Wiki Category: In-character Stories

By Cody Jackson
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A delicate haze hung low in the domed tent as a small fire crackled between two seated Syndar. One was Eredh, young with notable horns protruding from their forehead. The other was an elder draped in an exquisitely beaded buckskin shawl decorated in the motif of eagle wings. The elder watched the young one with gentle patience, they knew that words would come when the time was ready.

“I saw my grandmother again last night while I was walking in the woods.” Eredh began, “Their face was lined with wrinkles, familiar ones, the ones that touch the corners of their eyes when they smile. I could feel the tears well in my eyes, but then Grandmother reached out and touched me on my shoulder. There were no words, just their smile.” Eredh looked up at the old Syndar sitting across from them. They too had friendly wrinkles and a soft smile, just like Grandmother.

“Go on, young one.” The man was not Deer Clan like Eredh, such a thing would be impossible as no others from the Deer Clan made the journey to Mardun. No, this man was from another people all together, but though their cultures differed, Eredh had learned to respect and admire the man’s wisdom during their time spent with The Shattered Tribes.

“Yes Elder. Grandmother stood there for a moment and gazed into my eyes. They seemed…conflicted. They were happy to see me well, but it felt as if they had words they wished to share with me, but couldn’t. Instead they put both hands on my shoulders and gave me a small nod before vanishing into the aether.”

The man nodded along, but remained quiet. When Eredh finished talking the elder turned and stuck the end of a braid of grass into their fire until it caught and handed it to Eredh. “First thing is the offering of sweet smoke to bring joy and thanks to your grandmother’s spirit for her journey to see you.” Eredh blew out the flame and fanned the embers until an incense-like smoke continuously trailed off the braid.

“Second thing we do,” the man began again, “is to know that this is now the time to cry. Our tears cleanse us so that our minds and spirits may unite in purpose and balance and we might uncover the truths we hold within. So now, Eredh, you may cry.”

Eredh looked to the delicate stream of smoke lifting away from the grass braid. They looked up the trail, tracing it with their eyes until it mingled with the haze at the top of the tent’s dome. Tears welled in their eyes and their head fell into their lap. Eredh’s shoulders rocked in heavy sobs for a good few minutes before the tears eased to a gentle flow. All the while the elder sat quiet and free of judgment.When the tears ended the elder spoke again, “The name your Clan Mothers gave you, it means seed in your tongue. You were sent here to be a seed for your culture. The ways of your Clan have been a welcome blessing to The Shattered Tribes. We have all learned much from you as you have learned much from us. You have grown here from seed to seedling, but if a tree is to grow mighty it cannot remain inside. I cannot tell you that this is what your grandmother intended to tell you, but I can say that the more you grow, the more likely you are to find your answers.” The elder looked to the flames and continued to speak, “You’ve spoken with us of the Orenna within all things. I believe that it is time for you to nurture your Orenna and grow your strengths. You will always have a home here, but you must also venture out and see the wider world.”

Eredh nodded solemnly and thanked the elder for their time and words, promising to do as they were told. The elder smiled warmly and gestured that it was okay to leave. Eredh returned the grass braid to the elder, stood, and walked to the exit of the tent. The door was thick hide, designed to keep the space dark and the air inside still. It did its job well and Eredh’s eyes watered when they stepped out into the light of day. 

A young woman approached with an abalone shell filled with smoldering herbs. Eredh thanked them before dipping two cupped hands into the smoke. They lifted the smoke over their head to wash their mind. They lifted the smoke to their eyes, then ears, then nose to wash their senses. They lifted the smoke to their mouth to wash their words. They lifted the smoke to their chest to wash their heart. Finally Eredh draped their braid into the smoke and let it dance gently over their hair. They thanked the woman again and stepped aside so she could enter the elder’s tent.

Eredh walked immediately toward the longhouse they slept in and started to pack some of their things. Not all would be taken, if things are left behind a person will always return. As they packed, Makwa of the Spider Clan entered the longhouse. They sauntered up to Eredh and asked pointedly, “What are you doing?”

“I’m packing. Elder Wanbli has given me charge to go out into the world and grow.”

“Well, where are you going to go?”

Eredh stopped and stood still for a moment. Makwa laughed a hearty and rolling laugh, “You didn’t even think about it did you?! Wanbli just said you need to go and you didn’t even ask any questions you just started packing! This is so, Eredh. Cuzzin, your head is so filled with stories, but you never stop to learn the lessons they tell. Wait wait. Did you smudge on the way out of the Elder’s tent?”

Eredh nodded.

“And you washed your head first didn’t you.”

Eredh nodded.

“That explains it.”

“What do you mean?” Eredh asked.

Makwa stood for a moment with a stern look on their face, but soon it cracked into a wide smile, “It means that you washed all the smart thoughts right out of your brain!” Makwa erupted into a deep laugh and slapped Eredh playfully across the back.

“Alright alright, So I don’t know where I’m going yet. But I’ve got to go there.”

Makwa stopped laughing and their face grew serious, “So you’re really gonna go then? You mean it?”

“Yeah. I have to. Grandmother didn’t name me housecat or homebody. I need the light to grow.”

“Huh. Well. You know I heard a rumor the other day. You know that expedition that sailed out of Newhope to go check on their outpost in the Outlands?”

“Yeah, the traders were all talking about it.”

“Well so they ran into a Syndar up there. Face painted in gold, carrying war clubs or something. Now they are saying that this stranger is going to be coming down to The Shattered Spear outpost on The Shield to talk to us southerners. That’s where you should go.”

“To see this Syndar?”

“Yeah! Who knows what stories they have to tell! How did they get up there? How long have they been there? What have they seen up there?! Imagine the new stories you could cram into that head of yours! Now that’s what I call growth.”

Eredh paused, deep in thought. “And I suppose if there’s a fight I could knock some Mordok around…”

“Well, YOU could try.” Makwa let out another hearty laugh and again slapped Eredh across the back

In the early days of July of 269 The Ravens of Keys Crossing held a secret meeting. This was a meeting of supreme importance, the utmost care was given as those in attendance all took separate meandering paths through the town before arriving at a predetermined, undisclosed location. Each member entered through different doors and some whispers even tell of Felix coming up through a previously unknown trapdoor in the floor. Before their meeting began, Aethulwulf made sure that area was secure and removed any unneeded personnel from the building. What then happened has remained a mystery to the people of Keys Crossing as no one was present in the room where it happened.

Some people tell tales of walking by the building and hearing shouting and the occasional breaking of furniture, but beyond that all that exists is rumor. Only one thing is known to be the truth. After several hours The Ravens emerged from the building with a scroll, sealed in shimmering blue wax bearing the mark of Viscount Alestear. Few words were overheard between the Viscount and his messenger, but a man in the vicinity swears that he heard, “Utmost importance, official unofficial, updated, chairs. Aylin’s…only”

Quicker than a rabbit over coals the messenger left the town.

Within the week a declaration came from Aylin’s Reach detailing the tournament process for the various feats of cunning and strength, finishing with the official entry protocol for this year’s Official Unofficial Chairs Street Rules Championship. Things seemed to be much the same they had been in years past, with only one notable change. This year all chairs must be turned over to the organizers three days before the championship so they may be inspected for any illegal reinforcements and kept safe from potential sabotage from rival chairs-warriors. Within time dozens of chairs poured into the testing and storage building and overall things seemed fine. Only a couple chairs were disqualified for steel reinforcements.

What happened next was, without a doubt, one of the greatest tragedies to strike Mardrun. Late one night one of the guards around the storage facility must have fallen asleep as eyewitnesses recount stories of several men wandering around the area and sometime around three in the morning reports came in of smoke pouring out of the storage building. A chain of volunteers rushed to the area and through diligent effort were able to put out the flames, but unfortunately the damage had been done; the chairs, the precious and wonderful chairs, were no more. 

With heavy hearts the news was called by the criers throughout Aylin’s Reach: This year’s Official Unofficial Chairs Street Rules Championship was cancelled. Since then rumors have swirled over how this atrocity could have come to pass. The majority of Chairs Aficionados have come to the conclusion that it was all orchestrated by one of the men who had his chair disqualified. Some claim that he must have paid off the guard to gain access. In the end, we may never know.

Finnath made conscious note of his decreased nosal wiggle rate as he made his way toward The Golden Toad at the center of the main settlement on Fire Isle. He was well aware that decrease in NWR is something that comes with the territory of the winter months with their longer nights and proportionally shorter days. Some had told him that this was most likely a manifestation of a winter time sadness known as the Seasonal Affliction of Days-being-much-shorter-than-normal. SAD, they called it. Even in the relative warmth of Fire Isle, the short days seem to get to people.

Finnath pondered the potential double entendre that may stem from an affliction that depresses one’s nosal wiggle rate being named SAD. Never-the-less he pushed onward until he reached The Golden Toad and with forced jubilance he threw open the doors and pushed himself inside. The sights he saw with The Toad caused his nosal wiggle rate to skyrocket. Everywhere he looked he saw his Phoenix friends and commune members in warm, vibrant clothes. His heart soared as he saw children running dangerously close to a large fire burning in a central fireplace. How could he have forgotten that it was already time? How could he have let it slip his mind that today, December 22nd, was the first day of Solarustice!

He watched as Laertes made a valiant effort to hang a line of garland. He watched as Anariel tried to help, causing more strife than if she had simply let the poor Syndar do it all himself. He watched as Gwynevive put finishing touches on people’s clothes, sewing small silver bells into the lining of coats and hats. He saw Brodin, a few drinks too many poking idly at the raging fire while Kylia continued to pour additional glasses of wine for the two of them. He saw Captain Casimir carving a small ship out of a block of ice and watched as he delicately set it afloat in a large bowl of punch. He heard, then saw Safiyah pacing around the fire, singing beautiful songs for all those who would listen.

Before he could have a chance to finish taking in the splendor of the moment he felt a tug at his coat and when he looked down he saw a small gaggle of Phoenix children, “Finnath! You do stories best! Tell us the story of Solarustice!”

Finnath smiled a warm, Phoenix smile, set the children down next to the fire and with all of the theatrics and dramatic flair he could muster, he began:

“Solarustice! The most amazing Holiday on our entire planet! Celebrated by Phoenix and their friends far-and-wide! When winter is cold we warm ourselves with friends. When nights are long we brighten them with gifts and cheer. Solarustice!

Now there will be people out there in the world who will tell you that no one out there knows the origins of Solarustice. They will tell you that oral traditions cannot possibly maintain the truth over the decades. I will tell you now, as a professor of Phoenix University, that this sentiment is wrong! After all, I’ve taught many people about the wonders of rabbits with nothing but my spoken words!

Solarustice is an old holiday with its roots all the way back in the May’kar Desert on Faedrun. Those who know the true story know that there once were two traders who went out to work in the dead of winter deep in the May’kar Desert. They became lost and after days of wandering, ran out of their own supplies, and eventually the mule pulling their cart grew ill from the cold. When all hope seemed lost, they prayed to Solar that if they were not going to make it out of the desert that they wanted to feel his warmth one last time. Their prayers were heard as a small group of camels came upon them and laid with them, keeping them warm through the night. When they awoke the next morning, their mule had miraculously recovered and they instinctively followed the camels. They were led to a hot spring in the side of a mountain where they regained their strength and each day they prayed that the light of day would get stronger and guide them home. Each day after that grew longer, and each night they prayed harder than the last. After weeks, they had regained the strength to travel and set out. The camels had again guided them and took them back to their home village. When they arrived they were so overjoyed that they gave all of their wares they had meant to sell away to anyone who would listen to their words of what they experienced in the desert. The next year they continued to give out gifts and spread warmth to any who needed it and from this Solarustice was born!”

“But Finnath, why do we give away gifts? Why do we light candles and fires? Why do we sing songs? Why do we pray to Solar Why do we–” one of the children interrupted.

“Why, that,” Finnath interrupted in turn, “That is because when we give and when we love we all feel the warmth of Solar in our souls and when the nights are long we can help each other stay warm. And when we light fires we feel the warmth of Solar on our bodies. When we sing songs and send prayers we are able to take all of that extra warmth and send it back to Solar so he can start to warm the rest of the world! Every year when the days are shortest and the nights are longest we start to celebrate the warmth of Solar and every year the days start to get a little bit longer and the nights just a little bit shorter and every day we all get just a little bit happier. And that’s why the biggest celebrations are on the Solstice, December 22nd which is the first day of Solarustice, and on January 22nd, the last day. We celebrate on the first day when we need it the most and we celebrate on the last day when we are all filled with joy and happiness!”

“But Finnath! The Golden Toad celebrates every single night!”

“Of course it does! We have new visitors and merchants coming every single day! All of them arrive and need a big dose of happy and The Golden Toad is always open and ready to give that to them! So always remember! When Solarustice comes be sure to spread all the warmth you can! Sing songs and give hugs! Wiggle your nose and spread gifts! When nights are long the most important thing we have is each other. Now if you don’t mind the smell of that wine is gonna make my nose wiggle right off my face if I don’t go get some!”

And with that Finnath sprung to his feet and made his way across the room and into the arms his friends and soon after into the bottom of a deep, deep tankard.

Foreword:
This story stands as the culmination of several months of resources and effort put forward by a group of players.

Before preparations were final Jarl Whitecrest had pulled Fritha aside and entrusted her with command of his Viknar, Stormjarl’s elite warriors. The gravity of the situation was not lost on her. All of Stormjarl was watching these raids.

Honor, Family, Vengeance – 267 Stormjarl raids on Grimward
As the month progressed more and more ships from nearby villages began to arrive at Whitecrest’s Hold to take on supplies and weapons for the upcoming raids. The time and effort put forward by Thrand and Fritha helped to secure support from an array of Stormjarl settlements. The coin they had put forward helped to make sure that all of the warriors were well equipped and their armor and shields were reinforced. The training that Thrand and Bryech brought to the fresh raiders made sure that they were ready to fight hard and fight together. The labor put forth by all made sure that the ships were able to be packed quickly and efficiently. In the end a fleet of ten ships carrying warriors from several different coastal settlements moored along the coast of Whitecrest’s Hold.

There was a palpable tension surrounding the raiders and warriors packed into the Stormjarl long ships as they cast away from the pier and began their journey northward. People were excited, but in the same vein they were nervous. It had been a while since they’d all gone raiding and for some of them this was their first time. Many of the younger warriors had been very vocal and excited about their first raid, but once on the ships they sat in silence, staring down at the deck. On one boat one of the older fighters looking for a glorious death grew tired of the sniveling youngsters and began to rummage through his small bag of provisions. After a while he pulled out a fairly large bottle filled with a rich, amber liquid and handed it to one of the green warriors

“Whiskey, boy. Drink it and share it with your friends. It’ll put some fire in your belly. I won’t be needing it either way.” Within time the tension seemed to die down and the rest of the voyage was largely uneventful aside from Kaylek’s unyielding sea sickness.

Thrand and Fritha road together in the same boat, leading the first group, so as to be ready to make quick decisions together when needed. Bryech, Kaylek, and Toralf split themselves up and road in different boats within the second group so as to integrate more easily into the Stormjarl raiders and Viknar. Everything seemed to be set up to ensure a clean and decisive victory. Stormjarl was prepared while Grimward flatfooted, but that did not mean that there may not be a tough fight ahead.

***

It was still early in the morning when the first village came into sight around a bend in the coastline. The dawn had broken, but only just barely and fog bled over the hills in the distance in a wispy grey wave, backlit by the orange morning sun. Were it not for the pressing matters at hand the scenery would stand worthy of admiration, but now was not the time.

Fritha and Thrand took their ship and began their approach toward the small settlement with the rest of the first raiding party following closely behind them. As the boats approached the shores the raiders kept their eyes open, but they did not see anyone on the beach or around the village to stand against them. It was not long before the boats reached shallow waters and upon Fritha’s command the Viknar were the first to disembark, weapons in hand, to storm the beach.

Once on the beach the ringing of an alarm bell came into focus. It was not clear how long the bell had been ringing due to it’s sharp tone being overpowered by the sounds of waves hitting boats and the loud nature of splashing through waist high seawater while carrying heavy weapons and shields. Upon hearing the bell however, the lack of people milling through the village started to make sense. Clearly the alarm had been raised and the villagers had taken to sealing themselves away.

Under Fritha’s direction she took half the Viknar and raiders and sent the other half with Thrand to sweep through the village, moving from home to home, clearing them of any potential combatants and searching for Stormjarl thralls. Home after home, they were found to be devoid of life, but many of them with warm meals still set at their table. After the first few empty cottages everyone started to realize that the villagers, knowing that as farmers they didn’t stand a decent chance at repelling raiders, tucked themselves away in a central, more defensible position. After searching through the homes the two forces reconvened at the front door to the village’s modest longhouse and found it barred from the inside.

