Well. I could do a long ranting explanation as to why, at this very moment, all I really want is steel in one hand, and my (Mostly still full) Bottle of Jaeger (It wouldn't remain that way) in the other...
However, instead I shall simply launch straight into a description of some of the things I've been up to of late.
Part 1. Writing. Look to http://www.jaredskald.blogspot.com/ to see the end results of this (You may wish to wait a week or two till I get my rapidly increasing backlog posted) I shall little more here, except that the blood and guts and gore are getting gradually more prevalent... And I have come startlingly close to creating new characters and settings simply because Rauda and the Bear and Javier and Kat and the Pup are not liable to do the sort of things I intend to write (They favour having a reason for violence for one thing)
Part 2. Reading.
Lord Darcy, a mystery novel (I know, not normally my style) Or rather, Anthology, based around an alternate universe where Richard Lionheart did not die of camp fever contracted after a crossbow quarrel took him in the chest. Instead, he survived, John died in exile, and the Plantagenets still rule England. and France. and indeed, at the time the anthology is set, the British Empire. They speak Anglo-french, have many Norman influences, et. cetera. Oh, and Magic is real. And runs off set rules that make it basically a form of science (Insert pithy reference to The Golden Bough here...). Meanwhile, what we consider science is referred to as Materialism, and is as scorned as magic is in our universe. Anyway, the tales center round the Royal Investigator for the Duke of Normandy, one Lord Darcy, and his companion, his Watson if you will, Sean O'Lochlainn, Irish Master Sorceror.
War Games, another Anthology published by Baen and edited by Eric Flint. This is almost enough to garauntee a good read. Howsabout the story where the Russian Premier (And his cabinet) Whilst attending the UN pay a visit to a local Electronics convention and get roped into trying a shiny new RTS... which they end up missing conferences for, and in the end, use to prevent a war...Or the tales in which the broken remnants of the Wesdem O'Cracy's, reduced to technologies of the Industrial Revolution whip the Russ and their WW I Era tech... And those are just my two favourites... Very good read. When I remember it, I'll post the author in a comment.
Lets see, what else. There was a book on the forces used in various crusades. Speaking of which, I discovered the Balian of Ibelin actually existed. He followed Guy de Lusignan to the Horns of Hattin, and whilst the rest of the Crusader army got slaughtered, he led his men in a furious charge, seeking glorious death in battle. And managed to break through the Saracen lines... cue a vigorous HELL WITH THIS! and a hasty withdrawal. Most of his men got away with him. So did those of Reynard de Sidon, who completely independently pulled the same trick. This made me happy. Briefly. Am actually tempted to make the Lord De Bruis a vassal of Balian if the timing is right...
Hmm.... thats all the memorable stuff I've looked at lately, barring the short stories my mates keep sending me... (Keep 'em coming, they damn near make things bearable. but thats another tale that shall not be told here...)
3. The Nintendo Wii... My mom has one of these, and I have been playing ridiculous amounts of Sports Resort lately. Got bored of the Sword-fighting when the Wii-motes started refusing to stay calibrated, and thus I fought as though I were worse than drunk. Likewise, not been doing much archery of late. On the other hand, they have a bit where you can fly a plane. All over the pseudo-Hawaian island of Wuhu. 'Tis brilliant fun, especially such things as flying through the cables on the red suspension bridge, going through the road tunnels and lava tubes upside down, and of course, strafing the helpless Mii's. all of them carry balloons, and if you shoot the balloons (and fly close enough) they jump up and down and shake fists at you (almost as much fun as if they would run away in terror when you approached (My MOM's comment, not mine) Or at least, originally my Mom's comment). Although I did manage to botch a Kamikaze. hit the boat I was aiming at, but hit it at such a low velocity, and such a low altitude that I basically landed, and skidded along its side, leaving it unscathed. Rather than blowing myself up, sending me and my passenger shooting into the air with our parachutes, and leaving it unscathed... Yeah, the physics isn't great, but hey, where else can you make a vertical take-off in a bi-plane...
Anyway, thats enough for now...
Monday, 28 February 2011
Wednesday, 23 February 2011
A general Update
This post is not going to be long. I have recieved a few statements of fondness for my short stories. As such I have decided to start a seperate blog specifically for those. It can be found here: http://www.jaredskald.blogspot.com/
The first story will be going up tonight. As I have rather a backlog, expect a story every couple of days at least, for the next two or three weeks. possibly longer if I keep writing at my present exceedingly rapid rate.
Secondly, there may have been noticed a trend towards weekly battle reports on a friday night or saturday... these are liable to be the norm. If I can figure out how to get photos from my camera to my laptop, both of which seem to have a mutual hate agreement, there will even be photos.
Finally, expect other random posts anytime anything interesting happens to me... so roughly, never then.
Oh. And if I ever read anything interesting, or watch anything interesting, or listen to anything interesting, I'll review it. Expect two reviews of Turisas new album, Stand Up And Fight, around a fortnight or so from now. The first is liable to boil down to EPIC! but I shall attempt to do a proper critique for the second.
That will be all
COMPANY! DIS-MISSED!
FALL OUT!
The first story will be going up tonight. As I have rather a backlog, expect a story every couple of days at least, for the next two or three weeks. possibly longer if I keep writing at my present exceedingly rapid rate.
Secondly, there may have been noticed a trend towards weekly battle reports on a friday night or saturday... these are liable to be the norm. If I can figure out how to get photos from my camera to my laptop, both of which seem to have a mutual hate agreement, there will even be photos.
Finally, expect other random posts anytime anything interesting happens to me... so roughly, never then.
Oh. And if I ever read anything interesting, or watch anything interesting, or listen to anything interesting, I'll review it. Expect two reviews of Turisas new album, Stand Up And Fight, around a fortnight or so from now. The first is liable to boil down to EPIC! but I shall attempt to do a proper critique for the second.
That will be all
COMPANY! DIS-MISSED!
FALL OUT!
Tuesday, 15 February 2011
Of Taboo, the Ages of Magic, Religion, and Science, and Of the Comparison of the three.
Well. I recently got a book out of the local library. It was entitled The Golden Bough, by one James George Frazer. Sir James George Frazer to be precise. He was a Scot who was educated at a variety of schools, got his diploma from Glasgow University, and then studied and took up residence at Trinity College in Cambridge, on the grounds that Scottish universities were not deemed prestigious enough to start an academic career from.
Anyway, he became, through one thing or another, interested in Anthropology, and wrote two major treatises on the topic. One, concerned with taboo and the rules by which society governs itself became known as the Golden Bough.
I'm only halfway through it so far, but I figured I'd go over my impressions so far. may do a more indepth review later on.
Anyway, it begins by explaining the source of the title. Which is taken from an old greek temple at Aricia. Legend (Supported by contempary sources) mantains that at this site, there was a sacred tree. And the High Priest of Dianna at Aricia was responsible for guarding this tree. And any escaped slave, coming upon this tree could take a bough from it. And this bough gave him the right to face the priest in single combat. And should he fail, well, he was dead. but should he slay the slayer, he became high priest, until he too was slain in turn.
