *Aldr* in his tracks if he had come upon it. You eventually step onto the bridge of the _Hunrodr_ and spy three other Space Wolves gathered around the main hololithic table. At the head is the wolf-scout Morgun, to which you are nothing short of surprised to see. Enkil stands to one side, bedecked in his power armour and speaking into a com built into the table; though his conversation is lost to you. The third warrior is the old priest Odaajn, still clad in only wolf pelts and sporting a number of new scars on his arms and face.

Morgun alone of the three acknowledges your presence, a simple nod in your direction. Stepping before the table you are given sight to a number of readouts; a three dimensional view of the _Hunrodr_ is layed out on one end, four amber sections of the ship mark out locations of possible breach while three more sections indicate vented and sealed sections of the ship. Along one side of the table are a number of runes, two are Fenrisian and mark out the _Hunrodr_ and _Randolfr_ while the third, lead, symbol is in Imperial Gothic for the cruiser of the Aurora marines.

*..and your seer is certain there was a message.* The booming voice of *Aldr* called out from over the vox, the backwash of white noise doing nothing to diminish the authority within it; his words less a question and more a statement.

_“Indeed lord *Aldr*, just before the warp current crashed into our vessels she detected a message.”_ The superior voice of Namur answered the dreadnought commander in return.

_“Just before she fell into a coma, and with none other who even detected such a thing.”_ Gunnar Orkbane’s voice made itself known only for the Aurora champion to snap a static lost retort at the wolf guard champion.

_“If there was anything it would have been through a cipher Orkbane, you should know better than that.”_ Morgun pointed out, standing calmly over the table and watching as one of the amber sections of the vessel turned to green, indicating no intrusion or damage present.

_“What did the astropath find?”_ Vermundr wonders, quickly realizing that he had voiced the question aloud.

_“It was an Aquila before a blazing sun with ten feathers like that of cannon barrels. That is the personal heraldry of Ciprian Petru, the reigning chapter master of my chapter and something used only as an immediate call for aid.”_ Namur declares. _“The message is priority, we need to alter our course and investigate.”_ He adds, though none of the Space Wolves present would have argued any differently.

_“Where did the message originate from?”_ Odaajn asks, looking down upon the table awaiting an answer.

_“We have been able to trace the source back to the Jorus system, nine days travel on our current heading.”_ Namur answers after a minute. _“But there is more,”_ he begins, faltering for a moment before going on. _“the warp wave that struck us originated from Jorus. It is possible that what hit us was an attempt to silence the message, given what I have seen the orks do in the past it is possible this is their doing.”_ The Aurora champion finishes, ending his side of the transmission; Gunnar does much the same, having nothing more to add and you are left standing around the hololith with the others.

_“Orks or some happenstance occurrence, it matters not and we can do nothing more about it. We must focus on the here and now.”_ Enkil declares, waving his gauntleted hand in the direction of the ship image.

[Gonna end this bit here for now, let the pair of you get posts in before moving it on. Speak to me further for the goings on of the _Hunrodr_.]


----------



## darkreever

Alrik, Iorek, Heimdall, Tyr, Krahl; You head towards your wargear deep within the _Hunrodr_, mindful of the darkness created by the red auxiliary lights. Even with your augmented sight, there were still some spaces that tried to elude you. Travel seemed to take ages, though in truth it was little more than minutes, until finally you came to a place reeking of smoke and oil and blood. A dozen rooms, little more than cells for that was all that you needed, marked each of your chambers and where you weapons and armour rested.

Not waiting on ceremony, each of you begins the process of donning your armour and taking your weapons. The familiar thrum of your armour and the weight of your weapons is like being whole once again. Buzzing in your ear alerts you to an incoming message. *Pack Kjarl transmissions from one of the engineerium cores has gone silent, move to assess and deal with any issue.* *Aldr* orders before cutting the link.


Looking at the assembled warriors, Iorek growls for the pack to move out; to descend the Hunrodr and discover why a portion of the ship is not responding. Alrik is the last to leave, whether through defiance of Iorek being the one leading the pack in Vermundr's absence or because he felt something off within the recycled air.


[First, apologies on this being woefully short; expect an additional update within a week’s time for you all.

Next: Tyr, since your hand has been replaced the powerfist you now wear is not something that is fitted over the mechanical appendage but rather one that attaches in place of it. When arming you did not take your powerfist, and your weapons are instead your hunting knife and bolt pistol.

The location that *Aldr* speaks of is four levels below, and unlike other locations within the frigate lighting here is minimal at the best of times. Though your eyes will alleviate some of the darkness, the area is nearly pitch black. Once down below, searching will have Krahl and Alrik discover the bodies of ratings who had recently been searching the area, so something may be down here with you.]


----------



## Serpion5

*Krahl*

Moving swiftly alongside the others as ordered by Iorek, Krahl followed the Claw down to where their quarters and arming chambers lay deep within the vessel _Hunrodr._ With little need for ceremony or procedure, he donned his armour like the others and prepared himself. 

The feeling of being once more within his suit of power armour was like being his true self again. It was not to say he felt inadequate without it, but no astartes relished the idea of heading into battle unarmoured and Krahl was no exception. Completely decked out save for his helmet which remained strapped at his belt, he turned to his weapon rack and beheld the tools of his trade. A gleaming metal blade of death awaited his grip, and the bolt pistol traditional to his rank occupied his off hand. With all now in place and his battle spirit finally as one, he re-emerged alongside the others of the pack and prepared for the battle to come. 

A buzzing over the intervox alerted them all to a situation as Aldr issued them a command. *++Pack Kjarl, transmissions from one of the engineerium cores has gone silent, move to assess and deal with any issue.++* 

Following Iorek's order, an interesting novelty really, Krahl set out with the Claw to the Engineerium bay that Aldr reported. He noticed that Alrik was the last to leave but thought little of it. The Firehawk had been an oddball since Krahl had joined the pack and no behaviour the marine displayed would faze the newer member at this point. 

The bay was four levels lower than their arming chambers, a quick sojourn later and they stood in a darkened room that held various pieces of machinery. Krahl noticed immediately the stench of something off. As the group fanned out, he followed this scent towards one of the alcoves between the rows of techno devices and his armoured boot nudged something on the floor. The darkness made it all but impossible to see where and what was before him, but he managed to navigate his way forward and crouched before the soft object on the floor. 

He was no longer in doubt, this was a corpse. He reached out and lifted the limp form, bringing it just close enough to his face to notice the uniform markings of the naval ratings that served aboard the _Hunrodr_.

'Rating.' He said softly over the vox. His hand dropped the carcass and went back to his holstered pistol. 'Dead. I don't think we're alone down here.'


----------



## dark angel

Alrik Firehawk did the unexpected - He clamped his mouth shut, teeth sinking into his tongue.

_You insult me, bastard._ The Space Wolf thought venomously; watching Iorek closely as he spoke. He wanted nothing more than to seize the snow-skinned Astartes throat, to hear the tune of grinding vertebrae; the fearful gasps, as Alrik throttled him. _I should gut you. Do not lecture me on the Pack, you witless cur. You know nothing. You are an outcast._

The Astartes rung his hands together; feeling the encrusted blood flake away, and let out a deep, mocking bark. 

‘I am who I am. Moose do have _pretty _antlers.’ He said sarcastically - Hands balled into huge, crushing fists. ‘Can we continue this later? I am _awfully _cold.’

He allowed a rueful mewl to escape his lips as he pushed past the others, advancing along the hallway, eyes darting left and right, searching - _Hoping _- For a neck to snap, a back to break, a gut to spill. Nothing came, not even from the darkest of recesses, gazed upon suspiciously; hand caressing the hilt of the Cretacian blade. 

The Firehawk’s brow furrowed in disappointment. His twinned hearts ached for combat - That was his lone purpose, to butcher until butchered, to eternally protect the Allfather’s realm - And now, as he walked into the Armorium, he was denied the chance - Temporarily. Oils, lubricants and perspiration coursed into his nostrils, a stench that brought his bloodlust into place.

Padding gently to the storage chamber with his name stenciled above entryway, he swiped his hand over the activation rune - The doors sliding apart with a pneumatic whisper. Within, upon a skeletal imitation of Alrik, was his plate. 

It was beautiful, massive even when disassembled; faded grey in the half-light. His spectacular helm, forged into the countenance of the Hel-bear Váli, glared at him with claret eyes. 

For a moment, the deep scars on his arms and chest, where the Ice Bear had ravaged him, stung. He remembered every pain-riddled moment, capricious rage swelling in his chest - Fingers curling into tremendous, white-knuckled fists. 

‘I will kill you.’ He vowed, averting his gaze from the helmet. So long as Váli remained breathing, shame and hatred haunted the Firehawk. ‘I will wear your fur. Eat your flesh. Drink your blood. I will-’ Cutting himself off, mid-sentence, Alrik laughed. ‘How far have I devolved, that I argue with inanimate objects?’

He waved dismissively at the bear’s-head helm, and began the process of armouring. Each piece locked together, like some eccentric puzzle, thrumming into hateful life. Lacking any menials, Alrik chanted the prayers to the Omnissiah himself; awakening the battle-plate’s noble spirit, cooing it into awareness. The power-armour merged with his Black Carapace, reassuring strength running through Alrik’s body, as their symbiotic relationship was renewed. Intricate mechanisms activated, bundles of false-muscles and nerves pulsating.

The sense of incompleteness fled. Alrik smiled, licking his thin, leathery lips as the armour attuned to his mood - Tense, every battle-system lying in readiness - Now, now he would truly make war.

Ceramite-shod fingers stroked the engravings upon his greaves - Odin, Njoror, Sydornis, Kjarl and all the rest - Leaving a bitter tang on his throat, half-remembered memories flooding into his mind. Subconsciously, he sighed. 

He strapped Kjarl’s blade beneath his left arm, the hilt facing outwards, for a quick draw. His Boltpistol mag-locked to his right hip; his Chainsword to his left, though in combat, they would be wielded in opposing hands. The helm he dangled from his shoulder pauldron, locked in place by a thick, slate-grey chain. He would not be losing that.

When he left the cramped chambers; he found himself alone, the others gathering beyond the entrance - Iorek displaying a new sense of pride; Tyr lacking his colossal power-fist, Krahl and his unwavering arrogance, Heimdall wearing his over-eagerness and belligerence like a cloak.

Something was off, however. The air was different for a moment, as though it was missing a quality - One that Alrik couldn’t quite put his finger on.

‘Hm,’ He purred, eyes narrowed contemplatively. ‘_Odd_.’

Lacking any semblance of an answer, he shrugged it off and joined his brothers, Aldr’s emotionless tone filling his ears.

When he was done, Iorek growled for the Pack to move out; and that felt odd, leaving Alrik shaking his head, a distasteful, timbre laugh escaping his lips. 

The journey below was fast, the Space Marines making short work of the hallways, ladders and gantries. The engineerium core was swathed in darkness, Alrik’s eyes struggling to adapt to the gloom. Here and there, it was an impenetrable curtain. 

‘Smell that?’ He asked, rhetorically, as a coppery tang settled on his nostrils. He knew it well, it excited him, drove him into a combat-hunger. ‘Blood.’ 

He pushed past the others, clapping a gauntlet on Heimdall’s shoulder as he did so. ‘Nevermind, little brother,’ He smirked, unworriedly, night-dark eyes glittering with inner mischief. ‘Blood is the price of glory.’

The Space Marine did not draw his weapons, instead forming a cruciform with his arms, welcoming the enemy to attack. None came.

Further along a hallway, there was a quiet splash as Alrik stood in something. He tilted his head inquisitively, looking at the sheet of dark liquid on the floor. Oil, perhaps. Settling on his haunches, he dipped a finger in the liquid and brought it to his mouth, tongue slipping over it. Not oil, no. It was blood, and lots of it. 

He followed the trail, not calling out his findings just yet, keeping low to the ground, following the erratic streaks and pools. 

Ahead, in an alcove, was a group of slumped figures. Their skin was waxen, their blue-grey uniforms soaked through with blood, dying them a murky brown-red. 

One of their skulls was caved in, brain-matter and chips of bone spread out before him, arms and legs shattered by massive trauma. Another’s throat was slashed, a deep and jagged gash, indicating that the woman had died messily, a deep bite mark in the meat of her calf made Alrik hiss. A third and forth were entwined in one another’s arms, blades lodged in their hearts, the muscles of their face pulled taut in horror. A fifth’s form had amounted so many slashes, that it was impossible to tell the gender. 

Rejoining the Pack, he jabbed a thumb dismissively in the area where he had found the dead.

‘More corpses,’ He grunted simplistically. ‘Broken bones, lacerations, bites. Nothing to concern ourselves over,’ The Space Marine bade Krahl a nod. ‘I agree, however. I do not believe we are alone,’ He ran a thumb over the pommel of his Chainsword, before chuckling harshly. ‘Ah, but then - When are we _ever _alone?’


----------



## Euphrati

Everything was cast in shades of crimson.

Keris' boots made barely a whisper on the metal-clad decking as he followed in Vermundr's wake, every stride predator keen and laced with barely leashed anger. He could still taste the metallic richness of his blood in the air on the back of his tongue; having clenched his fists so tightly that his fingernails, more akin to the thickened claws of a wolf than those of an un-augmented human, had bitten through the leather-hard calluses of his palms. 

_If this is the blade I must use to flay the weakness from within you, brother… so be it. I will do what I must. I will teach you the true strength of one of the Wolf King's greatest gifts, Vermundr Helfang- *Unchained Hatred*. _

Every step saw Keris' rage focused into something that was harder and colder than the tempest winds of Hel winter's heart. The pulsing vermillion of the Hunrodr's warning lumins seemed to parallel his inner fury and the low growl of the vessel's engine was a throbbing echo of the one from the wolf in his soul. As he prowled forward in black silence, Keris became aware of a change in the very air around him. _Something of the Hunrodr's temperament had been subtly altered; it was as if the ship's voice was somehow deeper, somehow more elemental._

Stepping under the arched bulwark before the bridge Keris gave a low growl of curt bemusement as a familiar scent rode the air currents before pacing forward like a hunting Thunderwolf. Crystalline eyes were drawn to the main hololith where the owner of the scent stood and Keris altered his path to join the elder Wolves without a backwards glance to Vermundr. The Wolf Scout Morgun alone gave a shallow nod of greeting as Keris approached, a nod which Keris returned in kind as his ice-blue eyes met the golden lupine gaze before turning his attention to the two other warriors present. The Wolf Priest Odaajn's scent was cold and enigmatic as he stood silently in his furs, a trait that Keris had come to associate with those who bore Morkai's Fang. 

The third warrior of Russ stood slightly off to the side, though Keris noted a momentary shift in the interest of Enkil as he shot a hooded glance of displeasure towards Vermundr before returning to the coms unit embedded in the table that he was standing before. The Long Fang packleader was bedecked in the bulk of his battle plate, the armour's storm-grey surface reflecting the pulsing lights of the command deck and the glow of the hololitic display that hung in the air before him. The absence of the Ancient Aldr did not surprise Keris; the immense bulk of the dreadnought's stature, while making him a living god of war upon the field of battle, was poorly suited for navigating the corridors of a ship.

The dreadnought's voice boomed through the coms speaker, however, in a conversation that was already underway and Keris stepped around the table to take a place by the elder Wolf Priest's side as he listened to the exchange. The cold anger of the wolf in his soul aided to focus his thoughts to a razor's edge as he recalled pertinent information locked in his memory by the tutelage engines of the Fang as the superior voice of the Aurora Marine responded first to Vermundr's mumbled inquiry and then with further details to Odaajn's words.

The hiss of static abated as the others closed the coms channel and Keris grasp upon the moment of silence that sprang up after Enkil's words, his cold gaze moving between the warriors present before settling on the golden eyes of Morgun,

'I, along with packleader Vermundr Helfang's warriors, slew a flock of warpfilth furies and a neverborne that wore the skin of a bondsman here in this section…'

Keris gestured to the floating image of the Hunrodr where they had encountered the daemons,

'Regardless of the cause, the entire crew of this vessel will need to be checked for the taint of the Warp first.'

Keris gave a low growl as he glanced towards the now silent coms before continuing,

'What of our own Navigator's strenght? And since _*when *_do the Greenskins seek to avoid the prospect of a fight or hide their presence at all?'

He shook his head and folded his arms across his bare chest, the blood on his knuckles standing out starkly in the hazard lighting,

'The Jorus system is not under the direct preview of the Aurora Chapter though I understand they have ties there. The system lies within the path of one of the fastest viable routes to the Gordon Worlds, though it bares only one habitable world- a mining world of the tithe grade exactus tertius.'

'This smells of something _foul_, I get the sense that there is more to this signal than the sons of Guilliman wish us to know. Why is a signal from their Chapter Master coming from a mining world far from their homeworld for one…'


----------



## Lord Ramo

Heimdall nodded as he was ordered to go put his armour back on and prepare to scour the ships for any of those enemy daemons that still lurked aboard the mighty vessel. He bristled a bit at Alriks words that he directed to Iorek, telling him to just leave the rest of the pack and the two of them hunt alone. Whilst they had a little more experience then the rest of the pack, Heimdall knew the two of them couldn’t clear the ship alone, and to think otherwise was foolhardy and stupid.

He didn’t say anything though, Iorek berating Alrik in front of the entire pack, a certain irony to be had Heimdall was sure, as Iorek was an outcast within the pack, and was considered to be by all within the pack, was now in charge and telling of Alrik. Heimdall kept a chuckle held, it would do him no favours if he started laughing at his brothers now.

He headed to the arming chamber, and once inside he methodically placed his suit of power armour on. He felt secure and whole once again in his ancient power armour, a sense of pride could almost be used to describe him he thought to himself. Soon he would be entering his first conflict, it excited him, though he kept his excitement down. He would not be branded the eager and excitable fool.

Securing his hunting knife and bolt pistol to their places he took hold of his flamer, lighting the pilot light. That would help provide a little more light in the darkened corridors, though he would primarily use his bolt pistol in the close confined spaces for the moment, unless they ran into a mob of enemies where his flamer would prove to be perfect.

He left the chambers behind Iorek, and before Alrik, though he noted that his brother stood there for a moment, as if there was something off inside there. He pushed it to the back of his mind as they made their way to the engineerum, moving as quickly as they could through the darkened corridors.

As they entered the core area Alrik was the first to speak, noting the smell of blood in the air. All the wolves smelt it, though it seemed to be a rhetorical thing said by Alrik.

Heimdall felt a gauntleted hand clap him on the shoulder he turned to see Alriks face there as he spoke, ‘Nevermind, little brother,’ He smirked, unworriedly, night-dark eyes glittering with inner mischief. ‘Blood is the price of glory.’

‘Of course it is brother, though I don’t think there was much glory here for the crew.” He noted dryly as ratling bodies were discovered. Heimdall switched his weapon safeties off, he had a feeling he would need them in a moment.


----------



## unxpekted22

Vermundr could smell the hate in the air emanating from Keris, and he suspected keris would sense the same coming from him. The entire corridor was filled with lust for physical violence barely contained.

_Keris is no leader, and sooner or later he will see that he has been in the wrong. He's been spoiled._

Through the rush of emotions it was hard to take in the amount of information being passed around by the other wolves the Aurora champion. It was ahrd to keep up with and the only way he could start putting things together was by whispering. His thoughts and anger still loud in his head he muttered one question louder than he meant to, but it helped give him some good answers nonetheless. 

"I, along with packleader Vermundr Helfang's warriors, slew a flock of warpfilth furies and a neverborne that wore the skin of a bondsman here in this section…" said keris.

Vermundr's hands were gripping the edge of the hololithic table. His eyes darted up toward Keris, eyes still harshly furrowed. It was such a little thing, really, but thats what it had been from the start. One little thing after another to go unnoticed by most but by him no longer. Firstly, Vermundr was still of the opinion that Keris shouldn't even be here, and second, why not let the packleader speak for his own pack? Just, why? Why did he feel the need to butt into this conversation like he was as experienced as the rest of these wolves?

"I agree with Brother Keris. I cannot convince myself that Orks would use such a tactic. He is right, they would not hide from us. The more enemies they can fight at once the happier they would be." said Vermundr.

He continued on, "If the Aurora chapter's home system is under such a heavy assault, one would think their chapter master would be at the forefront of the defense, not here in the Jorus system on a molten mining world."

Something about this was foul indeed.


----------



## darkreever

Keris and Vermundr; The others nod at your words, Aldr giving voice before any others. *Vermundr is correct, a great wolf does not leave the forefront easily. There is more at work here than we know, possibly more than Namur is willing to say.* The mechanical voice booms to you all. _“Pah! Secrets from the very allies you pleaded for, I thought we were dealing with the sons of Guilliman not Azreal’s rabble.”_ Enkil spat out in reply, his reference to the Dark Angels chapter master rather than their primarch a clear indicator of his thoughts on that lot.

_“Leave it be long fang, some things must be kept secret for the safety of a chapters future; lest you forget that we guard some of our own. They just let their secrets define them.”_ Morgun says before tapping on several runes on the table. _“Primary power is being restored, it appears that whatever happened has passed and pack Kjarl made way for the serfs. There is little more that can be gained here; Othersight and Helfang, to your packs.”_ The scout says, to which both Vermundr and Enkil begin to leave before a voice like the cracking of a whip stops the pair.