On Fritha’s orders all shields were brought to the front and arranged into a wall in front of the doorway and few of the Ulven with large axes were placed on either side of the entrance. The axmen were instructed to bring the door down, aiming to splinter the frame where it met with the doors heavy iron hinges. The axes made quick work of the door frame and within minutes the thick wooden doors buckled and fell out and away from the building and as they did a volley of arrows rung out from inside the longhouse. The arrows slammed into the wall of shields and one pierced straight through the forearm of one of the axmen who was a little too slow when clearing the doorway. As his friends and allies cleared him from the area, Fritha lead the shield wall in pressing through the doorway.

Inside the longhouse stood a cobbled together militia of farmers and fishermen, all of whom stood in shock and terror when met with the prospect of fighting against true, battle-hardened Viknar. Thrand and Fritha called out to them to drop their weapons and explained that there was no need for violence. The two explained that if they laid down their weapons and allowed them to take any rescued thralls with them then they would all be “gentle” in their collection of “supplies” on the way out of the village.

The Grimward militia exchanged meaningful looks between themselves. They seemed incredibly hesitant to push this fight and seemed to be weighing their options. After a short time an older Ulven stepped forward from the back with a stern look in his eyes.

“You are all cowards!” he shouted at his fellow clansmen, “Our brothers and sisters, our husbands and wives, our children are all to the north fighting the Mordok and we won’t even stand against these Stormjarl pups? Well I’m not going to roll over like you.” The Ulven turned to face the Viknar and spit at their feet. “When I see him he’ll judge me brave, can you sneak-thieves and raiders say the same?”

The elderly Ulven lifted a crude club high above his head and charged the shield wall alone. He did not reach the wall. He did not come close. Without hesitation, a long spear shot forth from a crouched position behind the wall and pierced the Grimward Ulven’s chest and his body fell limp on the wooden floor of the longhouse; his blood pooling around his body and streaming down through the gaps in the floorboards.

That was all the convincing that it took. The rest of the militia tossed their weapons into the center of the room and dropped to their knees with their hands on their heads. It seemed simple to them: not all battles must be fought. In the end the villagers turned over the thralls they had. The majority of them were farmers that had been kept in the villages to work the fields and tend to supplies while the rest of the working age Grimward went north to aid The Shield. On the way back to the boats the raiders were let loose to scour the village for supplies and valuables, but told to keep their word that they would be “gentle”. The haul from the first village came relatively light and brought in eighteen missing Stormjarl who were divided between the Stormjarl ships.

Lanterns were smashed along the piers and as the long ships prepared to sail away, torches were tossed onto the oil soaked boards. Within a short time roaring fires overtook the docks of the small village and the raiding ships of the first strike party began their journey northward to reunite with their friends and fellow raiders.

***

When it had become abundantly clear that Fritha and Thrand’s team would be able to handle the first village Bryech gave the call that the second group should start making its way to the next target. The travel went smoothly and in relatively short time the long boats of the second arm were landing on the beach.

The scene upon arriving at this village was not remotely the same as the first. Whereas the first village appeared unguarded and empty, here a wall of militia fighters was present on the beach looking to stop the advance of the invading raiders. These Grimward fighters stood in defiant pride and beat their shields while hurling insults and jabs. With the droning sound of a blowing horn they charged down the beach with ferocity and fervor that was shocking to the raiding party that was expecting an easy fight. The Stormjarl warriors locked into a stable shield wall and braced themselves in the sand to the best of their ability.

The resulting battle did not last long, though it ended in much bloodshed. The ferocity of the Grimward militia quickly proved to be primarily bluster as they slammed into and bounced off the Stormjarl shield wall. Not to be dissuaded by their initial weak start, the Grimward militia dug themselves into a shield wall of their own with the goal of stopping the encroaching Stormjarl in their tracks. Unfortunately for this village, they had sent their best warriors and equipment to the north and those they left behind were largely untrained and not accustomed to the nature of battle and its terrors.

Under the direction of Bryech and a few of the other veteran warriors, the Stormjarl raiders brought down heavy axes upon the Grimward shields and were surprised to find that many of them crumbled as though the linen and paint on their faces was all that was left to hold them together. It did not take long to break Grimward’s line and as the shield wall crumbled so did any semblance of order within the militia’s ranks. In this growing chaos, the Stormjarl Raiders quickly learned that an untrained force can still be dangerous. With their ranks broken the Grimward militia began to abandon order and charge into the fray with reckless abandon. Under their wild lack of tactics they were crushed, but not before they were able to overrun and kill some of the invaders. Things progressed quickly and violently and before they knew it, Bryech, Toralf, and Kaylek found themselves standing on a blood soaked beach trying to take in their surroundings. The Grimward forces fought through to the very end, and a brutal end it had been.

Bryech placed a few of the raiders on the morbid duty of verifying the dead so as to give a merciful end to their enemies and hopefully locate and triage any of their own wounded warriors. Kaylek also remained on the beach to help tend to the wounded while Toralf and Bryech joined the rest of the raiders as they went into the village to search for any thralls and loot for supplies and spoils.

Twenty-four Stormjarl thralls were recovered from the village, again all of them farmers left behind to tend to harvests and supplies and a reasonable haul of supplies and valuables was brought down to the beach and loaded into the ships. As the last of the goods were being loaded onto the boats everyone was able to see Fritha and Thrand’s ship carving it’s way through the waters followed closely by the rest of the first raiding group. With the smashing of lanterns and the tossing of torches, the second raiding party set sail to reconvene with their allies. The flames and smoke from the burning docks punctuated their brief visit to the small coastal village as it shrunk away into the distance behind them.

Even with the loss of a few lives in the second village, spirits were high as the ships reunited and plotted their course to the next target. The first raid had gone as smoothly as one could hope and, even when met with resistance, the second raid went quickly and with a low mortality on the part of the raiders. It seemed as though Ranmir’s intel was correct and all of the targeted coastal settlements had sent what warriors they had to the front and were content to leave their security to their militia. Unfortunately for said militia, they did not stand a chance against the Stormjarl Viknar or the other raiders in their party. With this sense of security and the high adrenaline from a so-far-successful raid, the long ships pressed on to their next fight.

***

The third village began to come into focus as the fleet rounded another bend in the coastline. This settlement was a degree larger than the last two had been and was nestled away into a small pocket created by the coastal hills and bluffs. Up a small hill to the back of the village stood a large longhouse and from there a twisting network of dirt roads lead through the village and down to the beach. As the boats approached the shore it became evident that, much like the first village, there was no one around the greet them, but unlike the first village there was no alarm bell.

With Fritha in the lead, the Viknar hit the shores and as the raiders assembled into their lines Kaylek, Toralf, and Bryech reunited with their allies from the first raiding party. Together they looked over the empty village.

“No welcome? That seems odd,” Kaylek stated as he squinted his eyes to see if he could pick out any forms in the distance.

“Yeah. Something doesn’t quite feel right,” Bryech responded.

“I wouldn’t necessarily be too worried,” Fritha assured the two, “This is how things were when we arrived at the first village. The villagers all held up in their long house and barred the door. They’re probably doing the same here.”

Toralf scoffed at Fritha’s words, “They didn’t even fight? That’s not at all what we dealt with at our village. They fought to the bitter end.”

Thrand stepped up and put a hand on Fritha’s shoulder, “They are probably hold up in the longhouse, but we should still be careful and search all the homes again, just to be sure.”

The groups broke apart again and began a thorough sweep through the village, checking every home as they made their ways toward the back of the village and after a painfully slow search they reconvened at the doors of the longhouse. Fritha quickly organized the raiders into the same formation they used to take down the doors at the first village and once in position one of the axmen reached out and grasped the handle to the doors and pulled. To the surprise of everyone, the door swung open with little effort and revealed a completely empty longhouse. The Ulven on the shield wall dropped their shields and peered inside the building in a state of confusion. There was absolutely and unequivocally no one in this village.

The Stormjarl Viknar stood in a loose formation and looked to Fritha for guidance. Before she could formulate a plan the sound of a large horn was heard blaring from the top of the hill that flanked the village to the north and in short time it was answered by another droning horn from the hill to the south. The raiders all snapped to attention and looked around in shock as the sound of roaring warriors began to come into focus over the tops of the adjacent hills.

“Boats. We need to go back to the boats!” Thrand shouted in urgency, “They’re going to cut us off! They’re going to crush us from the sides!” He reached out and shook Fritha by her arm.

Fritha broke from shock and looked over the alarmed raiders and in the loudest voice she could muster gave the command, “You all heard him. Get back to the boats. We’ll stage on the beach! We can’t let them hit us here.”

Everyone quickly took heed of Fritha’s words and began a quick rush to return to the beach and be ready for a true fight. Unfortunately not everyone made it to the shores before the Grimward fighters reached the village and their forces collided with the Stormjarl forces. Toralf and a not-insignificant number of the Viknar were separated from their allies as the Grimward forces closed in around the village. Without hesitation Fritha turned and gave the command to fight and clear them a path out, but from the first swing it was clear: this wasn’t a militia; these were Grimward Warriors and they came to crush anyone they found.

What followed was a horrendously brutal fight. Shields were smashed and bones were broken. Blood was spilled on the edges of swords and chests were split wide under the weight of heavy axes. Arrows cut through the air and found their place deep within the flesh of their targets.

Bryech bounced down the line calling out orders and taking advantage of any opportunity he saw to drive a sword into the ribs of a Grimward warrior. He parried axes and blocked swords, all while his adept footwork and quick responses kept him from harm’s way. When a spear pierced a Grimward leg causing them to drop their shield, Bryech was there to deliver the final blow. When an axe fell toward a Viknar’s head, Bryech was there to catch the ax head on his sword and pull it from the warrior’s hands.

Kaylek stood behind a wall of shields and dropped his ax repeatedly on the enemy lines, splintering shields under the force of his blows. Seeing the damage being done to the lines, a Grimward archer drew back their bow and threaded their arrow through a small gap in the Stormjarl shield wall where it hit it’s mark in Kaylek’s chest, narrowly missing his left lung. Kaylek gritted his teeth and winced at the impact as he stumbled back and away from the line to pull out the arrow and bandage his chest, but within seconds another arrow found its way through the wall and took up a trajectory aimed to join it’s friend in Kaylek’s torso. At the last moment Bryech’s shield shot to the side and intercepted the arrow in flight. Kaylek nodded to Bryech and stepped back from the line to treat his new wound while Bryech stepped up to the line and shouted to everyone within earshot,

“For fuck’s sake, you’re a damned shield wall! Do your fucking job and block arrows! I’ll show you how the Ulfednar do it.” And Bryech stood on the line and under his watch, no arrows passed and through the entire battle, he was not touched by a single blade. The only evidence that he had even fought was the coating of Grimward blood that he earned through the fight.

On the other side of the line, still within the village, Toralf stood with a group of hardened Viknar. They formed up as best they could in the streets of the village and stood against the onslaught of Grimward Warriors striking from all sides. Cut off from the beach, things looked beyond bleak for them, but Toralf held solid and did not step off their shield wall, all the way up until an ax reached out and hooked the top of his shield and pulled him off the line. Within a split second axes began to fall upon him and splintered his shield and though he did all he could to parry the following blows they eventually found purchase on his body. Axes and swords cut into his limbs and in the end a large heavy mace landed a blow on his torso and broke several ribs on the left side of his body. Toralf fell to his knees and saw his blood pouring into the dirt; the sight of his vital essence mixing into a thick muck as the edge of his vision softened and blurred is the last thing Toralf remembers.

One of the Grimward warriors lifted his ax above his head to deliver the finishing blow, but as the ax fell it was intercepted as the grizzled veteran who had given his whiskey on the boat shoved his way out of the Viknar shields and blocked the ax, his heroic deed put him well in harms way and before he knew it axmen surrounded him and drove their weapons deep into his body, but he stood through the pain and shouted to his assailants,

“Here I will die, but I will do it with honor. I will die with glory and he will know my name. I join the Great Wolf as a warrior.” A final ax fell and buried itself in the Viknar’s chest and his body went limp.

As the Grimward warrior struggled to dislodge his weapon from the corpse, a low, guttural roar began to manifest deep in the Toralf’s throat as he rose to his feet. Tall and imposing, he stood face-to-face with his savior’s killer, his eyes wild and alight with a burning fire. The roar broke free from Toralf’s throat and he screamed in the face of his adversary as he reared back and punched him square in the nose, knocking the Ulven to the ground. With uncalculated and reckless ferocity, Toralf took the large ax from the Viknar’s body and drove it deep into the Grimward’s chest before turning to face the Grimward line that blocked their path to the beach.

“Oh, it’s time. Get ready boys,” one of the older, Viknar muttered to his surrounding allies, “It looks like we’re about to get our path out of here.” Toralf launched at the enemy line with a complete lack of self-preservation and with the Grimward ax he smashed through shields and cut down warriors, carving a thin line through the Grimward forces. Behind him the Viknar had assembled themselves in a wedge and charged into the fray, driving themselves into the crack that Toralf had cut and splitting it wide open as they made their push to the beach.

Kaylek was mid-way through bandaging his wound when he heard Toralf’s roaring cut through the Grimward lines. He watched as Toralf spilled out through the back of the shield wall and he watched as the Viknar wedge shoved warriors aside as it too burst through the lines. The warriors followed Toralf through to the back of the Stormjarl forces where he lost his strength and fell into the sand next to Kaylek. It was clear that the wounds that Toralf had sustained were well beyond the scope of what Kaylek would be able to treat, but after a brief hesitation a thought came to Kaylek’s mind.

“One of you! No, two of you. Take him!” Kaylek yelled at the raiders that had followed Toralf’s charge, “Hold those wounds and take him back to the boat I sailed in on! That one! Right there!” Kaylek called out in fervent urgency while pointing to one of the Stormjarl long ships. “One of our passengers, one of the thralls we saved up is a healer. We have supplies on the boat. Get him there. Now.” Two of the Stormjarl stepped forward without hesitation, scooped up Toralf, and immediately began to run him to Kaylek’s boat. Kaylek finished bandaging his wound and stood up to get his bearings.

A degree of chaos broke out on the battlefield following Toralf’s push. The Grimward forces began to fight more recklessly and the raiders were beginning to be pushed back down the beach. Lines from both sides began to crumble and fall into disarray as the fighting became more brutal. Grimward axes repeatedly dropped on the Stormjarl shield wall as they drove the lines back. A few large poleaxes smashed through Fritha’s shield, one cleaving clean through and into her shoulder. Before she could recover from the impact a spear shot out and pierced her leg and an ax hooked her ankle and pulled her to the ground as her lines continued to fall back without her. Fritha grit her teeth through what should have been a series of immobilizing blows and forced her bleeding shoulder and leg to drag body back toward her line, but the movement of the battle was too quick and the Grimward lines continued to push her own warriors back and away from her. Just as the Grimward lines were set to overtake her, Thrand pressed through the Stormjarl wall and took a firm hold of her wrist and started to drag her down the beach away from the encroaching Grimward warriors.

An imposing Grimward warrior in thick chain and masterfully tooled leather pauldrons pushed his way through his line, and unfortunately for both Fritha and Thrand, outpaced them as they backed away. He carried a large, heavy mace and bellowed as he stepped within striking range, “I don’t know your name. I don’t know your face. But I saw from the hills, you lead this party. You think you can just walk into my home? You think I’ll just let you run away? When I’m done with you, Stormjarl whelp, you won’t be walking or running ever again.” In a burst of speed that betrayed the heavy nature of the Grimward’s weapon, he stepped forward and brought the mace down with resounding force on Fritha’s left leg. A sickening series of cracks rung out over the clamor of the battlefield; Thrand roared in protest; Fritha grit her teeth and held back a scream. She did all she could to remain conscious, but with the loss of blood and the mounting pain from a rapid succession of wounds, her vision began to blur.

The Grimward warrior stepped closer to Fritha’s body lifted his mace above his head to crush her ribs and drive home a final blow, but was caught entirely off guard as in a final act of defiance, Fritha drove her seax into his calf before finally succumbing to her wounds and passing out. Capitalizing on the confusion, Thrand dropped Fritha’s wrist and threw himself over her body to tackle the Grimward. With his balance off, Thrand was quickly able to take the Ulven to the ground and without hesitation he tore Fritha’s seax from his opponent’s leg and drove it repeatedly into his face, showering himself in blood.

The brutal display sent a wave of shock through the Grimward forces and the Stormjarl Viknar were able to capitalize on their hesitation and push them back toward the village far enough to bring Thrand and Fritha back into the relative safety of their back lines. Through it all, Thrand remained on top of the now obviously deceased warrior that he had brought to the ground, still repeatedly stabbing the Ulven in the face and throat.

Kaylek followed the line forward and found Fritha unconscious and Thrand still in the midst of his moment and immediately rushed to Fritha’s side to check her for a pulse. Kaylek pressed a finger to side of Fritha’s neck and felt relief wash over him as he felt a weakened, but present pulse. He then looked up and Thrand and called out to him, “Thrand, Stop! He’s dead! There are more important things right now.”