From that beginning he goes on to claim that any society must undergo three ages. The age of Magic, in which Man believes he can control the natural by cantrips and superstition, and well, magic. This is then followed by the age of Religion, where Man, seeing that his attempts to control the natural through supernatural means fail, attributes control to greater supernatural beings, be they gods, spirits, daemons, devil, shades or such like. And these can be propitiated, and manipulated by certain actions, normally the domain of priests and such like. And then, as man begins to realize that those beings to which he attributes such control fail him as often as they do as he bids, they begin to looker deeper and begin to attribute control of the natural to natural processes. hence the age of Science. Much evidence is provided, and assuming his sources are cited accurately (And with him being a classically tutored victorian scientist this is probably the case) It is entirely possible that he is correct.
He then proceeds to describe the roles given to certain positions of authority in each age, and what happens to them as the ages shift. Such as Magicians from the age of science either forming a priesthood or being persecuted as things shift into religion. He also claims that Magic is simply Failed Science, and that as soon as magical procedures begin to work regularly they fall under the heading of science. It is on this basis, citing such examples as Alchemy gradually shifting into Chemistry, that he claims that as the Age of Religion gives way to the Age of Science, that he claims that many of the once persecuted magicians turn to scientists (or perhaps that this shift from magicians to scientists triggers the shift in the ages)
Several chapters are giving to the role of the king in early society, where the king often had a direct religious significance and was hemmed in by many rules dictating his life. An example of this still surviving at the time of his writing are the Japanese Emperors, and many examples are available in earlier societies.
So far it has been decidedly interesting, and I am now getting into the parts that detail beliefs in the mortality of the divine and the divinity of mortals, Examples of the former being Christ, Wodin, Osiris and such like, and examples of the latter being the Japanese Emperors, the Egyptian Pharoahs, and one or two obscure christian sects stamped out by the papal inquisition in the medieval ages...
All told, it be an interesting and well-though out work, and I would advocate its reading to any who are not religious fundamentalists... In fact, so far, the only issue I have with it is the assumption (common in Victorian Britain) that European Society was the most advanced, and the majority of the rest of the worlds cultures were best described as Savages. But barring that, I approve so far.
Anyway, he became, through one thing or another, interested in Anthropology, and wrote two major treatises on the topic. One, concerned with taboo and the rules by which society governs itself became known as the Golden Bough.
I'm only halfway through it so far, but I figured I'd go over my impressions so far. may do a more indepth review later on.
Anyway, it begins by explaining the source of the title. Which is taken from an old greek temple at Aricia. Legend (Supported by contempary sources) mantains that at this site, there was a sacred tree. And the High Priest of Dianna at Aricia was responsible for guarding this tree. And any escaped slave, coming upon this tree could take a bough from it. And this bough gave him the right to face the priest in single combat. And should he fail, well, he was dead. but should he slay the slayer, he became high priest, until he too was slain in turn.
From that beginning he goes on to claim that any society must undergo three ages. The age of Magic, in which Man believes he can control the natural by cantrips and superstition, and well, magic. This is then followed by the age of Religion, where Man, seeing that his attempts to control the natural through supernatural means fail, attributes control to greater supernatural beings, be they gods, spirits, daemons, devil, shades or such like. And these can be propitiated, and manipulated by certain actions, normally the domain of priests and such like. And then, as man begins to realize that those beings to which he attributes such control fail him as often as they do as he bids, they begin to looker deeper and begin to attribute control of the natural to natural processes. hence the age of Science. Much evidence is provided, and assuming his sources are cited accurately (And with him being a classically tutored victorian scientist this is probably the case) It is entirely possible that he is correct.
He then proceeds to describe the roles given to certain positions of authority in each age, and what happens to them as the ages shift. Such as Magicians from the age of science either forming a priesthood or being persecuted as things shift into religion. He also claims that Magic is simply Failed Science, and that as soon as magical procedures begin to work regularly they fall under the heading of science. It is on this basis, citing such examples as Alchemy gradually shifting into Chemistry, that he claims that as the Age of Religion gives way to the Age of Science, that he claims that many of the once persecuted magicians turn to scientists (or perhaps that this shift from magicians to scientists triggers the shift in the ages)
Several chapters are giving to the role of the king in early society, where the king often had a direct religious significance and was hemmed in by many rules dictating his life. An example of this still surviving at the time of his writing are the Japanese Emperors, and many examples are available in earlier societies.
So far it has been decidedly interesting, and I am now getting into the parts that detail beliefs in the mortality of the divine and the divinity of mortals, Examples of the former being Christ, Wodin, Osiris and such like, and examples of the latter being the Japanese Emperors, the Egyptian Pharoahs, and one or two obscure christian sects stamped out by the papal inquisition in the medieval ages...
All told, it be an interesting and well-though out work, and I would advocate its reading to any who are not religious fundamentalists... In fact, so far, the only issue I have with it is the assumption (common in Victorian Britain) that European Society was the most advanced, and the majority of the rest of the worlds cultures were best described as Savages. But barring that, I approve so far.
Saturday, 12 February 2011
Finally, A New Appearance Of An Old Foe.
Well, I had another 40K battle Yesterday, and intend to do a proper battle report for it. There will even be photos as soon as the Iron Priests figure out how to transfer them off the Vid-capture to the Cogitator Device. Anyway, for once, the Space Wolves were not fighting their old traditional rivals the Dark Angels. No, this time, my forces faced an old foe, one they had not fought in some time. Arrayed against the Adeptus Astartes were the grim, deathless, implacable Necrons, led by their hideous deity, the Nightbringer. The Space Wolves had learned that there was an artifact amongst the Necron lines, that could hold secrets to aid in bringing them down. Meanwhile, the Necrons sought to sieze and disable the Space Wolves landing beacon.
The lines were formed up. The space wolves had on their left flank, A squad of Long Fangs perched on a low rise, lead by one of the Wolf Guard. They were defended by a pack of Grey Hunters some five strong, sporting a Plasma Gun, one of the Wulffen, and even a warrior bearing a Power Fist and Plasma Pistol, and a Land Speeder Typhoon, with its Assault Cannon primed and ready. On the right flank, they had a Land Raider Crusader, loaded up with Terminators, flanked on the left by Grey Hunters, a similar pack to that defending the Long Fangs. On the right flank of the Land Raider stood the Wolf Lord, Wulf, Riding the Thunderwolf Sarath and surrounded by a pack of Sarath's lesser brethren.
Arrayed against them were a squad of Immortals on the Necrons left flank, stood on a low rise. Just to their right was a squad of Scarabs and behind them a Trio of Wraiths. Just left of the Necron center was the Monolith behind which hovered the Nightbringer, their hideous, hungry deity in manifest form. The center, and just right of the center was anchored by a pair of Warrior squads, and on the far right, screened by a low mountain peak, a quintet of destroyers floated, waiting for the signal to advance.
Reacting with the speed that characterized their kind, the Space Wolves began their advance. The Land Speeder jetted towards the base of the mountain, Assault Cannon and Heavy Bolter blazing away at the Destroyers, not as well covered as they had thought. The Long Fangs loosed a pair of Lascannon shots at the monolith, to no avail, whilst the pair of Plasma Cannons felled several warriors, some of whom would never again rise. The Land Raider and its escorts advanced, blazing away at the scarabs, and felling most of them, as well as a Wraith that stood again shortly after.