_“If there is something you have to say Vermundr Helfang then I will hear it here and now.”_ The priest Odaajn rasps from across the table. _“You might think yourself the better of your emotions, but you’re still only a warrior with some whiskers on his chin and the eye of his lord. You ha-“_ But before Odaajn can say anything further he is cut off by the voice of Aldr. *Enkil Othersight, return to your pack-brothers; and Keris, see to pack Kjarl until its leaders return. The fates may have marked you for the life of the priests, but for now you are still one of mine to command and I will judge who is to hear these next words.* The dreadnoughts words, though toneless, give no illusion to the fact that all will heed them or suffer for it.

[Keris, though you may wish to remain for what Vermundr has to say, you have little choice but to leave. As you and Enkil do, you are greeted by a slight smile from the old wolf. _“We had been wondering how long it would be before your path diverged from your pack. Modii had believed you would never.”_ He says to you while the pair of you descends lower into the _Hunrodr_. For this, if there is anything you wish to say to Enkil then you are free to do so, after you will find the rest of the pack near the primary generator section of the ship.

Vermundr, with the departure of both Enkil and Keris you find the attention of both Morgun and the wolf priest Odaajn solely on you. It is clear that Odaajn noticed your anger towards Keris, and it looks like he will have your thoughts known to all once and for all. You will need to speak with me for this one before going any further.]


Tyr, Heimdall, Iorek, Krahl, Alrik; You spread out from your packmates, covering more ground as you approach one of the inlets to the primary generator of the ship. There is a low hum in the air, faint but still present. None of you are trained in the ways of the machine, not like the Iron-priests are, but you still know enough to tell that the spirit of the ship is wounded in some way and that can be of no good.

You finally come to an opening that leads to the primary generator; there are only a handful of lights working in this region but it is enough to paint a picture of the structure before you. Alrik, Iorek, and Tyr are all familiar with a ships generator, Iorek having lost his eye and Alrik nearly his life when fighting to protect one aboard the Fist of Russ months ago.

Iorek voxes for ship crews to come into the area, the group of you having found no hostile targets or even evidence of further breach. As if waiting just for the order to be made, the very moment the link is cut between Iorek and elements of the crew those responsible for the deaths earlier make their move. They seem to come from everywhere and anywhere at once, many armed with nothing more than their very hands and feet. From the little light of overhanging glow globes and the pilot light of Heimdalls flamer you can see the madness in the eyes of these people. There will be no saving them, death is to be the only release from their madness; a fact some of you may have less issue with than others.

[There appear to be some thirty or forty crazed crew members here, though they stand little chance against any of you. Perhaps half a dozen are armed with anything that can be considered a weapon, and nothing that would be a threat. Deal with this lot as you see fit; though think on how you choose to do this and what course of action is truly necessary. Upon their defeat the serfs called in by Iorek will arrive to reactivate the generator, and not long after this is done Keris will come to you. The question is, do you ask him anything? Do you try to find out what he has learned or of the where-abouts of Vermundr?]


----------



## Serpion5

*Krahl*

Krahl left the corpse he had been examining and moved further along the passageway towards the main generator. There were a number of inlets to the main generator's chamber, and it was one of these through which Krahl slipped as stealthily as he was capable of in his suit of armour. A low humming had begun to permeate his sense as a constant white noise. Despite having no real knowledge of the inner workings of machines or the province of the Iron Priests, even Krahl was intuitive enough to know that the generator was not in a good state. 

As they approached what Krahl presumed to be the generator itself, Iorek voxed for the ship's crew to come and fix whatever the problem was. Following this, a few moments of silence passed as the wolves continued to scan the area. 

Movement all around would have caught Krahl by surprise had he been anything less than astartes. From the darkened shadows around the chamber came a horde of gibbering former crew members. Even in the dim light of the glow globes in here it was possible to see that no sanity was left to these people. The brief exposure to the warp earlier had been enough to drive them to madness, death was now their only salvation. 

They carried no discernible weapons that posed a legitimate threat to astartes power armour. They had no real threat value, yet they were his enemies nonetheless. It was an awkward situation to say the least. Krahl had always envisioned hunting great beasts and slaying the myriad threats to the Allfather's domain. Not once had he imagined that putting down crazed lunatics would be part of his duty's requirements. 

Still, it couldn't be helped. With a resigned sigh, he heaved back on the trio of frothing madmen that had grasped at his armour plating. He decapitated one, put a bolt shell through the head of a second and impaled the third on his blade. He aimed to be as quick and efficient as he could. 

'End this quickly brothers.' He said. 'The sooner these unfortunate souls receive the Allfather's Mercy the better.'

With sadness still in his thoughts but all reluctance gone, he continued the grim task...


----------



## dark angel

The Firehawk enjoyed the dark. It was comfortable - An enshrouding, blinding hollowness - Immersing him completely. The Pack had spread out, slipping into the oily blackness, aware of their surroundings. Pack mentality was all but gone, now. Only the occasional of blue-grey, flashing in the black, caught Alrik’s attention. He cared little, should trouble arise, he would neutralize the target alone - He fought as brilliantly independently as he did with a Packmate at his side. No foe that opposed him here would survive, that he vowed. 

There was an electric throbbing in the air, emanating from the Hunrodr’s core, like the beating of some immense, mechanical heart - Accompanying the spitting and hissing of Alrik’s power-armour, the machine-spirit restless; hungering for the prospect of bloodshed. It was perfectly attuned to the Space Wolf, who flittered between rows of conduits, hands closing and opening into fists rhythmically. False-muscles, inbuilt to the plate, added a gentle, reassuring sensation with each flex of his finger. Ahead, an alcove-like opening led into the primary generator - The cavernous area within illuminated by a gentle, miasmic glow.

Alrik strode through triumphantly - Hands on hips, chest swollen outwards, dark, tempestuous eyes scanning the area. The burns on his face itched at the sight of the core, a writhing, blinding mass of energy and components. He scratched at his cheek errantly, ceramite-shod fingers cold against the warm, uneven skin. Iorek was talking into his vox, summoning crewmen into the area to soothe and repair the ailed generator. 

Something swept through the air behind Alrik. The Space Marine twisted nimbly, hand shooting up between he and the object, - Which he could now see was a glittering hammer, slick with blood - Fingers wrapping around the tool. He yanked it closer, dragging the owner - A thrall, frothing at the mouth, eyes glassy, nearer. 

‘Foolish little-man,’ Alrik boomed, his voice like a gunshot, echoing loudly. His other gauntlet seized the man’s head, and with a gut-wrenching crunch, Alrik closed his fingers. Deliberately slow, the Firehawk opened his hand - Skull and brain fragments slipping free. With a dismissive kick, Alrik sent the corpse tumbling away, as more of the thralls launched towards him.

He killed methodically. His hands shot out, tearing and yanking, shattering bones and pulping organs. He took no pleasure in this. These were not a worthy foe, each kill a mercy as blows rang off of his battle-plate, a raucous howl seeping from between Alrik’s thin, broken lips as he punched a jaw away. The engagement was horrifyingly brief. Less than a minute after he had stopped the hammer blow, Alrik stood, hands crimson to the elbow, surrounded by a dozen broken, ragged corpses. 

‘I did not enjoy that,’ He said with a grim, mirthless chuckle, leaning dependently against a wall. The serfs that Iorek had voxed entered, stepping gingerly over the torn corpses, their faces pale. A knife-thin smile arose on his face. ‘_Mortals_, they do not understand war as we do,’ His eyes trailed from brother-to-brother, halting on Krahl and Heimdall. His voice was a harsh, melodious growl as he spoke, condescendingly, at the two. ‘We will make warriors of you, yet, children.’


----------



## deathbringer

There was ire in the Firehawks voice as he bit back, barely restrained hatred curling his tongue even as he struggled at the reins of his own temper. Iorek was not afraid as he looked into those twisted hate filled eyes, years of hatred had nullified any terror, distorting the perspective of who was stronger in the paradigms of his own fury.

There was a reason he had always hated Alrik, something he could not quite place, a bitter innate distaste that came to his tonuge every time he moved to say the name. It mattered not now, the feeling forced to the back of his mind by other more pressing circumstances. There were other things to worry about.

A snarl set them moving together, the wounded in the centre, himself at the head, travel frustrating and irkesome even as the ran, the warmth and comfort of his armour too welcome, the feeling of his bolt pistol in his hand a sensation he craved, to become one, to become truly deadly, the weapon a testament to his sacrifice and skill.

With loving care he caressed the weapon rolling his shoulders as he stripped naked. He had sworn to avenge his fallen brother with the weapon, vowed it to himself upon countless days.

Once again the agony of his brothers death built within, the horror of his demise and the foul lies that had drawn him through battle with hope in his heart even as his brother lay slain.

He felt his stomach contract upon empty air, the urge to vomit supressed, the keening howl of the bereaved wolf rising in his throat and he threw his head back, yet no sound emerged, choked by emotion, a pain shooting through his heart as his head fell.

It still hurt, the loss and the lies.

He emerged fully armoured to find others standing, waiting even as something buzzed in their ear, an unfamiliar voice growling in his ear though it rang with untold years of authority.

" Pack Kjarl transmissions from one of the engineerium cores has gone silent, move to assess and deal with any issue"

He let out a snarl of his own, a call to move out, a quick glance at Alrik telling him his own voice lacked the authority of a leader, his words sounding as at odds as he felt. The packs "reject" giving orders. They felt strange on his tongue, hollow and without weight.

Deep in the darkness of the engineerium, it was pitch black yet it stank of death, the stench touching his nostrils even before Krahl confirmed their existence, his words an echo of what everybody was thinking as they stared down at the disemboweled fragments of what had once been men. Looking at his brothers, he had no need to speak, they were beyond men, whatever lingered in the blackness would not escape them.

Pushing on to the generator, the core seemed empty, the pack untroubled and unchallenged yet the very sight left a slight tingle in his throat, the urge to touch his battered left side fought back, forcing his hand to remain by his side as he moved forward, tasting the air as he went, his mind uneasy as he searched around the flickering lights.

A deep sniff of the air and he tasted nothing above the acrid taste of oil, heard nothing over the gentle hiss of steam, though he could not shake the feeling he was being watched, a sense of eyes fixed on the back of his head.

He waited stock still in the darkness yet the sense did not retreat, his brow furrowing as he wondered if this was just paranoia. With a shake of his head the feeling receded and he voxed fresh ratings to fix the generator.

No sooner had the words touched his lips, the watchers moved, ratings with corrupted twisted eyes, leaping from the shadows for woops and twisted howls. His brothers rushed forward Iorek hesitating a second, caught in memories of the past. He had lead the last time his brothers had been ambushed, he really was a shit packleader.

He was disturbed from his reverie by a shrill hate filled scream, the small howl as a rating rushed him, eyes filled with the madness of the warp, twisted into believing his protector was an enemy. He was not sure whether to be angry or pitying, his sanity stripped away leaving bare bones of treachery.

Treachery....

A little snarl twisted his lips as he let out a short lethal punch that caught the rating square on the jaw, the bones snapping even as his neck twisted, his momentum meeting a brick wall and he fell limp even as Iorek drew his chainsword and waded into the fray. He fought with no elegance even as they attempted to surround him, only to be cut apart by the sweeping arks of his blade, blood spurting over the ground and his armour as his brothers made murder upon the mad.

He had begun angry yet he ended, blood stained, with only pity for the dismembered corpses on the floor, turning to the rating leading his men across the floor, eyes filled with fear as they looked upon the deceased.

He smiled though it did not touch his eye as he looked upon the rating

"Do your job soldier, naught will trouble you whilst we stand here"

He gave a snarl to the brothers standing amidst pools of blood and chunks of flesh

"Form a perimeter"

It was not long before Brother Keris arrived, head bowed in thought, the packleader not with him to Iorek's distaste, eager as he was to remove the mantle, however impermanent it may be.

He did not like leadership, though he had never thought it would be the case in his early dreams of leading his own long fang squad.

He met his brother with a hand gently clasping his shoulder in greeting even as Alrik let out a low growl, seemingly intent upon intimidating the new meat.

‘We will make warriors of you, yet, children.’

Iorek let out a low chuckle his voice loud as he addressed Keris with a grim smile that still refused to touch his eye

"Sage brother, Brother Alrik believes three campaigns makes him a warrior and the recently blooded children. How many campaigns do you believe makes a brother veteran enough to lord it so shamelessly over the newly blooded?"

His voice dropped as he looked into the sages eyes, the slightest taste of something he could not comprehend in his brothers scent and he raised an eyebrow in question at his brother.

If Keris wanted to talk, he would talk, probably not to Iorek in truth, his brother had never been the type to air his dirty laundry amongst the pack.

"Where is Vermundr? Even in his absence the mantle of leadership does not sit as well as I had dreamed"


----------



## Euphrati

Frigid, crystalline eyes, solemn and guarded, locked with the dark gaze of his brother for a moment before Keris turned on his heel and stalked from the room. He could do nothing more for Vermundr, the packleader's path was his own now and he would have to choose his words to the Ancient and elder Priest wisely.

-

Enkil's deep voice was a counterpoint to the thunder-growl of his battle plate. Yet, there was a comfort in striding beside the Long Fang that Keris could not deny; an unshakable solidity and power in the older Wolf's nature that tasted of the bedrock stone of the Aett's roots. Keris gave a soft nod to Enkil's words before responding,

'Modii is correct. They are, and will always be, my packbrothers.'

Keris' crystalline eyes gleamed in the moon-glow of the lumin globes held between the fanged maws of lupine gargoyles; he could feel the wolf in his soul rumble its agreement through his thoughts, a sense of wisdom that was both ancient and timeless in the same breath. His expression was thoughtful, calm and weighted in his tones,

'… just as you and _every _son of Russ who ever has or ever will draw a blade against the Great Enemy are my packbrothers, Long Fang.'

For a short time Enkil said nothing, though his greyed head did give a nod to the truth in Keris' words. “We are all Sons of Russ, but do not mistake that bond for the one held by a pack Keris. There is a reason that warriors like myself or Mar lead the brothers that we do; for we have fought at their side for decades or centuries. One of lord Blackmane’s chosen, or one of the priests, or the wolf lord himself might fight at our side but they do not know the packs as we do, they do not share the same bond.”

And with that, the old long fang stopped in his tracks, the joints of his armour growling with his movements as he turned towards Keris and placed an armoured hand on his shoulder. “And that is why Modii believed that you would never leave your pack; for in the choice you have made, in the path you walk, your pack-brothers they might have been. There will come a time when you will have to give that up. I have seen others make the choice, Sigurd thought himself able to escape what it meant all those years ago.”


For a long moment Keris said nothing, feeling the gentle weight of the ceramite-clad gauntlet as it rested upon his shoulder. Piercing, crystal-blue eyes closed as Keris let out the breath he had not realized he had been holding; when they reopened the pain they held was as sharp as the winds that howled across the flanks of the Fang.

'They look to me, Enkil, yet I feel as if I have been ever set apart from them. Ever since the eve Jarl Blackmane ask of me the oath to guide Vermundr in Kjarl's place have been upon this path. I know their strengths, their heart and soul in their scent traces. I know there will be a time that I must choose a hard path, Morkai's arse long fang… I know that keener than a blade to the gut! I will not fail them.'

Keris' words were soft, the heavy accent of Fenris thick with pain,

'Will they ever understand the price I will pay for them?'

"In time perhaps." Enkil answered in return, removing his hand and continuing on, "You do not live as long as I do and learn nothing over the course of your life." The long fang paused for a moment as if in thought, "But that is understanding that comes with time alone; something in which your former pack leader may need more of than others." The long fang said with a sigh. "To have such responsibility thrust on him is likely a burden which clouds his thoughts."

'He does not understand the true meaning of the pack marks he wears,'

Keris gave a low growl in the back of his throat as he stalked beside the larger Wolf, the embers of rage flaring again briefly with his frustration and causing his hackles to bristle in response,

'He named me liar when I answered the call of Ancient Aldr. Liar for my path and the pride I hold in the honour of wearing of the pack's marks for the time I have.'

"Then he is a fool letting his own anger get the better of him." Enkil said through a growl of his own. "And when he enters the fires of war, that will either see him forged anew or broken in the process. There is little more you can do of that."

Keris gave a nod, keeping a tight leash on his rage at the lingering sting of Vermundr's words. They had cut him far deeper than the young packleader would ever know. That his brother would question his honour, question the oaths Keris had made for him, was a wound that would not easily heal.

'I can only seek to guide the course of my brothers' paths through my own deeds; they must choose what path they will hunt for, in the end, we all must stand alone against our wyrds.'

Keris gave a low grunt that was half chuckle, half snarl,

'They are a pack like none other- Helfang, Firehawk, Ghostwolf. The Allfather seeks to test my _sanity _along with my resolve!'

"Perhaps that is something He does to all wolf priests then; compound the lot to see which ones will overcome and gain strength." Enkil nodded, a half smile allowing his fangs to make themselves known. "But I am far too old to try and unravel that mystery."

Keris gave a lupine smile of his own in reply, his short fangs gleaming wetly in the low light and marking his years against that of the older Wolf,

'Age only matters when you find the end of it, elder. Our deeds write the history of mankind's future. The only easy day we face is yesterday.'

Keris' eyes took in the ship around them with the attention of a borne hunter,

'This flight through the Maleificaruim has tasted different, what of your pack? Are their humours unchanged?'

The young Wolf gave a half-glance to the old warrior at his side,

'My fangs are short but I would know if they would accept me in this path.'

"Maybe Keris, but let your body fight for several centuries before committing to that train of thought." The long fang countered as the corridor opened upon a junction.

Keris gave a nod of honour and respect to the words the older Wolf had offered him,

'I will fight as long as the AllFather needs me,'

Keris' gaze followed the length of the corridor that would lead him to where his former packmates were in the enginenrium bays,

'I will do what I must.'

Keris turned away from the Long Fang's path, pausing for a moment as he did so to nod his respect to the wisdom of the older Wolf, his voice low and thoughtful,

'Russ' eyes on us all, Enkil Othersight. I cannot shake the sense that there is something more to these events than the Greenskins, something that slithers in the darkness. Keep your blades close and do not let the Aurora's out of your sight when we next meet. Now, I must go see to my brothers before they find more trouble than they already are.'

With that, Keris opened his stride into the hunting lope of a thunderwolf. It was a pace that he could maintain for days if need be and had done so when he had stalked the beast whose skin adorned his armour; the easy stride of an apex predator. 

-

Keris could taste the blood in the air far before he entered the expanse of the bays housing the beating heart of the Hunrodr- the massive plasma dive generators. There was an angry growling to the air and the harsh bite of ozone on the back of Keris' tongue; the warship had been wounded, that much was clear, though without the insight of one who had walked the blackened shores of the Isles of Iron Keris could not tell how bad the damage truly was.

There were other scents on the air currents, scents that Keris knew and drew his thoughts back to the wisdom and words of Enkil. He paused in his stride, shrouded in the darkness of one of the massive generator towers as he silently acknowledged the pain that etched his path. I need them as much as they need me.

The sounds of his booted feet on blood-wet grating was muffled by the snarling of the ship's heartbeat as Keris stalked from the shadows and into the baneful glow of the reactor core. The Claw was gathered loosely, their armoured forms flecked with the crimson spray from their duties. Keris still wore the loose grey pants he had worn in the sparing cages, his bare chest still showing the faint and fading bruises from when he had placed himself in between Vermundr's lack of control and the pack. The torque around his neck glinted in the light of the warship's heartbeat. 

The Ghostwolf's growled words were laced with a sharp bite and Keris gave his brother a soft nod of greeting. Crystalline eyes reflected the hellish glow as he met each of their glances in turn, before settling on the Firehawk with a solemn yet powerful expression. After a long moment Keris nodded, a note of approval in his cold gaze,

'I heard his words well, Ghostwolf,'

Keris' low tones were calm and thick with his accent,

'… he said _*We*_.' 

Keris turned his eyes back to the pale features of his wolfbrother, 

'The Firehawk may be gruff in his ways, but he has accepted them into the pack with that single statement, Iorek. Even if it was delivered with the guile of a rutting Elk.'

Keris' eyes hardened however before his next words,

'As to the whereabouts if _your _packleader- Vermundr Helfang speaks with Odaajn Lightwalker, Wolf Priest, and the Ancient Aldr. For the sake of his own hide, I can only hope that he chooses his words with caution on his tongue.'


----------



## unxpekted22

'_Good_' thought Vermundr when he was told to return to his pack, '_Get this back-stabbing quitter away from me.'_

A bit too loose with his emotions, he quickly found out just how good the nose of a flesh weaver was. Though he was sure it was obvious to any wolf, after Morgun acknowledged the same thought with a stare of his own sickly yellow eyes. Aldr made his commands, and the others had completely left the strategium.

He was caught off guard, to say the least. His emotions were now laid upon the table for his elders to see, and the cold silent room waited for him to speak his mind about them. His superiors were concerning themselves with what he thought a moment ago would be a long standing personal issue he never spoke to anyone about. By Russ, these stares were putting more force on him than the blades of heretics had. He simply didn't know where to start, but he had to start somewhere.