Thrand’s head snapped back, a fire burning in his eyes as he looked back at Kaylek holding Fritha’s head as she lie bleeding in the sand. His eyes darted over Kaylek in a panicked frenzy of rage and lingering hatred for his opponent, but immediately settled into a state of shock and unbridled worry when they found their way to his mate. He immediately let go of Fritha’s seax and scrambled in an uncoordinated rush across the sand back to Fritha. Thrand looked her over in a panic and realized the severity of her wound. “Give her to me, Kaylek. I need to get her out of here.” Thrand shoved Kaylek hard in the chest and scrambled to lift his mate out of the sand. Kaylek fell back hard onto the beach and winced as his wound made contact with the ground, but grit his teeth and climbed back to his feet to find Thrand pulling Fritha up by her arms and pushing toward the boats. The entire time Thrand did not stop repeating, “I need to get her out. I need to get her out…”

Once on his feet, Kaylek shouted, “Thrand! Wait! I know–”

Thrand’s head snapped back and shot daggers directly into Kaylek’s eyes, “I’m not waiting. I’m getting her out. I swear, Kaylek, If you to get in the way –”

“Just listen for a second! I know where we have a healer! Let me take her.”

Thrand’s eyes burned with a smoldering rage, “Just tell me where they are. I will take her. She’s my mate. I will make sure she’s okay.”

Having pushed the Grimward lines back up toward the village, Bryech had earned the chance to look back and saw Thrand arguing with Kaylek, Fritha limp in his arms, and immediately rushed to his friend’s side.

“What is happening, What happened to Fritha?” Bryech called out in urgency.

“She was wounded, badly. Thrand is trying to take her back to the ships, but he needs to be here to finish what was started. I can take her.” Kaylek answered.

Bryech dropped into a urgent, yet reassuring tone. “Thrand, you need to be here. With Fritha down you have the command. Don’t let her think you’ve wasted this opportunity. Let Kaylek take her and you and I will finish her raid with honor.”

Thrand began to protest, but before words could leave his lips he felt Fritha’s hand on the side of his face and looked down to see her eyes hard and determined though her voice was weak, “Finish this, Thrand. Don’t waste resources.”

Thrand’s eyes softened and he was able to see the help that was being offered to him. With great effort he relented and passed Fritha to Kaylek who immediately began to rush her to his boat to be tended to by the healer. Thrand turned and walked to the mangled remains of the deceased Grimward warrior and picked up his mace before returning to Bryech. Together they rejoined the lines to take the command. Under his capable orders and steeled reserve Thrand led the Stormjarl Viknar in a decisive and bloody victory, his swift tactical decisions tempered in the cool flames of hard determination. Bryech’s fervor in battle remained unquenched as he and Thrand cut their way through the enemy lines. In the end Grimward soldiers either set down their weapons, or were cut down indiscriminately.

When the battle resolved only a small handful of Grimward warriors remained and were bound and kept for questioning. Bryech took the duty of interrogating the warriors, though it did not take much effort before they revealed everything that they knew.

A pair of hawk’s had been sent from the first village before the raiding party had even set foot on the doorstep of the longhouse. One warned the next village up the coast of the arrival of the Stormjarl Viknar and warned them to be prepared. The second hawk was sent to the nearest Chieftain, Yjolkar Duskmace. Yjolkar sent a hawk of his own to the third village to tell them to pack their valuables and the thralls and immediately move to his nearby home of Duskwatch, a village tucked into the inland hills a half-day’s journey away. Yjolkar gathered his forces and set out immediately for the third village, arriving with enough time to be well staged before the Stormjarl party landed on their beach. Through questions and answers a few things became clear: There were no valuables or Stormjarl thralls left in this village, the Ulven that crushed Fritha’s leg and was killed by Thrand was the Chieftain, Yjolkar Duskmace, and whatever message Thrand and Fritha looked to send to Grimward was received loud and clear.

Thrand sent the raiders into the village to confirm the lack of Thralls and valuables and told them to take whatever supplies they could find that the villagers were unable to carry with them as well as any serviceable weapons and armor from the fallen Grimward warriors. In the end, there was still much in the storehouses in the way of grains and supplies stored up for the winter and a good deal of serviceable equipment was collected from the dead. The supplies were loaded into the boats and before heading down to burn the docks and cast off, Thrand tossed a knife into the sand next to the bound Grimward.

“Cut yourselves free once we disappear down the coast, then burn your dead.”

Thrand and Bryech returned together to the ship Kaylek had sailed in on. Fritha and Toralf were already aboard having their wounds tended to and it made no difference which raiding group they sailed in for the return journey. Toralf’s wounds were severe, but the healer was able to stabilize him with the promise of no lasting damage. His ribs were broken and would take a few months of rest to properly heal, but in the end he would be in fighting shape again.

Fritha was not as lucky. The healer had managed to stabilize her condition and clean the sand from her wounds, but her leg had been hurt badly. The chieftain’s heavy mace had shattered bones in her leg and despite the healers best efforts, there was simply no way to properly set what remained. Fritha would live, but her leg was irreparably damaged. She slept through the journey home and not once did Thrand leave her side, nor for a second did he even think of releasing his gentle hold on her hand.

Elsewhere in the ship and throughout the fleet word buzzed between the returning Viknar and raiders. Stories were told of Bryech the Untouchable, The Shield of the Viknar, who whipped their lines into shape and was untouched by arrows and blades. Tales were woven of Toralf the Unyielding who when beaten down, rose and broke the Grimward lines and led many out of the village deathtrap. Word spread wide of Thrand the Tempered whose quick actions saved the life of his mate and turned the tide of the battle and who took the charge and led the raiders to victory. But above all they spoke of Fritha the Honored who brought them the chance to regain their slighted honor, who brought them hope that they would see their stolen families again, who gave her all on the battlefield to bring them to the end. Though the last battle had been hard and bloody, spirits were high on the return home. Songs were sung and looted bottles of mead were drank. Toralf drank and rested while Bryech sang a song or two, Kaylek sat quietly and tried to hold back sickness, Fritha woke up now and then, but overall she slept, and Thrand watched over her.

***

It was late in the afternoon when the ships returned to dock at Jarl Whitecrest’s hold. The Jarl stood on the docks and greeted the returning raiders with a grin and open arms. He clapped warriors across the back as they walked down the docks and he seemed in a great, jovial mood until he saw Thrand and Bryech carrying Fritha down the dock on a cobbled together stretcher. He didn’t ask any questions, he saw the look in Thrand’s eyes.

“Take her to bed and get some rest. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

Bryech helped Thrand get Fritha to bed and then turned in for the night. Toralf found a room with a decent bed and laid down to sleep. Kaylek caught up on the drinking he had missed on the ship and eventually found a warm place to pass out for the night. Thrand cleaned Fritha’s wounds and changed her bandages before falling asleep at her side.

In the morning Thrand paid a visit to Whitecrest’s longhouse to tell him about the outcome of the raids, but was quickly cut off when he tried to speak, “Oh, don’t worry about filling me in, Thrand. While you were sleeping last night we had a great deal of drinking here in my hall and the Viknar and your Nightriver friend told me everything. All things considered, you all did well. Could it have been smoother? Probably. Was the situation beyond your control? I think so, but you all rolled with the punches and you came out on top… I’ve got something for you. There’s a tradition in my hold that when someone has proven themselves they are given a small token of appreciation” Whitecrest reached into a pouch and pulled out a tasteful silver arm ring and tossed it to Thrand with a shit-eating grin covering his face. “ But when rank is bestowed on a warrior, on a friend, they are given an arm ring. Go ahead and put that on, Hersir Thrand Stormjarl and then go get those friends of yours and bring them in here. I have words for them as well.”

Thrand slipped his new ring over his wrist and went out and brought back Bryech and Toralf, but after a deal of searching and asking around he wasn’t able to find Kaylek. The three Ulven returned to Whitecrest’s hall and Bryech and Toralf took a place at the edge of the Jarl’s platform. He immediately launched into a rehearsed and theatrical speech, “You have all done a great service for—Wait. Where is the other one? The one who thinks my eels are funny?”

“I couldn’t find him in the village, Jarl.” Thrand answered, “I asked around and no one outside had seen him.”

“That’s odd. He was definitely drinking with us last night. He must have found somewhere to bed down.” Whitecrest stood from his chair and in doing so knocked a heavy pewter goblet from it’s place causing it to fall to the wooden planks of his platform with a loud crash. Within a few moments a groaning could be heard coming from beneath the platform and soon following Kaylek crawled out from underneath the Jarl’s platform covered in mead stains and a layer of dust.

“Where the fuck am I? Shit, my head hurts.” Kaylek muttered as he pulled himself to his feet and hazily looked over the confused and concerned faces of his allies. Bryech and Thrand quickly grabbed Kaylek by his arms and pulled him over to stand between them. Toralf dug an elbow into Kaylek’s ribs and pointed up toward Whitecrest who stood on his platform with an amused grin.

Whitecrest cleared his throat and began again, “You have all done a great service for not just me, not just Thrand, not just Fritha. You have done a great service for Stormjarl. This was not your fight and you didn’t need to be here, but I am glad you were. I heard the stories of how you held yourselves on the battlefield. Know this, you will always have a warm bed in my home. There will always be mead and ale for you. There will always be a hearth to warm your blood. The blood of the battlefield is thicker than that of brotherhood. You are our brothers now. You are welcome anytime. And Bryech,” Whitecrest continued, “Bryech Savagefang or should I say, Bryech the Survivor of Blackwolf Creek, Bryech the Untouchable, Bryech The Shield of the Viknar. It seems the list of names you’ve earned with my people and all of Stormjarl continues to grow. Know this, Bryech. We have a great interest in you and a great deal of appreciation for all you have done for us. There are important eyes are on you and we greatly look forward to watching your future.” Whitecrest let a sly smile cross over his face. “Now someone go fetch Fritha, if she can walk. She deserves to be honored as well.”

Thrand left his allies to talk with Whitecrest while he went to gather his mate and help her to the long house. When he entered their small room he found her sitting up in bed. She looked him over as he walked through the door and when her eyes landed on his arm ring she smiled, “One of Whitecrest’s gifts? Well then Hersir Thrand, I assume, what else did I miss?”

“He would like to speak with you,” Thrand answered, “The rest are in there talking with him right now. You shouldn’t try to walk on that leg yet. Let me help you.” Thrand helped his mate to her feet and found a sturdy staff to help her support herself and together they returned to Whitecrest’s hall where they found their allies sitting around a table to the side of the room, all of them plastered with a knowing grin. Thrand helped her up to the front of the room and supported her to keep weight off of her injured leg. Whitecrest bowed his head and began to speak,

“Hersir Fritha Stormjarl. Our people owe you a great debt. You have worked hard to help us bring back some of the honor we lost to Grimward. You have worked hard to be sure that people would be reunited with their families again. You gave much on the battlefield and then you gave more. I cannot express the gratitude that I feel for what you have done. I trusted my Viknar to you and you did not squander that trust. You are strong, Fritha Stormjarl, strong in many ways and I know in my heart that you would make an amazing Jarl yourself.” Whitecrest lifted his head and looked over the room, “I want you to know that I am going recommend that you be made a Jarl. My word has weight behind it and I know that it is time for you to move up. If this is what you desire I want you to know that I will do everything in my power to bring it to fruition. There is one small catch however; Jarls of Stormjarl cannot hold fealty or status with other factions.” Whitecrest’s face hardened slightly, “If you wish to be a Jarl, you must give up being a Longfang permanently and make your home here in Stormjarl. I know this is no small choice. Take your time and think it over and let me know how you want to move forward. No matter the choice you make, know that all of us appreciate you and no matter which path you walk we know you will walk it with honor.”

Whitecrest continued on to explain that all of the valuables would be collected from the ships and shares of the spoils would be split between the warriors. It would take some time to be sure things were divided appropriately, but he assured everyone that he would get everyone their share in due time. The rescued Thralls would have a chance to share their stories and then they would all be escorted to their home villages as soon as possible. The supplies would be divided up and sent to home villages of the rescued Stormjarl to help offset the losses they incurred by not being home to help with harvests.

“You have all earned a good long rest.” Whitecrest continued, “Take time and enjoy yourselves. Eat with us, drink with us. It is time to celebrate, but do not forget that we have cast a stone through Grimward’s window and we all know they aren’t the type to leave a favor un-returned.”

Read more: http://lasthopelarp.proboards.com/thread/2211/stormjarl-raids#ixzz5zAnvkuOR

This story was written by a group of players that took a chance and willingly signed up with their PCs for a special event that took place in January of 267 (2018). Joining this hunt forced the players to be at the mercy of the story where their preparedness, resources, and skills were factored into the impact they would have. In this side-story, players had a chance to lose their characters or be severely maimed due to injuries but also be involved in a unique story element and make a significant impact on the following event of that month. After rolling randomly to determine the encounters, their impact, and the wounds received during the fighting, the players involved decided to narrate what their PCs went through and turn it into a story.

Pack Longfang

Joining the Great Wolf’s Honored Hunt

January 267

In December of 266, visitors came to Clan Ironmound territory to meet with representatives and delegates of the different Clans of the ulven people. Tensions were high as wounded honor and feuds threatened to derail some of the focus of the upcoming Grand Moot. The leaders were able to discuss many options of what the future could hold and directions the ulven people could take.

Camilla Birchborne, acting High Priestess of Clan Riverhead, brought with her two important messages. The first, was that Clan Riverhead was no more; with the death of the Clanleader, the impending passing of the ill Warleader, and the breakdown of the High Priestess, the leadership of Clan Riverhead has been ravaged in a short amount of time. The surviving Chieftains have supported this new direction of being absorbed into other Clans, primarily Clan Shattered Spear. The second, is that Camilla believes there to be an upcoming great portent that the ulven people must not dismiss. In January of 267, the moon will shine full not once but twice, and she and the other priestesses feel that this is the time for action for the ulven people.

The Grand Moot was held and was over surprisingly fast. Setting aside differences… for now… the ulven people as a whole will begin coordinating with the colonists to sweep through and clear ulven lands, primarily the Great Wolf’s Hackles and the Great Forest, to prepare for a large construction project to build a series of defenses to the north called the “Shield of Mardrun” starting in the spring of 267. The time for ulven to sit idly by and allow each Clan to fend for themselves is over; the “Ulven Pack” is coming together and taking the fight to the mordok.

As the first step of taking the fight to the mordok, a group of ulven warpacks and their colonist allies are moving into the Great Forest to sweep and clear it of mordok. Forcing confrontation with the mordok is key to the victory as any tribes or group of mordok slipping through and rejoining other mordok will prolong the efforts of clearing ulven territory.

However, with the blessings of the High Priestesses of the Clans, the Warleaders have begun putting together warpacks of veteran warriors that will join the Great Wolf in his hunt on the first full moon of the year instead of staying indoors. Veteran ulven and warriors looking to gain word fame have pledged their support and hope to be chosen. This highly ritualistic event will spearhead the efforts to take the fight to the mordok under a united cause of both ulven and colonist alike.

One of the groups that quickly volunteered to be chosen were the warriors and hunters of Pack Longfang. They were assigned to a Clan Steinjottun Chieftain that was smart, reserved, and well respected by his warriors. He was not a Chieftain who earned the title by being too brash and bold; he liked to think, calculate, and then act. His name was Trygvy Steinjottun and he was pleased to be given the chance to fight alongside some of the veteran warriors of Pack Longfang. Trygvy’s warpack was well supplied, if rather basic, and able to move out and be a part of the Great Wolf’s hunt.

Among the assembled Longfangs were Ranmir, Halvar, Runa, Brynja, Thrand, Fritha, Bryech, Throm, and Dorn. Every volunteer to attend the hunt was ulven; syndar and human were forbidden from being allowed on the Great Wolf’s hunt. Dorn Tallstag had been traveling with pack Longfang for some time. On the first month of the year 267, he was not only one of the ulven chosen for the great honor of being allowed to hunt alongside the Great Wolf but he was also the only one with half human blood in his veins; a one-of-a-kind exception allowed on his momentous occasion.

The honored warpacks were blessed with sacred rites by numerous Witches of various ulven clans. This was not to be a military campaign or a sprawling war effort with allies and supply lines; this was going to be a dangerous and ritualistic fight against incredible odds and hardship. Ulven were going to die and be judged by the Great Wolf during this hunt in large numbers; they were all prepared for it.