In response, the Necron Immortals fired on the Wolf Lord, felling all the wolves accompanying him bar the one Cyberwolf. The Monolith and the Scarabs and the Wraiths all advanced towards him, the Nightbringer remaining hidden behind the great floating tower. As the monolith slowed, a squad of warriors came through the portal at its front, firing at the Grey hunters, who shrugged off their blows. Meanwhile, the other warriors advanced firing at the Land Speeder, crippling its engines as it began to descend from the plateau it and the Long Fangs had been on. The destroyers sped out of cover and felled all but one of the Long Fangs, leaving behind a solitary Lascannon trooper. The Scarabs managed to reach the Wolf Lord, Who struck them down with ease, his power fist making short work of them. He took advantage of the chaos caused by his victory to dart between the wraiths and warriors.
'Twas time again, for the Wolves to once again take the initiative. The lone Long Fang fired again for the Monolith, but to no avail. Meanwhile, the grey hunters behind him moved towards the destroyers, pistols blazing. The other grey hunters fired on the warriors who had just come out of the monolith, pouring bolter fire and plasma blasts into them, but to little avail, whilst the Land Raider directed its fire at the Wraiths, felling one of them. The Wolf Lord charged the Monolith, and crashing blows from his mighty fist caused it to explode. The explosion engulfed him, but left him no more harmed than he had been before. Finally the grey hunters who had began to rush at the Destroyers reached them, and felled the first of them in close combat.
The Necron Immortals fired upon the Wolf Lord, slaying his Cyberwolf, and injuring him greatly, whilst the Wraiths charged the Grey Hunters, who felled them without losing a man. The Warriors trotted to the side and fired upon the Land Raider, Laming the mighty iron beast. The other warriors advanced further, gunning down the last Long Fang, whilst the Destroyers fell to the Grey Hunters they were engaged with. Sadly, they did not die alone, two of the sons of Russ falling with them. Finally the Nightbringer advanced over the Wolf Lord, Mortally wounding him and his mount, and beginning to catch up to his own lines.
The Land Raider disgorged its Terminators, who immediately fired upon the Nightbringer, who ignored their feeble attempts. At this insult they rushed him, although not one of them lived to tell the tale. Meanwhile, the Land Raider fired on the Immortals. One of them failed the test of their name, and failed to rise again. The grey hunters aside the Land Raider charged at the Warriors who had crippled their only tank, and slaughtered them, breaking their will and running down those who fled. The other grey hunters, the three survivors, took shelter behind the crippled land speeder, as the Necrons again began their inexorable advance.
At the last minute, the few survivors on the left flank of the Space Wolves rushed the Warriors advancing on their beacon, stopping them before they could harm it. The last Grey Hunter on the right flank loosed his plasma gun at the Nightbringer, who promptly felled him for it. And whilst there were barely any Space Wolves left on the field as the battle finished, they had at least forced their opponents into a tactical draw... (Which is better than they've ever pulled off against the 'Crons before)
And now, I have been informed that the Iron Priests have sorted our technological difficulties and thus am retroactively putting the pictures where they go in the tale... And yes, I know the Land Speeder be in Ravenwing Colours... That be because it was on loan from the Dark Angels...
Thursday, 10 February 2011
The Blood Of Fenrir...
Well, here be the Blood Of Fenrir, part 1. And after this I may go back to normal posts as opposed to short stories.
The wind shifts. I sniff the air, my legs never breaking their stride. There, at last, I have the scent. For weeks I have been trailing my quarry. One of their own gave me their first step. Those at their next step gave me their third. From there I followed tracks, a day old and more, on the ground, but now, now I have the scent.
They must be close. I pick up my pace, lengthening my stride, my passage making no sound, leaving no sign. They thought that coming here, so remote, so wild, would keep them safe. And maybe it would, were it their kind that followed them here. But it is not. The blood of Fenrir flows through my veins, as I learned so long ago. I am far older than I look, lean, fit, long white hair flowing in the wind that whips at my face. Let it. I have felt worse. Whips themselves, for one thing.
The memory brings a feral grin to my face, and I laugh, a loud, wild sound, startling the songbirds from the trees. Now my quarry knows I am coming. Let them. For too many years I have held the knot on the ribbon that binds my jaws. Now I shall let it loose, at last. The sun glints through the trees, warming my face, as it has for so many years. And it has been many.
I remember it well, the day we learned that I was a chosen one, that I had been born of the Trickster's Spawn. The sun warmed me that day as well, though it glinted through hazel, not pine, and in the early morn, not the heat of the day as it does now. Pausing in my memory, I sniff the air again. The scent is closer now, stronger, but not quite where I can pick out single scents. That will come. My feet hit the ground in sequence, and the gentle thuds lull me back into that place of the past.
The scents were keen. Oil, Leather, Steel, the scent of too many men, too tightly packed. My shield was heavy in my hand, so very heavy, as the Jarl went forward to speak to theirs. We watched closely as our Jarl approached theirs, sword in his scabbard, shield at his side, willing to talk, to attempt a peaceful resolution. Thus it was that I saw the knife come out and slide into my lords ribs. As he fell, the foe charged at us across the field. To our credit, outnumbered, worse equipped, and unled, we stood our ground, held, but in the end it was almost for naught.
Our shield-wall shattered when their charge hit, and we were forced to fight as individuals. A mighty blow ripped my shield from my arm, a spear stuck in my sword-arm, and then... A noise ahead breaks my reverie, draws me forth from the land of memory. 'Tis a dangerous land to tread, the paths of the mind.
But the noise. A sharp crack. Sobbing. I sniff the air again. They are close, so close I can almost taste them on the air. Almost, but not quite. I have Fenir's blood, not Jormung's. There are three of them, Man, Woman, Girl. The elder two smell of steel, and oil, powder and lead. They are armed then. Makes things more interesting I find, the risk of death. Some risk. I crouch lower, moving in close, slowly, moving with the rythym of the forest. Step, step, stop, scan, slow, but normal for the woods, it works. I approach to where I can see my quarry undetected.
The girl is sobbing. Her clothes are grubby, her hands and knees grazed. Neither of the others seem to care. The man looks at a map and a compass, whilst the woman watches the woods. Poorly. The man points, and drags the girl to her feet. When she resists, he slaps her, hard. She spins, and before she hits the ground, I am moving.
My white hair spreads down my back, and around my chest. Joints pop as my body changes. It stings, but then, it always has. My jaw juts out, my muzzle forming as fangs sprout from my gums. I howl as I leap from my hiding place, and answering howls echo back from the hills. The man and woman spin my way, pistols being drawn from their holsters. The barrels spark, and now my thick, white fur is patched with red. It stings more now, my chest is on fire, but my blood is up. Fenrir's blood is up.
Before they can fire more than a few times, I am on them. My claws tear at the woman's throat, ending her screams. I ignore her last struggles, and concentrate on the man. He has time for a few more shots, and the fiery pain runs up my arm. It matters not, as I did not intend to use my claws. Fangs are much sharper. I cock my head, and strike for his neck, but he ducks back and falls over. I catch myself before I step on him, and try again. This time I succeed, lifting him up with my good arm. The warm red blood flows down my throat, and I drink until there is nothing left, before I throw him away. The little girl is cowering on the ground by this point. I crouch down and smile at her. It is not until the screams begin that I realize the flaw in my cunning plan
Ah well, maybe she will calm down when we near civilization. So over my shoulder she goes. I set off at a run, back the way I had come, holding her in place with my bullet studded arm, while my other one pried bullets out of my arm and torso. Lead stings. Trust me on this one. Steel can sting more though, thats what set me off the first time. And now I slip back into memory. The spearhead stuck in my arm, and I screamed in pain. My shoulder slammed out of its socket, and then popped back in.