"Please know this brothers, My spite for Keris does not come from envy. This is not why I have concern for his promotion to priest. I have anger toward him for personal reasons. To stay curt, I thought he was my closest brother, my most dependable packmate. But recently he tried to undermine my position as packleader, betraying me. By choosing to accept the path of the priest, he left his pack brothers behind. I knew he would leave us the instant he got the opportunity. He thinks himself better than the rest of us, above a pack, and since he was unable to obtain leader, he simply quit."

He placed his hands again on the holo-table with a deep breath,

"Removing Keris from the pack is certainly a benefit to me one way or another. I think that is clear at this point and given recent circumstances, but despite my anger towards him I have other concerns involving his escalation to wolf priest. Perhaps it comes from confusion. After all, I know many were confused when Lord Blackmane made me the pack's leader. However, I believe the decision to appoint Keris to Priest was made with too much haste. When Kjarl died the pack needed a leader and needed one immediately, so one of us had to be ordained as such and that happened to be myself. It is always expected, and necessary, for one Blood Claw in every pack to be its leader. But I cant say that it's customary by any means for a Blood Claw to be made a Wolf Priest, and I certainly don't see the need for another priest among us nor the need for haste in his appointment. On top of this I believe Keris to be a very selfish individual, as well hidden as he keeps this attribute from most, and if I am not mistaken a Wolf Priest should be anything but."

"I ask forgiveness if I have offended your command, Lord Aldr. I only wish to speak honestly as was asked of me. To take the title of priest away from someone it has been given to is surely... inconceivable. I would ask you to reconsider the decision but given this fact I don't believe I can, nor am I in any position to ask such a thing from you. But since they have been demanded to be heard, these are my thoughts."

As soon as he sealed his lips in wait of a reply, he realized he didnt know who actually told Keris he was now part of the priesthood. Either way, Aldr likely had superiority over such matters. Other than that he merely felt his body preparing itself for another punishment. 

_'Who would it come from this time?'_ thought Vermundr. Would Odaajn start ripping his skin off? Would Morgun leap the holo-table and beat his face to a bloody pulp, or would Aldr personally take on the task? 

Everyone loved Keris. No one loved Vermundr Helfang. Even the ones who liked him, seemed to admire Keris even more so.


----------



## darkreever

Vermundr: As you make your thoughts known to *Aldr*, Morgan, and the priest Odaajn there is no mistake of the anger in the old priests eyes. But anger or not, you had been told to speak your mind and that is what you had done. *Keris was not promoted to priest Vermundr Helfang, no more than you were promoted to the position of pack leader. Regardless of how you feel, the right of Keris to walk this path is not a judgment for you to make.* *Aldr's* mechanical voice answered after a time, but it was Odaajn who spoke next, elaborating on those words.

_You are chosen for greatness but once you young fool, when you earn the right to become one of us._ He rasped, placing both of his hands on the table and glaring at you. _Beyond that, you forge your path and the right to walk it. Keris was not chosen to become a priest, his actions and will have made that his path to walk. Your own priest, Sigurd, saw this in him and bade me keep an eye out for when it was time. Ragnar Blackmane did not simply offer you your current title, he saw something of the path you are to walk just as Sigurd..._

*Enough priest, quash your anger or leave this matter entirely!* *Aldr* cut in with a boom, as if the dreadnought had been beside all of you. Even the impassive Morgun could not help but flinch at that. *How many pack-mates have you led to battle Helfang? How many have you lost under your leadership? How many have you still to lose? Keris is another loss, and some may argue a great one, but his qualities betray his calling. He walks the path of a priest because he leads without being the leader, inspires those around him, and has stood before the brink and jumped anyway. Leave to your pack, and truly understand the loss you have suffered in this.*

And with that, the link between the dreadnought and the bridge was severed, leaving you to ponder what you had been told.

[All, you are more than welcome to respond to others from their previous posts. The ship is no longer in any danger from within or without, at least no immediate danger. Vermundr finds his way to the pack, retaking his place at its head; when he does this, Keris leaves to return to Odaajn and proceed with what the old warrior would have him do in the coming days before reaching to Jorus system.]

[Bit of a time-skip here, let you all finally get into a little meat of things.]
----
Ten days later
----

All; Sulfur winds thrash about the sides of the thunderhawk in which you stand. Through view-ports built into the bulkhead you can see the 'ocean' below you; it is a roiling sea of yellow-orange magma and stretches on for as far as the eye can see. A small metallic object can be seen in the distance and grows in size by the second. It is one of the planets nine main geothermal stations and the site of but one of a handful of last ditch defenses. More importantly, it is the source of where the message of the Aurora chapter master originated from.

The thunderhawk is again rocked to the side, though this time it is to avoid explosive chaff being thrown in your direction from hostile forces. There are greenskins all but overrunning the station, and its liberation is the first task in pushing the aliens back.

With a whine of the engines being over-taxed, the thunderhawk begins a rapid climb before the side hatches of the main compartment open. Without pause, you jump out into the sulfur rich atmosphere and plummet the hundreds of meters down onto the station itself.

[It took the three ships nine days to reach the Jorus system, taking a great risk to exit mid-system. What you found was a raider fleet, comprising of eight destroyer or frigate sized vessels, surrounding the planet. The light cruiser of the Aurora marines was able to punch a hole with aid from the _Hunrodr_ and _Randolfr_, destroying half the ork ships before they had a chance to do anything.

After identifying the source of the distress call, it was Vermundr who sought the honour of first drop and so it was granted. Pack Kjarl, with the priest Keris attached, would make planetfall alongside the Aurora warriors to retake the station while the rest of the Space Wolf forces sought to do the same for another station.

Bad shots or not, even orks would not be able to miss a lone thunderhawk coming in to release a dreadnought and disgorge the long fangs of pack Enkil. And so it was from the mind of the wolf-scout Morgun that each of you now finds yourself hurtling towards the station with a *jump pack strapped to your back.*]

All; You bring your arms and legs in to decrease air resistance, increasing your overall velocity and making you that much more difficult to hit. The near toxic air pushes against the exposed flesh of your face and some of you let loose howls of amusement at what you are experiencing. As the distance between you and the protruding platform that is your landing site is quickly cut down, you can see enemies on the ground and a pocket of resistance that they are all but pushing off the edge and into the lava below.

With the force of gods, you ignite your jump packs at the last second to bleed speed and survive landing, crashing in amongst the charging orks and throwing many back. Not wasting a second, you hurl yourself into the enemy and make to alleviate those previously beleaguered soldiers who may have been on their last stand.

[There are about sixty orks in total, your landing has stunned many of them but they will recover soon enough. They are not easy to kill, and will become that much harder once they regain themselves.]


Alrik and Krahl, you tear into the greenskins with wild abandon, Krahl will be able to kill as many as five or six while Alrik may very well end the live of eight. But be wary of your actions, for it is more than possible for you to over-extend yourself and be forced to suffer for it.

Keris, unlike the others who land in the midst of the largest mobz, you change your course at the last second to engage a different kind of enemy. You descend on an ork, crushing him beneath your armoured weight, looking up at the monster before you. It easily stands as tall as the Firehawk, but with thick slabs of muscle as wide as your torso. The current task Odaajn has give you in the retaking of this station is to take from the orks their head where possible, and this nob looks to be exactly that.

[The nob bludgeons an ork in its path so that it alone will fight you, and with a great bellow it charges your still crouched form. Though portions of your armour have been repainted black to reflect your path, it is only through combat that you can earn the right to bear the weapons of a priest. This enemy is the first on that road, and it is more than a match for you in terms of strength and resilience. It will not go down easy, and not in one go.]

Leidolf; As you plummet to the decking below, you spy the armoured form of Keris, his grey-blue armour picked out by large sections of jet black, veer from the bulk of the mob. Without thinking, you follow your former pack-mate, igniting the thrusters of your jump pack at the last second and barreling into a pair of greenskins. Your mass shatters their bodies in a welter of blood, bolt pistol rounds exploding their skulls with little more than a second thought. Out of the corner of your eye you see Keris standing before the massive bulk of what can only be an or knob, possibly the leader of this frenzied group. That would mean that you followed the young wolf priest into the thickest, and likely most deadly of fighting. As if to prove this, a heavily armoured ork wielding a flaming pike leaps at you, forcing you to jump back and avoid a downward swipe of its flaming weapon.

[The ork before you is armed with a burna, a weapon that is deadly within its own right. In close combat however, it is even worse. A trio of orks also charge you, and you can dispatch all three with some effort, but this will leave you exposed to the burna. The burna boy himself will not go down easily, unlike the three others (easy being a relative term) so make your choice carefully.]

Vermundr and Iorek, You land amongst the orks closest to the disparate human defenders, all but hurling the greenskins away from these mortal men. It does not escape Vermundr's notice where Keris lands and what he fights, but as pack leader your first priority is to the task at hand, and you need to clear this platform and locate the ork controlled anti-air weapons so that *Aldr* and pack Enkil can come down. The pair of you will be able to dispatch a dozen greenskins before they regroup, and in that fighting Iorek will spot the green clad forms of Namor and his brothers landing on the opposite side of the station to silence the guns you will not be able to reach.

Heimdall and Ornsvald, You overshoot and crash down upon the backs of the greenskin mob. Sweeping around, Heimdall will unleash a gout of promethium from his flamer and catch four orks in the deluge. As the aliens realize what is happening, he will be able to get off another shot before they manage to retaliate. While that is happening, Ornsvald must choose between leaving his pack-mate here and engage the orks on their blind side, or to rush the greenskins in the wake of the second flamer blast. In either case, Ornsvald will immediatly dispatch a trio of orks before they can do anything.

[Beyond the bits in blue I have already laid out, I don't think any of you need more prompting than that. This is something a few of you have been waiting for, of that I am certain.]


----------



## Lord Commander Solus

Ornsvald sat in the bowels of the Thunderhawk, mentally preparing himself for the fight ahead. He reached up to his bald head, his armoured gauntlets running from his temple to the back of his neck and the Space Wolf sighed, his eyes wandering to the viewing port to watch the small silvery blot on the horizon grow into a full installation. The report said it was a geothermal station; that meant two things to a cunning warrior. First, and perhaps most immediately, there would be no explosive fuel. No nuclear rods, no oil, no gas; this was a good thing. Exploding the scarce land above a sea of lava didn't seem like a good plan anyway.

A brief, rattling chuckle escaped Ornsvald's throat as the thought came, and he felt his equipment at his waist; his serrated combat knife tucked into his belt, his bolt pistol holstered on his left, and his chainsword on the right. In combat they would be held the other way around, with his chainsword in his stronger left hand, but this way meant he could draw both faster with more horizontal than vertical movement. Ornsvald shook himself, forcing him to think back to the station. The second thing to know; there would be pipes, filled with either near-boiling water or, as seemed more likely with an ample supply of lava to heat the water, hyper-heated steam. This was something to look out for; unarmoured Orks would be burnt to a pulp by the steam, but even power-armoured warriors would be in severe danger if a leak occurred.

_We'll just have to be careful,_ thought Ornsvald as the Thunderhawk made its approach.

Ornsvald stood, his jump pack affixed firmly to his back as the ramp on the Thunderhawk descended, and the light finally turned from red to green. Roaring praise to the Allfather, Ornsvald jumped.

The fall was unlike anything Ornsvald had ever felt; he had never used a jump pack for combat before, as that was usually left to Skyclaws, not Blood Claws. The putrid, sulphurous air stang Ornsvald's face, making the scar on his left cheek itch. Ornsvald ignored it, too caught up in the power he felt leaping fearlessly from such a height to bring death to the enemies of Russ. The Canis Helix in Ornsvald's DNA helped him pick out their landing-zone; a small platform, swarming with greenskins. Tucking his legs back up straight and pushing his arms and hands forward, Ornsvald became a living arrow, descending like a storm of wrath upon the Orks.

Ornsvald had nearly reached the platform, when an unexpected gout of hot air hit him, presumably a gas bubble from beneath the lava. Whilst it didn't harm Ornsvald, it threw him slightly off-course; when Ornsvald hit his jump pack and brought his feet in front of him, he had off-shot the landing-zone a little, along with Heimdall, the flamer. Roaring a battlecry, Ornsvald slammed into the platform, the collision creating a metallic thunderclap as he drew his chainsword and bolt pistol. The two astartes had landed behind the greenskin mob; Ornsvald ducked his head down as a great gout of flame washed over him, cleansing the Orks.

The eager Space Wolf waited a moment, watching the corpses of greenskins fall with a building bloodlust. The foul xenos were huge; brutish creatures, and by all accounts the stench of the galaxy. Ornsvald would have no trouble in hating this foe, that was certain.

After a second gout of burning promethium blasted over his head, Ornsvald leapt up, igniting his jump pack for a moment to barrel straight into the surprised Orks. They were on the back-foot, now, after two blasts from the flamer, and weren't ready for a vengeful Angel of Death. Ornsvald raised his chainsword as he slammed into the first Ork, the teeth already whirring with a battlecry of their own. Deep crimson, brackish blood splattered across Ornsvald's chest, flecks of it sprinkling his face. The Ork grunted in surprise, turning to face the Space Wolf fully. Ornsvald knew he would have to despatch this one quickly to keep up the momentum of the attack, so made a daring lunge.

The gambit paid off, and the chainsword pierced the Ork's torso, more thick blood spilling from the wound as the roaring teeth of the chainsword did their bloody work. The Ork yet lived, however, swinging wildly with its axe. Ornsvald ducked out the way and withdrew his chainsword in a fluid motion, carrying on with the movement to turn back around and bring his chainsword in for a decapitating strike. Sure enough, the Ork's head came clean off, another fresh spray of blood covering Ornsvald's roaring face.

He barely had time to wipe some of the blood from his eyes with the back of his gauntlet before another Ork came at him, this one wielding a kind of improvised mace cobbled together from various metal struts. Ornsvald raised his bolt pistol this time, firing three rounds into the charging Ork. The explosive bolt shells all hit the target; two impacting on the Ork's chest, and another on its thigh. The beast faltered, its left leg buckling as it fell to one knee, lowering its head to see its torn and ragged chest heaving beneath it. Ornsvald stepped in, placing the muzzle of the bolt pistol firmly on the Ork's bent head, and pulled the trigger. A shower of Ork brain-matter and gore exploded outwards in all directions, as a third Ork charged right into Ornsvald.

Unprepared for this sudden attack, Ornsvald was taken with the charge as the Ork kept up its momentum. The Space Wolf noticed, with horror, that the Ork was headed for the edge of the platform, and the sea of lava beneath. Ornsvald crashed to the ground, a couple of meters from the edge and on his back, chainsword and pistol still firmly clenched in his gauntleted hands. As the Ork approached, axe held high, Ornsvald raised the pistol and fired. The bolt round slammed into the Ork's shoulder, prompting a cry of pain. The Ork reached down, slapping the pistol out of Ornsvald's hand a further back near the edge. Ornsvald pushed himself backwards, coming within centimetres of the edge as he reached for the pistol. The Ork rushed at him, ready to push him from the edge.

Ornsvald suddenly remembered his jump pack, and, with a mischievous howl, blasted upwards from the ground, his chainsword meeting the Ork's axe head on. The Ork made a noise which must have equated to "oh shit" as Ornsvald raised his bolt pistol and put a bullet in either eye, the Ork's head shattering as its body fell to the ground, twisting weakly.

Ornsvald laughed a grating laugh, the sound reminding him of Fenris, as he reloaded his bolt pistol. Covered in crimson blood and gore from head to foot, Ornsvald readied his weapons, looking for another opportunity to strike.


OOC: Hope I didn't scare any of you nearly falling into a sea of lava in my first post. I look forward to roleplaying (as well as fighting) with y'all.


----------



## unxpekted22

Vermundr left the strategium quietly. He met back up with his pack, seeing Keris leave just as he entered. He was silent then, and almost entirely for the remaining ten days it took to reach the Jorus system. There were several reasons for this. His mind had been filled with superstition and curiosity; did the elders already know his future? Was his rank to pack leader made for different reasons entirely. Maybe Lord Blackmane hadn't actually seen anything in his abilities, merely visions of him being in the right place at the right time. In that case he would be little more than a tool, really.

He had to keep reminding himself that he was in fact just that. A tool of the Emperor, and a weapon for mankind...nothing else. So long as he served his Lord, his Primarch, and the Allfather the best he could then thats all that mattered. It would be only the scars he bore and the kills he had racked for the Imperium that would count when he came to be judged...not the friends he had made, the respect of others, or the titles he was given. His duty as pack leader was to make sure both he and those under his command killed more enemies, for an efficient and organized group could slay many more enemies than any individual of lesser, equal, and even significantly higher calibre. To guide his wolves in Russ's name, hunting and killing as a pack. Thats all he was and all that should have mattered to him.

He remembered again, that's all that ever did matter to him. It was keeping the split ends of that pack together that was difficult, keeping it a tightly organized and efficient force. What did he have to become to do this properly? As Odaajn had taught him, he needed to be the example for starters. But now a new question, should their lives actually matter to him? The more they did, the worse it was when he lost one, such as Keris. If he was a tool of his Lord, Primarch, and the Allfather, then should he not see his pack-brothers in the same light? When he felt comfortable with an answer one day, he awoke the next only to soon become comfortable with the other.

Those ten days were also filled with cooling down from his confrontation with Keris. He was heading to war, and he needed to calm his mind. This was far from easy, but staying aloof seemed to help for the time being. Aldr's words also helped, to see him as just another casualty rather than a traitorous friend.

"For now, let the heat of battle throw us into a frenzy, as that is our true home. Show these Orks that battle is just as much in our nature as it is theirs.... only we are much better at it.." he said to his jump pack strapped comrades. He hoped the coming frenzy would help clear his mind. An odd type of being the astartes were, he had to admit, finding comfort in ch-... he had to stop himself from this thought twisting his lips and opening his brown eyes wide for a moment....Yes, battle would be good right now.

He tried to give his packmate some advice on flying true, ways to make sure they had a good landing but really he had just as little experience with a jump-pack as the rest of them.

He looked to the lights that would signal their jump. As it turned from red to yellow he made a quick reminder to everyone over the vox reminding them their primary objectives were the anti-air turrets. He wore his gifted wolf shaped battle helm for the first time into a horde of enemies this day. The dark slate-black color a stark contrast from the grey-blue armor covering the rest of him and his squad. 

The light turned green and the first one out was the one named Ornsvald. In that very second as Ornsvald roared praises and leapt Vermundr realized how disconnected he had been with his squad, hardly recognizing the blood claw, thinking almost solely on Keris and Russ knows what before that: hunting, Fenrisian trolls, and trying to get onto this mission among other things...and again the question of his pack being nothing but armored tools for him to direct came to mind. But there was no time to ponder now, he was out, flying as an incredible speed toward a patch of rock surrounded by bright, burning magma. He risked a glance to the side and saw the large form of Alrik Firehawk was behind and to the right, looking true to the name more than ever he thought, but a glance of the 'priest' near him made him check his other peripheral. The ghostwolf's flight path stalked closest to his own.

He turned his attention back to where it should be, his inexperience getting the better of him seeing how much closer he had already come to the platform. He engaged his jump-pack and the drastic change of inertia and g-forces that would have crushed the insides of a normal man certainly made a harsh impact on his own, but his body prevailed. The second one came soon after as he landed. He felt his very bones nestled deep within his power armor strain from the impact as his feet crushed into the station's surface, but his weapons were drawn and his eyes were up. 

Greenskins. Three were knocked back by his landing: at one moment rushing at the fear filled humans that were now behind him, the next finding humanity's _true_ potential crashing down upon them.

A single tightened squeeze of his chapter ornamented battle-axe and his eye muscles were all he needed to forget his personal troubles. "May the warrior might of Russ guide me this day."

He was up, his axe slamming through the back of the closest Ork's neck as he began to rise fromt he ground. The second took a trio of bolt pistol rounds to the head and shoulder as he pulled the axe up for a strike to the third one's throat on his right. The Jump pack was certainly going to take some getting used to, he thought. Moving his arms was fine but his footwork was affected the most. 

His element of surprise had ended, the Orks came for him. A spark of thrill could be seen lighting up in their beady eyes. To most races, seeing the likes of Adeptus Astartes land before them would instill unconquerable fear. To these foul beasts, no, only heightened excitement; a more challenging prize.

Iorek was still beside him, also readying for Orks now aware of their presence. He made a quick look for the rest of the squad. It looked like all had made it onto the platform, though they were fairly widely separated. His HUD told him they were all still at a healthy status. He saw Keris as well, the selfish glory-seeker of course going after the Nob of the group, as if no one else was capable. His happiness of being granted first drop and thus first blood was yet again ruined by Keris, as he was selected to go with his claw on the mission.

Waghs! and teeth and oddly shaped metal pieces of armor and weaponry rushed into his arm's reach, crude ballistics crashing off his war-plate. He quickly became buried in their green and metal masses, unable to see any objectives beyond. He swung his axe, shrugged them off his shoulder guards, applied his pistol both with its ammunition and blunt surface. He would hit them them but they would just hit back twice as much. He completely lobbed off the arm of one of the orks, and it looked at the injury, turned back to him, and roared even louder. 