Soon after assembling, the warpacks were given an estimated area to move into the Great Forest and fight the mordok. It was a simple plan… move and fight. It didn’t take long after venturing into the Great Forest when Trygvy’s warpack came upon a large group of mordok. Their numbers vastly overwhelmed the size of the warpack and worry was quick to darken the thoughts of the Steinjottun warriors. Too much fear would be judged harshly by the Great Wolf on this hunt. The Chieftain’s initial orders faltered a bit as his calculating mind tried to devise a plan of what to do. Then, worry melted away and eventually turned to bravado as the warriors looked to the veteran Longfangs and saw ulven that were not only absent of fear but almost relishing in the thought of the upcoming fight. Even outnumbered, the Longfangs stepped forward ready to do battle. This bravado steeled the resolve of the warpack and they marched straight into the larger group of mordok.

Dorn Tallstag, the newest member of Pack Longfang, and the small group of veteran Longfang warriors moved through the woods towards the group of mordok in front of them. His vision was limited due to his large helm, he saw mordok clustered around something, possibly a corruption site of some kind. Being half human and new, he was still coming to grips with the thought of being allowed on this honored hunt. He would not dishonor himself or his Pack and he would fight hard today. As they got closer, one of the other fighters tapped Dorn on the shoulder and gestured to something to his left. It was too late. An arrow flew out of the darkness, glanced off of Dorn’s armor and hit the warrior in the face. The ulven collapsed with the arrow protruding from his skull. Another small group of mordok slunk out of the darkness from which the arrow came. Dorn hefted his axe as the shield wall formed in front of him; he knew the fight ahead of them was going to be difficult.

“With me! CHARGE!” Bryech roared as he motioned with his sword and ran forward. The warpack followed, Bryech was sure much to the contempt of the Chieftain who led the Warpack. The force before them was overwhelming, the mordok outnumbered them at least two to one. This was no time to fight cautiously. If they wanted to win this fight they would need unexpected brutality. That was exactly what Bryech planned to deliver and the Mordok responded in kind. The two forces made a deafening amount of noise as they thundered towards each other. Bryech didn’t think, he didn’t worry about how strong the enemy was, all he wanted was to kill them all. Bryech sidestepped the first mordok to come in range and spun around making a long cut up the beast’s back with a noticeable eruption of blood trailing his sword. Moving onto the next Mordok rushing towards him, Bryech parried high with his sword and edged his foe with his shield knocking the beast over and followed up with a quick strike to finish the Mordok off before it could recover. The battle was on in full now; a rough battle line had formed with both sides fighting viciously. Bryech took down another Mordok after a small exchange of blows. Before he could move on, a sharp pain below his left shoulder caused him to drop his shield. Bryech knew an archer had hit him and went to pull the arrow from his arm. He broke the shaft in half and pulled hard through gritted teeth. The rest of the shaft came out clean but the head broke off and fell out of his sleeve. Bryech recovered his shield and made his way toward Halvar who had seemed to have gotten into an area of heavy fighting.

“Bryech!” He heard it but didn’t look to see who said it because immediately after an arrow deflected off his helm and knocked him back slightly.

“Now I’m pissed.” Bryech said to himself before rushing to Halvar’s side with a battle cry.  

“Brace your shield!” Halvar exclaimed as Bryech approached. Halvar thrust his long axe past the head of one of the mordok in front of him and hooked it around its neck. With a strong pull back with his axe, Halvar smashed the mordok’s face into the metal boss of Bryech’s shield, breaking the jaw of the mordok with a crunch and splattering blood on the shield. As the mordok recoiled and grabbed its face, Halvar wound up and planted a heavy cleave into the mordok’s chest. It flew backwards several steps and crumpled to the ground.

As soon as Halvar recovered from the heavy swing, an arrow darted out and hit him in the upper part of his left arm. Grimacing in pain, he stepped backwards and took a knee to focus on tearing it out. Suddenly, Fritha’s shield appeared in front of him and was immediately met by a second arrow, her quick reflexes saving Halvar from the attack. Halvar and Fritha made eye contact and Halvar nodded in appreciation before tearing out the arrow with a grunt of pain and then returning to the fight.

Ranmir held back as the two opposing forces clashed. He thought to himself that with the larger opposing force, this would be a time for decisive shots, not distracting ones. He saw Bryech take an arrow to the shoulder and returned the favor with an arrow to the mordok’s eye.

Ranmir loosed arrow after arrow, each finding it’s mark. As one of the filthy black mongrels charged with an axe above his head, Ranmir loosed and watched an arrow sprout from its chest, just in time for Thrand to come down on it with an axe of his own.

Ranmir continued to peer at the enemy line, as he heard someone shout, “Ranmir! Behind you!” Was that Brynja? Or Runa? It didn’t matter now, he turned to see a mordok that had snuck around the lines barreling down on him, he loosed the arrow into the mordok’s arm, reached to his quiver, and grabbed…nothing…he had lost count. Like a deer facing a wolf, Ranmir froze for a second, then tossed his bow aside, grabbed his knife and dagger and drove them into the stomach of the mordok as he was tackled, and then felt…nothing. He expected a counter attack from the mordok but when he tumbled to a stop, the mordok was dead. Blood gushed from the two deep stab wounds of his weapons into the beast’s belly.

The blood pumped through Throm’s veins as his double bit axe cleaved through a mordok shield, splintering the once protective equipment into kindling. With a quick movement of his arm, the axe spun around and landed deep into the chest of the foolish beast. With that one falling another one came in fast and tackled Throm to the ground. A foolish mistake as he slammed the mordok down and pulled out a dagger and started to stab with terrifying ferocity. The mordok bit and tore at his shoulder a decent amount, the attacks being thwarted by the mail armor. The beast was felled when the blade of his knife went through its neck, relieving it of its lifeblood.

With a roar, Brynja threw herself into the fray. It had been far too long since she had fought by Bryech’s side, and his ferociousness and tenacity were infectious. As she connected with the first of the Mordok, she planted her shield in the beast’s hips and thrust upward, tossing it heavily over her shoulder and sending it sprawling. The warriors behind her would surely have that one handled, she knew without thinking, and pressed forward.

Brynja had grown accustomed to fighting side-by-side with the experienced Longfang warriors since she began lending her training as an instructor to the pack nearly a year ago. Their skill and coordination were evident as spear and shield and sword worked as one to slowly but surely slay Mordok after Mordok. She fell into a rhythm with her allies, allowing her reflexes to take over. Her mind drifted to Onsallas, to her mate who was waiting for her safe return. Like a bucket of cold water, the thought of Naveeve snapped Brynja back into the moment. Instincts be damned, she would make sure she would survive the day to come home once more.

Runa swung her hammer down over a mordok’s head, caving it in with a sickening crunch and coating the hammer in brains and blood. Another mordok ran at her from her left. She ripped the hammer out of what was left of the mordok’s skull and reeled back to swing again with a grunt of effort. The hammer was heavy and her swing easy to see but the power it generated was staggering. He opponent thought they were clear of the reach of the weapon. The mordok was dead wrong; Runa hit her target square in the ear, caving it’s head in from the side. Runa looked to her side and saw Thrand and Fritha fighting together, holding mordok away from her flank. Time and time again, Thrand’s long axe darted out to hack, pull, or cleave into shields and bodies. Fritha’s stalwart defense and use of her shield kept the mordok at bay, forcing them to endure the attacks from the Longfang’s support weapons. When an opportunity presented itself or when a mordok decided to close the gap, Fritha’s mastercrafted Clan Ironmound sword slashed out and punished them for it.

The fight went well. Dorn’s axe rained terror down upon the mordok. At one point one of the archers tried to get around to flank the Ulven group but Dorn charged the archer by himself. The mordok tried to shoot him but his armor was too strong for the arrows to penetrate; the arrow simply buried itself into the layered leathers and mail and snapped off before doing any real damage. The archer simply ran and fled, not wanting to close to melee.

The rest of the warpack traded blows with the mordok and killed them. Quickly, the ground became awash in bright crimson blood from both sides of the line. Steinjottun warriors bore witness to the ferocity and skill of the Longfangs and pressed in, consumed by battle lust. Then it was just… over. The mordok melted away from the fight almost as quickly as they had charged into it.

Bryech gave a yell of victory, encouraging the fleeing Mordok to run away faster.

“Bryech, are you injured? Let me tend to your wounds” said Thrand through labored breaths.

“I’m fine, tend to those who actually need it.” Bryech replied distantly, his thoughts obviously elsewhere. Bryech walked off to find the Chieftain of the Warpack; they needed to discuss their next move.

Ranmir checked over his equipment, sitting, “I didn’t realize there were this many in the Forest,” he said, to no one in particular.

Leaning heavily against a tree, Brynja began to count her many new bruises and tried to stretch out her aching shoulder. The joint protested every inch with searing pain; an axe had struck true during the battle. Though her armor had saved her from the worst of the damage, she would need to see a healer about the wound before the next fight.

After the mordok had fled, the group went back to camp where a caravan had dropped off more supplies. The warpack resupplied and took a small break to heal, rest and get any armor mended that they could. Throm sat down and started to hone his axe and hunting knife, his body slightly weary and battered, but nothing too worse for the wear for the moment. His shoulder did ache and bleed a decent amount, but it wasn’t something he couldn’t work with. Still, the pain was starting to become more than a slight annoyance as the adrenaline left him. It was a small break, energized by their overwhelming win- they yearned for more blood. The Steinjottun warriors seemed almost shocked at how the veteran Longfang warriors recovered so quickly from such a pitched battle.

They regrouped and went after the fleeing Mordok. Finding the mordok was was easy enough; the freshly disturbed ground and drops of blood an easy trail to follow. The mordok were found rather quickly much to both the surprise of the resting mordok and the assembled warpack.

“Cut, them, down.” Bryech ordered. He spoke with a calm fury. Bryech walked towards the small band of Mordok with the warriors that accompanied him, the two groups were almost even so he knew they wouldn’t run. When he got close Bryech struck out with surprising speed and quickly enveloped himself in the fight.

Despite the protests she could already hear from her distant mate, Brynja readied herself to crush the fleeing Mordok. Injured or not, she would not let her packmates have all the glory! With her shoulder still tender, she slung her shield over her shoulder and produced the large sword at her side. The Mordok had taken her deep in the swamp long ago: she intended to exact her revenge this day.

Bryech moved his group like a wolf pack making swift work of any Mordok still brave enough to fight them, but eventually grew more reserved as his warriors grew too tired or injured to continue the way they had.

The battle was going rather smoothly. However two mordok decided to flank and try and ambush Fritha and Thrand and Throm spotted the flankers as they approached. His blood was up and his legs kicked against the ground. All the flanking mordok witnessed was a large blur rush towards them roaring “Tell the Great Wolf Throm “Hell-Hound” Nightriver sent you!” An axe chop to a knee, a fist to the face, and a shattered jaw left the mordok out of the fight. Its partner tried to rush Throm with a large axe; a fatal mistake, for Throm was in no mood for humoring a one on one fight. Throm glared at the Mordok and spoke only these words with only bile in his voice, “The maw devour you!” Both Thrand and Fritha moved to assist and the three of them cut down the remaining flanker.

Halvar yelled to track them all down and kill every one of them all. The group gave chase and the Ulven who could still run, did. They gathered any arrows on the way, pulling them out of the dead Mordok. Handing the majority of them off to Ranmir or putting them in his quiver so he could start pulling them out and plugging them into the backs of Mordok so they could be pulled out and used again until they splintered from use.

After all of the Mordok who had fled had been cut down or lost in the woods, the Longfangs regrouped with the warpack to plan out the next move. While talking, a scout came with a message to the Chieftain in charge of this warpack; there was another warpack that was not faring well and the scout was asking for help immediately. The warpack was nearby and after a solid fight they were on their way back to a nearby staging area to regroup and were beset upon by a large group of mordok. They tried to fallback but the mordok force dogged them ferociously and they decided to stand and fight. The Steinjottun Chieftain, being reserved and concerned for his own pack, did not feel comfortable sending the group out so soon for another encounter. Although another warpack was in trouble, the Steinjottun warriors were simply too spent, exhausted, or hurt from the heavy fighting.

When the Longfangs learned of this they quickly grouped together to talk about it; this was not something they could let stand. They approached the Steinjottun Chieftain. Fritha stepped forward to speak on behalf of the Longfangs present and asked if they could be permitted to leave the warpack to assist the others. The Chieftain hesitated but gave his permission. The Longfangs, who stood for honor and protection in the face of adversity, quickly packed up, gave quick good byes and thumps on the back to their brothers and sisters in arms, and left to aid those who needed it more.

After traveling a fair distance and following the scout as quickly as they could, the Longfang veterans soon came upon a gruesome scene. Another large band of mordok was in a pitched fight against another warpack. Their clan origin was unknown and all that mattered is that there were ulven fighting against the mordok. And these ulven appeared to be losing.

With little delay, the Longfangs roared into the fight; their iconic bark ringing out three times above the clamor of battle as they crashed into the side of the mordok force. They fought their way through to where the other warpack was holding out. The shield wall didn’t hold for much longer after they got there, their presence attracted more and more mordok.

In a short amount of time, any semblance of two battle lines broke apart into a swirling mess of chaos as warriors from both sides broke off, paired up, or reformed to fight anything in front of them. It was in this moment that the ferocity of single combat could quickly decide the victor… something the mordok excelled at.

Bryech fought ferociously, his armor and shield broken beyond proper use. His sword had yet to fail him so he did what he could. Bryech swung at a Mordok but his attack was blocked and the beast took advantage of his lowered defenses and sliced just below Bryech’s knee. Bryech grimaced but fought through the pain. Throwing a punch with his left hand Bryech made solid contact with the Mordok’s jaw, sending it reeling. It wasn’t enough to stop the mordok as it dropped in and suddenly grappled Bryech. As quickly as he could, he went in and met the grapple; grabbing it around the waist and taking the beast down. Bryech followed with a series of quick strikes to the head and neck making the Mordok’s face a bloody mess. He knelt above his now dead opponent and surveyed the battlefield, his fatigue finally starting to catch up with him. Bryech heard footsteps behind him but he was too slow and tired to react quick enough. Bryech felt immense pain pierce through his back and out his front. Looking down, he saw a sword protruding from his lower abdomen. Bryech jumped back, knocking his attacker off balance and turned to hack into the Mordok’s neck. The strike was vicious, tearing just as much as it cut. The Mordok dropped, convulsing and making an awful gurgling noise as it choked on its own blood. Bryech staggered away and leaned against a nearby tree reaching for the short sword sticking out of his back. It was an awkward angle but slowly, painfully he removed the sword. Blood pooled in the hole it left but it didn’t bleed as bad as he had thought; apparently it hadn’t caught anything immediately vital. Bryech turned away from the tree, clutching his side, to continue the fight. After a short walk he managed to catch an archer off guard and knocked its bow from its hand only to receive a lightning fast dagger to the abdomen. Bryech dropped his sword and staggered, clutching the blade now embedded in his torso. He quickly realized that he would not be able to endure much longer. The Mordok pulled back and started to call for more Mordok to come and watch its kill. Bryech’s vision swam and his reality faded. He almost passed out until he heard a voice to his right.

“You promised.” it said. Bryech looked and saw Ingrid as if she was truly in front of him. He even felt her touch when he reached out to cup her face in his hand, felt her always cool finger wrap around the outside of his own hand. “I knew I would lose you.” she said, tears rolling down her cheeks. Bryech felt a fire in his chest.

The Mordok turned back towards its victim seeing what looked like its prey hallucinating, reaching towards nothing before going into a light state of unconsciousness.

“You will never lose me,” Bryech began, strength flooding back into his body.

“If I can’t run to you, I’ll walk.” He whispered, his voice gaining volume as he spoke.

“If I can’t walk to you, I will crawl.” he grabbed the dagger in his side.

“I will do whatever it takes to come back to you.” he said, the wall between the real world and his vision blurred beyond all recognition.

“I will come back to you my love, I swear to you, all you have to do is ask.” Bryech said as he kissed his beloved before he woke.

The Mordok crept closer to the wounded Ulven savoring the easy kill. Bryech saw a dagger in his blood covered hands and he saw the shadow of the Mordok growing closer. Bryech lunged upward grabbing the Mordok by the shoulder and head-butting it. In one fluid motion, he pulled the dagger from his side and drove it repeatedly into the beast’s throat. Watching it fall to the ground, Bryech sat on its chest to pin its arms with his knees. Bryech began slowly and heavily punching the Mordok with his right hand, each strike gaining more speed and ferocity. Bryech stopped after the beast stopped making noise.

Pulling off his helmet, Bryech looked before him seeing a large gathering of Mordok before him. Bryech grabbed his sword and stood, slowly, a shocking amount of blood continuing to soak his clothing and drip down his body. Letting out a roar, Bryech was shocked to hear far more volume than he anticipated and turned to see a group of warriors rush past him to engage the Mordok. Bryech fell to his knees, a surprising relief sweeping over him. Two warriors from the Warpack came and assisted him to safety.