And with that, all my other joints began to pop into different places. My tunic tore, my hair spread, claws and fangs sprouted, and my scream of pain transformed into a mighty roar. I don't remember much of what followed, until I was standing surrounded by a field of corpses. From then on I was prized amongst the warriors of the Norse, until in the end we failed and fell.
I can smell the city now. I hate that stench. Too much of man, not enough of the wilds. I leave the girl on the edge, and then dart off into the woods. Perhaps one day things will change and my kind will be accepted again. Till that day I shall dwell in the wilder lands of the world and hunt only those who need hunting.
The wind shifts. I sniff the air, my legs never breaking their stride. There, at last, I have the scent. For weeks I have been trailing my quarry. One of their own gave me their first step. Those at their next step gave me their third. From there I followed tracks, a day old and more, on the ground, but now, now I have the scent.
They must be close. I pick up my pace, lengthening my stride, my passage making no sound, leaving no sign. They thought that coming here, so remote, so wild, would keep them safe. And maybe it would, were it their kind that followed them here. But it is not. The blood of Fenrir flows through my veins, as I learned so long ago. I am far older than I look, lean, fit, long white hair flowing in the wind that whips at my face. Let it. I have felt worse. Whips themselves, for one thing.
The memory brings a feral grin to my face, and I laugh, a loud, wild sound, startling the songbirds from the trees. Now my quarry knows I am coming. Let them. For too many years I have held the knot on the ribbon that binds my jaws. Now I shall let it loose, at last. The sun glints through the trees, warming my face, as it has for so many years. And it has been many.
I remember it well, the day we learned that I was a chosen one, that I had been born of the Trickster's Spawn. The sun warmed me that day as well, though it glinted through hazel, not pine, and in the early morn, not the heat of the day as it does now. Pausing in my memory, I sniff the air again. The scent is closer now, stronger, but not quite where I can pick out single scents. That will come. My feet hit the ground in sequence, and the gentle thuds lull me back into that place of the past.
The scents were keen. Oil, Leather, Steel, the scent of too many men, too tightly packed. My shield was heavy in my hand, so very heavy, as the Jarl went forward to speak to theirs. We watched closely as our Jarl approached theirs, sword in his scabbard, shield at his side, willing to talk, to attempt a peaceful resolution. Thus it was that I saw the knife come out and slide into my lords ribs. As he fell, the foe charged at us across the field. To our credit, outnumbered, worse equipped, and unled, we stood our ground, held, but in the end it was almost for naught.
Our shield-wall shattered when their charge hit, and we were forced to fight as individuals. A mighty blow ripped my shield from my arm, a spear stuck in my sword-arm, and then... A noise ahead breaks my reverie, draws me forth from the land of memory. 'Tis a dangerous land to tread, the paths of the mind.
But the noise. A sharp crack. Sobbing. I sniff the air again. They are close, so close I can almost taste them on the air. Almost, but not quite. I have Fenir's blood, not Jormung's. There are three of them, Man, Woman, Girl. The elder two smell of steel, and oil, powder and lead. They are armed then. Makes things more interesting I find, the risk of death. Some risk. I crouch lower, moving in close, slowly, moving with the rythym of the forest. Step, step, stop, scan, slow, but normal for the woods, it works. I approach to where I can see my quarry undetected.
The girl is sobbing. Her clothes are grubby, her hands and knees grazed. Neither of the others seem to care. The man looks at a map and a compass, whilst the woman watches the woods. Poorly. The man points, and drags the girl to her feet. When she resists, he slaps her, hard. She spins, and before she hits the ground, I am moving.
My white hair spreads down my back, and around my chest. Joints pop as my body changes. It stings, but then, it always has. My jaw juts out, my muzzle forming as fangs sprout from my gums. I howl as I leap from my hiding place, and answering howls echo back from the hills. The man and woman spin my way, pistols being drawn from their holsters. The barrels spark, and now my thick, white fur is patched with red. It stings more now, my chest is on fire, but my blood is up. Fenrir's blood is up.
Before they can fire more than a few times, I am on them. My claws tear at the woman's throat, ending her screams. I ignore her last struggles, and concentrate on the man. He has time for a few more shots, and the fiery pain runs up my arm. It matters not, as I did not intend to use my claws. Fangs are much sharper. I cock my head, and strike for his neck, but he ducks back and falls over. I catch myself before I step on him, and try again. This time I succeed, lifting him up with my good arm. The warm red blood flows down my throat, and I drink until there is nothing left, before I throw him away. The little girl is cowering on the ground by this point. I crouch down and smile at her. It is not until the screams begin that I realize the flaw in my cunning plan
Ah well, maybe she will calm down when we near civilization. So over my shoulder she goes. I set off at a run, back the way I had come, holding her in place with my bullet studded arm, while my other one pried bullets out of my arm and torso. Lead stings. Trust me on this one. Steel can sting more though, thats what set me off the first time. And now I slip back into memory. The spearhead stuck in my arm, and I screamed in pain. My shoulder slammed out of its socket, and then popped back in.
And with that, all my other joints began to pop into different places. My tunic tore, my hair spread, claws and fangs sprouted, and my scream of pain transformed into a mighty roar. I don't remember much of what followed, until I was standing surrounded by a field of corpses. From then on I was prized amongst the warriors of the Norse, until in the end we failed and fell.
I can smell the city now. I hate that stench. Too much of man, not enough of the wilds. I leave the girl on the edge, and then dart off into the woods. Perhaps one day things will change and my kind will be accepted again. Till that day I shall dwell in the wilder lands of the world and hunt only those who need hunting.
Wednesday, 9 February 2011
A bit of a departure...
I've been reading tales for a long time now, and you know what bothers me? The relative scarcity of tales written from the Monsters point of view. I mean we have tales of Vampire Hunters, and Witch Hunts. We have tales of the slaughter wreaked on villagers by Lycanthropes, and Undead, and all manner of beasties, but very few written from the point of view of such things themselves...
So I have attempted to Remedy this... When I can find it, I'll post up the first part of Blood of Fenrir. And when I finally get round to figuring out where else to go with it, I'll write and post additional parts. For now however, you'll have to put up with this. And SKAAL! To any Man, Woman or Child, who can guess who be monologuing before the end. And by who, I mean Whom. And By WHOM I really mean What.
We sit, on a razored knife ridge of granite, jutting up from the blue ocean. Taloned feet dig gouges into the rock, as we stare into the wind. The lesser breeds have a name for this place, but they have a name for everything. We of the eldest folk have no care for such things. It is enough for us that a thing is, without needing to tack words that cannot describe it in truth onto it. Beneath us, so far below, the sea is rough, what the lesser breeds call white horses running along its surface. A fair enough title, even if it fails to match the true majesty of the sight. From the corners of my eyes I see my kindred, all of them glancing from side to side, ensuring their clutchmates are beside them.