"Filthy Orks!" he slashed, "Jump into the magma for your stupidity and worthlessness! Plague of the Imperium! Jump in, for the wrath of the Space Wolves is upon you!" 

With his self given vigor he was able to kill two more, and soon after a third. He wanted nothing more than to push the Orks off the edge of the station, into the molten death below, just as they had intended to do to the humans behind him.


----------



## Serpion5

*Krahl*

Ten days. Ten days since the incident in the ship's generator room and since then all had been quiet. It was like a typical voyage through an ocean whose rage had for the moment been spent. 

Infuriating. Krahl spent every oppurtunity running through drills or sparring in the cages. Eight sessions, six wins. Not a score to be ashamed of as far as he was concerned. His only gripe at this point, whether due to his timing or the other wolf's own prerogative, was that he had yet to settle his sparring match with Alrik. How long ago had the offer been made? And yet the hand of fate seemed determined to allay their score settling until some unfathomable circumstance had been met. 

Fine. If the Allfather or the Great Wolf had a reason for stopping the two of them from meeting in the cages then Krahl would accept that for now. But only for now... 


* * *​

How exactly it had come to this Krahl had no idea, but was in little mood to complain as he felt the roar of the thunderhawk all about him and the comforting feel of the jump pack strapped to his back. It had been far too long since he had used one of these, but the feeling of his first sojourn through the air had not been easily forgotten and he eagerly awaited a repeat of that same performance. 


The rush of the air on his face was an exhilarating feeling as they plummeted towards their destination. The small piece of metal against a backdrop of molten lava grew ever larger as the astartes hurtled towards it. Closer... 

Closer... 

NOW! 

Following the cue along with the others, Krahl kicked the jump pack into life and altered his trajectory to better land amid his foes. His impact, like all the others, was akin to a flaming meteorite of vengeance raining from above. Orks reeled all around as the pack slammed into the ground before them. Krahl gave them no chance to regroup, sparing only a slight glance to ensure the others of the pack were nearby before charging into the mob with bolt pistol and combat blade ready for blood. 

He cut down one ork with two swift strokes as it tried to stand. The next fared no better, only managing to plant one foot before three well placed bolts tore it clean down the middle. A twisted grin of satisfaction crossed Krahl's face, at least until he got sight of Alrik a short distance beside him. 

The Firehawk was a vision of wrath that instilled Krahl with a momentary awe. This was the astartes he had challenged? The thoughts began flooding his mind all at once. Had it been a foolish mistake to think he was a worthwhile opponent for this wolf? Would he survive the encounter?

...

Not now. Now was not the time, and these thoughts were disgusting and unwarranted. The time would come as it always must, and when it did Krahl would meet it head on as he always did. He charged forth, angling slightly so as to stay within a dozen paces of the Firehawk as he advanced. An unfortunate ork who tried to impede him found its arm swiftly cut from its shoulder before its head swiftly followed. Trampling its corpse to the ground, the young wolf used his momentum to barrel into another ork and force it back three paces. 

He laughed viciously into the alien's face before headbutting it squarely in the sensitive spot on the bridge of its nose. As it reeled, he brought his blade up and impaled it through its chin. 

'Hear me Firehawk!' Krahl bellowed as he approached the older wolf's location to engage another ork. 'You may never like me and I will accept that. But even if I have to save your life a dozen times or beat you to the ground twice that number, I WILL damn well earn your respect!' He let a screaming howl underline his words as he brought his blade around for the next strike...


----------



## Midge913

I rumbling snarl mingled with gurgling sound of the mead running down his throat as he tore into his meal in the dining hall. Spotted, here and there, at the tables around him the forms of other wolves, eating, waiting, chaffing at the inactivity of the last days. Leidolf had been in a dour mood since the warp incursion, his nerves frayed, his temper short. It was the dissention within his pack that stirred his blood, that stoked the fire of his rage. He hated to see his brothers in such a state, to see them at each other's throats. Despite the fact that Leidolf respected Keris, his choices and attitude of late had left a sour taste in his mouth. The memory of the confrontation between Keris and Vermundr bringing a silent snarl to Leidolf lips as he tore into a hunk of meat. The sudden animosity that boiled between the pack leader and Keris was a liability, one that needed to be addressed if the pack was to meet success.

Draining the last of his flagon, Leidolf pushed his plate away. His thoughts, dour and depressing, had left him with little appetite. Perhaps a spar, to lose himself in the movement of combat would help to pass the time. He would have to find something to occupy himself, three more days in the warp until their scheduled arrival. Leidolf sighed as he stalked toward the the training halls, feeling like he would be crammed into this metal box for an eternity. 

***

Despite his worry the time rolled by at a steady pace and in no time Leidolf found himself standing in a Thunderhawk, his pack at his side, as they rocketed through the sulferous atmosphere of Jorus, the tiny metallic island in the middle of a sea of roiling lava their destination. The recent memory of the ships of the Astartes punching through the blockade of Orkish crafts brought a smile to Leidolf's lips. His bloodlust was up, his desire to vent his rage on the filthy xenos, heigtened by the destruction wrought upon the Ork fleet. 

Staring out of one of the viewports Leidolf watched as the metallic object grew slightly larger, it was one of the nine main geo-thermal stations on the planet, one of the last ditch defense positions of the remaining defenders, and the location the message from the Aurora Chapter Master had originated from. 

Smiling as the Thunderhawk jolted, slipping to the side as anti-air fire from the Orks on the paltform attempted to hit the speeding craft, Leidolf rolled his shoulders, the unfamiliar weight of the jump pack on his back shifting comfortably. He could not explain why, but the thought of plummeting thousands of feet, crashing into the Greenskins like a thunderbolt from heaven caused his twin-hearts to beat faster, his hand to clutch the hilt of his chainsword in anticipation. 

"For now, let the heat of battle throw us into a frenzy, as that is our true home. Show these Orks that battle is just as much in our nature as it is theirs.... only we are much better at it.." Vermundr, the pack leader called, and at his words Leidolf felt a howl of challenge bubbling in his lungs. These filthy beasts would taste the steel of the Astartes. The Sons of Russ, would bathe in their blood and enjoy it. 

The Thunderhawk leveled off..... lights changed from red to green.... the side door flew open and with a howl Ornsvald launched himself from the craft, followed closely by Vermundr and Krahl. A rictus grin splitting his face, his joy shrouded by the facemask of this helm, Leidolf ran from his side of the Thunderhawk, and without a second thought launched himself into the open air. 

Exhiliration....... A howl broke through the sound of the wind rushing past him, his pack, his brothers, expressing their joy at the feeling of unrestrained freedom that flight provided. His ulalating howl joining theirs, crying his joy and anticipation of the coming fight coursing through his body with the combat stimulants and adrenaline. Folding his arms to his side, snapping his legs together strecthed out straight, Leidolf felt his body accelerate and watched as the platform, covered in the ant like bodies of both Imperial Defender and Orkish invader rushed forward to meet the claw. 

Leidolf's joy was tarnished as a rune in his HUD, began to move away from the rest of the Claw. Keris, the fool, had changed course. He was heading away from the rest of the group, his trajectory leading him into a heavy pocket of orkish activity. As his jet pack roared, and he came to rest with a destructive crash, sending orks in every direction, Leidolf saw Keris right himself and engage in combat with a Nob. Damn glory seeker was going to get himself killed. 

Spinning in midair and thumbing the activation tab on his jetpack, Leidolf changed his course and opened a vox channel to Vermundr, "Pack Leader, Keris has disengaged from the rest of the group. He seeks the glory of slaying a Nob, but in the process is going to get himself killed with no one to watch his back. I go to aid him, despite his foolishness no one should fight without a brother at his side."

Seconds after his message to Vermundr was complete, he barrelled into the Orks, his armored mass sending them scattering to the side. Two unlucky specimens found themselves crushed under his bulk, his bolt pistol was in his hand in less than a heartbeat, and two well placed shots ended their lives in a spatter of gore and bone. Sure enough, Keris stood a few meters in front of him, his newly painted sections of black armor a stark contrast to the light blue-grey, facing a massive Ork. A wry grin split Leidolf's face as he realized that here, next to this Orkish leader, the fighting would be the most ferocious, the most deadly. As if to prove his point, an Ork, clad in crude leathers, spots of soot and burns covering not only the leather clothing, but the beast's forearms, jumped out to bar Leidolf's path to his brother's side. The Ork, carried a burna, a flaming pike, a deadly close combat weapon. 

In an instant Leidolf's chainsword was in his right hand, balancing the bolt pistol he already held in his left, as he brought his weapon to block a jabbing strike from the Burna-boy. His HUD began to beep, a warning that three more orks, bearing crude cleavers were charging him from the rear. Barreling his weight into the burna, pushing it cross-ways across its weilders body, he pushed the beast back. It stumbled as it was caught of balance, giving Leidolf just enough time to launch a volley of shots at the approaching trio. The rounds, quickly aimed, claimed one Ork's life as its head and part of its shoulder exploded. Another fell, its leg a shattered stump of bone and blood as a second round richochetted up form the metal decking o the platform, the third slowed, approaching more cautiously at the damage dealt to its companions. 

Leidolf spun back around to face the Burna, but was rocked as the beast brought the butt of its flaming pike down on his exposed back. Rage flooded through him, his muscles tightened. Twisting to face the Burna-boy, Leidolf led with his bolt pistol, clipping the thing in the temple, eliciting a snarl of pain and feral rage. It spun with the blow, leaving its back open and with a roaring howl Leidolf leveled a heavy blow with his thundering chainsword. Blood flew, black oily ork blood, fanned out from the revving blade, but much to Leidolf's surprise the thing threw itself forward away from his blade. As it turned, its eyes blazing with primal rage, it brandished its Burna and launched itself at Leidolf with a reverberating roar. A howl on his lips Leidolf rushed forward to meet it.


----------



## Lord Ramo

Heimdall followed the squad quietly as they headed towards the engine room, watching the darkness around them as he moved his flamer and its pilot light to provide as much light as he could for his squad mates. They soon reached the eerily quiet engine core room, Iorek informing the bridge that it was clear. Heimdall felt uneasy as he stared around the room, not liking how there were not dead bodies of the crew at the very least to explain why there was no response.

As the vox link closed Heimdall heard a roar as the crew men, clearly turned from the All-father came rushing out of the dark towards the small squad of marines. Heimdall felt his wrath boil over. These men had turned before they died, their faith lost in one moment. They rushed at him with crude hand weapons, smashing against his armour and that of his brothers as they tried desperately to kill the God-like Astartes.

Heimdall snapped, grabbing the nearest man by his throat he hurled him, snapping his neck in the process as he maglocked his flamer to his leg. Stomping forward with his hunting knife he set to work on the maddened crewmen that dared attack him, slamming his knife through one holding a crowbar before pulverising anothers organs with his fist. He stayed silent as he continued his grim work, though inside he was a raging boil, barely keeping control over his wolf.

The bloodbath was over as quick as it had begun, Heimdall taking a moment to collect himself as his brothers talked and the packleader entered. Heimdall immediately noticed the resentment towards Keris, as if he was no longer one of the pack.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It had been days since the attack from the demon spawn and they had arrived in the Aurora's system. The pack was preparing for a combat drop with jet packs, and even though Keris was no longer one of the squad he would be joining them. Heimdall didn't know what to think of that, conflicted about Keris and his role. 

Keris was a level headed marine, and would become a fine wolf priest one day. However he had left his pack, and though Heimdall was sure a lot of the pack would see that as him abandoning the pack Heimdall could understand his decision to. 

The drop was uneventful, Heimdall listening to what his brothers said, as well as his packleader as he prepared himself. It would be his first real taste of combat, and against Orks. The xeno filth would be purged, and he would be a part of it. Checking his equipment and flamers one more time before the doors were flung open, and he and his brothers leapt into the whistling wind.

Plumenting downwards they could see the orks pushing back Imperial Guard on the landing platforms, ready to push them over the edge and too their deaths. The stupid xeno would not be expecting the wrath of Fenris to fall right on top of their thick skulls. As he descended he noticed that he had been far too wrapped up in the battle below, and had drifted off course with Ornsvald.

The two of them smashed into a smaller landing pad, Ornsvald immediately going down on one knee as Heimdall recovered from his drop quickly, unleashing a gout of flame with his flamer, catching four orks in its fiery death. "Burn Xeno scum. Burn in the name of the All-Father." Heimdall roared through his helmet speakers, fangs bared as he unleashed a second gout of flames into them before they could recover.

Immediately Ornsvald leapt into the destruction his flamer had caused, quickly dispatching three orks, but leaving Heimdall open for an attack to his side. Heimdall turned, flamer spewing death even as he readied himself to grab his chainsaw, in case he needed it.


----------



## dark angel

Alrik Firehawk straightened, armour thrumming angrily, blood-stained fingers twisting into vibrant-red fists. Iorek Ghostwolf, the one-eyed, milk-skinned bastard, had gibed at Alrik’s expense - Brother Keris entering the generator chambers - Iorek moving to join him, playing the part of Packleader studiously. Alrik’s eyes became narrow, hateful slits. There was a deep-seated animosity between Alrik and Iorek - One that had boiled over several times during the Hecutor Campaign; causing tension amongst the Pack. 

Why Alrik felt so vehemently towards the Ghostwolf, he knew not. Was it jealousy? No, most certainly not - Alrik Firehawk was above such petty, manlike things. He was an immortal - One of the hallowed Adeptus Astartes - Of one of the Nine Legions, nonetheless. Indeed, jealousy was an alien concept to the Firehawk. 

Perhaps it was the pathological differences between the pair - Iorek was a shrewd marksman, brilliant before the loss of his eye, and still doubtlessly the best shot amongst the Pack; whereas Alrik was a murderous swordsman, preferring to get in the thick of it, to feel, smell and hear combat. Again, he doubted this - Keris and Alrik were polar opposites, but Alrik counted him amongst the closest of his brethren. 

Whatever the reason was, Alrik knew one thing for certain - It felt _natural_. 

Idly, the Firehawk played with Kjarl’s flaying knife, circling his thumb over the bone-relief of the Flesh Tearers’ heraldry. The maw-enshrouded teardrop; pale, creamy white enshrouding a carnadon tooth-shard. Alrik’s eyes slowly drifted downwards, locking onto the blade. The maw had turned a gaudy pink, with the blood of the Warp-drunk thralls. 

‘A portentous omen,’ Alrik whispered sibilantly, lips pulling apart in an odd, malign half-smile. ‘A bloody-mouth and a lone teardrop. The Stormcaller would cry aghast…’

***​
Ten days passed. Ten days of brutal training, solitude and sulking. Countless servitors had been dismantled, a thousand thoughts had been reconsidered, debated upon and ultimately thrown to the winds. However, one plagued him, returning whenever banished, disturbingly stubborn.

Keris was leaving the Pack. Keris, his blood-brother, his guiding-light, was abandoning him. Just the notion of it made Alrik choleric. Keris the Priest, Keris the Wise, Keris the _Betrayer_. How could he? Did he care nothing for Alrik? 

The Aurora Marines and Space Wolves had now entered the Jorus System - Powering through the Orkish blockade above Jorus herself, punching their ramshackle ships from the star-ocean. Few naval officers truly understood how to successfully handle an engagement. Space was three-dimensional, something that most neglected to acknowledge; treating their vessels like their wet-navy counterparts. Evidently, the Orkish shipmasters had not prepared for such a sudden and violent attack. After the location of the distress beacon had been decided upon, Vermundr had petitioned that his Squad be within the vanguard. It had been granted.

Pack Kjarl - _Pack Vermundr _- Stood together within the confines of a Thunderhawk, as it plummeted down through Jorus’ poisonous atmosphere. The world was purgatorial, a vast, glowering eye of molten rock and sulphur-choked air. Alrik did not know the name of their destination - Nor if it even had one - Merely that it was a geothermal mining station, and that it was now in the possession of the Orks. He licked his lips, eyes falling on Vermundr, and then Iorek, before finally resting upon brother Keris. Sections of his blue-grey armour had now been repainted a deep, unreflective black. His presence alone was jarring… Like a knife, twisting, tormenting him. 

Alrik averted his gaze, running a cold gauntlet over his head. He was _excited_. This was his chance to slake his bloodlust. Haladas and Freyr would be avenged, finally. It was a beautiful thought - One that made Alrik grin voraciously - An ugly, snaggletoothed grin.

He purred, craned his neck forwards as the Thunderhawk’s side hatches swept open, staring down at the station. ‘Skull…’

***​
_..Beta Phi XII…

..Smoke..

..Distant gunfire, pious roars - The squeal of an injured Ork.. 

..Jubilant howls, the sound of rampaging Blood Claws, accompanying the measured bursts of heavier weaponry and the tell-tale gnawing of Chainsword upon bone..

Alrik Firehawk sweeps forwards, bolt-pistol in hand, eyes scanning the curtain of thick, cloying blackness. It stings his superhuman lungs, leaves a vile taste on his lips. Upon the wall nearby is a member o the Adeptus Mechanicus - Crimson robes peeled back, pinned in place by a dozen blades. The Adept has been crucified, blood and oil leaking from its violated, twisted body. Alrik whispers a prayer to the Omnissiah, before moving into a vehicle garage. 

Something massive, mottled black-green, stands ahead of him. In one huge paw, a brutal cleaver gleams. 

‘For the Allfather,’ Alrik intones, raising his bolt-pistol, compressing the trigger. The Ork turns towards him as the bolt-pistol barks. 

Piggish, small eyes widen. The Ork’s chest explodes, a welter of gore, swaying back and forth unsteadily. 

And then, it laughs. It laughs at the youthful Space Marine, a deep, guttural sound - Brimming with mockery. Alrik levels his bolt-pistol once again, snarling, and- 

-the gun is swatted away. It slides through the garage, halting metres away. Blood is dribbling from the Ork’s massive gullet as it backhands Alrik, sending him onto his back.

The beast raises it’s cleaver. Alrik Firehawk is done - He has served the Emperor dutifully - And now he is to be ended at the hands of this abomination.

A Chainsword sweeps through the Ork’s throat. The head tumbles away, blood gushes. Haladas stands above Alrik, proffering his hand.

‘Skull or spine, my brother.’ He speaks, smiling. ‘These bastards take a lot of punishment, anywhere else.’

Alrik takes his hand, smirking at his brother. It is the last time he ever does so._
***​
‘…Or spine.’ Alrik finished, as he crept onto the edge of the hatchway. The sky was an open expanse before him - Marrying the horizon in the distance. Alrik sucked in the air between gritted teeth, and fell over the edge.

The wind tugged at his face, rippling the layers of scar tissue painfully; his arms outstretched, jump-pack growling angrily behind him. The fall was beautiful. Alrik felt atop the world - Laughing manically as he fell, faster, accelerating still, faster and faster and faster, jump-pack whining, the station growing from an insignificant glimmer to a very large and very real danger.

With a growl, Alrik snapped his arms and legs inwards, igniting his jump-pack once again. He snapped back into reality, landing hard, flattening a nearby Ork as he did so. He gave them no respite, Chainsword swinging into the Xeno’s gut. Intestines, pieces of green-skinned flesh and dark, brackish blood erupted forth, splattering Alrik’s greaves. It roared, gripped in death’s clawed hand, looking up at it’s killer with cruel, beady eyes. Alrik smiled, winked, and crushed the Ork’s skull beneath his boot. 

‘That was for Haladas.’ He spoke grimly; like an elder speaking a half-remembered tale. 

Another rushed him, swinging an improvised mace. Alrik ducked beneath it, hacked away the thing’s arm below the elbow, before robbing the alien of a head with a tremendous back-handed swipe. Blood jetted and flesh churned as Alrik barreled into another, driving his Chainsword up through the beast’s chest cavity, two-handed, the tip of his chained-blade piercing between the Ork’s oversized shoulder blades. 

A sword scraped across the Firehawk’s left shoulder pauldron, dragging across his chest, before falling away at the right hip. He turned with the blow. His Chainsword licked out - Like a spear - Ramming hilt-deep into the Ork’s skull. It shuddered, dead, held aloft by the Space Wolf. He kicked it free, twirling the Chainsword, hunting for his next victim. 

‘Oh, _shut _up.’ Alrik hissed at one of the Orks, who was roaring incoherently. He punched the odiferous monster, snapping tusks, deflating its nose. The Greenskin stumbled, stunned, blinded by pain. The Space Marine tore his bolt-pistol free and proceeded to empty the magazine into the creature’s head. 

The next two Orks rushed him together. One swung an immense cudgel, the other held a whirring Chainaxe of Imperial design. Alrik holstered his bolt-pistol calmly and stepped in to meet the pair. Ceramite-shod fingers seized the haft of the Chainaxe, holding the vibrating teeth scant inches from Alrik’s face. He twisted, counter-clockwise, and snapped the Ork’s arm at the elbow. It squealed, horrified, weapon wrangled away. 

With a ululating howl, Alrik buried the Chainaxe in the cudgel-bearing Ork’s side. It pirouetted, arms flailing, blood squirting. Alrik bifurcated the first Ork from shoulder-to-hip, organs spilling out in a visceral explosion. He turned back to the other Ork, watching it squirm on the ground, wrestling to wrench the Chainaxe free. Alrik laughed bitterly at the sight, dipping his Chainsword through the Ork’s heart, twisting three-hundred-and-sixty degrees as he did so. It sighed, sank back pitifully, and left life.