Slowly but surely the mordok gained the upper hand; warriors fell on both sides of Dorn. His axe continued to find its mark as it splintered shields and crushed bone. Arrows continue to bounce off his heavier armor until one found its way through into his leg. He grimaced in pain as he was able to pull it out. This took a moment he did not have and as he was doing this the mordok pushed the shield wall past him leaving him behind the enemy line. Mordok surrounded him and began to encroach on him and another arrow struck him in the chest. Luckily it didn’t penetrate deep enough to actually pierce his skin. One mordok recklessly pushed forward. Dorn dispatched it with some difficulty, the nearly constant fighting and the very armor that protected him from blades and arrows was severely wearing him down. This time two mordok came at him and he swung his axe into the skull of one of them but it got stuck. The second mordok jumped on Dorn’s back and began trying to bite through his pauldron. Dorn drew his sword and stabbed it through the back of the first mordok, spun it around and then threw it to the ground. He grabbed the arm of the mordok on his back and flipped it over his shoulder and onto his sword which was protruding from the first mordok. Exhausted, Dorn stood back up and freed his axe from the dead mordok’s skull with a sickening crunch. He squared up and hefted his axe, ready to fight again when a black orb of energy smashed him in the ribs, boring through and ripping flesh and muscle from his body. Dorn gasped for breath. The pain was unbearable. He could feel the life draining out of him but he managed to stay conscious somehow. He dropped his axe when he reeled from the pain of the magic. It was a few feet away from him and he couldn’t reach it quickly. A creeping blackness threatened to push Dorn to unconsciousness. With a vicious roar, Dorn howled in rage and with all the strength he could muster he got to his feet and charged the spellcasting mordok. It must have thought Dorn was out of the fight and it had turned to face the ulven shield wall and Dorn tackled it from behind. He dragged the stunned mordok down to the ground and beat it to death with his gauntleted fist. His fury running out, he finally lost consciousness and blacked out.

Everything was going wrong, the lines weren’t holding. The Longfangs couldn’t be everywhere at once. The Mordok were surrounding the Ulven and the warpack wasn’t holding. The Longfangs were trying to stay together and survive, but it wasn’t going well. They became separated, they had to for survival. The forest was thick in this area and Fritha used it to her advantage. She used the trees to dodge and separate Mordok, coming behind them and hitting them in any way possible to incapacitate them. Slicing their throats and barely registering the gargling of their blood spilling down their neck as she was on to the next one. She tried to stay close to her mate when she could. With all of her armor and years of training with the Longfangs, it wasn’t enough. Swords, maces and flails found their way past her defenses and were wearing on her armor. Pieces of it were being destroyed beyond repair and then the metal was finding flesh. Her movements were slowing down, her reactions weren’t enough. An arrow sunk into her left leg. She staggered from the pain. Fritha knew it can’t stay in; if she lost her ability to move she would be dead that much quicker. She gripped the arrow hard and broke the shaft, shoving it the rest of the way through her leg, and rips out the blood stained arrow. When she turned, a Mordok was running straight at her with an ax. She braced herself and when he met her in combat she parried the blade and used the edge of her shield to dent the side of its skull in. She didn’t see the Mordok to her right who charged right into her, slamming her off her feet and into the base of a tree. He lined up a javelin and pierced it in Fritha’s upper thigh of her right leg. She screams in pain and Thrand hears her nearby. He launched himself over a fallen tree and brought his long axe down hard and split the Mordok to his collar bone.

Ripping the axe out with a crunch and quickly setting it down, Thrand pulled out his healing kit and worked to staunch the bleeding on Fritha’s leg. She was getting dizzy from the exhaustion and loss of blood. He finished up treating her leg just enough to keep it from bleeding out and they look at each other. They are in in a bad situation but they are there together. Thrand stood up and reached out to help Fritha back onto her feet. He was right in front of her… and then suddenly he wasn’t. There was a loud clang of metal on metal. Thrand was gone and in his place was a Mordok with a bloodied axe. Thrand was on the ground beneath it, blood pooling from his head and face. Fritha picked up her sword and ran it through the Mordok’s chest with a scream of rage, twisting the blade and shoving into it with her shoulder. It fell down, blood pouring from its vicious wound. Racing to his side, Fritha quickly called out a prayer to Gaia to help save her mate. Tears welled up in Fritha’s eyes as she tried to roll him over but she was scared at what she might see when she did. There was so much blood. With a groan, Thrand looked at her with one blood soaked eye and gasped for air. He was alive, but just barely, and without immediate aid the axe wound to his face would surely kill him. Too wounded to continue any real fighting, Fritha pulled Thrand’s dead weight across the ground to get him away from the fighting, grimacing through the pain in her leg.

This is just like Pyre Hills, Brynja thought to herself. Everywhere she turned, there seemed to be another gap in their line, another of her packmates being struck and bloodied, another Mordok to press their advantage. Brynja had seen death before. She had stared it in the eyes and snarled until it backed down. This time, however, it seemed there would be no escape.

A hulking beast approached Brynja, tossing a smaller Mordok aside with a swing of its axe. Brynja noted that the axe was nearly as big as she was. Before she could begin her next thought, the axe was falling towards her as apparently the mordok was also fast. Unable to respond in time, the blow caught her shield and nearly tore it from her hand. Her axe shot out and responded to the attack with one of her own. Another blow. Another strike. With each swing of the Mordok’s axe, Brynja could feel her grip on her shield weaken. She knew that being cautious like this would only get her killed sooner, so she pressed her attack. Another swing and her shield was splintered, though she pressed into the Mordok and cut a deep gash in its thigh. Another swing and she knew her armor was spent, but her axe found its way into the mordok’s shoulder. A final swing caught Brynja in her calf, bringing her to her knees in front of her attacker. Trading blows worked out for the mordok who now had the upper hand. Sensing an easy kill, the Mordok hefted its great axe high, ready to bring the weapon down on Brynja.

This is how I die. Brynja couldn’t keep the thought from her mind. After all the battles I’ve fought; after all the victories I’ve won; after all the times I’ve spat in death’s face, this is how it ends. Her mind wandered in that instant: She thought of her home in Clan Axehound, and of the welcoming arms of Pack Blackpaw. She thought of the swamp, of the corruption which nearly ended her life, and of Manetho’s disapproving lectures. She thought of her new family, her packmates in Pack Longfang. She thought of Naveeve, and how-

Naveeve.

Brynja’s mind stopped. She had made a promise to her mate before leaving on this hunt. Naveeve would wait for her to return and Brynja would find her way home. Her eyes grew hot and stung with tears but she didn’t seem to notice. All Brynja could see was red. Brynja roared ferociously and launched herself up, using her body to pivot and bring her axe up into the mordok’s stomach. Kicking the beast down with her good leg, she hefted the axe and brought it down with a mighty blow and caved in its chest. As the mordok’s labored breath gurgled through its now exposed lungs, Brynja staggered to the ground and grimaced from her numerous wounds.

Moving forward and swinging his axe in a wide arc to keep the mordok at bay, Halvar stepped forward to try to help Brynja. It would only buy them a few seconds of time, but he knew Brynja needed help. If she flew into a furious rage right now, she may cut down some mordok but Halvar was afraid they would be overrun. The mordok knew this too and several of them rushed Halvar. Grunting with effort and swinging hard, his long axe landed on the handle of the weapon of one of the rushing mordok and sent it reeling backwards and off balance. The second one charged even faster and before he could recover his axe, it was on him. Landing a heavy shoulder and pushing hard, the mordok took Halvar off his feet and crashing into the ground. Suddenly, Halvar noticed he was at a fatal disadvantage when he noticed the mordok also had a short wicked looking dagger in its hand. It darted the weapon out several times and made shallow but still painful stabs at his chest and arms. Halvar reached for the knife in an attempt to control it, his long axe now useless in a grapple, when the mordok dropped its body weight onto his chest and pinned his arm for a moment. It took advantage of Halvar being trapped to slice out with the knife, cutting into his face. It was not a fast and clean cut, but instead a tearing wound that was forcefully opened by pushing a pitted and rusty blade across exposed flesh. Blood gushed out from the deep and jagged cut and he shot his forearm up to protect his face and throat. The knife cut again, this time glancing off the heavy leather gauntlet. As the mordok was lining up another stab, this time aimed towards Halvar’s face, there was a sudden thump and the mordok went flying backwards. Halvar couldn’t see well with the blood in his eyes and he was cut and bleeding from numerous places. Stepping in to engage the mordok was Runa. Even though his eyes were blood soaked, her enormous hammer unmistakable. This gave Halvar a moment to crawl away holding his face from the grievous wound and move towards Brynja to help her get away from danger.

The two mordok surrounded Runa. One wound up and swung a flail, wrapping around Runa’s forearm tightly. The spikes tore through her armor and skin as the Mordok pulled back, exposing bone and ripping muscle. The hammer fell from her hand, which opened the opportunity for the mordok to bring up its shield and pin her arm to the tree behind her. The force of the shield edge ramming her into the tree snapped the bone of her upper arm. Growling through gritted teeth and pain, Runa reached behind her for her sax. In this moment, Thrand and Bryech’s teachings of keeping weapons close to hand and carrying an extra knife shot into her mind. She pulled the knife clear of its sheath and shoved it up the mordok’s jowl, hilt deep. It’s eyes went wide and blood oozed out of its gaped mouth. She yanked it out and the mordok fell at her feet, thrashing from the pain of the knife. Feeling the pain radiating from her arm, she looked down at the mordok’s body. Overcome with rage, she picked the hammer up with her good arm and swung it over and over again until there is nothing left of its face. With one last kick to its body, she stomped off in the swirl of the melee to find the rest of her pack, clutching her now dangling broken arm.

Chaos, utter chaos surrounded them. Left and right, no matter where Throm looked, he witnessed carnage and death before him. Friend and foe alike bled out and colored the soaked the ground in crimson. Ulven warriors fought for their life. Mordok fought for their life. Ferocity and blood lust gripped this entire battle as both sides knew that only one side was walking away from this alive.

Two mordok came around and started towards their rear flank, where they were already being pressed. Throm rushed forward blindly, knowing that if any more pressure was applied to that side of their warpack, they would fall. As he got close he felt something slam into his left leg. He stumbled and looked down and saw a crude arrow puncturing his tasset and it filled him with burning agony. He stood up and grabbed a dead mordok on the way up. With all his might he held it up and stumbled towards them as he used the body as a shield from their arrows. Several arrows slammed into the corpse. He felt another arrow this time and it hit him hard in the kidney. He roared with agony and hobbled on the best he could. The corpse was hit again and again as he held it there for a moment against his shoulder. Throm was in a bind but he couldn’t give up. If he did, the rear defense would crumble. He couldn’t give in, no matter what…

His mind wandered back to a speech that was given to the Hell-Hound warpack all those years ago in the war against the colonists.

‘Let loose… Give in, and be a fang once more… There is no mercy… only death. Now roar, howl, and maul!’

His eyes narrowed and with his fangs bared, Throm howled to the sky. The mordok only stopped for a single moment in confusion, a moment long enough for Throm to start his onslaught. In that one moment, Throm rushed in with the arrow-riddled body, throwing it at one of the others with a bow. A skirmishing Mordok came from the brush and started at him with two knives. In mere moments, his armor was in tatters and his arm bleeding like a stuck boar. He felt himself going down, down into the void that was death.

Then he felt it; his soul scream in denial. His blood lust boiled over into pure rage. If these beasts would take him down today, they are going to have to earn it and they will have to endure his fury.

In a final effort, Throm stood up and bellowed like never before. His booming voice shook the very woods and warriors from both sides gave pause and looked at him in surprise. Blood poured from multiple wounds. Several arrows protruded from his body. His eyes wide and filled with rage, Throm took up his mace and barreled forward and began to bludgeon one of the Mordok without mercy, without finesse, or form. Blood spattered up as the flanges of the mace tore and crushed more and more flesh. The mordok screamed and crumbled beneath the blows and the two mordok nearest him scurried backwards in panic. Repeatedly the mace pulverized flesh and killed the mordok and ended its screams. With a final roar that sent the panicked mordok near him fleeing away, Throm’s eyes rolled into the back of his head and he pitched backwards, smashing into the ground. A pool of blood began to form around him as his world turned to black.

The veteran Longfangs had been in the thick of the combat and exacted a heavy toll on the mordok. The dead had piled up around them and blood had been washed or pooled everywhere. But this close in and vicious fighting had a cost. As equipment was rent, blood was spilled, and bones were broken, even the veterans of Pack Longfang could not hold out forever.

Gruinar Fellriver, Chieftain of Pack Fellriver of Clan Grimward, took a moment to survey the battlefield when he heard final howl of rage from Throm Nightriver. Everything happened so fast; their warpack was doing well, moving through the Great Forest and skirmishing the mordok. Then they were beset upon by an enormous force of mordok and he was sure to be judged by the Great Wolf that day. He was honored to die in battle on this glorious hunt… but he was sad that he would never see his mate and his two daughters ever again.

However, instead of a swift crush of gnashing teeth and weapons that would fell his smaller warpack, his forces were joined by another group of ulven. They fought with tenacity and skill and took on mordok numbers larger than their own. Gruinar’s warpack was not torn down by the mordok but instead started to hold their own. His warriors fell in choking spasms of blood and final battle cries on their lips, but they fought like hell as they died. Then the battle began to shift and they began to push back against the mordok.

When Gruinar surveyed the battlefield, he saw the terribly wounded warriors with flags on their belts. It was a large curved and angular white fang; the banner of the Pack Longfang.

The Chieftain audibly chuckled in irony. The last time he had seen those flags were on the elite Ulfhednar of Pack Longfang during the civil war. He was not a Chieftain at that time; he was assigned to a Pack that was pressing and pushing to get into and take the final settlement of Clan Stormjarl during the Battle of Blackwolf Creek. One of the warriors had taken off their helmet and Gruinar was shocked to see Bryech Savagefang, one of the few and only survivors of that battle. He recognized him. He was there when Clan Grimward warriors cut him down and left him to die in a pool of his blood. And yet, here he is alongside his Packmates, defending Gruinar’s warpack from being massacred. How times have changed indeed, thought the Chieftain as he slammed his axe to his shield.

“Grimward warriors! Charge! Cut them down and send them to the Great Wolf!” Gruinar roared as he led the final charge into the mordok. His warriors pushed themselves despite wounds, exhaustion, and casualties and battered into the mordok group.

It was over quickly. The damage inflicted by the Longfang warriors and the time they bought by holding out and enduring the mordok assault gave the Chieftain’s warpack a chance to recover and then deal the final blow.

Dead, bloodied, and wounded lay everywhere. This was a vicious and brutal fight. Some of the more able bodied Grimward warriors had assembled the Longfang warriors in a group. Shockingly, none had died in the fight. Judging by their wounds… they should have.

“I am Chieftain Gruinar Fellriver of Clan Grimward.” Said the Chieftain in an authoritative tone.

Some of the Longfang warriors worriedly glanced to each other after they learned the origin of the warpack they rushed to help. A few inched towards their weapons or hands moved towards sheathed knifes and a fierceness began to creep back into the bloodied eyes of a few of those still conscious.

“I am honored to have fought alongside you this day.” Said the chieftain after taking a moment to size them up.

He extended an arm out to them, offering it for a forearm clasp.