I need not do this. My clutchmates all fell long ago. I am alone, the eldest of us all. To any who watch I crouch motionless, seeing the black smudge spread across the horizon, and the horses below leap higher and higher. The scent of the open sea is in the air, clean and pure. Soon, the storm will be upon us. The youngest of us quiver with excitement, serpentine necks flicking this way and that, tails lashing against the rock. For some, this is their first time knowing the joy that is our gift. The older, those who know what is to come restrain themselves better, saving their energy for when it will be needed, but even they still fidget. Only I am still as the rock we grasp, save the rise and fall that comes with my breath.
The smudge is nearer now, the horses frantic, throwing themselves against the base of the rocky craig. The spray of their struggles almost reached the lowest perches of my brethren. To one who has been alive as long as I, the sky holds few secrets. And so, acting on signs only I could see, I inhaled, my sides belling out. As my lungs filled, the wind dropped, stopped. A moment of calm ensued, to which my kin reacted differently. The youngest glanced about confused. They had not been expecting this. Those slightly older tensed their muscles, ready to leap. The rest of them braced against what they knew to be coming. Only I continued to remain motionless, watching the air. I knew when the first breath would come, I could see it coming, and so I met it. As the gust front hit, I roared my greeting, and even if their was naught that a lesser being would consider a word in that greeting, well, the wind understood.
The gust passed, and died, and then, the wind picked up again, driving against us with the teeth of the gale. As soon as I felt it's touch, I lept, up and out, straight into the teeth of the gale. It welcomed me, caught my spreading wings, and flipped me about, over the ridge. I'd been the first, as befitted my post as eldest. Even as I whipped around in the wind, till it was behind me, I could see the others following me. A leap into the wind, backwinging to raise them up and over the craig. Spinning and twisting in the wind, till it had their backs, driving them, driving us, over the craig, as the storm drove in towards land. The wind whipped over and under and around us, and we twisted and writhed in its grip. Long, leathery wings beat against the wind, riding it, matching it will to will. And of all the wings to beat, mine still beat the hardest, the strongest. And none of my kindred can match me in skill. I can see it, see them struggling against the wind. They fight it, pitting their will against it's. Below me, I can see one of the youngers ones, caught by a buffet of the wind. The gale drives him into the tip of the wave below. The horses of the sea will drag him under, battering him, breaking him.
We cannot win if we pit ourselves against the storm. The trick, learned slowly over our long, long lives is to learn to work with it, to ride each buffet, each gust. It is a skill I have nigh on mastered. A gust hits me from the side, and rather than fighting against it, I tuck my wings into my sides. I roll into it, cutting through it rather than trying to force myself past. As I drop, I feel the winds shift, and the wings spread again, catching another breath, winds hooking it and launching me high, higher than before. The joy of the storm is upon me, the rain slashing against my scaled and armoured hide. I roar my ecstacy into the sky, and taken by a whim, I roll over onto my back and drop. I stretch my neck and tail, arrowing straight down. I hurtle ever lower, passing my lesser kindred. The spray kisses my snout, and yet I continue my dive. My muzzle breaks the surface of the sea, and a wave crashes over my tail, flipping me over and driving me under. It's turbulent under the water, rougher even than it is in the air. 'Tis easy enough to shift until the sky is behind me and drive myself even further underwater.
The sky is dark, which means that under the water it be almost impossible to see. I can tell where I'm oriented by the sound of the rain and the crash of the waves pattering above me. My tongue flicks out, tasting the water, and with a flick of my tail I twist towards the surface. My tail lashes back and forth, as do my wings, driving me up. Three of my lengths, nose-tip to tail, from the surface, my wings fold back, and I rocket free of the water into the fury of the storm. I reach the height of the leap, and as I begin to drop back down, the wings snap open, perfectly judged to catch the wind and flick myself up. A roar of triumph is loosed from my jaws as I rise again, feeling the pressures in the air, the force of the wind, the lash and sting of the rain. As I pull further and higher into the sky, catching the updrafts and dodging the downs, I can see others trying to replicate my feat. Only the luckiest or most skilled will pull it off.
Already the storm begins to die. 'Tis perhaps a symptom of age that they seem shorter than they once were. Not as strong, not as harsh, but still, we can feel the joy and freedom of riding the storms. As the storm settles, we come back into the knife-ridge to land. As I was the first to take off, so I am the last to land. There are so few of us now, and every year there are fewer. To be fair, some of that is my fondness for such tricks as my dive, which the young bucks have yet to learn they cannot yet handle. On the other hand, next year fewer will try tricks they are not certain they are capable of, so it serves its purpose. Mayhaps we'll grow in number soon, but it matters not to me. I will not last much longer. I've lived long enough to lose nigh everything that matters, and all that remains to me now is the sky. With a roar and a bellow I touch on the ridge, for forms sake, and leap off. The ritual of the storm is complete, and the time has come for me to find a foe who can give the death that befits one of my blood, that befits the eldest of those the lesser breeds name 'Dragon'
So I have attempted to Remedy this... When I can find it, I'll post up the first part of Blood of Fenrir. And when I finally get round to figuring out where else to go with it, I'll write and post additional parts. For now however, you'll have to put up with this. And SKAAL! To any Man, Woman or Child, who can guess who be monologuing before the end. And by who, I mean Whom. And By WHOM I really mean What.
We sit, on a razored knife ridge of granite, jutting up from the blue ocean. Taloned feet dig gouges into the rock, as we stare into the wind. The lesser breeds have a name for this place, but they have a name for everything. We of the eldest folk have no care for such things. It is enough for us that a thing is, without needing to tack words that cannot describe it in truth onto it. Beneath us, so far below, the sea is rough, what the lesser breeds call white horses running along its surface. A fair enough title, even if it fails to match the true majesty of the sight. From the corners of my eyes I see my kindred, all of them glancing from side to side, ensuring their clutchmates are beside them.
I need not do this. My clutchmates all fell long ago. I am alone, the eldest of us all. To any who watch I crouch motionless, seeing the black smudge spread across the horizon, and the horses below leap higher and higher. The scent of the open sea is in the air, clean and pure. Soon, the storm will be upon us. The youngest of us quiver with excitement, serpentine necks flicking this way and that, tails lashing against the rock. For some, this is their first time knowing the joy that is our gift. The older, those who know what is to come restrain themselves better, saving their energy for when it will be needed, but even they still fidget. Only I am still as the rock we grasp, save the rise and fall that comes with my breath.
The smudge is nearer now, the horses frantic, throwing themselves against the base of the rocky craig. The spray of their struggles almost reached the lowest perches of my brethren. To one who has been alive as long as I, the sky holds few secrets. And so, acting on signs only I could see, I inhaled, my sides belling out. As my lungs filled, the wind dropped, stopped. A moment of calm ensued, to which my kin reacted differently. The youngest glanced about confused. They had not been expecting this. Those slightly older tensed their muscles, ready to leap. The rest of them braced against what they knew to be coming. Only I continued to remain motionless, watching the air. I knew when the first breath would come, I could see it coming, and so I met it. As the gust front hit, I roared my greeting, and even if their was naught that a lesser being would consider a word in that greeting, well, the wind understood.