A moment of peace passed. Alrik watched the other Wolves in their bloodletting, breathing deeply, flexing his fingers. One last Ork stood before him, tall and broad-shouldered, wearing a shirt of rusted chain, a makeshift gun clutched in long-fingered, fat hands. It grinned at him, eyes twinkling angrily beneath a pair of dark, grimy goggles. Alrik returned the gesture, giving a mocking bow, and launched forwards with the jump-pack.

The Ork made a curious noise - Something between a mewl and an exasperated laugh - And burst apart. Alrik’s jump-pack whined as it cooled down, dropping the Space Marine back onto his feet, streaked with gore, face covered in a film of scarlet, glittering amongst the ridges and trenches of his scars.

Krahl spoke, then. He was a firecracker of a Marine - Determined, stubbornly so - And, by Alrik’s admission, he could look after himself. Even still, the Firehawk had no doubts that he would beat the young Blood Claw senseless, given the chance. 

‘I doubt that, little-wyrm,’ He called out, wryly, licking the Orkish blood from his narrow, broken lips. The arrogance was thinly veiled. ‘You look unhappy, _boy_. Does battle hold no promise of joy, for you?’


----------



## deathbringer

"Your"

Keris was not one to bandy words with a loose tongue and the seperation made his eye narrow as he stared into the icy blue pools before him, his mouth opening to speak words... hope, caution and care. That he no longer considered himself a member of their pack, that such fractures had become so deep, crevice separating them from their fellows.

He had done his best, to put aside his petty jealousy, his lingering hatred and the slowly healing wound of betrayal in the name of the pack and its sanctity, yet it had not been enough, the lines too deep, the combatants too stubborn.


His mouth was forced shut by Vermundr who returned to them and took control with no words, merely a crook of his finger and Iorek felt his anger bite.  You do not care that your pack was blooded, do not enquire for the welfare of those injured under your command, Hellfang was heartless indeed, a soulless vacuum, a driven head, no longer in possession of it's heart and soul.

It could drive them to destruction.

10 days, 10 days of brooding, 10 days of crackling electricity, a fragile spark in the air ready to ignite, the packleaders temper, as tempestuous as a Fenrisian storm.

Iorek stayed away, fearful his mere presence could provide the touchpaper once again haunting the training cages and the firing ranges as he had done in the old days, as he did every time he needed to slip away to drive away his concerns, his anger and rage, the bitter emotions that tore apart his very soul. When his body hurt, his mind hurt, his heart ached but in pain he found tranquility a zen place within the anguish where he embraced the true power within his body.

Yet even now as his arm fought the recoil of his bolt pistol that tranquility he craved, that emptiness he needed slipped away, his stance was right, the weight of the pistol was right, the motion beyond textbook, purest perfection.

The evidence to the contrary was damning horrifying condemnation, the smoldering hole in the paper 3 inches wide of the target, the inner ring untouched, his shot barely clipping the very fringes of the outer ring.
Anger flooded him and he lashed out, his fist buckling the metal as he tore the paper away and tossed it aside desperate to hide the evidence of his bodies failings unable to look at the mass of puckered scar tissue, a constant reminder of the failure that had damaged him, left him as damaged goods... a reject

Now the calm was gone and only anger simmered.

_________________________________________________________
He was diving, falling from the sky his pack mates spiraling around them, his body moving in motions he could not remember learning, controlled, body twisting in elegant spirals, eyes closing quickly against the rushing wind as he twisted.

It awoke as he opened them to check his trajectory, a low rumbling growl of a wolf enraged, a wolf terrified, a wolf where no wolf should be, aloft toppling through space. 

The wolf within was thrashing panicking struggling for control, to unleash the roaring jetpack and steady their pinwheeling descent, to pull them from their dive too early, the roar an unnecessary warning to the green savages that roared and stomped below. His arms were moving, his mind working frantically to control the sudden onslaught of tooth and claw as the wolf bit and scratched, frantic in its terror, desperate in its exertion and Iorek bit back a scream of anguish as pain shot across his temples.

The anger that simmered boiled and bit back lending him strength as he vented his frustration, the full force of his self loathing inward, hands closing round its scraggy throat fingers tearing at the fur around its bloodstained twisted maw. 

Out bastard, submit... I am the master of my own body.

The beast was forced to the ground and he pinned it, held it flat to the floor its panicked screeching cries becoming wimper as it was flattened, it will shattered.

He was still falling, his distraction bringing him close to the packleader, their trajectory right as they continued to tobble, the green blurs below becoming thick limbs and blunt brutish features, great cleavers and blades clutched between thick merciless fingers, the eyes widening as they looked to the heavens.

The jetpack grumbled into life the terrifying descent slowing even as they crashed to the ground amongst the orks upon the platform, the shockwave sending some to their knees even as the wolves tore in amongst them.

His blade in his hand, his pistol in the other, an ork struggling to rise took a pistol round through the skull at point blank range, unnatural black sludge an cranial matter exploding over the platform. A second met his blade as it wheeled, an arcing swing cutting through the thick sinews of it neck, sending its squat fat skull pinwheeling.

Vermundr was charging his sent smouldering, like charred meat, anger seeming to radiate from his very pour, the wolf within's hackles raising, balking at the scent.

"Filthy Orks! Jump into the magma for your stupidity and worthlessness! Plague of the Imperium! Jump in, for the wrath of the Space Wolves is upon you!" 

He was out of control,charging into the orks, forcing them towards the edge of the ramp and the mass before him seethed, driven towards the humans that teetered, stunned and stationary, the sudden appearance of the astartes within their midst. They lingered upon the edge of the precipice, caught in the glory of their foes destruction, unaware and unpretected, the orks funneled in their direction by Vermundr's impetuous rage.

No thought for any but himself, selfish and ignorant, this was the pup they choose to lead a wolf pack.

Iorek was moving, ducking a flashing cleaver he sliced low at the orks knees, the great blade slicing through bone and sinew and the great behemoth before him toppled unbalanced its howling cry of agony silenced by a stomp of his foot, even as he pushed on the crack of his bolt pistol sending an ork reeling as the explosive charge blew great chunks of flesh from its torso its gurgling laugh silenced by a second round the blow out its throat, a great kick sending the crumpling corpse back into its fellows, buying him the single moment of respite he needed amongst the scrambling mass

Standing before the humans he ejected the clip and slammed in another deep black ichor caked across his armor.

Breathlessly caught in the moment, the packs reject turned to face the foes bearing down upon them

"Know you are not alone hammers of the Emperor. The Wolves of Fenris are with you, now stand as men and reap his wrath upon your foes"


----------



## darkreever

Vermundr; Roaring your anger at the greenskins caught in your path, you take your axe in a two handed grip and force a trio of the aliens back and onto the decking. In the periphery of your vision you catch the sight of Keris fighting the nob; your former packmate makes great strides in using his jump pack to avoid the worst of the nob’s strength. But despite this, you do see him take a blow to the side that tosses him onto the ground. A commotion further along the decking calls your attention away from the fight though, as you see what looks like a dozen more orks led by another nob coming to join the fight. The second nob seems to have its sights set on Alrik and Krahl who have left a path of devastation in their wake, but the rest of that mob appears to be charging Heimdall and Ornsvald.

[You are now faced with a choice, you could either charge through the mob of orks before you and intercept the nob fighting Keris, potentially robbing him of his fight, or you could rally the guardsmen behind you, and other elements of your pack, to engage the incoming orks and prevent your packmates from being overrun. Do you choose your own aims and spite Keris, or do you trust your former packmate and rally these mortals to counter the greenskins? You have not failed to notice the effect Iorek’s words have had on the guardsmen already, but is he enough to fully rally them?]


 Iorek; You are not given much more time for words or thought as yet more orks leap at the chance for a true fight. Two more come at you, one chopping down with a crude axe that you block with your arm, before delivering a riposte with your own blade. The second ork never gets a chance to do anything, as it is smacked by half a dozen las-blasts and then speared by four bayonets. However you quickly notice that while your words had an effect on the closest soldiers to you, many more still have the look of defeat on their shoulders (after all, you cannot see their faces in this hazardous environment.) You hear a bellow that can only be a challenge, and see a second nob rushing towards Alrik and Krahl, or more likely the Firehawk. In its wake though, there are close to a dozen more orks entering the fray.

[For now though, there are ten more orks between you and any form of relative freedom. You will be able to deal with four more on your own, but what of Vermundr and the forty soldiers near you? Do you attempt to rally these men further, deal with the enemy on your own, or put this task on the shoulder of your own leader?]


 Alrik; A bellow of pure rage erupts over the sounds of death, and instinctively you know it is aimed purely at you. Turning to face the source of the noise, your sights lock on the running mass of a nob and it is coming for you. With a grin made lopsided by your mauled features, you tell Krahl to deal with the lesser enemies about you while you yourself go about the business of a real fight.

This creature, which normally towers over even your fellow pack-mates, is barely more than half a hand taller than you. In one arm it holds a wicked cleaver, and its other arm is wrapped in a chain with barbed hooks hanging off it.

[The two of you clash head on, your first move is to bring the top of your head into the nob’s face. Beyond that, the rest is left to you though this fight will not end right away; the nob can take a lot of punishment and deal it out in spades if you are not careful.]


 Krahl; A roar of pure rage pierces all other sounds around you, stopping the remaining orks in their tracks and calling the attention of Alrik to something new. Without much thought to the consequences, the Firehawk tells you to deal with the orks already here while he combats this new threat. Something easier said than done, but something you step up to with a howl of your own.

[There are still six orks left around here and they recover from the war-cry quickly enough. You will be able to dispatch two with relative ease, but the remaining four will not be so easy, though it shall be doable.]


 Heimdall; You twist around, looking for more orks to roast with your flamer, when something slams into your side and sends you sprawling. For the briefest of moments, your flamer falls from your grip and away from your person. But that is for but a moment, as you hit the decking and feel the weapon under your bulk. You lash out with a clenched fist, the closed gauntlet impacting on something solid before there is an audible crack of bone and the weight on you falls away.

[Before you have a chance to get back to your feet, you hear the pounding of boots on metal; tearing your hunting knife out, you ram the blade up and into the chest of a charging ork, stopping it dead and giving you a moment to recover. That is when you notice another dozen orks coming at you and Ornsvald; with the flamer you will be able to deal with another three of the greenskins, but do you have enough time to get it?]


 Ornsvald; Jumping back to your feet, you sidestep an over-arched chop from another ork and proceed to hit it with your elbow and send it over the platforms side. A raging bellow assaults your ears, and you see a brutish ork charging towards Alrik and Krahl, but more importantly would be the near twenty orks surrounding or charging towards a prone Heimdall. Without a moment to lose you barrel into the enemy, your chainsword lopping the head off an unsuspecting greenskin before a blow to the side of your head makes everything blur.

[You lash out wildly with your weapon in order to clear some space, but keep in mind that there are about eight orks in the immediate area. Your sight will return quickly, and in time for you to dispatch another ork before engaging with the others who will not be quite so easy.]


 Leidolf; Using your jump pack for added momentum you slam into the burna with the force of an enraged razor-ursid, all but shattering the greenskin as it bounces off the decking. It tries to rise up, but you smash a boot onto the orks chest, readying your pistol to finish the job. Before you get a chance to pull the trigger though, the third ork from before jumps at your and spoils your aim. It tackles you, bringing you both to the ground where it attempts to wrestle your own gun from your hand.

[Your chainsword is pinned between your bodies, which would normally be good if the teeth were not digging into your own armour. You could continue to fight the ork for control of the gun, or let go and have a hand free. Either way, you will be able to kill this ork, and find the burna dead from its wounds though it will be at that point in which pain registers along your thigh from the fire pike. There are three more orks near you, ignore the pain and deal with them to keep them off Keris.]


 Keris [Same as before, though as you combat this nob it does manage to land a hard blow to your side and throw you ten feet away. The hit will force you to a knee, but you will ignore that pain and return to the fight.]


----------



## Lord Ramo

Heimdall twisted around, trying to make sure that he didn’t get flanked whilst he was looking around for a target that he could roast alive. As he was twisting he felt something slam into his side, a xeno that had managed to take advantage of the fact that he was alone apart from one other Wolf who was fighting away whilst his flank was open. 

Heimdall snarled as he was thrown of his feet, feeling his flamer fall from his grip, something that he would have to worry about. Lucky for him, when he slammed into the concrete platform he could feel his flamer underneath him, though it wouldn’t be much use there. He could hear the xeno bearing down upon him and quickly grabbed at his hunting knife, twisting it free of its protective sheath.

Heimdall turned to stab the ork that was charging at him, the ork sinking onto his blade as he stabbed it in the chest, twisting the blade as he did so. He quickly moved his head out of the way of the falling cleaver, watching as the ork shook as it died. He felt a moment of respite before a roar as a dozen orks charged towards him, trying to take down a Space Wolf whilst he wasn’t on his feet.

Heimdall heaved the ork off of him, lying it down next to him and yanking his blade out. He had only seconds before they would be on top of him, and he grabbed at his flamer. He barely had time to get to his feet and turn to see the first three orks, the fastest orks about to bear down on him. “For the All-Father. For Russ!”

Heimdall roared as his flamer did likewise, the promethium burning into the orks, burning through their flesh, muscles, bones, everything. The first three orks dropped, burnt and burning husks as Heimdall stood over them his roar amplified by his helmet and coming out more metallic. He wished the he had his brother Leidolf at his side, he could use his anger and rage right now against the ork menance, but he was busy chasing after Keris.


----------



## Lord Commander Solus

Ornsvald stumbled a little as he found his footing. The Ork he had just slain fell to the ground, its body only just recognising its own death. The jump pack had undoubtedly saved Ornsvald from a nasty blow, but it would still take getting used to.

The Space Wolf reached for his helmet, mag-locked to his waist, and clamped it onto his gorget, the pressure-seal hissing as his power armour's data feed streamed into the rapidly appearing-HUD. The squad was split; Alrik and Krahl were facing off against a huge Ork, the noise of its roar assaulting his armour's receptive sensors. The roar continued, quieter, even after the beast had closed its mouth. Except the roar now came from behind...

Ornsvald whirled around, bringing up his chainsword on instinct. The instinct saved his life as the charging Ork's over-arched chop was deflected. Grunting, Ornsvald side-stepped the charge as the greenskin's momentum kept it running. The Ork turned around, charging more directly at Ornsvald. With the briefest snigger, the marine dodged again, before delivering a punishing backward elbow-strike, breaking bone even as the Ork was pushed over the edge of the platform by the hit. A howl of anguish swiftly turned into the hiss of melting flesh as the acidic surface beneath turned the greenskin into liquid slime.

The marine turned back to Heimdall, who had fallen to the floor. Ornsvald cursed as he realised he hadn't watched his brother's back, as a score of Orks descended upon the prone Blood Claw. Roaring praise to Russ, Ornsvald ignited his jump-pack and barrelled straight into one of the Orks nearing Hemidall, lopping off his head with a single sweep of his chainsword. The Space Wolf snarled as blood covered his already-saturated armour when he dimly registered in impact on the side of his head.

Ornsvald fell, his vision swimming as he reached wildly for his fallen chainsword; he had dropped it in the chaos. His gauntlet finally found purchase, and Ornsvald wrenched his chainblade into a guard position as he struggled to hi feet. His helmet and astartes physiology cleared his vision as another Ork came at him. Ornsvald despatched it quickly with three blasts from his Bolt Pistol, the muzzle flaring as it spat death into the xenos. 

Suddenly, a great gout of flame engulfed three more Orks; Ornsvald turned to see Heimdall, standing and roaring praise to the Allfather. Ornsvald sprinted forward and rejoined his brother, his gauntlet slapping the other marine's shoulder-guard to let him know he had returned. Eight of the dozen Orks still remained.

"What do you say, brother? Should we stop going easy on 'em?" grunted the Space Wolf, his helmet turning his voice into a metallic growl. Ornsvald revved his chainsword, emptying his pistol into the onrushing group before holstering it and meeting the charge, a warcry on his lips.

The bolt pistol fusillade had killed two of the Orks, mass-reactive shells pulping green flesh as they impacted on the Ork's skin. Six remained, however, and Ornsvald didn't have a chance to reload. Gripping his chainsword with both hands, the Space Wolf blocked an axe-swipe, then parried a second thrust as three of the Orks surrounded him. Another blow was narrowly avoided by a side-step, before one of the crude axes hit home. Ornsvald gritted his teeth as the savage strike impacted, cutting into his thigh as it penetrated his power armour.

A second impact followed the first, this time slamming straight into the Space Wolve's chestplate. The armour didn't crack, but the attack staggered Ornsvald, giving the Orks a chance to knock his chainsword from his hands. Snarling, the marine triggered his jump pack, blasting upwards from the trio of Orks. The greenskins looked up, dazed, as the power-armoured warrior came thundering back to earth, combat-knife drawn. The knife hit its target, tearing the feebly-sized brain out of one of the Orks. The other two staggered backwards, giving the Blood Claw enough time to grab his fallen chainblade, sheathing his knife as he re-adopted his two-handed posture.

"Hemidall, hit them now!" shouted Ornsvald, hoping the flamer-toting marine could hear him and could disentangle himself from the other trio of Orks, "My armour can withstand the blast, but they can't! Hit them before they get too close!"


----------



## Midge913

Time seemed to slow as the beast raged forward, slavering xeno rushing to meet berserk Astartes. Leidolf sneered as the beast lunged, crude weapon clutched in its fervent grip, this beast was nothing. It meant as little to him as a bit of slime stuck to the bottom of his ceramite boot. An obstacle nothing more, a barrier that stood in between him and Keris. He did not understand why Keris would stray from the pack. Deliberately putting himself outside the reach of aid should he need it. Leidolf thanked the All-Father that he had noticed his brother's divergence from the pack's course. Whatever disagreements they had, what ever divisions had grown between them, this was war. They would stand side by side as brothers. He would let Keris have is prize and Leidolf would revel in the slaughter that would find him in the middle of this green sea of xeno filth. 

He ran, blade to the side, bolt pistol lowered, in a parody of a lover running to greet a long lost companion, arms open wide. He saw the greenskin's confusion, a hint of hesitation flashing in its beady animal eyes. Closer, he must let it get closer. At the last second, just as the beast raised its weapon, its brutal intent clear on its snarling face, Leidolf dropped his shoulder and thumbed the activation tab for his jump pack. With a roar the boosters of his pack flared to life, propelling him forward. Leidolf's feet left the ground, his armored body becoming a speeding missile that impacted with the unfortunate ork with the ferocity and speed of a maddened Razor Ursid. A sickening crunch of bone echoed on the platform, the wet spray of blood flying from pierced lungs splattering his armor as the beast howled in pain. It tumbled, end over end, crashing to the ground, limbs bent at impossible angles, its spine actually protruding from several places in its lower back. Slowly, Leidolf approached, the beast's suffering bringing a smile of pure joy to his lips. He laughed as it feebly tried to rise, its broken arm crumpling under its dying weight. Flipping the decrepit creature over with the toe of his armored foot, Leidolf slammed his foot down into its chest, its ribcage shattering with an audible pop that sent waves of pleasure up Leidolf's spine. Leveling his bolt pistol, its gaping muzzle pointed directly at the beast's face, he snarled and began to depress the trigger. 

An roar from behind him brought his attention snapping to the side, barely in enough time to duck a massive swipe of a crude orkish cleaver. Leidolf cursed, chastising himself for losing focus and forgetting the enemy that had still been at his back. Before he could catch his balance, the thing once more barrelled into him, its thick muscled form bearing him to the ground under its weight. Warning lights and an ringing claxon went off inside his battle helm, his chainsword, still roaring had become pinned in between his body and that of the Ork, its whiring teeth unfortunately tearing into the chest piece of his battle plate. To make matters worse, the filthy scum was reaching for his bolt pistol, clawing at the armored gauntlet that still gripped the weapon.

Letting go of the hilt of his blade, gritting his teeth at the vibrations the roaring weapon was sending through his armored form, he tried punching the beast in the head. Despite the fact that his armored fist brought blood and the crunching of broken bone, the beast fought on, maddened in its attempt to disarm the Astartes. Changing tactics, Leidolf shifted his hand, his armored thumb digging into the Ork's eye socket, and as the blood and viscera flowed from the now ruined socket the Ork howled in pain. Its grip loosening slightly on Leidolf's wrist, he was able to turn the weapon just enough to line the muzzle up with the thing's head. He watched as the realization of its demise passed across its remaining eye, before he depressed the trigger, the explosion of the mass reactive round deafening this close to his ears. He could almost feel the blood and gore, the remainder of the beast's head flowing freely over the lenses of his battle helm, and pushing the dead xeno from on top him, he slowly stood, eyes scanning for the Burna-boy. Finding it dead, its wounds fatal, he quickly turned from it and almost lost his footing as his right leg buckled, pain shooting from a large rent in his power armor. It seemed that the Burna-boy had gotten lucky, its fire pike landing a blow to the outside of his thigh, searing through the ceramite and into his leg. Thankfully it had no managed to go so deep as to damage the bone. G

Gritting his teeth against the pain, Leidolf turned to orient himself once more on Keris' position, Leidolf found that only three orks barred his path. Blood covered and enraged, looking like an avatar of death itself, Leidolf rushed them, giving them no time to react to his charge. His bolt pitol barked, three reverberating roars, and the first beast's chest and left should disappeared in a splatter of gore, before he was upon them, a slight hobble in his rushing gait. His chainsword flicked out, seeking and finding the throat of the second beast, its head flapping backwards barely hanging by a strip of sinew and bone. The third, a slightly larger beast from the first two, brought its massive two-handed weapon to bear, striking out at the charging wolf with a ponderous swing, forcing Leidolf to skip to the side, his blade flashing down to rid the beast of its hands, the heavy weapon clattering to the deck before his bolt pistol barked once more, its headless body falling to ground to slump among the remains of its fellows. Finally his path was clear, the way to Keris' side open, and none to soon. He watched as the massive nob struck his brother heavily in the ribs, flinging Keris' several feet away from the place where their battle was taking place. Leidolf wasted no time, thumbing the activation tab of his jump pack, he shot over the heads of several approaching Orks, pointing himself in the direction he had seen Keris fall.