– END –

For the first time in days, Manetho permitted herself to relax. She sat down on the stool outside the largest hut and closed her eyes, leaning back against the rough logs of the wall. Her knees, elbows, and back were one solid ache, and her head was beginning to spin from lack of sleep, but the last of the fevers were finally going down and the village was beginning to come back to life.
Not that it was much of a village. Near a dozen huts clustered around a communal green where the bake-ovens had been built, and not far off, a pond with privies built much too near it for any healer’s comfort. The inhabitants were all Ulven save for one stray Human, but they shared no clan or tribe: just a collection of farmers, soldiers, and survivors, driven from their previous abodes by the civil war. Their houses were still new enough for there to be sap between some of the logs, and even before the fever had sprung up among them, their children had been hollow-eyed and too thin.
Still, calamity had been avoided. Thank the lizard that he’d had his claw on them; Manetho never would have come this way had it not been for a too-chatty blacksmith at Hareford, a day’s journey west. He’d heard there was a new settlement of the displaced, but it wouldn’t last long … Why not? Well, you know refugees, he’d said. Dirty bunch no matter what race they are, no surprise they’re all getting sick …
When she’d arrived, twelve of the adults and ten of the children had been near comatose. The remainders had talked of sending for a mage they couldn’t afford. Manetho was no mage: just a healer, with a satchel full of practical remedies and a tired, dogged refusal to give up. But this time, at least, that had been enough.
The children had recovered the quickest. Young, spry folk with quick blood, despite their deprivation and illness. Now, as the last of the sickly adults groaned and staggered their way back towards health, the children were having an impromptu holiday.
There were twenty of them all told, and by any gods you cared to name, they made a riot. Currently, there was a minor war going on for possession of the tattered village green—boys versus girls. The girls had the advantage of numbers, but the boys made up for it in sheer volume.
“Not fair!” screamed Thannet, one of the girls’ ringleaders. She was a fair-haired child, the perfect picture of a young Ulven with snow-white fangs and china-blue eyes. The image was somewhat spoiled by the sheer amount of mud coating her face and the front of her dress. “You cheated!”
“Did not!” retorted Ulmar. He was younger than Thannet, skinny and sneaky, the kind of child destined to one day slip daggers into other people’s backs. He’d gotten a fine head start on his career as a rogue by tripping Thannet into the mud.
“Did so!”
“Did not!”
“Did so!”
“Did not! You said we couldn’t throw mud!”
“We also said no pushing! It’s rude!”
“But we never said ‘no pushing into the mud!’ That’s different!”
Despite her exhaustion, Manetho stifled a laugh. Perhaps she’d been wrong: Ulmar might have a future as a lawyer.
But the argument was escalating, and to her great reluctance, she forced herself to stand up. A lot of screaming on the village green was not going to help the fever patients who were only just beginning to get the rest they needed.
“Settle down there,” she said, picking her way across the muddy green towards the argument. “Your parents are still trying to get their sleep, and you hollering won’t help them.”
“He threw mud at me!”
“Did not! I threw you in the mud. ‘s completely different.”
“Hah! You said you pushed me before. Can’t you make up your mind, liar?”
Lizard save them all; there was a whole crop of lawyers coming up in this village. Manetho silently resolved to never get caught in a crime within fifty miles of the place. She whistled loudly, breaking up the argument yet again, and crossed her arms.
“If you’re going to fight, children, do it quietly. Don’t you remember how awful it felt when you were sick? How much your heads hurt, and how badly you wanted to throw up? Well, lots of your parents still feel that way, and if you screaming makes it worse then they’ll thrash you black and blue once they’re better. Can’t you play nicely?”
“That’s boring!” one of the younger boys huffed. There was a chorus of agreement from several of his compatriots. Ulven youngsters: lovely and adorable until the mob started forming.
Manetho played her trump card. Fighting children were often bored children, after all. “All right,” she said. “If you promise to sit quietly, then, I’ll tell you another story.”
To her great relief, that got a chorus of eager agreement from the kids. Even Thannet, who often loudly prided herself on being too old and grown-up for such babyish pursuits, didn’t object. Manetho was still new enough to have stories they hadn’t heard yet, after all, and she’d begun storytelling while children were still getting over their fevers. Now she’d happily tell every last tale all over again if it would buy her patients a few more minutes of (gods-damned) peace and quiet.
“All right, make yourselves comfortable,” she said, pointing to a patch of grass away from the mud. The children did so with all the grace and ease one expected of Ulven: scrambling into place, bumping into each other, and breaking out in miniature scuffles over who’d pulled whose hair and who took whose spot. It was like watching a pile of puppies fight.
Manetho’s good humor faded a little at the sight. In ten years, these children would be farmers, craftsmen, tailors, bards—but all of them, in a pinch, soldiers. The Ulven, for all the mockery she could throw at them (and often did, she would admit), had a vitality and strength to them that her own race conspicuously lacked. Ulven were the bulwark of Mardrun, and these children would in their turn hold the line against Mordok and each other.
Her tribe had been different. There’d been few children among the Deshret Syndar, and though each one was prized, there was much to learn and heavy burdens to lay on their shoulders. There had always been the consciousness of being one of the few: secret, set apart, despised even by their Syndar brethren.
If she had been young again, she might have envied these Ulven children their freedom and ease. Being as old as she was, she instead mourned for what they would have to face.
“Now,” she said, trying to shake off her thoughts and put on a facade of good cheer as she sat down in front of them. “I have a lot of stories. But you’ve heard most of them already, so we might have to come up with something new.”
“Talk about the Battle for the Ironmound Village!” called one voice from the back.
“That one’s boring,” said another. Manetho belatedly identified that speaker: Olaf, the soldier’s son. An aspiring—though for the moment, stupendously untalented—bard. “Tell the one about the Blackpaw and the Red-Eyed Man!”
That got a chorus of assent from several of the girls. Manetho had told that story the first time they wanted a tale: heavily edited, of course, with all real names altered and the characters ginned up to resemble something from a good heroic myth. The girls had especially enjoyed it. Who didn’t like a story about a strong woman standing firm against a vile fiend?
(No mention of a Syndar healer ignominiously begging on the ground. That didn’t make a very good story.)
The group consensus, however, was against the Blackpaw tale. As much as they liked it, they’d heard it twice more since then, and novelty was what the mob demanded. Another squabble broke out, and the children temporarily stopped arguing to cheer on the two battlers. Manetho mentally ran through her list of stories and waited for the dust to settle again.
When it had (the winner triumphant, the loser insisting he wasn’t really trying to fight, honestly, I pulled every punch!), Manetho had decided.
“How about …” She paused for effect. “The Tale of the Thorn Curse?”
This was a risky move. It was an old story, stretching back far beyond Mardrun—and, knowing her tribe, farther back than her own lineage. She rarely had a chance to tell these stories, because they were full of things that Mardrun children would have no reference for: crocodiles and djinni and hot, blazing deserts. Things that even she recalled only in dreams. But she’d used up her stock of other tales, and if they really wanted novelty, they would have to call on the spirit of Faedrun for a few brief minutes.
There was some hemming and hawing among the children at that, but the word ‘curse’ was usually a guaranteed winner, and they assented. Manetho made herself comfortable, crossing her legs and pulling her leopardskin over her shoulders to drape just right, and began.
“Now attend and listen.”
That was the traditional way to begin these stories. It was ceremonial and solemn, both an instruction and a warning, and guaranteed to silence every Deshret Syndar in hearing distance. As far as Manetho could figure, it was the Syndar equivalent of the Ulven “You have impugned my honor” or the Human “If you don’t shut up right now, so help me I’ll—!” It didn’t have much of an effect on the gathered children, but then, they weren’t Deshret.
“Once, in days long past, in a tribe of Syndar on the cusp of the high red desert, there lived a brother and sister who were orphaned at a young age. The boy was near to manhood grown, and the girl was of an age to be wed, but because they had no parents, he had not been permitted to fletch his first arrows and she had not been permitted to put on her mother’s leopard cloak.”
Seeing that the assembled young Ulven didn’t understand the gravity of this insult, Manetho quickly improvised some extra details. “They were made to work like slaves all day, every day, carrying heavy jars of water and cleaning the tents of the elders.” That got more approval: no child, whatever their race or origin, liked having to carry and clean.
“Their names were Khepri and Serket.”
“Those are stupid names,” said one unidentified young critic of literature in the back of the group.
“They’re not stupid, they’re Syndar,” Manetho told him. “They mean Beetle and Scorpion.”
That got a chorus of giggles from her audience. “I’d die if my parents named me Beetle,” said Olaf, to general assent.
“And scorpions are gross.” That was Thannet, not to be outdone in voicing her opinion.
“They are,” Manetho agreed. “But in the deserts of Faedrun, there were scorpions as big as your arm. And there were gigantic black beetles that would come alive out of balls of—“ Dung. “—dried dirt, even though they’d been dead before. Beetles and scorpions had powerful magic, and you wanted to be respectful of them. Being named Khepri or Serket would be like being named Wolf or Bear.”
“Oh.” Thannet considered. “That’d be okay, I guess.”
“I’m glad my tribe’s ancient and revered traditions meet with Your Majesty’s approval,” Manetho did not say, though she was thinking it quite loudly. Best to keep the tart tongue for her patients, who were in need of correcting and often unable to run away. Instead, she took up the thread of the story again.
“One day, it came time for there to be a great meeting of all the elders of different tribes. The elders were to speak together and discuss the future of their tribes: who would marry, who would share knowledge, and whether they would make war. Khepri and Serket were ordered to prepare the bathhouse tent of crocodile skin, and they carried dozens of jars of water from the river and built great fires to heat the water.
“At last, worn out by their work, the twins fell asleep behind the bathhouse tent. When they awoke, the elders were standing over them, furious at them for sleeping. ‘What is this?’ cried one of the elders. ‘These worthless young fools cannot even serve us as our importance demands!’”
Unreasonable, shouting adults were always another easy villain for child audiences. That got some frowns and hisses from the group.
(The original word in the tale had translated as honor, not importance, but Ulven had very different concepts of honor from the Deshret, and Manetho had finagled the translation a little. Honor was to be respected among Ulven: self-importance and smugness, not so much.)
“’You must prove to us that you are worthy of being our kin, and not just lazy lie-abouts!’ declared the greatest of all the elders. ‘You shall have a task. You will go forth into the sunset, and walk until you find the place where the moon sleeps. There you shall find a mountain, and in the mountain you will find a cave, and in the cave you will find a bundle of thorn branches. Bring us the thorn branches, and all will be forgiven. But be wary, and do not commit any act which will disgrace your tribe! For it is known that one of us speaks for all of us, and one shame is shame upon us all.’
“So it was said, and so they must do. Khepri fletched his first arrows, and Serket put on the leopard cloak of her mother, and they went out together into the world.
“For three days they followed the moon, and could not find the place where it slept. On the dawning of the fourth day, they came upon a woman lying on the sand, a cloth covering her eyes. Khepri looked upon her and saw that she was beautiful, with long black hair as shining as a starling’s feathers and moon-colored skin that had never known the sun, and he told Serket they must stop and help this woman.
“’We must not,’ said Serket. ‘She is not of our tribe, and she will see any misstep we make. One shame will shame us all, brother.’
“’But it is shameful to leave someone to die,’ said Khepri, and they halted. They gave the woman water and revived her, but when she awoke, she cried out and veiled her face.
“’Leave me!’ she said. ‘My sight is so keen that I can see a fly’s eyes a thousand miles away. The sun blinds me, and I am useless to you.’ But Khepri and Serket shared with her some of their black eye paint, and she could see again. And so the three traveled on together.”
Here Manetho paused to swipe some of her own black mesdemet from her eyelid and playfully poked Erik in the nose. He giggled and went cross-eyed, trying to see the smudge of black left behind.
“Three more days passed, and as the sun rose on the fourth, they came upon a man sitting on the sand, his hands wrapped in bandages. Serket looked upon him and saw that he was handsome, with strong shoulders like a warrior’s and hair the color of the sun, and told Khepri that they must stop and help him.
“’We must not,’ said Khepri. ‘He is not of our tribe, and may be a bandit or a criminal. One shame will shame us all, sister.’
“’But it is shameful to leave someone to die,’ said Serket, and they halted. They gave the man water and revived him, but when he woke, he cried out and bowed his head.
“”Leave me!’ he said. ‘I am a swordsman of rare strength, able to cleave a man’s head from his body a thousand times a day. But my hands are broken, and I am useless to you.’ But Serket and Khepri cleaned his wounded hands and re-bound them, and he was able to grip his sword hilt again. And so the four of them traveled on together.
“Three more days passed. As the sun rose on the fourth day, they came upon twin children, a little boy and a little girl, asleep upon the sand. The boy’s skin burned with fever, and the girl’s skin shivered with cold. Now Khepri and Serket did not speak of any shame, for they were far beyond where they had begun and knew well how it hurt to be an abandoned child. They halted and revived the children with water, while the woman Keen-Eyes kept watch and the man Sword-Arm guarded them.
“’Please, leave us,’ said the little boy. ‘We are cursed!’
“’Evil spirits hate us,’ said the little girl.” (‘Evil spirits’ was not a satisfactory translation of ‘djinni,’ but it was the best Manetho could manage on the fly.) “’I am forever breathing out wintery winds, and my brother forever brings forth scorching flames. We are not meant to live, and so we were cast out of our tribe!’
“’We will not leave you,’ said Khepri. ‘We see now that many people have been cruelly given to the desert when they are no longer thought useful.’
“’To abandon the injured and the cursed is the only true shame,’ said Serket. And they gave the girl Ice-Eyes a heavy cloak to contain her chill, and wetted clay poultices to soak up the boy Fire-Hands’ flames.
“Three more days they walked, until they came at last to a mountain in the midst of the desert. When they looked up to the sky they beheld no place between the tip of the mountain and the rim of the moon, and they knew they had found the place where the moon slept.
“They entered into the cave and found there the bundle of thorn branches, surrounded on all sides by the bodies of the dead.”
The children had been sitting quietly, absorbing the tale, but glossing over bodies was too much for an Ulven audience.
“What kind of bodies?” someone yelled.
“Were they gross?” another added.
“I bet they were gross.” Olaf, naturally.
“I bet you’re gross.” And that was Thannet, not to be outdone.
“The bodies were …” Manetho momentarily groped for a translation. Heqer, “hungry,” would not carry the same meaning to these children of Mardrun. Stymied in her search for correctness, she went with gore instead. “The bodies were hideous beyond measure. There were men and women, all in armor with swords, strung up on the walls. Their faces were contorted in horrible leers, their lips peeled back, their teeth exposed. Great wounds had been gashed from their bellies, and their withered organs lay about their feet. Tiny spiders were skittering out of their rotting eye sockets.”
The children were pleased.
“Seeing this terrible sight, Khepri and Serket and their friends halted, for there was no monster in their sight that might have slain those men. Then they knew there was some evil magic on the thorn branches.
“’Beware,’ said the woman Keen-Eyes. ‘There are webs across those branches, o my friends! Webs too fine for any other eye to see.’
“Serket took her black eye paint and blew a cloud of it, and there! The webs stood revealed. Then came a horrible, blood-chilling shriek, for Isfet, the great spider, saw its trap had failed and fell upon them!”
She had a fair sense of her audience now, and didn’t hesitate to add more juicy details. “Isfet was the greatest, the queen of all evil spiders. She was as tall as a tree and as long as a longhouse! Her fangs, each as big as a dagger, dripped green poison that made the stone floor smoke where it dropped. Her eight eyes rolled madly as she bore down on the travelers!
“But the brave companions would not be frightened. Khepri brought forth his bow and shot many arrows at the beast, making it shriek in pain, while the man Sword-Arm waited for his chance. At last, with a mighty blow, he struck! The vile Isfet howled in pain as her jaws were cleaved open, and she thrashed wildly, her tree-trunk legs thumping and smashing on the floor. But Khepri’s aim was true, and this next arrow put out one of her evil yellow eyes. As she screamed in fury, Sword-Arm struck again!
“Her body fell into two pieces, steaming with black smoke and dripping black blood. And together in triumph, the heroes took up the thorn branches and went home.”
Manetho let that sit for a moment. The children were grinning at each other, clearly imagining themselves in the role of the heroic spider-slayers.
“But,” she said, and they looked up again, “it was now clear to them that these thorn branches could not be ordinary. Why would simple branches be guarded by such a hideous monster? And the companions wondered why it was that they had been sent to steal these things from Isfet, the great spider. Did the elders send them on a quest that would kill them? Or was there something in the branches that the elders wanted? Khepri and Serket were troubled.
“When they neared the place where the tribe had camped, and saw again the distant bathhouse tent of crocodile skin, they did not go into the camp. Instead, they sent young Ice-Eyes and Fire-Hands, who were quiet and clever, to hear what they could hear.
“The children crept unseen by the batthouse tent and heard the elders’ speech.
“’I do not think Khepri and Serket live,’ said one. ‘They are too long gone.’
“’So be it,’ said another. ‘But if they have survived? Imagine it, brothers! The cursed Thorn Army will be ours to command at last! There shall be no more tribes, but an empire of Feral Syndar, and we its emperors!’”
A couple of the children booed, and Thannet hissed between her teeth. Feral Syndar were not always well-loved, whether among their Syndar brethren or the other races, and threatening an evil army of them was a good, cheap way to get the audience on your side. Though to be fair, there was more to it than the Feral concerns: these children had had enough of wars and armies to last a lifetime.
“When Ice-Eyes and Fire-Hands returned to their companions and told what they had heard, there could be no more waiting. For the elders, who counseled so strongly against shame and bad conduct, had committed the worst of sins in hopes of simple power!
“As night fell, the group fell upon the camp. Together with their companions, Khepri and Serket brought swift and unrelenting vengeance on the faithless liars who had been their elders!”
That needed more details, of course. “Ice-Eyes and Fire-Hands put their hands together, and as her eldritch cold mingled with his scorching heat, a thick fog arose to blanket the camp. Within the fog came Serket, singing a mourning song, appearing from the mist like a demon from the darkness. The evil elders cried out in terror, for they were sure this must be a ghost, sent to punish them.
“But one, who had said they would be emperors, had no faith in any god and would not believe in spirits. ‘It’s a trick!’ he cried out. ‘Slay her, my brothers, or all is lost!’
“And they would have slain her, but hidden within the mist was the noble Sword-Arm, who would not see Serket harmed! No sooner had the faithless elder spoken than he spoke no more, for Sword-Arm struck!”
Manetho clapped her hands once, making the children jump, and let her head sag back, making a terrible gurgling noise as the elder was slain.
“His head went rolling across the camp, and came to a stop at Serket’s feet. She picked up the head and cried out: ‘Death to the faithless, who would kill their kin for power and betray all their honor!’
“Then came Khepri, his bow in hand. He loosed a dozen arrows in a dozen seconds, and the elders fell, gurgling on their own blood!”
The children were jumping up and down now, grinning from ear to ear, laughing with the joy of seeing evil punished. Manetho was swept up in the story herself: she gestured broadly, miming the cut and thrust of battle, inventing new details on the spur of the moment.
“But another lurked behind him, shrouded in the mist. He was the youngest of the elders, a bare hundred years, and he was as clever as he was evil. He dreamed of being an emperor and crushing all who were not Syndar under his heel. And so he leapt upon Khepri, rising out of the mist like a vile spirit of death!
“’Beware!’ cried the woman Keen-Eyes. ‘Behind you!’ For even the thick mist which the children had conjured was no barrier to her sight. Khepri dodged at the very last moment, and the treacherous elder’s blade struck only the sand.
“There was no time for his bow. Khepri seized an arrow from his quiver, and as the elder raised his knife again, he struck with the arrow in his fist. It pierced the elder’s heart—and as the wind came and the mist began to thin away, the liar fell, and there was silence in the camp. They had won!”
Manetho took a deep breath. She was somewhat aware that she’d been shouting at some point, and that was really not acceptable. So much for peace and quiet for her patients! But the children were smiling, and the old tale had new life in the tongue of Mardrun. Her heart beat a little faster.
Taking another breath, though, she calmed herself, and let her voice lower again to bring them towards the conclusion of the story.
“When the battle was done and Keen-Eyes, Sword-Arm, Ice-Eyes, and Fire-Hands were seen there with them, there were cries among some of the foreign tribesmen. For here were their sons and daughters, who had been forced out into the desert at command of the elders. There was weeping and joy, as Keen-Eyes’ mother embraced her daughter, and Sword-Arm’s father his son.
“And at the last, when all was finished, there were feasts and weddings: for Khepri married the lovely Keen-Eyes, and Serket wed the handsome Sword-Arm. And when the prayers were said, the bundle of cursed thorn branches was cast into the fire, so that whatever evil army was in its power could tempt no more.
“In life, health, strength, it was so.”