The gust passed, and died, and then, the wind picked up again, driving against us with the teeth of the gale. As soon as I felt it's touch, I lept, up and out, straight into the teeth of the gale. It welcomed me, caught my spreading wings, and flipped me about, over the ridge. I'd been the first, as befitted my post as eldest. Even as I whipped around in the wind, till it was behind me, I could see the others following me. A leap into the wind, backwinging to raise them up and over the craig. Spinning and twisting in the wind, till it had their backs, driving them, driving us, over the craig, as the storm drove in towards land. The wind whipped over and under and around us, and we twisted and writhed in its grip. Long, leathery wings beat against the wind, riding it, matching it will to will. And of all the wings to beat, mine still beat the hardest, the strongest. And none of my kindred can match me in skill. I can see it, see them struggling against the wind. They fight it, pitting their will against it's. Below me, I can see one of the youngers ones, caught by a buffet of the wind. The gale drives him into the tip of the wave below. The horses of the sea will drag him under, battering him, breaking him.
We cannot win if we pit ourselves against the storm. The trick, learned slowly over our long, long lives is to learn to work with it, to ride each buffet, each gust. It is a skill I have nigh on mastered. A gust hits me from the side, and rather than fighting against it, I tuck my wings into my sides. I roll into it, cutting through it rather than trying to force myself past. As I drop, I feel the winds shift, and the wings spread again, catching another breath, winds hooking it and launching me high, higher than before. The joy of the storm is upon me, the rain slashing against my scaled and armoured hide. I roar my ecstacy into the sky, and taken by a whim, I roll over onto my back and drop. I stretch my neck and tail, arrowing straight down. I hurtle ever lower, passing my lesser kindred. The spray kisses my snout, and yet I continue my dive. My muzzle breaks the surface of the sea, and a wave crashes over my tail, flipping me over and driving me under. It's turbulent under the water, rougher even than it is in the air. 'Tis easy enough to shift until the sky is behind me and drive myself even further underwater.
The sky is dark, which means that under the water it be almost impossible to see. I can tell where I'm oriented by the sound of the rain and the crash of the waves pattering above me. My tongue flicks out, tasting the water, and with a flick of my tail I twist towards the surface. My tail lashes back and forth, as do my wings, driving me up. Three of my lengths, nose-tip to tail, from the surface, my wings fold back, and I rocket free of the water into the fury of the storm. I reach the height of the leap, and as I begin to drop back down, the wings snap open, perfectly judged to catch the wind and flick myself up. A roar of triumph is loosed from my jaws as I rise again, feeling the pressures in the air, the force of the wind, the lash and sting of the rain. As I pull further and higher into the sky, catching the updrafts and dodging the downs, I can see others trying to replicate my feat. Only the luckiest or most skilled will pull it off.
Already the storm begins to die. 'Tis perhaps a symptom of age that they seem shorter than they once were. Not as strong, not as harsh, but still, we can feel the joy and freedom of riding the storms. As the storm settles, we come back into the knife-ridge to land. As I was the first to take off, so I am the last to land. There are so few of us now, and every year there are fewer. To be fair, some of that is my fondness for such tricks as my dive, which the young bucks have yet to learn they cannot yet handle. On the other hand, next year fewer will try tricks they are not certain they are capable of, so it serves its purpose. Mayhaps we'll grow in number soon, but it matters not to me. I will not last much longer. I've lived long enough to lose nigh everything that matters, and all that remains to me now is the sky. With a roar and a bellow I touch on the ridge, for forms sake, and leap off. The ritual of the storm is complete, and the time has come for me to find a foe who can give the death that befits one of my blood, that befits the eldest of those the lesser breeds name 'Dragon'
Monday, 7 February 2011
A wee bit of backstory.
Well, I've been asked to post some more of my fiction works up here. Here be another of the Bear and Redjay stories. Again, Intellectual property of myself, Jared G. Juckiewicz, Characters belonging to Lamia Macdonald. Except those with a basis in real people, which really means two-thirds of the main characters. Those who know me may recognize certain parallels... kindly keep them to yourselves. And be warned, bad language is present, and much Alcohol is consumed.
The Bear was drunk. Whats more the Bear was more drunk than his companion the Redjay. This had never happened before. Even she, his closest confidante, the woman who'd had his back since he was outlawed, across the length and breadth of England, up the coast of England and Scotland by trading cog and viking raider, then out to Norway, east through the lands of Finn, and of Svaer and of Suomi, and then south down the Dneiper to Miklagaard. They'd even sworn oath together as Varangians and taken their baptisms side by side (Something they had been forced into by the Emperor, who would not have an open heathen in his guard).
She didn't know what had set him off. She'd never seen him like this before, despite that they'd been fighting aside each other for damn near a year now. In fact, it had been exactly a year when she thought of it, and perhaps that was it. He'd left the palace alone in the morning, after making arrangements to meet at this tavern come evening. And, almost an hour late, he'd stormed in, stormed up to where the tavernkeeper plied his trade, and demanded drink. Ale, Mead, Saxon Jaeger, Rus Vodka, even Scottish Uisquebagh, he hadn't cared. Even now, he was raising a toast. Hefting his fist, tankard gripped in it high in the air, he began to bellow. 'To The Bitch and her Bounty-Hunter. Without Whom I wouldn't be where I am today.' And as he finished, he downed his full tankard in one, suds running down his face and his armour. As soon as it was empty, he slammed it down on the wooden table, and bellowed for another.
Whilst he was waiting, he sat back down, landing heavily on the chair. He leaned to his side, and began to speak to the stranger sitting there. "'Tis How I wound up here. Witch told me I was the only one for her. And here I find her carrying on with a bounty hunter. Well, I took issue, and so did he. Helped a bit that he wanted the bounty on my prisoner." and here he looked around, his head wobbling wildly, until he caught sight of the Redjay, standing back a ways with their new companion. He was a knight, a Knight Templar in fact, and had no clue that the only reason his newfound friends followed christian ways was the Varangian Guard would not take those who refused to change from the old ways. Bear pointed at her. 'It was her' he said. 'Prisoner not bitch. She's no bitch, she's a birdie. Redjay, Redjay we called her when we put the price on her head. Vicious things Redjays...' A pause here, whilst he bellowed for the tavernkeep to hurry up with his Ale. 'Where Was I? Ah, yes. Vicious things. Bounty. He tried to steal her. Already stealed one woman from me. Put an axe through him. Punched the head into his throat.' Here his ale arrived, and he took a long draught,
Wobbled a bit. Straightened up. 'Murder. Black, Bloody Murder. Not Bloody Enough. Shoulda Blood-Eagled Him. You know what the Blood-Eagle is? NO? Well, I'll no tell you. Tis a practice of Wodin. I'm not supposed to follow Old One-Eye. I'm a christian now. Christian I tell you. Says otherwise I'll fight you, Lord O' Thunder help me.' 'Twas about this point, the Redjay decided to intervene. She wandered over next to him, and stood behind him. He leaned his head back till the top of it rested on her stomach. And staring straight up at her chin, he says in a surprisingly steady tone. 'Here she is, Lady Redjay. She helped me, she did. Held off his mates, till I had to parry with my teeth. Don't step back.' It was too good an opportunity to miss. She did. And he fell. There was laughter. Much laughter. Which grew all the more when he swung his legs off the bench, grabbed the worst offender, and yanked.