----------



## unxpekted22

Vermundr had put his empty pistol back on its mag-lock at his thigh; no time to reload. He was more formidable with his axe in both hands anyway, and though he would have liked to believe he didnt need that advantage right now, it was beginning to look that way. He used to the staff of the weapon to give him another millisecond of room, shoving three orks away from him. They stumbled over their inferior ankles, fell into their allies behind them and caused several more to falter. Though allies was a loose work for their camaraderie, as one of the orks he pushed back got its head chopped to shit by the frustrated beasts behind it; eyes and jawlines falling away from thick slabs of rusty metal blades. He helped the Orks in their endeavor with this, doing the same with his axe to another beside it, not hesitating to take advantage of his foes' weakness when it was presented, thanks to his rigorous training as an Astartes.

He saw, and heard, Iorek's rally. So, he stepped backward, gracefully chopping at the constant push of greenskins. A Head flew off and was crushed underfoot, gashes sprayed open in unarmored chests, and weapons were knocked aside.

Vermundr saw through the tide, Keris, still fighting the Nob and Leidolf still in support of him. On the other side of him a geyser of flame splashed into the enemy, Heimdall and Ornsvald. Further in the distance were Alrik and Krahl, his pack's two most formidable warriors in close combat. He heard the roar and saw the charge...they would have to fend for themselves. His faith in Alrik the Firehawk and Krahl the Glory Singer at this moment, was absolute. 

Still encased in his wolf-helm he blink clicked his vox network, opening his squad's channel as he continued to stave off the orks coming after him.

"_Leidolf, If Brother Keris is incapable of killing his target, do it for him, and quickly. I need my pack to regroup, which means you returning to my position sooner than later. Firehawk and GlorySinger, Russ be with you, slay the beast and return to me. I will have the path clear for you._"

He blocked one of his assailants weapons, grabbed the alien's wrist, pulled, and swung his axe clean through the bulky, muscly shoulder. He snatched the remaining flailing arm and brought the ork around into a single armed choke-hold, holding the ork in front of him as a momentary meat shield. Though this greenskin's real purpose would soon be a morale booster, he hoped at least. This is when he heard Ornsvald's cry to Heimdall, Vermundr cut in quickly, 

"No need for that Heimdall. The both of you, regroup at Iorek and I's position with the guardsmen. We must achieve what the orks don't have: organisation."

He had reached the line of guardsmen, turned to them and said through both his squad's vox channel and his helm's speaker, "Indeed Guardsmen, we stand with you! Those who fight in the light of the Emperor have nothing to fear from these savage beasts. They are weak!" he shouts, then through gritted teeth as he rips the ork's remaining arm away, "pathetic!-" ... "Garbage!" he says finally, throwing the Ork off the edge into the fuming lava below the station. "With us and the Emperor at your side you have nothing to fear. We clean up this garbage, thats all it is."

Vermundr, almost casually, moved beside the closest guardsmen, towering over the lad, and turned to face the orks once more, "Reform your lines! Take aim! Volleys! Wolves....fire at will and dispose of any that get to close."

Though at the moment Iorek was still the only one in proximity, he still spoke to his pack, hoping Ornsvald and Heimdall would have little trouble moving to his position and that Iorek would stay where he was.


----------



## Lord Commander Solus

Ornsvald grunted in frustration as Vermundr cut in, calling off any hopes of a flamer-strike. The two Orks which should have been roasted continued their charge, slamming into Ornsvald and knocking him to the ground. The marine gritted his teeth as a crude axe blow fell straight where the earlier one had penetrated his armour. The Space Wolf felt flesh parting before the axe, shearing the bone as it cut deep into his thigh. Ornsvald let loose a howl of anger, the sound converted into a daemonic roar of metallic noise by his helmet. The cacophony distracted the Orks for a brief moment as they clutched at their ears; Ornsvald took his chance.

A sweep of an astartes chainsword brought both Orks to their knees, their shins cut deep into by the whirring teeth of the chainblade. The Space Wolf brought himself painfully to his feet, his left leg bleeding profusely through the gash in his power armour, the dirty gleam of bone just visible beneath. Growling, Ornsvald brought his chainsword around twice again, each strike plucking the head from each of the Orks' shoulders. Ornsvald limped back towards where Vermundr had set up a column of guardsmen, still covered in blood and gore, and adding to it with his own superhuman life-fluids.

Ornsvald growled as he approached the pack-leader, "I know you were only being generous, giving me those two Orks to myself and overriding my request for support, but perhaps next time you might be inclined to give the guy without the flamer a break?" the marine pointed to his thigh, the bone still gleaming inside the power-armour breach. Ornsvald's super-human blood was trying its best to clot the wound, but the blood-vessels were at too high a pressure in the thick of combat to create a scab properly in an area with so many arteries and veins. Ornsvald could stand, and limp, but he was slow, and the loss of blood was going to make him even slower.

"Just tell me where you want me," grunted Ornsvald, slamming a fresh clip into his bolt pistol as he stood with the guardsmen, ready to fight off fresh waves of Orks.


----------



## unxpekted22

Vermundr's black wolf helm turned its red eyes and curled lips toward Ornsvald as he limped over to the line of guardsmen.

He could feel the hot breath building inside his helm for a moment as his choler rose like the fumes of magma all around the station. He had enough sense to move around the guardsmen, not wishing to interrupt and organization he may have helped achieve.

A loud metallic click from Ornsvald's fresh magazine slammed home, just before Vermundr's gauntlet slammed against the wolf's power armor as he reached out to grab the wolf and bring him face to face.

His throaty voice was dangerously low, "A break!? What are you, a child!? How in Russ's name the priests thought you fit for our ranks is unfathomable!"

He let go for a moment, turning to the advancing orks, and added his bolt pistol's heavy bark to the guardsmen fire as some of them starting to get too close.

He turned back to Ornsvald, "Are you still alive!? Are you still able to fight!? Were you able to fend off your enemies without dying? It Looks like it! So getting yourself killed and putting that burden on Heimdall wasn't the right fuggin' answer you dimwitted dog! Now take aim you silly puppy, you have much to learn still."

Vermundr resisted the urge to slam the blunt side of his battle axe into the wound on Ornsvald's leg to worsen the pain, but he didnt want his nick name getting the best of him. It would dictate strength if he could make it, not tyranny.

He took his place back amongst the guardsmen, now worried that some of them saw their infighting and had lost any gained morale because of it.


----------



## Serpion5

*Krahl*

Krahl wrenched his blade free from the twitching carcass before lifting it high to bring it down again. The struggling ork was cleaved almost in two and lay still as the young wolf sought his next target. The Firehawk was a short distance ahead, the brutality of his advance putting that of the orks themselves and even Krahl to shame. 

But maybe that was a good thing. _We are warriors. Not butchers._

A roar of orkoid hate deafened him for a few moments, causing even the surrounding greenskins to pause momentarily. Krahl turned to the source of the warcry and saw a huge nob leader barreling its fellows aside as it made for Alrik. Clearly the brute had decided Alrik to be the larger threat, and thus worth far more in terms of a challenge. 

Krahl laughed slightly as the Firehawk's words reached him. Alrik would step up to this challenge and he would do so with reckless enthusiasm much like Krahl had seen from him before. A brief flashback reminded Krahl of the ursid and his own incautious beginnings, but he put the thought from his head as the remaining orks, unwilling to interrupt their master's duel, set their sights on Krahl instead. The Blood Claw let out a howl of rage with his blade held high, daring the savages to take another step. 

Like fools they did, and Krahl was ready. A quick burst of bolter fire from his pistol downed the first ork in a mass of pulped gore and the second found itself impaled upon his blade. As the dying creature attempted to bring its huge axe down upon Krahl's head, he released the blade and stepped backwards. The swing missed, and Krahl leapt forth again. Planing one foot firmly on the ork's chest and his hand back upon the hilt of his sword he swiftly reclaimed his weapon. 

Two more charged at once, and for the briefest instant Krahl considered a retreat. The thought made him giggle slightly to himself before he charged forward, slamming into the creature to his left and stopping its momentum with the force of a brick wall. Its ally swung its crude weapon towards Krahl's back, sending another impact rocking through the wolf's armour that threw the first ork another step backwards. Krahl recovered from the jolt first and swung his blade down into the beast's face. He spun on the spot, blocking the other ork's followup swing with his tucked in forearm before following through and impaling the brute's neck on his blade. One more shot ended the life of the first ork who had just begun to rise again with one hand trying to hold its face together. 

He wanted to spare a glance to see how Alrik was faring, but another ork had closed in, this time raising its crude gun and loosing a burst of fire in Krahl's direction. The projectiles were pitifully inaccurate, making it easy for the Blood Claw to retaliate in kind. A single well placed shot was enough to scatter its brains to the wind. As it fell however, a stray shot successfully impacted the joint in Krahl's elbow armour, drawing a short howl of irritation before he numbed the pain and reaffirmed the grip on his blade. 

Something hit him from behind, causing sparks to appear at the edge of his vision and he fell forward onto the ground. His blade was lost from his hand as the muscle spasmed slightly with the earlier injury. 

_I hope none of the others saw that..._ He thought to himself as he rolled over in time to avoid another downward swing. He lashed out with a scissor kick, feeling orkoid bone break under the force of his shin and pushed himself upright. His adversary did likewise, fumbling on its ruined leg and falling forward. It too had seemingly lost its weapons in Krahl's attack. One bare green hand latched onto Krahl's collar armour, putting its weight on him while the other formed a fist that zoomed for the Blood Claw's head. Krahl raised his pistol arm up to block the punch, then immediately retaliated with a backswing that hammered the ork's oversized jaw that sent blood and teeth spraying across the concrete. Krahl didn't relent, allowing this brief moment of primal fury to run its course as he wielded his bolt pistol like a hammer. 

After a few short seconds, the ork was dead, all semblance of a skull had been mashed into a messy pulp and its corpse slid weightily off Krahl's armour. Taking this quick lull in the battle to recompose himself, Krahl hastily retrieved his combat blade from where it had landed and turned to see if Alrik was still alive...


----------



## dark angel

Krahl did not answer.

A resonant rumble sounded from Alrik’s throat. The Firehawk decided, as he ran a hand over his Chainsword, that he did not like the other Blood Claw. Alrik’s freehand clenched into a fist, internal mechanisms whining, beads of scarlet decorating his ice-blue gauntlet. There was something about Krahl’s sharp, gaunt face that needed rearranging - And Alrik vowed, with a harrowing smile - That, permitted both Wolves survived this encounter, he would enact that. 

Alrik’s face itched, almost unbearably, being so near magma bringing back memories of a ship’s heart - Memories that the Space Wolf would rather forget. He stopped himself from scratching; dark, empty eyes scanning the platform. Keris was tackling a hulking Ork, Iorek and Vermundr were rallying the disheveled ranks of Guardsmen, Heimdall was on his-

A bellow, like the sounds of glaciers colliding, sounded across the mining facility. A shiver ran along Alrik’s spine, recognizing the hate-filled challenge, a grin, made awkward by scar-contracture tugging at the corners of his mouth. The Blood Claw wheeled, eyes narrowing, pointing his Chainsword like a spear. 

Bounding across the deck, wearing motley armour of chain, plate and leather were a pack of Orks. At their head, flat-nosed, red-eyed, was a towering Nob. Its skin was the colour of moss, protected by a coat of leather that dangled down to large, boney knees. Steel plates were bolted in place, protecting the beast’s front. A necklace of human hands, in a various states of decomposition, dangled from a trunk-like neck. In one paw, the Xenos held a monstrous cleaver - Whilst a vicious, barbed chain swung from the other. 

‘Earn your worth,’ Alrik sneered at Krahl, marching forwards. ‘And I will grant you that brawl.’

The Nob grunted something, its subordinates peeling away, leaving Alrik and itself. 

Alrik launched forwards, swinging his head. There was an audible crunch, the Ork stepping back, blood gushing from a broken noise. A tremendous backhand, hammer-hard, struck Alrik’s cheek. He twisted, disorientated, an annoyed growl escaping his lips. There was no respite, however - The Ork’s cleaver cutting towards Alrik’s head, parried away at the last moment by Alrik’s own blade. The chain licked out, wrapping around Alrik’s forearm, spikes digging into ceramite. 

The Firehawk’s armour crackled, the machine spirit furious, astonished at the slight. With a yank, the Ork pulled Alrik closer, punching him again. The Space Marine’s head snapped back - Beginning to regret forgoing the use of his helm. His Chainsword lashed out, skittering across ramshackle armour, eliciting a mocking laugh from the Ork. Putrid breath washed over Alrik’s face, reeking of man-flesh and promethium. 

Alrik yanked back on the chain, his blade cutting through the air - Shattering the links with a screech. The follow-up strike cut drove between the Ork’s interlocking armour - Driving deep into its side. It mewled, scarlet eyes narrowing in pain. The Firehawk tore the blade free, red-mist filling the air as he did so.

‘Blood,’ He drawled, grinning voraciously. 

In fifteen seconds, an equal number of blows were traded between the pair. On the sixteenth second, the Ork lunged at him, and Alrik robbed the beast of a hand. Blood squirted, sluicing Alrik’s face and armour. On the seventeenth second, the Firehawk drove his blade through the Ork’s legs, sawing through skin, muscle and bone. It collapsed, roaring, still swinging the remains of its chain at the Space Marine. 

Alrik bereft it of that hand, as well. 

Torturously slow, Alrik let the Chainsword’s teeth gnaw through the Ork’s neck, in an explosion of viscera. When it was done, he bent low, gripping the thing’s mangy topknot, and lifted the head high for all to see.


----------



## Euphrati

The air tasted of the acidic richness of wood smoke and the underlying, lingering suggestion of frost upon rough-hewn stone.

His breath ghosted before him, caught for a moment in the faint light cast by the banked embers of the fire's heart. The waning, ruddy glow was the only illumination in the chilled darkness of the chamber; too weak for a human's eyes to perceive.

_The guttering light did not impede his vision. He had not been human for many years now._

His twinned heartbeats were a slow, pulsing rhythm in the cold silence of his thoughts as his focus tracked across the room to a deeper darkness enshrouded within the shadows. Crystal-blue eyes traced the ember's glow across the smooth curves of his battle plate, the absence of pack and company markings giving the armour a solemn cast like the shadow of a lone thunderwolf stalking within the heart of a storm. The left arm of the battle plate merged with the shadows around it- the black of Morkai's pelt, repainted by his own hand after he had stripped the other markings in a rite overseen by the old Wolf Priest. The light flared and the single Fenrisian rune of the Lone Hunter was briefly illuminated, the mark carved deeply into the back of the left gauntlet.

The right shoulderguard was a blank field of untouched black, but the left bore an image that drew an immeasurable sense of honour from Keris' soul when his eyes came to rest upon the curved plate. It was an icon as old as the geneseed he carried in his breast and the same image that adorned the shoulderplates of every warrior within the company of the Great Wolf Logan Grimnar and every Great Wolf that had come before him.

A rampant wolf, its jaws wide in a silent snarl, stood unwavering against the void-dark plate alongside a single golden star.

It was the mark of Russ himself- _the Wolf That Stalks Between Stars._

Keris let his eyes linger upon the very icon of his bloodshire as Odaajn's teachings ghosted through his thoughts. He knelt alone upon the cold stone of the floor before the ashes of the fire pit, clad only in the bodyglove he wore under his armour and the skin of the wolf he had taken by wits and blade alone. The last ten days had been a trial upon both his mind and soul as the elder Wolf Priest expressly forbid any contact with his former packbrothers before he had begun imparting his centuries of knowledge into the young Space Wolf. The Wolf Priest had come to him briefly not hours before the attack and Odaajn's parting words seemed to linger in the shadows as the sound of the elder Wolf's padding steps vanished from even keen the reaches of Keris' hearing.

_He holds naught but hate left for you in his heart._

The old Wolf's tone had been low, coarse with the thick accent of the tribes, as he spoke about Keris' former packleader and the path Keris must walk in the upcoming assault. He would fight at their sides, both as a test of his own strength of will and arm as well as those of Vermundr as a packleader. He was to tear the head from the orks while his brothers bled the horde dry. The fury of Russ tested against the greenskin tide. 

Odaajn had not waited for his acceptance. _He had not needed to._

Keris gave a low growl from deep within his chest, the sound breaking the stillness of his chamber like the first distant roll of thunder carried by the winds before a storm front. 

It was time.

-

The Thunderhawk shook like a lone skiff caught in high seas. 

Keris felt the wolf in his soul shift and bared his teeth in sympathetic discomfort. It was all he could do to keep from howling as the vibrations of the craft's journey rattled his very bones. The scents of the pack were thick, heavy in the sulfur-laced air. The taste of battle lust and kill-urge prickled at the back of his throat. They all needed this battle, needed the release.
Keris' armoured hand strayed to the new pouches at his hips, poultices and herbal tinctures lay within coupled by narcotics designed specifically for the gene-forged bodies of the Sons of Russ. As a Wolf Priest his role was a duality of life and death, the life of his wolfbrothers and the death of their foes. A brief, somber smile tugged at Keris' lips as his hand closed around the hilt of the black blade- Ime'Ta, the legacy of Kjarl gifted to him by Lord Blackmane. The scaled grip always felt slightly warm to the bare touch, as if the nature of the beast from which the hide had once belonged still lingered on in its memory.

Yet, over everything there was a separation, a hollowness that Keris could not deny. He stood by his wolfbrothers in the confines of the assault craft as it barreled through the greenskin's defenses, but he was no longer a part of the bond of the pack. It was a cold blade within his soul that cut deeper with each glance that was cast his way. Glacial eyes came to rest upon the armoured form of Vermundr, the packleader helmed and tense.

_Will you ever come to understand what I have given up for you, Helfang. The price I have paid willingly?_

Keris shifted again, riding the bucking deck of the Thunderhawk with the ease of one borne to conquer the violent seas of mother Fenris. The packs at his hips were not the only new addition to his armoured bulk, the weight of the jump pack strapped to his back was still a somewhat unfamiliar, yet surprisingly comfortable, presence.

_Though the thought of actually leaping from the mad dive of the Thunderhawk drew a dangerous growl from the beast in his mind_.

-

_The very air howled and Keris howled with it._

Hot, acridic ash whipped with a tempest's fury against his exposed face and Keris gave into the urge that had clawed at his thoughts since he had leapt into hell from the gaping maw of the Thunderhawk's ramp and given himself to the embrace of gravity. 

The stench of the greenskin horde was coupled with the burning tang of the volcanic world's nature; assaulting his senses as he plummeted towards the battle bellow like a gryfalcon stooping on a kill. The mass was a creature in its own right, a sea of writhing orkish flesh that fed upon war like a plague upon the lands. It pulsed, roared, and within its tides Keris marked the first of his oaths as his hands tightened around his chainsword and the grip of his bolt pistol.

Orks lived for battle, literally as well as physically. It was through brutal warfare that they gained strength and power in their ranks. As well as intelligence. The larger, stronger orks were inevitably looked to by those that they overshadowed for direction within the fighting. Remove that leadership, that direction, and those left would be prone to panic- breaking and squabbling within their own ranks. That was his oath- to shatter the moral of the greenskin tide while his brothers slaughtered their numbers.

Keris twisted at the last moment, the dragon-breath of his jump pack coiling around his legs as he slammed down into the mass crushing the lifeblood from the smaller orcs that were unlucky enough to have chosen that spot to stand.

A bulky, single-horned helm swiveled his way and Keris bared his teeth in challenge at the creature before him. The beast stood taller than the Firehawk's crested height and its massive, paint-daubed shoulders easily spanned the same measurement. The skin on its face and arms was a deep hue of mottled green. Gaudy emblems were daubed in thick blue and black paint upon the budging muscles of its arms and the hands that gripped the haft of a colossal axe bore the image of skulls that flexed under the nob's grip. A checkerboard pattern upon the left side of the beast's massive, tusked face just barely showed from beneath the steel helm.

It lower body was encased in bolted metal plating, twin spikes protruding from the kneecaps, and a tattered, bloodstained leather vest strained across the ork's shoulders. A cluster of grenades jangled at the creature's waiste alongside a bulky pistol and iron-shod cudgel. 