* * *

Evening was drawing on now. The children were gathered into one of the huts, where Thannet’s mother was dishing out watery stew from an enormous cauldron. In another day or two, when all of the adults were back on their feet, everyone would go back to their own homes and the daily life of the village would resume. For now, it was enough that they’d all gotten through another day.
Manetho did the evening rounds, preparing fresh teas for the patients and taking the pulse of the remaining fever cases. Doing well, all of them—the totems be thanked for their mercies. Spring fevers didn’t always kill, but too many had come too close for her liking, and to not lose a single one in such a large group was always something to be thankful for.
Her plan to get her patients some peace and quiet had gone a little awry. The minute the story ended, a miniature battle had broken out, with various children all taking the roles of Khepri and Serket’s magical companions and gleefully declaring that they would slay each other. Lacking fire and ice for the battle, mud had sufficed, and several of the children now eating supper looked more like bedraggled bog mummies than anything else. Lesson learned: next time, tell them something with a little less blood in it.
But … damnation, it had felt good. Manetho tilted her head back and looked at the sky. The sun was sinking, and the edges of the world were darkening. The first glimmer of stars could be seen on the blue velvet of the horizon. She hadn’t told the story how it was meant to be told, but she’d told it anyway, and for a few minutes all the tire and terror of the world had seemed to melt away. Her own childhood heroes, and her tribe’s words, had lived again.
They had life, these Ulven children did. They had energy and spirit and swift-running blood, and despite the deprivations of war and their own recent sickness, they laughed and battled with a fire in their eyes.
She wondered, sometimes, about their Great Wolf. Was he truly a god to them? Or was he simply a totem like her lizard—some wise animal spirit who had, for reasons known only to himself, taken an entire people under his paw? Either way, he had his work set before him and no mistake.
Spring was coming on. Summer would be here soon enough. And with spring and summer came war, as inevitable as the rising of the tide and the flight of geese. Manetho hadn’t been in any of the larger towns since the fall, but she still had ears, and she’d heard the rumors. Honor-bound gone missing. A move against the Mordok. And always, the whispers of discontent among the clans, and the benevolent bland smile of Prince Aylin that said everything and meant nothing.
She looked at the sky again.
“You be good to them, Wolf,” she said. Thannet and Olaf and Erik and Ulmar and all the rest flashed before her, smiling and bright-eyed, smeared with mud and ready to sink their teeth into any challenge. Had Brynja and Reyna and their ilk ever been so carefree?
“Be good to them,” she repeated. “Or I’ll ask the Lizard to shave you bald, Wolf. They deserve better than this.”

Read more: http://lasthopelarp.proboards.com/thread/1841/catherine-butzen-story#ixzz5GBpdvqe4

Somewhere on a back street a short walk from a Newhope market square there is a tavern room. It had always been an unassuming room, small, sparse, and a little dark, but soon it would become the room where it all happened. It had been months hold up in this lantern lit tavern room, surrounded by drying herbs, pipe ash, and stacks and stacks of ink stained notes, but Cordyn was finally edging close to a breakthrough. All the long restless days would finally be worth it when he managed to crack the recipe.

***

Months prior Cordyn arrived in Newhope with the intention of spending the Winter surrounded by civilization and whatever work he could scrap together. He had a small amount of coin saved up as well as some reagents he collected on his travels southward from the Great Wolf’s Hackles and the fields surrounding the Archon’s Spire. With his knack for potion work he wasn’t worried about making a living. Things had a habit of working out for Cordyn. He was never really sure why, but he found that when he put himself out there, things just fell in place.

After finding a room at a local tavern, Cordyn mixed up a small sampler of potions and took to the nearby market square to secure some work. It wasn’t long before he stumbled across a struggling, overworked alchemist. He was an older man who had clearly been around for a while and had drummed up a consistent level of business that he was desperately trying to keep up with. After a short conversation they agreed on a business relationship. The alchemist would supply him with reagents and then buy back completed potions at a reduced wholesale price. Cordyn would have definitely made more money selling potions on his own, but he liked the idea of being able to pull up stakes when he wanted to and a shop of his own would have felt more like a shackle than anything. Either way, he made enough money to cover room and board and still have a little on the side to put away.

Things went very well for a few weeks until one day Cordyn set his pipe too close to some dried herbs and they quickly went up in flames. There was no way the alchemist would resupply Cordyn for one of his own mistakes, and though the thought of lost coin hurt his heart as well as his purse, he resolved to head down to an herbalist himself and replace the lost reagents.

***

The door was heavy and the room smelled of dried flowers and potpourri and a large burly man stood behind a counter. Were it not for the racks upon racks of herbs, Cordyn would have sworn he accidentally walked into a blacksmith. Quietly and thoughtfully, Cordyn picked through the racks, placing the replacement herbs into a bag, it wasn’t until he walked up to the counter that he saw it. Far in the back room behind the burly herbalist was a fantastic, dusty library. Cordyn’s eyes lit up as his gaze fell past the herbalist and onto the leather bound tomes. The shopkeeper found his excitement endearing and with little push agreed to let Cordyn peruse his expansive collection. Cordyn pushed his way past the large man and sat at the floor, pulling book after book off the shelf to leaf through. The majority of the herbal properties were already known to him through his alchemical research and training, however one word appeared a few times that he had not encountered before.

“Hey shopkeep?” Cordyn called out inquisitively, “What’s an aphrodisiac?”

Out of reflex the shopkeeper laughed a bit, but quickly he pulled himself together,

“ Well, it’s an herb or powder, something you eat either way, that puts you in the mood and puts some power in your loins. Between you and me, none of them really work, but that doesn’t stop people from dropping some serious coin on a hope that they will. I get runners for Newhope nobles in here weekly loading up on this or that for their respective employers’ sexual potency. I’ll tell ya, boy; whoever does figure out a real aphrodisiac will find himself a rich man.”

Cordyn smiled from ear to ear and hurriedly gathered up a sack of reagents from around the shop. “

“Tell ya what, shopkeep. When I’m that rich man, I’ll buy you a drink.”

The shopkeeper called to Cordyn as he spilled out of the store, “I’d lose a lot of business if you do! You’d better make it a bottle, boy.” He chuckled, rubbing his temples.

***

Over the next few months Cordyn continued his alchemical work, but with all of his spare time he worked to develop and perfect his new potion. He’d worked out a deal with an older homeless beggar. In return for testing his potions, Cordyn would buy the old man a meal and a stiff drink at the tavern. The beggar didn’t ask what these concoctions were supposed to do, he just jumped at the chance for a hot meal. It was for the best this way. The last thing Cordyn needed was a placebo. The testing needed to be blind or he may well end up with just another wannabe aphrodisiac.

For months they continued in their standard fashion and everything was working out well. Jimmy, the beggar, was well fed and Cordyn inched closer to a breakthrough. Other than a short vacation to escort Gwynevive to Iron Mound so she could reconnect with her Phoenix family, Cordyn worked tirelessly. One afternoon after hours of distilling and grinding Cordyn poured a crystallized powder into his working dish. After a few seconds the once clear liquid he’d been toying with took on a milky, purple appearance. This was it. Cordyn could feel it. He tore downstairs and threw open the front door to the tavern, calling out for his assistant,

“Jimmy! This is it! Hurry”

The elderly beggar made his way toward the tavern door in no apparent rush. “Calm down, boyo. Let’s get some stew in a bowl.”

“No! No, Jimmy. This is it! Potion first, then stew!”

The beggar grumbled and took the potion from Cordyn, “Alright. Just give it here.” Jimmy grimaced at the sight of the potion and downed it in a single swallow. “Well, at least it doesn’t taste so bad.”

Cordyn stared at the man with eager eyes, “Well?”

“Well. It’s not doing anyth- …wait…” Jimmy’s eyes widened and he quickly moved to grab between his legs. “By the fucking grace of Arnath, boyo! I haven’t felt the call in years! Forget the stew! I need a whore!”

Cordyn jumped and laughed in excitement and with trembling hands dug his coin purse out of a pouch and placed some coins in Jimmy’s hand. “Should be enough for the night, my man!” Jimmy clasped his hand over the coins and tore out of the tavern, whooping and skipping.

Still trembling with excitement Cordyn turned to the bar, placing a few coins on the counter. “Give me a bottle of whiskey, please. I have an herbalist to visit.” As he stepped out into the Spring sun, Cordyn finally began to calm down. He sighed contentedly and mused, “Well. It was a Winter well spent.”

Read more: http://lasthopelarp.proboards.com/thread/1844/story-cody#ixzz5GBijtjyv

“As I lay here on the cold, wet and bloody ground, I will make what may be my last report.

We arrived in camp several days ago and sought out friends to help us in our mission of seeking out a corruption site and by ritual, contain the corruption for further study. Pack Spiritclaw was very eager to help us.
I exchanged words with the war pack leader. I asked for his help in finding a corruption site so we could study it to find a way to fight against it. He stated that we were in the swamp to fight not to study. He only wanted to burn the sites, not study them. We started out this morning to clear out a Mordok encampment they had found earlier. It was defended only by young and inexperienced whelps. Victory was too easy.

Note: perhaps this is how the Mordok train their young to fight? The weak die.

We marched on to the second encampment, and in route a corruption site was found, by the bard no less! As the research team went into action, I fought with the war pack to level the second Mordok camp. When I returned, the research had been completed and the site cleansed of all corruption. The war pack leader didn’t seem happy that the Order had stopped at the corruption site, but I pointed out that I was there with him in battle helping. He had no choice but to leave it at that but he is suspicious of what we were doing. Having sustained damage to our armor, SuuNalla and I went back to camp for repairs. We missed the third village fight, but I believe the fighting was getting harder as the Mordok seemed to put up more fight the deeper into the swamp we went.

The fourth battle was hard. The Mordok were larger and much more experienced, but we achieved a victory. A discussion ensued that we all had a voice in as to end the day or fight one more battle. Blood lust was upon me and I agreed we should go one more fight. That was bad judgement on my part. We stopped to mend armor and regain mana and pushed on before we should have. The front ranks ran into a solid wall of battle hardened Mordok, they were stopped cold. We should have known to turn back then, but we didn’t. I fought on the front line shooting arrow after arrow but they would not move back. I was hit by one of their archers and moved to the rear to recast protection onto myself. At this point, SuuNalla asked if we should be leaving. I was going to say yes but three Mordok flanked us and to keep the trail open we were forced to fight them off. I did not know that the warpack leader was already wounded and sent back to camp with several others. Magnus took charge but sent more wounded back thus depleting the front line. He called retreat and I was furious that the line bolted and ran, leaving several wounded behind. I turned to go back to the shield wall protecting the retreat but was astounded to find that there was no line. SuuNalla was with me as was Revin, holding back the Mordok flankers and we were left behind as we held the line for the others. May it be entered into the books- that of SuuNalla: of her courage and honor in staying with me to the end so that others may live. This is decreed by Capt. Orrin Ree Griffin of the Order of Arnath’s Light.

Knowing I wasn’t going to make it I told SuuNalla to run and turned back to see 8 to 10 Mordok pounding down the trail 20 feet away. I used my bow as a shield, drew my sword and met their charge in Arnath’a name! I went down quicker than the time it takes to slip on your boot. The only reason I wasn’t killed immediately was that I was grappled by a Mordok and the others who slashed with great ardor didn’t get clean blows. I was cut deep and bled profusely. The Mordok were in such a hurry to kill more that they left me for dead. I lay there, letting them think that. The day grew long and eventually dark. I used some dirty bandages I had on me and managed to stop most of the bleeding and crawl behind a large log. Even then, the screams of the wounded being killed or tortured are ringing out into the night. I think I am going to pass out…. I hear something is coming my way… I think this is the end.. I need t—

Report:

The Eagles of Arnath go north to the site of the battle which reportedly took Brother Orrin’s life. They wade through the mud, bramble, and thick underbrush until they get to the site of the battle. They look around at the dried blood sprays of the slain, arrows in trees, and the sundered shields. After going back some ways they find what should be the spot where they would find Brother Orrin’s body. However, instead of finding a body, they find only a bloody trail, as if someone was dragged or crawled off some distance. They followed the trail for a good few hundred yards before the trail goes cold; however they note that the trail was heading south out of the swamp. We will keep looking.

As I lay on the cold wet ground in the middle of a miserable swamp; below a terrifying Mordok, the only thought in my head was that I couldn’t save anyone. The one time I had tried to save someone ended with a spear plunging through that poor Ulven’s chest and I didn’t even know his name. I ran in terror when I should have stayed and fought, and that ultimately was my undoing. Everything came rushing into a very clear focus as the noises of retreat came flooding into my senses. As a Mordok brought his spear down to finish me he must have lost focus for a split second and missed my vitals as he stabbed. That could be the only explanation that makes sense, or could it have been by some divine intervention. In a rush the Mordok ran after the rest of our forces eager for another kill. They are savages in every right and my reports to the Prince have defined that explicitly. I dared not move a single muscle for what seemed like an eternity but I knew there were others in this swamp, the ones left behind by the quick retreat. If I was spared by some divine force, I had to make every second count.

The fear was spreading through my veins like ice and I could barely move, but I had to and I knew there was no other option besides death. As I stumbled through the wet tall grass, fading in and out of cognition, I saw a man in armor donned with a red tabard. That was a member of the Order and I had seen him in camp! I ran, or rather stumbled my way to the man trying my best to offer assistance in any way I could. When I got there, I fell to his feet. I don’t know much about first aid but he helped me stifle my bleeding. We sat and waited, trying to recover what little energy we could to get ourselves out of this cursed land. We shared what little rations I had left in my pack and he told me about the Eagles and how they were bound to come out looking for him. After a short rest he used some sort of magic to bind together my wounds making me able to move slightly better. I knew that we had to hide from the Mordok for they would eventually return to loot our bodies for any treasures or trophies we might have, and hide we did. The tall grass and many fallen trees made it slightly easier to evade the impending doom that was sure to befall my new companion and I. When the sun had set the true terror of the swamp was revealed. The darkness has always been quite the fright for me ever since I was a child but even now the darkness seemed to claw at my soul, reaching deep within me and instilling a grotesque sense of dread. All we could do was wait and try our bests not to let the Mordok hear us or let the cold take us in the night. I could never have been more elated to see the sunrise; it meant that we could make it out of here. The orange glow of the rising sun gave me hope that I could have a future even when hours before I had contemplated if it was all really worth it or if I should have just lay on the ground with those warriors and bled to death. But that was no time for negative thinking, we had to press on and I had to prove my worth to Orin. Together we shambled our way closer to what we hoped was safety until we heard movement in the trees ahead. I couldn’t believe that we had made it this far just to be cut down by a patrolling Mordok but when the sound of the movement came closer it wasn’t a Mordok at all. The exhaustion and relief washed over me as I saw what I presumed to be one of the Eagles that Orin had told me about. I was saved. I owe everything I have to Orin Ree, he saved my life. Every breath I take from this moment is a gift, and it shall not be wasted.