Muscles raised in the guard and harden by a year of hard living, battle and travel dragged the man to the floor, and dragged the Bear to one knee. Whilst normally, the Bear was a happy drunk, something had him off colour. He didn't even bother with the man he'd just unseated, beyond putting an elbow into the mans crotch. He just stared at the others laughing, and growled low in his throat. Whilst their new companion, the spaniard called Javier, Peacock by his friends, didn't know him well enough to see what was coming, the Redjay did. Sadly, she was not quick enough to stop him. With one of his trademarked roars, he lept at the first table he could that had people laughing at it.
He suddenly seemed far more sober now that he had adrenaline coursing. His fist struck left and right, until the Redjay and the Peacock grabbed him from behind. They yanked him back and slammed him to the ground. 'What is with you today' The Redjay snarled at him, but he stayed silent. After a minute or two he even stopped struggling. 'Let me up. I'll not kill them.' he said softly. As he stood, shakily, he stared at her, and spoke slowly and softly. "'Twas a year ago today I learned of it. She'd sworn me oath, and she broke it. Broke them. I was already in a dark mood. And after the mockery I had before I left with you, I had no stomach for more.' Another slight pause. 'I'm sorry. I'll be off now, before I cause more trouble.' As he turned to leave, his companions, old and new followed. 'We'll get some drink, and raise a toast together, Bear.' the Redjay told him, knowing enough to not leave him alone. And with that, they set out into the street, heading back to the Varangian wing of the palace.
The Bear was drunk. Whats more the Bear was more drunk than his companion the Redjay. This had never happened before. Even she, his closest confidante, the woman who'd had his back since he was outlawed, across the length and breadth of England, up the coast of England and Scotland by trading cog and viking raider, then out to Norway, east through the lands of Finn, and of Svaer and of Suomi, and then south down the Dneiper to Miklagaard. They'd even sworn oath together as Varangians and taken their baptisms side by side (Something they had been forced into by the Emperor, who would not have an open heathen in his guard).
She didn't know what had set him off. She'd never seen him like this before, despite that they'd been fighting aside each other for damn near a year now. In fact, it had been exactly a year when she thought of it, and perhaps that was it. He'd left the palace alone in the morning, after making arrangements to meet at this tavern come evening. And, almost an hour late, he'd stormed in, stormed up to where the tavernkeeper plied his trade, and demanded drink. Ale, Mead, Saxon Jaeger, Rus Vodka, even Scottish Uisquebagh, he hadn't cared. Even now, he was raising a toast. Hefting his fist, tankard gripped in it high in the air, he began to bellow. 'To The Bitch and her Bounty-Hunter. Without Whom I wouldn't be where I am today.' And as he finished, he downed his full tankard in one, suds running down his face and his armour. As soon as it was empty, he slammed it down on the wooden table, and bellowed for another.
Whilst he was waiting, he sat back down, landing heavily on the chair. He leaned to his side, and began to speak to the stranger sitting there. "'Tis How I wound up here. Witch told me I was the only one for her. And here I find her carrying on with a bounty hunter. Well, I took issue, and so did he. Helped a bit that he wanted the bounty on my prisoner." and here he looked around, his head wobbling wildly, until he caught sight of the Redjay, standing back a ways with their new companion. He was a knight, a Knight Templar in fact, and had no clue that the only reason his newfound friends followed christian ways was the Varangian Guard would not take those who refused to change from the old ways. Bear pointed at her. 'It was her' he said. 'Prisoner not bitch. She's no bitch, she's a birdie. Redjay, Redjay we called her when we put the price on her head. Vicious things Redjays...' A pause here, whilst he bellowed for the tavernkeep to hurry up with his Ale. 'Where Was I? Ah, yes. Vicious things. Bounty. He tried to steal her. Already stealed one woman from me. Put an axe through him. Punched the head into his throat.' Here his ale arrived, and he took a long draught,
Wobbled a bit. Straightened up. 'Murder. Black, Bloody Murder. Not Bloody Enough. Shoulda Blood-Eagled Him. You know what the Blood-Eagle is? NO? Well, I'll no tell you. Tis a practice of Wodin. I'm not supposed to follow Old One-Eye. I'm a christian now. Christian I tell you. Says otherwise I'll fight you, Lord O' Thunder help me.' 'Twas about this point, the Redjay decided to intervene. She wandered over next to him, and stood behind him. He leaned his head back till the top of it rested on her stomach. And staring straight up at her chin, he says in a surprisingly steady tone. 'Here she is, Lady Redjay. She helped me, she did. Held off his mates, till I had to parry with my teeth. Don't step back.' It was too good an opportunity to miss. She did. And he fell. There was laughter. Much laughter. Which grew all the more when he swung his legs off the bench, grabbed the worst offender, and yanked.
Muscles raised in the guard and harden by a year of hard living, battle and travel dragged the man to the floor, and dragged the Bear to one knee. Whilst normally, the Bear was a happy drunk, something had him off colour. He didn't even bother with the man he'd just unseated, beyond putting an elbow into the mans crotch. He just stared at the others laughing, and growled low in his throat. Whilst their new companion, the spaniard called Javier, Peacock by his friends, didn't know him well enough to see what was coming, the Redjay did. Sadly, she was not quick enough to stop him. With one of his trademarked roars, he lept at the first table he could that had people laughing at it.
He suddenly seemed far more sober now that he had adrenaline coursing. His fist struck left and right, until the Redjay and the Peacock grabbed him from behind. They yanked him back and slammed him to the ground. 'What is with you today' The Redjay snarled at him, but he stayed silent. After a minute or two he even stopped struggling. 'Let me up. I'll not kill them.' he said softly. As he stood, shakily, he stared at her, and spoke slowly and softly. "'Twas a year ago today I learned of it. She'd sworn me oath, and she broke it. Broke them. I was already in a dark mood. And after the mockery I had before I left with you, I had no stomach for more.' Another slight pause. 'I'm sorry. I'll be off now, before I cause more trouble.' As he turned to leave, his companions, old and new followed. 'We'll get some drink, and raise a toast together, Bear.' the Redjay told him, knowing enough to not leave him alone. And with that, they set out into the street, heading back to the Varangian wing of the palace.
Saturday, 5 February 2011
Another Freya's Day, Another Battle
Well, I had another wargaming session today... I certainly appears to be becoming a regular event.
Space Wolves against Dark Angels again. And sadly, I lost, putting the Wolves at W-1 D-1 L-1 against Randy's Dark Angels...
'Twas damnably close though. One more dead dark angel or one fewer wolf and it'd have been a draw. and if I'd managed both I'd have taken the match. Special mentions go to the Dark Angel Land Speeder who's crew finally managed to do more than chip my Land Raiders paint, and also to te Ancient And Venerable Land Raider Redeemer called Korgon. Over the course of the battle it crippled the Dark angel land raider (Immobilizing it in a position where one of its twin-linked lascannons could see nothing and destroying the other.), wrecked their Hellfire Dreadnought, took out the Whirlwinds missile racks, immobilized the Land Speeder, and slew some 10 Marines, mostly with Flamestorm cannons. It must be pointed that the Korgon's crew seemed to have a grudge against any Dark Angel who picked up a flamer... They incinerated three of them, each one having recovered the previous victims weapon. I believe the words 'You call that a flamer? THIS is a flamer!' were uttered, although the crewmen claim they were only showing their fellow marines how to do it properly. Other mention must go to the Long Fangs who obliterated a biker squad on the first turn, and to te Dark Angel terminatours who gunned down Wulf and Sarath... not that this will inconvenience that pair for long...