_Ice-blue eyes met and held the blood-shot, piggish glare across the haze of the battle and, for a long heartbeat, both Wolf and Ork shared a silent hatred._

With a bellow that shook the armour of its nearest kindred and sent globules of spit streaming from its lips the nob surged forward, swatting aside those lesser orks unfortunate enough not to scramble out of its path fast enough. Keris matched the warcry with a howl of his own, his grip tightening on the trigger of his chainsword to add its throaty roar to the battle's voice as he bounded forward to meet the charge.

The nob covered the distance between them with surprising speed, like an avalanche gaining force as it hurtled down a mountain's flank. The axe in its meaty grip came around in a wicked blow designed to smash aside the grey and black clad man-thing that dared to challenge such a mighty ork nob… only to slice through the blistering, smoking contrail of Keris' jump pack and into the side of a rather surprised looking fellow ork.

Keris twisted as he sprang upwards on a trail of flame, the teeth of his chainsword skittering along the side of the nob's helm with a shower a sparks but unable to find true purchase in the awkward strike. He cut the feed to the pack, allowing gravity to sink its fangs into him once again and dropped down into the ash-slick decking behind the massive ork. The nob roared in frustration, taking its axe in a two-handed grip to fling the limp body off into the melee as a man might cast away an unwanted catch. 

Keris had only enough time to throw himself into a roll as the backstroke of the axe threatened to remove his head from his shoulders. He lashed out as the brutal weapon passed, drawing a spray of orkish blood from a shallow wound to the nob's left forearm and a new pitch to the bellows of the nob's wrath. 

A weapon glanced against his right pauldron, scrapping paint and sending ceramite chips tumbling from the ablative material. Keris put a bolt round in the open maw of the ork who had struck out at him without ever looking in its direction, shouldering the body into the path of the nob as he turned to face the brute again. The axe came down in an overhead swing but, this time, Keris did not dodge the blow. 

Ime'Ta snarled as the teeth of the chainsword ground against the haft of the nob's axe and Keris gave a grunt of effort as swatting aside the impact rattled the teeth in his skull. His bolt pistol barked twice. The first shot ricocheting off of the nob's helm; the clang of impact that rang out over the battlefield muffling the sound of the second bolt imbedding into the flesh of the nob's shoulder. Keris snarled and tried to twist aside, but the nob's spiked kneeplate crashed into his side like the kick of an enraged bull konungur.

His armour had taken the brunt of the impact, but the impact still drove the breath from Keris' enhanced lungs and sent him to a knee as the nob staggered over him; still reeling from the ringing blow to its helm and the bloody mess that the bolt round had made of its shoulder. Keris started to rise but paused as something caught his eye. He snarled as Vermundr's voice carrying over the vox in his ear even as his hand left hand moved to his hip.

'See to your own pack and oaths, Helfang. *I will see to mine*!'

Flames exploded around him as Keris ignited his jump pack to full force, sending him smashing into the nob for a moment before rocketing past the ork's bulk and up into the open air above the battlefield. He twisted and cut the flames to come down in a crouch across the cleared area the greenskin mass had given over to his fight with the nob.

Keris gave a viciously feral grin, a wolf that had used cunning to force a greater prey to the edge of an abyss, his features flecked in the blood of the nob and the ash of the world around him as held out his clenched left fist to uncurl the fingers; letting the crude silver pins that lay within drop onto the riveted deckplates at his feet.


----------



## darkreever

Keris; The nob twists around, following your movement and attempting to reach out for you but ultimately failing. When you let the grenade pins fall from your hand, the greenskins realizes to late the import of your actions. With a bellow of rage, the giant ork moves one massive hand to tear at the grenades on its body, but that is the moment they explode. The result is a great ball of flame and smoke, blackening the ground for half a dozen meters and sending a spray of gore and shrapnel harmlessly across your armoured form. Though the kill is a magnificent one, you do not allow it to shroud all of your thoughts and quickly look for another target; only to find that Leidolf has taken care of the nearest threats.

Keris, Alrik, Heimdall, Leidolf, Krahl, Hrodgeir; With the deaths of the orks nearest you, you fall back to the position of Vermundr, Iorek, Ornsvald, and the remaining soldiers. In truth, you really need not have; in the wake of your descent and fighting, of the xenos mobs there are barely more than a handful of wounded greenskins remaining and between your pistols and the lasguns of the soldiers, that does not remain a truth for very long.


 All; Renewed by the words of Vermundr and Iorek, and goaded on by individuals who could only be officers, the soldiers form into neat teams and concentrate fire on a single ork. It is an impressive sight for all of you, where moments before these men were on the verge of death, before you stand people worthy of the armour they wear and weapons they wield. As battle dies down you get a true look at this landing to see what it truly is. Amidst the blood and bodies you can make out lines and marking in the stone and metal ground which would signify a landing pad. It is strange that these soldiers would have fallen back to this point, what with there being no aircraft touched down or in the surrounding air (not that they would likely have lasted for long, what with the anti-aircraft positions.)


 Vermundr; One of the soldiers approaches the pack leader, his demeanor predatory and wary for any more trouble. Before saying anything though, the man turns his attention to his own, speaking to them through the short range vox system of his hazardous environment helmet and sending off fifteen soldiers in five man teams to examine the perimeter further into the facility. There is merit in this, and you send everyone, save Keris, to augment the strength of those teams. Keris remains with you, both because you have no authority to tell him otherwise and, because despite your feelings, there is no doubting his instincts.

 Vermundr and Keris; _“My lords,”_ the officer begins, pounded a covered fist against the chest of his flak vest, _“without you, we would all be lost. But we cannot remain here for long; we must press on and stop the orks from reaching the facility core.”_ You halt him from saying anything further, there are things you need to know first.

 [I actually must apologize for ending this part here, more was intended but it either requires a great deal of assumption by me or to stop and speak with both of you for questions to be asked and answered as I am sure you have some for this man. Some things to consider: what is he talking about? Who is this man and the soldiers he leads, and why are they here where there is nothing? What is his working knowledge of the facility?]


Alrik and Ornsvald; To, perhaps, the younger wolfs dismay it is with Alrik that he is joined in patrolling the perimeter. The Firehawk seemingly ignoring the soldiers and advancing to a point beyond the landing, despite the sulfur and the distant sounds of fighting, he can smell new blood in the air. Ornsvald and the soldiers follow the larger Space Wolf, the damage to his leg not being nearly as bad as he had thought and the wound itself clotting over.

[Following Alriks lead, you both spot a group of seven orks finishing the grisly work of butchering a number of soldiers. They had obviously been drawn by the sound of fighting and had only not come to the landing by chancing upon these unfortunates. These orks have not spotted you, since you seven are currently hidden by outcroppings of pipe. You could engage them, likely taking them all out without any trouble, but there is no telling if they are the only ones here and if the sounds of that fighting might not attract more attention.]


Leidolf and Heimdall; Ignoring the boasting swagger of Alrik and Ornsvald following in the Firehawks wake, you travel along the center of the far edge of the platform. The soldiers dart from point to point, metal crates of deep mined minerals and equipment, taking up overlapping positions to cover one another. You move with an air of caution, but your own bodies and training giving you a lack for their need of cover and level of caution. This area appears completely deserted of any life, something you find strange considering the fighting which had been going on before, and it is not long before you come upon a raised catwalk going further into the facility.

[The catwalk gives a commanding view of the surrounding area, including the potential location of the anti-aircraft points. Going up there would leave any of the soldiers horribly exposed, do you have one of them do it anyway or have one of you go up instead?]


 Krahl, Hrodgeir and Iorek; Moving in after one of the three teams, you make a sweep of a blockhouse at the left-most edge. Within the plascrete structure you can see the bodies of people within, the interior blackened by the detonation of a grenade. The soldiers avoid the grisly sight, moving with precision to an auxiliary stairwell leading down into the facility.

[Before the soldiers proceed any further, you hear the sound of incoming foot-falls from below and move to intervene. You do not know who or what is approaching, but there is every possibility that they are hostile. The real question is, do you wait out here for them to come to you, or risk venturing down and take a fight to them?]


----------



## Lord Commander Solus

Ornsvald grumbled at his chastising from Vermundr, systematically shooting down remaining Orks. Now that he had a chance to stand still a little, and he was putting less strain on his injured leg, the blood started clotting, sealing up the wound quickly. Ornsvald was still amazed by his own astartes physiology from time to time, and this was one of those moments. Only scant minutes earlier his left leg had been shorn away almost to the bone, with blood pouring in a voracious torrent. Now the flesh had re-knitted itself, the blood-flow halting and the torn muscle rebuilding. His leg was still exposed along the thigh, as his armour couldn't fix itself like his flesh could, but he was in a much better state than before.

The last of the Orks were being finished off. Ornsvald grunted as the guardsmen, previously an incoherent rabble, finally started pulling their weight. He finished off his clip, reloaded, and then holstered his pistol, mag-locking his chainsword to his side as the fighting died down. The landing platform was thick with bodies and gore, but Ornsvald could see the logic in choosing to fall back here. On the platform, the area was open, with little cover to hide behind. Orks would have been mown down as they approached, if the men had held, and with their backs to the wall the guardsmen may even have fought harder. Clearly they had been outnumbered too heavily to fight back, but it was a sound tactical choice in Ornsvald's mind. Much better to choose an open area, where reinforcements may arrive, than deep inside the twisting corridors and claustrophobic chambers of the complex, where close-combat troops such as Orks had the advantage. And reinforcements had come, after all: the Wolves of Russ would not have saved these men if they had made their final stand deep inside the station.

The marines were split up to accompany small teams of five guardsmen; a pair of Wolves per team. Ornsvald and Alrik were bracketed as one group, and so Ornsvald approached the intemperate warrior as the soldiers prepared to move out.

"Brother," rumbled Ornsvald, raising a comradely hand for the other Wolf to shake or leave as he saw fit. Regardless of the outcome, Ornsvald continued "You are the more senior of us two, so I will not presume to take the lead. Shall we?" Ornsvald indicated as the soldiers had reloaded and cleaned themselves up a bit, ready to head out on patrol. Ornsvald followed behind Alrik but just ahead of the guardsmen, who nervously spun their rifles around at every *creak* the station made.

As the group approached some piping, Ornsvald's helmet receptors picked up a sound. Finding the source of the noise, Ornsvald turned and violently motioned for the guardsmen to move down behind the pipes, taking cover and making sure to remain hidden. A group of Orks were finishing off a handful of guardsmen caught just around the pipes, but Ornsvald couldn't tell if more were in the area.

Ornsvald opened up a vox-link to Alrik, hoping the Wolf would at least entertain the idea of a plan rather than charging headlong at the enemy. 

"Brother, I am sure you have seen it; Orks, ahead. We can't just leave them, but we don't know how many others are near," Ornsvald turned and looked at the guardsmen behind him. Risking all their lives to save hopelessly outnumbered guardsmen would be foolish if they weren't effective in execution of Ornsvald's idea. "I will follow your lead, but if you will hear it I have a plan. Instead of a frontal-assault, which may cause nearby Orks to be alerted and start another full-on battle, I suggest something subtler. We send one guardsman in, as bait, as it were, to fire on the Orks and then flee back around this piping," Ornsvald pointed to the piping the group was huddled behind as he said this. "The Orks, seeing only a sole-guardsmen, won't think to call for more backup, and as they are mentally-deficient xenos will hopefully come running straight through here. Then, when they are too far away to call for help from any other Orks, we hit them hard when they come round this piping. Two volleys of gunfire from the guardsmen before we charge and finish them off in combat," Ornsvald took a quick look over the pipe; the Orks were still there, and the guardsmen wouldn't last much longer.

"What do you say, Brother?"


----------



## deathbringer

The shambling ranks of disheveled souls had morphed into something harder, meaner, a rigid regiment of raised weapons, flares of deep red light bursting open ork torsos in disciplined volleys. The others fell back at their leisure, moving to form a battle line around the huddle, a few aimless bolt shells flying to thin the fleeing orks as they scrambled away, massive limbs ungainly in their terrified stampede.

Iorek spat, the bitter taste of his situation emerging in petulance even as he stooped cleaning his blade upon the cloth of a fallen greenskin, watching with ill disguised contempt as the shaken leader of the bedraggled bunch addressed Vermundr and Keris with tremulous words of thanks.

There would have been no rally, no salvation if not for him, the pair had been too caught up in thoughts of death and glory, some innate insecurity leading to the packleader's desperate attempt to out do the new priest.

He dismissed the thought with a low rolling growl even as he strode away from the group desperate to avert his bitter eyes from the scene.
_________________________________________________
He had been paired with two pups and 5 humans in an attempt to sweep the compound of the filth that infested it, his only regret he had not been paired with the flamer, instead placed in the company of the one most likely to push him onto a choppa in his hope to gain more glory.

The guardsman seemed ill at ease, leading a meandering path through corpses with eyes averted from the horror of war, young boys, or old mean who had lead peaceful watches, he could not tell.

Nonetheless the led them to a stairwell, a hole in the ground the top steps melding away into the darkness of the depths, the menace of the trip down confounded by the sound of heavy footfalls below.

On the edge of the steps he tasted the scent desperate for an indicator, the wolf within stock still as he tasted the air, only able to catch processed air on the tip of his tongue and he took a step back, the barest hint of concern in his eyes.

He wanted to go down into the darkness, to hunt as animals to seek whatever pray lingered in the tunnels, to tear out its throat and bring back its steaming carcass, yet it was not all wolves here... who knew what they would find below the surface, what conditions... what enemies, what horrors?

A quick glance at the stairwell formed his plan, fishing out his pistol he switched it to full auto before hissing to the guardsman around him, his mantle self assured as he assumed control, perhaps it was seniority, perhaps jealous or a desire to prove himself, nonetheless he spoke first turning to native Fenrisian as he addressed his brothers.

"My soul longs to hunt through the darkness with bloodied blade drawn yet we are not alone Sons of Russ and enough human blood has stained the soil today."

He gave a little glance towards the blackened stain of a grenade blast punctuated by fragmented limbs 

"And I will not have more on my watch."

He switched to low gothic his voice calm as he addressed the guardsman

"Surround the stairwell, 3 behind and one on either side. Fire on my command, we will purge any that oppose the will of the Emperor"

He turned back to the pups with a small smile, dropping to one knee at the head of the stairs as he looked upon them. They needed a chance to flourish to spread their wings and understand that they were a part of this pack, a trus... maybe not but accepted part of the claw.

His single eye was boring deep into Krahl the weight of his instruction heavy, a request for sense, to prove that he could work as part of a team, not merely hunt for further glory.

Could he resist the urge to fight them himself and do his duty, to draw them upon the guardsman's weapons rather than stay and hunt the teeth Alrik so keenly craved.

His single eyes closed for a second before he fixed upon both of them with a low hiss

"Be they friend or foe bring them into the Allfather's light."

The wolf within gave a disparaging snarl.... weak.


----------



## Angel Encarmine

Sniffing the air, Hrodgeir could smell the fear radiating from the group of guardsmen that accompanied him and his fellow Wolves on their sweep of the blockhouse. As he turned his head to look at his fellow Wolves, one of the guardsmen stumbled into him being stopped cold by his armor. He growled menacingly, the not fully restrained wolf within raging at the man who had dared to bump into one of the chosen of Russ. Watching the guardsman back away slowly and rejoin his comrades, Hrodgeir clenched his fist around his chainsword. He hated being paired with these scared little men, and was insulted that their skills were not thought of as adequate to take whatever was thrown at them. 

Before he could continue his train of thought, they arrived at a stairwell. He could smell the blood of the corpses around them, but this stairwell smelled much worse. Snarling, it took all of his restraint not to charge into the darkness howling like an animal on the hunt. He could almost picture the muzzle flash of his pistol in the darkness, the sound of his chainsword growling low as it tore through flesh and bone. Words from Iorek in their native tongue snapped him from these thoughts. 

_"My soul longs to hunt through the darkness with bloodied blade drawn yet we are not alone Sons of Russ and enough human blood has stained the soil today. And I will not have more on my watch."_ 

_" I was not chosen by the Wolf Priest to babysit these whelps "_ Hrodgeir spat in Fenrisian, jutting his jaw out at the guardsmen who were even now following Iorek's orders.

_" If this plan of yours does not work brother, then we hunt."_ he snarled, thumbing the activation rune of his chainsword. Deep down, Hrodgeir knew he would defer to the orders of Iorek Ghostwolf, simply because he was older and had been given a title. Although he would listen to the older wolf, It didn't necessarily mean he would follow everything he said.....


----------



## Midge913

Leidolf's breath was coming rapidly, whether from exertion or pleasure, he could not be sure. Thick ork blood, black and oily, dripped from the now still teeth of his chainblade, the sound of it striking the deck plating at his feet thunderous, beautiful. All around him, the still forms of both imperial soldiers and dead xenos, those nearest bearing wounds from his bolt pistol, their bodies falling, death coming to them before their corpse hit the ground, or dismembered by his blade. He had lost count of how many had come against him, how many he had held at bay while Keris had finished his bout with the Nob. 

Leidolf almost snarled at his brother, his anger at the man raging to the fore now that the battle was ended. Even as Keris scanned his surroundings, head twisting from side to side to find a new foe, Leidolf was walking from him, turning his back on him before Keris could speak. Leidolf refused to add to the tension that hummed between the members of the pack and despite Keris' choices, Leidolf still considered him a brother. It was best to say nothing at all. His back rigid, his footsteps heavy, he made his way back to the central platform, picking his way through the bodies, silencing any xenos he found still living with his combat knife. 

As he made his way toward Vermundr and the rest of the Claw, he reflected on the fact that the guardsmen, so beleagured when the Sons of Russ had arrived, had found new life in the presence of the astartes. He did not know what had transpired on between the soldiers and his brothers, but what ever had been said seemed to spur them onward. Already Officers were shouting orders, rallying their troops into a cohesive line, one able to deal with the remaining threats. This rag tag group of men, began to work in concert, training their concentrated fire power on one or two orks at a time, bringing down the xenos with an efficiency that Leidolf had previously thought them incapable of. 

As the pack began to congregate, Leidolf watched as one of the guard officers began to seperate the Guardsmen into 5 man kill teams, sending them off with orders to examine the facility's perimeter. Vermundr wasted no time in sending members of the claw off with each of the groups, a prudent decision in Leidolf's opinion. Despite the fact that the soldiers seemed to have come to their senses, gazes sharp and backs straight, he did not think that it would take much to rattle their new found composure. Astartes in their midst would help stiffen their resolve. Leidolf started off with the group that he had been pointed toward, pleased to see that Heimdall joined him. Having his close friend, not to mention his flamer, at his back was much more comfortable to him. 

Slowly removing his battle helm and locking to the clip on his belt, Leidolf tested the air with his nose. The metallic tang of blood, the overwhelming smell of charred flesh, and the sulferous odor billowing off the surface of the molten lake below mixed together, a cloying scent that almost drowned out the pungent filty scent of the orks themselves. As his eyes scanned the platform his gaze unwittingly fell on the forms of Keris and Vermundr, standing side by side yet miles apart, and the question flew unbidden from his lips, "When did it come to this, dislike bordering on hatred between those two?"

The lenses of Heimdall's battle helm turned slightly in the direction of the Packleader before he answered, his voice metallic and tinny as it came through the grill of his helm, "Jealousy brother is an ugly thing. Since our our return to the chapter things have seemingly been wrong with those two. It does not help Keris' decision to leave the pack either." As if his brother could sense his discomfort with the situation, Heimdall placed an armored hand on Leidolf's shoulder, the grating of ceramite against ceramite, punctuating the gesture, "We will perservere brother, the pack will. We have to in the Allfather's name.

A grunt, somewhere between exhasperation and agreement, was all Leidolf could muster for a moment, his gaze spanning the platform, taking in the other Wolves of his pack, giants standing in the midst of the guardsmen they accompanied, his gaze finally coming to rest on Ornsvald and Alrik. He shrugged his shoulders, trying to shake the uneasy feeling that had started to itch between his shoulder blades. "Perhaps we will perservere, but to what end? Constant infighting? Being at each other's throats like pups fighting over mother's milk?" He paused, his lips pressed together, grim thoughts passing through his mind, but he was unable to bring himself to voice them. He sighed," It is not befitting the Sons of Russ."

Heimdall fixed his gaze on his brother, the lenses of his helm masking any emotion that would have shown on his face, "We agree on this brother, hopefully things will get better in time." Hefting his flamer in one hand, as if to remind Leidolf of their purpose on this world,"For now though we have xenos to hunt."

A smile finally crossing his face, Leidolf felt his spirits lighten, he slapped Heimdall on the shoulder, "Aye brother, that we do."

Watching as the Guardsman around them ducked from rock to rubble, Leidolf grinned inwardly. So fearful they were, these small men. He felt none of that fear, his training, his alteration, all sending such thoughts into obscurity in the rear of his mind. He walked proudly in the open, Heimdall at his side, back straight, eyes darting left to right, scanning for threats. It was the lack of threats that began to bother him.