Report:
Captain Orrin Ree and a companion named Claudio has been found in very poor condition and will be taken to the nearest camp and treated by a healer. More reports to follow.”

Bryech made his way into a larger mining village near the base of the Great Wolf’s Hackles. It was a rather crowded community with people and miners moving in and out of homes and small shelters. The main road was filled with small shops selling a wide assortment of goods; from tools to trinkets. Bryech slowly waded through the crowds towards a smith of some renown who was said to live down in the smithy at the end of the main road next to the hall. Bryech finally made it to the home after several attempts at breaking through the crowd. Even though he was in full armor and armed to the teeth, the villagers had seemingly no problem shoving him in their attempts to make it to their destination. Bryech had gone from a calm and aloof demeanor to his infamous scowl which finally seemed to grant him a second glance and a little more space. As Bryech ran through the materials he needed to request of the smith, he was surprised by a man whom he hadn’t seen in years appear from underneath the open walled pavilion. The man gasped as he looked at the young Ulven; they both stood taken off guard. For a long time neither of them said anything, just stood there in the cacophony of moving people until the man broke the silence.

“You’ve grown my boy.” His voice was a strange mix of caution and pride. Bryech snarled and with only that as his only warning, punched his father in the face sending him backwards into the crowd of people who quickly moved away as Bryech moved in to continue his assault. Before Davrik could fully recover, Bryech pulled him up and began raining blows on him with his right hand and holding him by his tunic with his left.

“You coward! You abandoned us! You abandoned your own son!” Bryech roared as he punched his father again and again. As he drew back his fist for a heavier strike, he felt a dull thud on his back and turned to see a small blonde girl who couldn’t have been more than a year younger than him hitting him with what looked to be a rolling pin. Bryech released his father who quickly stood and backed away to wipe the blood off of his face. Turning, Bryech slapped the girl’s hand sending the pin flying into the gathered crowd. The girl made to slap him but Bryech grabbed her wrist.

“Don’t touch her!” screamed a reed thin blonde woman who looked like an older version of the girl as she stood in the door of the house attached to the smithy. A young boy stood behind her with wide eyes. Bryech pulled the girl and in a fashion threw her at what Bryech assumed was her mother. Bryech looked around at the assembled crowd of people. Some whispered amongst themselves, some cheered, other watched intently. Bryech began to stumble around, looking at the gathered Ulven. He saw it in their eyes. They thought he was dangerous, like a rabid dog. He felt fire and hate burn in his heart and snarled.

“Bryech, I’m sorry.” Davrik interrupted his son before he lost himself in his anger. Bryech stared back at his father in his usual scowl, surveying the damage he had done. A split lip and a small cut on his brow, as well as an eye that was already swelling shut.

“Gaia be with you father, for the Great Wolf judges harshly.” Bryech replied, turning his back and making his way to the road once again. The crowd parted as he approached. This pleased Bryech, while at the same time it filled him with anger.

Bryech sat next to his small fire as the sun disappeared behind the horizon and moonlight began to blanket the countryside. His mail lay wrapped in his cloak so that the morning dew wouldn’t cause it to rust along with his sword and scramasax. Bryech spent his evening eating the last of his packed provisions combined with some fresher meat he had managed to trap. The hare was healthy and had plenty of meat on it. It was a pleasant change of flavor from dried meats and bread. With no one to keep watch while he slept, Bryech was hesitant to sleep, but regardless of his attempts at merely resting his tired feet he felt his eyelids grow heavy as the moon reached its peak.

Bryech sleepily gazed at the moon and let his mind wander. He thought of Ingrid. He missed her smile, her laugh, he missed her. Part of Bryech told himself that he needed to forget her but he just couldn’t cut her out of his heart. His mind jumped to his father. Bryech instantly felt a growl unconsciously form in his chest. He felt cheated, deceived, and it made him boil inside. All of his former packmates were right. His father was nothing Bryech remembered him as. Bryech seethed as he pictured killing his own father instead of just bloodying him like he had. He futilely shook his head in an attempt to clear his mind. Finally, his mind drifted to war…

Bryech heard the screams of dying men and jolted awake. Looking around Bryech could only see mist, he was in an area completely foreign from his camp. He was confused, but the sounds of a nearby battle peaked his interest and held his focus. He rushed towards the cacophony of battle to only find more mist. Behind him Bryech heard movement and turned quickly to find the source. He was not searching long, for a large hulking figure stood before him. A strong cover of fog hid his face from view but his eyes glared with the light of the sun. He was Ulven.

“Who goes there?” Bryech asked, forcing his voice to be stable though he was wrought with confusion.

“You know me brother.” replied the figure. Readjusting his stance as he did. Bryech didn’t understand the stranger, he had no memory of that voice. He felt it was deep and gruff but he had no recollection of who carried the voice.

“No games!” Bryech barked losing his patience. His voice sounded strong but there was doubt in it, detectable by Bryech and the figure. The Ulven chuckled and began to step forward as Bryech tensed. As the figure strode closer it began to become clearer through the mist, he was in full armor chain with a plated brigandine and a specific helm.

“Harlok?” Bryech asked dumbfounded. He staggered backward a few steps before composing himself.

“That’s not possible. You died. I watched you die!” Bryech yelled, no longer attempting to act like he was in control of himself.

“I have a warning for you friend.” Harlok continued. Not offering any explanation.

“You’re not Harlok, Harlok couldn’t speak.” Bryech argued.

“My body couldn’t but my spirit is another thing boy!” Harlok barked, with the hint of a challenge in his words Bryech snapped out of his stupor of confusion.

“Is this the hunting grounds then, was I killed in my sleep by some Mordok mongrel?” Bryech snapped back, returning the challenging tone. Harlok laughed. This didn’t please Bryech who began to snarl.

“That’s the warrior I knew, now I have a warning for you.” Harlok said, his long fangs glinting in the strange light that permeated through the fog. Bryech nodded but did not say anything, he was still so confused. Suddenly the mist around them filled with dark figures like Harlok and one by one they stepped forward. Bryech recognized all of them though he didn’t remember all of their names, but he had seen their faces. Suddenly, familiar faces started to appear. Orando, Timar, Nikolai, finally two that stung him as they approached.

“Orrin, Krieger?” Bryech asked, his voice weaker than it used to be. Krieger nodded with a grunt and Orrin smiled that ridiculous smile of his that Bryech had seen so many times.

“A darkness is coming brother.” They all said at the same time causing the phrase to echo with surprising volume.

“Tell me something I don’t know.” Bryech replied with a hint of sarcasm.

“Do not take this warning lightly!” snapped Krieger, his tone was far more aggressive than Bryech remembered him by. Bryech was taken aback, but he nodded to show his understanding.

“What am I to do?” Bryech asked the figures surrounding him, looking at each individual waiting for an answer.

“Are you strong enough?” all of the assembled voices asked, with their crushing volume it physically staggered Bryech. There was something deeper in that collection of voices. It set itself apart from the rest. Bryech looked up from where he knelt to see a massive shadow moving from within the crowd. It was not Ulven, it was something else. Bryech gasped as his star of Gaia began to burn him underneath his tunic. When he looked back toward the figure it had already entered the small clearing in the fog. It was a massive midnight black wolf standing more than a full head taller than the tallest Ulven, eyes the color of the sun. Bryech stay staggered on one hand and one knee in awe. Could this really be him? Had Bryech been killed because of his carelessness and was now to be judged? Bryech felt his heart beating fast in his chest. He was sure all of the figures surrounding him could hear it especially, The Great Wolf. Bryech met The Great Wolf’s eyes and stood, trying to stand at his full size despite the questions stampeding through his mind. The Great Wolf looked at him for what felt like an eternity, Bryech could feel The Great Wolf sizing him up. Bryech awaited the question he knew he would one day hear. Instead, the beast threw back his head and howled, just like in The Song of Creation. It was deep and loud, full of loneliness and rage.

Bryech’s breath caught in his throat and he felt tears well in his eyes. The Great Wolf’s cry reminded him of how he had felt for so long, and how he felt after knowing what it’s like to not be alone. Bryech tried to control himself but he couldn’t. The memories and emotions were too strong and he began to sob as he once again fell to his knees. He roared through his tears, letting all of his pain and rage fill his howl. The softer cries of wolves began to rise till the sound was deafening. Bryech wiped the tears from his eyes and looked around. Harlok was gone, a wolf stood in his place. The same was the case for all of the Ulven that had once surrounded Bryech. Looking back at The Great Wolf, Bryech was surprised to see his eyes had changed color. They were now a deep red and they began to glow. Bryech screamed as he felt a splitting pain pierce through his skull and pulse in his eyes.

Bryech yelled as he panicked and bolted upright. He scrambled and stood upright, scanning frantically around his meager camp. His fire had died down to mere embers and he could see the dawn breaking. Bryech sighed an exasperated sigh as he dropped down and sat against a tree. Closing his eyes, Bryech scolded himself for not being more careful. Despite that Bryech began to laugh at himself, a small chuckle which grew into a laughing cough. Bryech shook his head and rubbed his eyes, wincing slightly as he did.

“Keep laughing like that and someone will think you’ve lost your mind.” said a voice very close by. Bryech jumped back into a better stance and found himself facing a cloaked figure sitting across the embers from him. Bryech saw the large dane axe sticking out of the ground in front of the stranger and he looked towards his bundled up cloak where the handle of his sword was sticking out.

“No need to worry, I’m not here to kill you.” The stranger commented nonchalantly. Bryech was once again confused, this stranger had an air of familiarity and Bryech couldn’t figure out why.

“I’ve already had enough roundabout conversations these last few hours so spare me.” Bryech barked, sizing up the man. He had red eyes that had a slight glow to them when the sun hit them. He smiled a wolfish grin, hitting Bryech with another wave a familiarity. His fangs caught the sun as did his eyes, revealing at least something about him.

“Who are you?” Bryech demanded more so than he asked. The stranger made a strange motion with his hands before responding.

“A memory, a fate, a doomed idea, I am many things.” Bryech snarled at his response. He was growing tired of hearing riddles and cryptic omens.

“Answer me!” He barked at the stranger. The Ulven grew quiet but made no attempt to challenge. Slowly the stranger reached for the hem of his hood and pulled it back, revealing a mass of shaggy hair and a long scar running down the left side of his face. Bryech growled, he looked just like him. Before Bryech could speak the stranger cut him off.

“I am Bryech Savagefang, warrior, leader of war parties, scourge of the Mordok.” Bryech’s identical stood and began circling the bed of embers. Bryech mirrored him, sizing him up again. They were similar in stature. The stranger seemed to be older than Bryech, something which puzzled him. His garb was different too, leathers and mail included. He even had a perfect copy of the star of Gaia he hung from his neck, except for one striking difference. The stranger had his necklace adorned with what looked like fangs.

“Tell me then, why do you bear trophies from the dead?” Bryech asked apprehensively.

The stranger chuckled and held the necklace in his hand, admiring it for a moment before looking back to Bryech.

“Because I know what I am and where I come from, but unlike you I embrace it.” The stranger was trying to aggravate him with that, the stranger knew about his past it seemed. The stranger cut Bryech off again.

“Tusks, cut from Mordok slain by my hand.” The two had finally come full circle and now stood next to their weapons. The stranger grabbed the haft of his axe and with one swift motion pulled it from the ground, holding it in his right hand, he pointed at Bryech who had already drawn his sword and held his shield down at his side.

“I am everything you could have been! I am glory! I am legend!” The stranger roared the same roar Bryech knew to be his own.

“So much for not being here to kill me, huh?” Bryech asked calmly. He felt his heart beat faster as he anticipated the coming fight. He knew this calm though. It was that of a warrior who had seen battle and sought more. The calm of a warfighter.

The stranger gave no response save a battle cry as he charged over the embers. Bryech raised his shield and braced his feet as he saw the dane axe come down with a strong overhead strike. Though his strike was strong, the stranger couldn’t break Bryech’s guard. Bryech stepped in and thrust his sword towards his opponent’s torso. Bryech watched as the tip of his sword met the strangers mail which exploded into countless shards of metal and punched through his torso just below the sternum. Bryech did not flinch when he heard the deep wet crunch that came with the strike, he had heard it far too many times for it to affect him. He enjoyed it even as the stranger made that gargling noise as he began to choke on his own blood. The dane axe fell off to the side and also shattered into pieces as Bryech lowered his shield and looked his opponent in the eye while still holding his sword. With a swiftness surprising for a dying man, the stranger placed both of his hands on the sides of Bryech’s face and locked eyes with him.

“Never forget who you are!” The stranger said, no longer choking on his own blood. Bryech tried to escape his grasp but the man held tight.

“For all you could have been is all you still can be.” The stranger said as he began to fall apart, almost like he was turning into ash. Bryech growled as the ash began to swirl around him, the pieces still burning with the small flickering orange glow on the edges. Bryech looked at the Ulven as he faded away.

“Never let your fire die, lest your heartsong end as well.” The man said before he finally turned wholly into ash. Bryech looked around him as the ashes began to move faster. Bryech felt a strong sensation fill his body. He felt a fire burn inside him with an intensity he hadn’t felt in some time. Bryech roared into the rising dawn and was overtaken by darkness.

Bryech’s eyes opened as a branch snapped in the distance. Bryech looked around his camp and it was exactly as he remembered it. Sitting up, Bryech saw no sign of the stranger and with slow and steady movements, looked around confused. Bryech tensed as he heard more noise approaching his camp. It wasn’t loud. It was meticulous, almost patient. Bryech had no time to ponder his dreams, he was being hunted. Bryech quietly hopped to his gear and drew his sword and scramasax. Quickly as he could without making too much noise, Bryech made his way to a fallen tree a few yards away and hid behind it. Seconds after he had mantled the fallen oak, two Mordok made their way into view. They crouched down, sniffing the air on the other side of a creek. Bryech guessed they were a hunting pair out searching for prey before coming upon his scent. Bryech watched as they crossed the creek with a surprising quietness. Bryech once again scolded himself for being so careless as to fall asleep while he was alone. The Mordok found his camp easily, his scent and poor attempt at finding a concealed position made it almost look like child’s play. Bryech crouched as he sized them up while at the same time pondering what they were doing so far south in Ulven territory. The closest one was a real brute with a vicious looking axe in one hand and a rusty unkempt dagger in the other. While his partner was a smaller mordok armed with a bow. The Mordok investigated the campsite. Bryech was sure they would’ve ransacked it if they thought the camp had more inhabitants. Bryech tensed as the brute suddenly turned towards him and sniffed excitedly. Bryech ducked down behind his tree and readjusted his grip on his sax. Dropping his sword, he waited in anticipation as he heard the Mordok begin running over to the tree. He heard a grunt as the beast jumped onto the log. Bryech looked up and saw it look out and over him. Without hesitation Bryech drove his dagger into the Mordok’s stomach and grabbed him with his free hand dragging him over the tree. The beast was caught off guard and fell off of Bryech’s sax and onto the ground with a dull thud. Before the Mordok could react he leapt on top of it, pulling his scramasax out with a fluid motion before flipping it in his hand and driving it through the brute’s temple once, and then twice. Bryech pulled back for a third strike before he felt a piercing pain shoot through his left hand causing him to drop his sax. Rolling off his quarry, Bryech took cover as an arrow sank into the tree with a loud thunk. Bryech growled as he looked at the arrow sticking through the center of his palm. He looked over the log as the remaining Mordok took aim again. Bryech sunk behind the log and grabbed his sword with his right hand after some reaching.

“You just made this more fun for me bitch!” Bryech roared as he jumped up and over the tree. He began to rush towards the Mordok as it loosed another arrow. The arrow flew just past Bryech’s face as he showed no sign of slowing down. The Mordok nocked another arrow as Bryech closed the distance but was a moment too slow. Bryech bellowed as he cut the bow clean in two and on his return drove his sword hilt deep into the archer’s chest and out through its back. Relishing in the sounds of the kill, Bryech growled. After the beast dropped to the ground, sword still buried deep in its chest, Bryech spat.

“Tell your friends about that you fuck!” Wincing, Bryech slowly pulled the arrow out of his hand. He looked at the hole in his hand and grunted. He hadn’t been wounded in quite some time. It was almost a foreign concept to him. Strangely, the throbbing pain in his hand seemed to be mirrored in his head as he felt pain in the front of his skull and down into his nose and eyes. After treating his wound and donning his armor, Bryech looked at his star of Gaia, the lone star glinting in the sunlight. Bryech contemplated his dream and what his ghost had told him. Bryech glanced at the corpses of the Mordok piled next to each other and drew his sax. Bryech spoke to himself aloud as he walked towards the bodies.

“No more hiding what I am.”