This area, seconds ago was the site of a ferocious battle, but now nothing seemed to be lurking in the shadows. There were no signs of retreating orks, or that the beasts were lying in ambush. "Something puts my hackles on edge about this place Heimdall. It is too quiet, deviod of life. Something is amiss."

His brother, the set of his shoulders betraying his wariness nodded, "Indeed brother, best be on our guard. Evern after their revival I don't know how effective the guard will be. Best rely on ourselves for the moment. Let's take point."

Nodding in agreement, Leidolf turned to the guardsmen following them, "Take cove. We are going to go higher up to see if that vantage allows us to see more of the surrounding area." The one that seemed to be in charge, nodded before passing orders to his fellows, a salute, fist to heart, his only response. 

His hand stroking the grip of his bolt pistol, to his fingers it felt as if it were vibrating, waiting in anticipation for a fight that may or may not be yet to come, Leidolf turned to follow Heimdall up to the catwalk.


----------



## Serpion5

*Krahl*

The orks here were broken, Alrik had been victorious in his challenge and only a scant few of the greenskins still lived in this vicinity. The wolves had begun to move back towards the pack leader's position and Krahl followed suit, adding the fire of his bolt pistol to the wight of his brothers and the guardsmen's lasgun fire as he moved. The immediate confrontation was over, giving the Allfather's soldiers time to recompose themselves and continue the hunt. 

Krahl kept a short distance, keeping alert and allowing Vermundr to speak with the group of human soldiers who had approached him. Officers by their garb, and they seemed to have regained their courage at the sight of the Sons of Russ among them. Following what was said between them, they organized their remaining troops and several small squads were dispatched to continue to search. Vermundr, perhaps seeing wisdom in this course or perhaps not trusting the humans to be capable alone, divided the pack into small groups to accompany these men. 

- - -

It was with the similarly young Hrodgeir and the older Blood Claw Iorek that Krahl had been paired, neither of whom he had fought directly alongside at any great length just yet. Krahl remembered their sparring match back aboard the _Hunrodr_ and recalled the tactical nature of the wolf's fighting style. He remembered it well, despite all of Krahl's own speed and power, Iroek had won by outwitting his younger opponent. 

The thought brought a curl to Krahl's lip as they followed the squad they had been assigned to guard. The squad leader brought them to a stairwell near the leftmost blockhouse. There were bodies within, scorched and blackened like the walls around them by the detonation of a grenade. The guardsmen avoided the sight, their leader instead directing them towards the stairwell. Before anyone moved further, Iorek spoke up, speaking in native Fenrisian.

*'My soul longs to hunt through the darkness with bloodied blade drawn. Yet we are not alone Sons of Russ, and enough human blood has stained the soil today.'* He glanced at the scorched body parts plastered to the walls before finishing. *'And I will not have more on my watch.'* 

His single eye seemed to bore into Krahl as he spoke. He relayed swift instructions in low gothic, prompting the guardsmen to take up positions surrounding the stairwell with three behind and one on either side. Iorek knelt for a moment at the base of the well, before shifting his eye to Krahl. *'Be they friend or foe bring them into the Allfather's light.'*

Krahl's own thoughts were interrupted as Hrodgeir responded to the erstwhile leader's request. *'I was not chosen by the Wolf Priest to babysit these whelps.'* He spat. *'If this plan of yours does not work brother, then we hunt.'* 

Krahl kept his thoughts to himself. Iorek had looked at him as though he was still the impetuous fool that had almost gotten Alrik killed on the icy plains of Fenris. It seemed that the first impression had stuck fast and the young Blood Claw still had a ways to go before he could expect any semblance of real respect. 

'You know best, Brother.' Krahl said, lowering his stance from aggressive to neutral. His weapons were at his side now, not openly hostile but still easily in reach should they be needed. 'Give the word, and I'll follow.' He shifted his gazes between his two packmates before turning to give what he hoped was a reassuring look to the humans at their side.


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## dark angel

Alrik had always been a warrior.

He knew no-other life. Since boyhood, in the longhouses of the Firehawks, where he had aped the gait of his father - Much to the amusement of his clansmen - Alrik had sought but one thing; the call of arms. Battle - The screams of the dying, the acrid stench of blood, the ache of his muscles - Was, to the Space Wolf, what music was to poets. It was exciting, beautiful, his purpose. He would live and he would die by the sword, kill until killed, undoing the weak and worthless in the name of the Allfather. 

The skirmish - Alrik detested the thought of calling it a ‘battle,’ - Was over. The Guardsmen had found their spines, correlating together and forming small, maneuverable fire-teams, precise, volleyed las-fire eliminating the Orkoids - One at a time. Alrik watched them curiously, brow arched, lips pursed. These were fearful men. Fear was a mind-killer, immobilizing men, and yet at the same time, it drove them into feats of brilliance. For unmodified men, in lackluster body-armour, these Guardsmen performed spectacularly.

‘An army of sows,’ He muttered, in his native Fenrisian, as he watched them go about their duty. ‘Led by lions.’ 

The Space Wolves gathered now, slathered in blood, wild-eyed and slack-jawed. Alrik was trembling, his system flooded with combat-stimulants, pain-nullifiers and performance-enhancers. His twinned hearts raced. From his hand, dangling by greasy hair, was the Nob’s head. Fat, red droplets pattered from the Xeno’s torn throat. A brittle laugh - Like the rattling of bones - Escaped Alrik’s lips. Dismissively, he dropped the head, watching it bounce and roll, before crushing it beneath the heel of his boot with an audible crack.

‘Well,’ He spoke, to no-one in particular, examining the corpse-ridden deck. ‘It did not end _too _badly.’ 

Once again, Alrik found his attention drawn to the Guardsmen, as an officer - His rank indistinguishable upon his uniform - Divided them into search-and-destroy units. Vermundr soon went to work, assigning Packmates to each of the three teams - Alrik and Ornsvald paired together as one. 

The younger Wolf extended his hand, and for a moment, Alrik considered taking it. Ornsvald’s arm hung heavily in the air - Extended in a warrior’s-grip. The Firehawk’s lips peeled back, grinning monstrously, and pushed passed his fellow Blood Claw. 

He was _hunting_. 

He knew the pungent, unwashed scent of the Orks. He knew that the metallic tang accompanying it was blood. Human blood, rich and freshly spilt.

Somewhere, upon the station, men were dying. 

Further and further they delved, led by Alrik’s massive red-washed bulk. The Firehawk’s scar-clad face was screwed into a glare, nostrils flaring, following the trail. Within moments, they had found their targets.

Seven Orks, each a odiferous, hairless ape, were slaughtering a group of Guardsmen. Alrik’s first urge - Driven for the lust of combat - Was to get amongst them and enact vengeance for their existence. He drew his Chainsword, leaning heavily upon the pommel, eyes becoming slits of obsidian. He, Ornsvald and the Guardsmen were sheltered behind a outcropping of pipes, watching the bloody spectacle. 

Ornsvald spoke, now. His tone was hushed, somewhat pleading, and his plan was steadfast. Alrik listened, something that he wasn’t particularly fond of doing. When Ornsvald was done, Alrik nodded, unclasping his bear-faced helm from his hip, and lowering it down over his head. 

‘Negative,’ Alrik’s voice issued as a hollow whisper. The clipped, accentuated tones of Fenrisian - More akin to an animal’s snarling, filled the air. ‘Fighting fairly -’ The smile was audible. ‘- Will get you killed. We are of equal numbers. If we commit, we may lose. I, Ornsvald, do not entertain the prospect of defeat. I will not - Cannot - Use one of these men,’ He tilted his helm towards the Guardsmen. ‘As bait. It is craven. If you are set upon such a plan, _you _attract their attention..’ 

There was a moment of silence.

‘There may be hundreds of Orks in the sub-levels. We are but seven. If we attempt this and draw more attention, victory shall be.. _Difficult_,’ He allowed a mirthless laugh. ‘We should inform Vermundr of our findings before proceeding, - His word,' A bitter grunt sounded dimly through Alrik's helm. 'Is _absolute_.’


----------



## unxpekted22

_“without you, we would all be lost. But we cannot remain here for long; we must press on and stop the orks from reaching the facility core."_

The officer was saying to Vermundr, who quickly cut him off with his halting palm rising to the occasion and a grunt of on order. He took a moment to reach both hands to his wolf helm and slowly pull it off over his head. Now that the initial battle was over and he needed to speak to this man, he put it back at its appropriate location at his hip. 

The environment struck out to slap his senses, finally smelling the sulfur and feeling the heat of the air. His nose crinkled a few times getting used to it.

His eyes peered and flickered over the officer's uniform but no symbol stuck out to him as any recognizable form of authority or allegiance. 

"Don't tell me what I need to do," started the pack leader, "My priority is the anti-air guns. If you can convince me that the Orks reaching the core of this facility is more important... than perhaps my Wolves and I will accompany you further. Why don't you start with your name, rank, and reason for being here in the first place?"

He looked over his shoulder at the wolf priest who so far had remained silent. He scoffed silently, giving a slight shrug and looked back to the officer.


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## Lord Ramo

Heimdall listened as his pack leader finally regained his sense and stopped trying to outdo the new wolf priest. Heimdall could hear Iorek bellowing the guardsman back into lines to help them form a cohesive unit once more, something that the pack leader should have been doing. Quickly though Vermundr began to try and rouse the guard, taking over from Iorek.

Heimdall kept his attention's focus on the orks, using his flamer to keep them at bay as the two wolves fell back to the Imperial Guard position, and the place where Vermundr was re-gathering the pack. Ornsvald made an ill-timed remark to the pack leader as he ordered them to return, not allowing Heimdall time to kill the orks that had been pressing on to Ornsvald.

In return the pack leader snapped again, barking at Ornsvald madly, Heimdall staying close just in case the pack leader forgot himself again and began to beat Ornsvald. Lucky for him he only got a tap from his ax on his wound and Heimdall could relax, glad that he didn't have to drag his pack leader off of the young wolf and inevitably get hurt himself in the process.

He nodded as he walked past the pack leader, anchoring himself on the side of the Imperial Guards formation. One flank had open air and lava and the other had a flame toting marine. This allowed him to ensure that the formation didn't get overrun from the flank by an ork attack, though he did doubt that it would anyway as the xeno's weren't known for their intelligence.

Soon the xeno were defeated, though the objectives still stood, take out the anti-air turrets. The guard had once again regrouped and reorganized so know they could continue the fight in the All-Father's name. Heimdall was impressed on how they had managed to go from one moment being almost overrun and desperately fighting for their lives to becoming effective as a fighting force, only due to the presence of the Wolf pack.

He was sure that if the Space Wolves hadn't arrived to eradicate these vermin xeno then these guardsmen would be doomed and would have all died either up here due to a xeno ax, or would have plummeted to their death. Curious how they could change from one moment to the next. Though they hadn't exactly proved too effective, most of the work being done by the Wolves.

Vermundr told Heimdall and Leidolf to go with a group of guardsmen as one of the officers stepped up and formed fire teams. Heimdall was glad that he had been paired with Leidolf, the wolves having trained together a lot, and Leidolf while as ferocious as a fenris wolf, was dependable. He made his way over to Leidolf who had taken off his helmet, allowing him to feel the cool air unlike Heimdall who preferred to keep his helmet on. "When did it come to this, dislike bordering on hatred between those two?" Leidolf asked as his eyes scanned the platform before resting on the Wolf Priest and the Pack leader.

Heimdall shifted his gaze to follow that of Leidolf's, before he decided to respond, his voice coming out metallic due to the helm. "Jealousy brother is an ugly thing. Since our our return to the chapter things have seemingly been wrong with those two. It does not help Keris' decision to leave the pack either."

He admitted though he could still see the discomfort that was plainly over his brother's face. Heimdall placed an armored hand on Leidolf's shoulder, the grating of ceramite against ceramite, punctuating the gesture, "We will perservere brother, the pack will. We have to in the Allfather's name.

A grunt was all that Leidolf could return at this time as he continued to look over the platform, Heimdall noting that he saw all the Wolves before he spoke again to Heimdall, "Perhaps we will perservere, but to what end? Constant infighting? Being at each other's throats like pups fighting over mother's milk?" He sighed as he stopped for a moment," It is not befitting the Sons of Russ."

Heimdall fixed his gaze on his brother, the lenses of his helm masking any emotion that would have shown on his face to his brother though he felt like he did. It was a shame that the older members of the pack thought themselves so superior to that of the younger members. It meant that they would be forever broken until the elders learnt to accept the youngsters. "We agree on this brother, hopefully things will get better in time." Hefting his flamer in one hand, "For now though we have xenos to hunt." He said trying to cheer his brother up a bit.

A smile finally crossing Leidolf's face at this and he slapped Heimdall on the shoulder, "Aye brother, that we do."

The group moved slower than Heimdall would normally, having not to fear ghost's of enemies because he was wearing power armour, whilst the guardsman took every available precaution possible as they moved on-wards. He carried on walking regardless, Leidolf at his side as the two strode through the wreckage without a care. Due to the training they had received as aspirants there was no fear to be felt unlike those felt by the Guardsman, though it made sense for them to be much more careful than the two wolves.

"Something puts my hackles on edge about this place Heimdall. It is too quiet, deviod of life. Something is amiss." Heimdall turned his head to Leidolf as he spoke to Heimdall, noting that there was indeed something amiss. Only moments ago the orks had been wrecking havoc, and as such the quietness put the wolves on alert. It was clear that the orks weren't normally that sneaky.

"Indeed brother, best be on our guard. Evern after their revival I don't know how effective the guard will be. Best rely on ourselves for the moment. Let's take point." Heimdall replied as he hefted his flamer, Leidolf giving the guard quick orders to stay in cover.

"Take cove. We are going to go higher up to see if that vantage allows us to see more of the surrounding area." Heimdall led the way after the Guard took cover, Leidolf behind him as the two wolves moved towards the catwalk.


----------



## darkreever

Vermundr; Despite the threat implied by your tone, the officer does not seem in the least bit cowed. _“My apologies lord, my men and I part of the Theris Security Force’s operating throughout the Gordon, Ghost, and Calvera worlds at the behest of the Aurora and Crimson Guard space marine chapters; I am Haavring, bearing the mark of Sarjeko.”_ He says, tapping a set of crossing marks over his right fore-arm. _“It is similar to holding the rank of lieutenant. My unit was assigned to garrison Jorus in the event of Ork invasion. This particular facility is a junction to a research facility three hundred kilometers south, access is restricted to only high ranking Mechanicum personnel and the Aurora chapter. The only way to even attempt entry is through the core, with a fail-safe to destroy this entire facility; and I doubt the Orks have access.”_

Before you have a chance to say anything further, it is Keris who speaks first. _“Silencing the defenses is a priority for the others to come in, but if this facility is destroyed then there will be nothing left to save. I will go with Ghostwolf, Krahl, Hrodgier and half the Theris fireteams to cut off the Orks while you take the rest of the pack and stop the guns.”_ The young priest says, and though you may not love the notion of him telling you what to do, there is merit in the plan.

[Haavring concedes to this course of action, signaling for two more of his teams to depart with Keris towards the position of Iorek, Hrodgier, and Krahl. You are not given much time to inform the rest of the pack to gather or push forward when there is sporadic gunfire coming from the position of Heimdel and Liedolf.]


Iorek, Krahl, and Hrodgier; As you prepare to act on whatever is coming up the steps, your keen senses suddenly take notice to silence. Where before there was something coming up the metal stairs, now there is suddenly nothing. Straining to hear anything, you note high pitched cackling coming from below but getting more distant; it becoming clear that whatever had been coming up from below chose to go elsewhere rather than ascend to the top of the platform. Motion along the edge of your vision alerts you to the approach of others, soon resolving themselves as Keris and more of the soldiers.

The young priest quickly tells you that all of you are to descend lower into the facility and cut off the Orks below from reaching the rig core and possibly setting off a catastrophic fail safe. Not waiting on further ceremony, three of the soldiers, likely team leaders, motion for the rest of their men to move down and secure the immediate area. One of the team leaders stays behind to address the four of you. _“We came from here originally; these stairs lead down to four points. The top two are portions of a loading dock for material while the lowest two are maintenance ways, the lowest leading to the lower reaches. The final level will help us to bypass most potential Ork patrols, but the pathways are narrow and the sulfur and methane buildup is very likely to overwhelm the rebreathers of my men.”_

_“It is a risk we will have to take, the Orks cannot be allowed to run rampant below.”_ Keris answers the man, before following the soldiers down the steps with you shortly behind. Entering the lower levels is, for a normal man, like the difference of night and day. The lack of glow-globes makes it clear that the facility has suffered damage to its main power supplies, with only the lume-lights from the soldiers helmets offering them any true chance at sight. This is no issue for you, of course, and you quickly pass by the soldiers before coming upon the first lower level landing. From here you see the upper reaches of the loading bay, and within catch sight of a group of orks looting what looks to be a damaged hauler.

[The question becomes, do you allow this affront to continue or rush to engage the Orks? There appear to be a dozen of the greenskins, and you would have both the element of surprise and advantage of height. Keep in mind that you may be able to get to where you need going from here, and with less risk to the soldiers.]


Heimdel and Liedolf; You quickly ascend the catwalk to get a better look of the surrounding area; your eyes quickly spot an outcropping not to from where you all came in. The large forms of quad autocannon mounts, flanked by a number of thud guns, can be seen, and crawling with greenskins to boot. You are not given another second to dwell on this though, as solid rounds whiz by your armoured bodies and blast into the metal grating at your feet. Looking around you see Orks firing in your general direction, several of them bellowing roars and charging towards you.

The catwalk itself begins to groan and shift, the rounds impacting on its frame combined with your combined weight proving to be more than the thing can handle. Perhaps to your horror, or maybe to your delight, the catwalk starts to buckle and collapse, time to make a decision.

[Jump down or make use of your packs, either way get off this thing unless you want to take a plunge into the lava. There are seven Orks in total, two with large guns and spraying bullets at you from a distance, the rest are armed for a brawl. The soldiers are nowhere to be seen, and the surprise of this attack has wrong footed you enough that you cannot kill everything in a single go. Do you take the fight to the Orks, and which do you go after, or do you fall back?]


Alrik and Ornsvald; Before you even get a chance to tell Vermundr of your findings, you spot one of the Orks pointing at something. Whatever it is, one of the blockhouses obscures your view, but it is clear that it has their attention. Some of them roar and run in that direction, while the remaining two open fire with their guns. Whatever it is these Orks have found, they are making sport of it; what they are going after is revealed to you quickly enough, the report of a bolt pistol more than enough information to tell that it is at least one other of the pack.

[While you have chosen to not engage these Orks, it appears Heimdel and Liedolf were not so lucky on their end. Even as these seven go after them, you find another six attracted to the sound of fighting, and the array of bombs and grenades on their person is less than thrilling for anyone blindsided. I think you have some idea of what to do.]


Vermundr; The sound of wild gunfire snaps your head in the direction that Liedolf and Heimdel had gone, and that could not herald a good sign. Clamping your helmet back on your head, you vault across the landing pad; the advanced systems of Kjarls helm allowing you to blink pict feeds from your packmates armour in order to get a better idea of what is going on. The situation is not a good one, Liedolf and Heimdel being engaged by half a dozen greenskins on their own.

[Its time to make decisions, the guns must still be dealt with and now a good third of the forces at your disposal are engaged in what will likely be a degrading situation. You can get quick feeds from Alrik and Ornsvald, but you need to choose how you want your pack to react. Do you have everyone engage this threat and potentially become bogged down? Do you have Liedolf and Heimdel pull back? Do you pull back any support for your brothers and go after the guns? If they are attracting the Orks attention, its possible you might see less resistance.]


----------



## Serpion5

*Krahl*

Whatever may have been down there was seemingly gone, as the stairwell now sounded only silence. After a few moments of this, the greenskin laughter could be heard again. Quieter, further away seeming to indicate that the orks were leaving the area below them.

Krahl looked up, exchanging glances with a few of the men as well as his Pack Brothers, looking to Iorek for some indicator of what they should do next. The decision was taken from the elder wolf's grasp however moments later when The newly appointed Rune Priest Keris approached. Keris ordered a descent to root out the remaining orks, and the men accompanying them lost no time in beginning to climb down the stairs. 

One man stayed behind a few moments more, cautioning the four wolves of the toxicity of the air below. Keris was not dissuaded, even when the guardsman exhibited concerns his own mens' re-breathers would be overwhelmed. The group descended after the guardsmen moments after Keris gave the order, following the Rune Priest down into the complex. It would have been too dark for the men to see without aid, but Krahl's eyes made easy work of this environment and he follwed Keris with a few solid metres of clearance. 

There was a good view of the next few landings, and closest to them was a sight unwelcome but not unexpected. On the landing not far from them above, a group of orks had begun looting an Imperial Hauler. The brothers of the Rout quickly overtook the soldiers in their advance, Krahl's anger growing with each step. 

'I'm not letting them get away with this.' Krahl growled. 'We leave them here, we risk letting them sneak up on us later. I say we kill them now.' He turned to Hrodgier to try and get the brother's support, knowing that his fellow Blood Claw was also eager to hunt.

He took one of the diverting paths that would lead him to the group of orks. Already scouting his gaze ahead, he was able to see that this diversion would not lead them too far off course. He was confident now that this was the correct course.


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