As with all the battles so far, casualties were horrendous. The Space Wolves lost 5 Long Fangs, 10 Grey Hunters, 5 Wolf Guard, 2 Wolf Lords and a quartet of Fenrisian Wolves. Oh, and the Korgon lost its Twin-Linked assault cannon (Despite drawing six turns of fire from anything that could concievably scratch it.) In exchange, they claimed 17 Dark Angels tactical Marines, 3 Bikers, an Assault Bike, a Hellfire Dreadnought, and a Whirlwind destroyed or rendered hors de combat. Furthermore, a Land Speeder was immobilized, as was a Land Raider, and said Land Raider also lost one of its Lascannons.
Oh, and I mantain the superiority of the Assault Cannon as an Anti-Tank weapon, as it dropped everything up to and including the skimmer (Except for finishing off the whirlwind. that was down to a Wolf Guard who rushed the thing, blasting away with his plasma pistol, until he reached it, whereupon the Mark of the Wulffen overcame him. He tried clawing and tearing and biting at it, but to no avail. It was only when the damn thing tried to run him over that he remembered his Plasma Pistol and blew away its treads... Come to think of it, he gets an honourable mention too...)
I'm informed I may have a different opponent next week, and if not, I'll be facing a different army. Have even been told I be permitted to borrow some of the stores models, which means a larger battle, and the opportunity to try new things... maybe I'll take my camera and do a proper battle report... For Once...
Luck In Battle, My Friends
SKAAL!
Space Wolves against Dark Angels again. And sadly, I lost, putting the Wolves at W-1 D-1 L-1 against Randy's Dark Angels...
'Twas damnably close though. One more dead dark angel or one fewer wolf and it'd have been a draw. and if I'd managed both I'd have taken the match. Special mentions go to the Dark Angel Land Speeder who's crew finally managed to do more than chip my Land Raiders paint, and also to te Ancient And Venerable Land Raider Redeemer called Korgon. Over the course of the battle it crippled the Dark angel land raider (Immobilizing it in a position where one of its twin-linked lascannons could see nothing and destroying the other.), wrecked their Hellfire Dreadnought, took out the Whirlwinds missile racks, immobilized the Land Speeder, and slew some 10 Marines, mostly with Flamestorm cannons. It must be pointed that the Korgon's crew seemed to have a grudge against any Dark Angel who picked up a flamer... They incinerated three of them, each one having recovered the previous victims weapon. I believe the words 'You call that a flamer? THIS is a flamer!' were uttered, although the crewmen claim they were only showing their fellow marines how to do it properly. Other mention must go to the Long Fangs who obliterated a biker squad on the first turn, and to te Dark Angel terminatours who gunned down Wulf and Sarath... not that this will inconvenience that pair for long...
As with all the battles so far, casualties were horrendous. The Space Wolves lost 5 Long Fangs, 10 Grey Hunters, 5 Wolf Guard, 2 Wolf Lords and a quartet of Fenrisian Wolves. Oh, and the Korgon lost its Twin-Linked assault cannon (Despite drawing six turns of fire from anything that could concievably scratch it.) In exchange, they claimed 17 Dark Angels tactical Marines, 3 Bikers, an Assault Bike, a Hellfire Dreadnought, and a Whirlwind destroyed or rendered hors de combat. Furthermore, a Land Speeder was immobilized, as was a Land Raider, and said Land Raider also lost one of its Lascannons.
Oh, and I mantain the superiority of the Assault Cannon as an Anti-Tank weapon, as it dropped everything up to and including the skimmer (Except for finishing off the whirlwind. that was down to a Wolf Guard who rushed the thing, blasting away with his plasma pistol, until he reached it, whereupon the Mark of the Wulffen overcame him. He tried clawing and tearing and biting at it, but to no avail. It was only when the damn thing tried to run him over that he remembered his Plasma Pistol and blew away its treads... Come to think of it, he gets an honourable mention too...)
I'm informed I may have a different opponent next week, and if not, I'll be facing a different army. Have even been told I be permitted to borrow some of the stores models, which means a larger battle, and the opportunity to try new things... maybe I'll take my camera and do a proper battle report... For Once...
Luck In Battle, My Friends
SKAAL!
Friday, 4 February 2011
A continuing of the saga....
Well, before I continue on with my earlier tale, I wish to point out that all fiction posted on this blog is the intellectual property of myself, Jared Gamaliel Juckiewicz, and the characters belong to Lamia Macdonald and are used with her permission.
Having finished with such detailly things... here be the next step in the saga of the Redjay and the Bear
The summer had been, for lack of a better word, Fun. They spent it riding with the Norsemen for whom they now worked, taking the dragonship all up and down the east coast of the breton isles. As when they had sailed on a merchant ship, they put in at every village that looked big enough to have goods of value. However, unlike when they had sailed on a merchant ship, this time they weren't there to trade.
The procedure was simple. A Norse longship was shallow of draft. The crew would run it up as far up the beach as they could. This meant hard work for those on the oars, a task spared only for the best fighters on board. And that meant proving oneself in battle. Amongst the Norsemen and not against them. So, the first few villages found the Redjay and the Bearsark being amongst the last into the fight. Not a feeling either of them were used to. Anyway, the boat would run right up, beach itself as far up the shore as it could. Then, Sven, the norse captain, would leave over the bow, followed by his Huscarls, his strongest warriors. They would rush into the village, and once there, would demand tribute. Such valuables as the inhabitants had, and supplies, but not slaves. Sven didn't hold with the idea. No Man, he would say, should own another. They would slay no man without provocation, but they would respond violently to the slightest hint of aggression, and the rest of the crew would be following them.
Also unlike their previous trip up the coastline, the Norsemen would put in at abbeys and monasteries. Their intent was not peaceful. Much of the wealth of britain was kept in such places, decorations of gold and silver and gems hidden behind plain stone walls, simple brown robes, and ponds of mullet and carp. Some such places, by this point were almost fortresses, and there, there the acts of the Norsemen were different. They would run up the beach as they always did, the Huscarls vaulting over as soon as the water was no deeper on a man than his waist. And yes, as always, the Huscarls would head up towards their goal first. But it was at that point that they began to do things differently. If they could, the Huscarls would take the gates, but if they couldn't, well, in the Longboat, they had grapnels, and knotted ropes of braided sealskin. The Huscarls would signal the ship with horns, and the rest of the crew, rushing up would bring these tools. That, and no Norseman would be caught without his Axe, making the furnishing of a ram rather easy.
Sven would hold his men off till a Ram was prepared, and then he would give the word. At that point, those who figured a ram would work best went for the gate, and those who figured grapnels would work tried to go over the walls. And it was in one such battle that the two outlaws both ensured they would remain that way for ever...
You see, The wall at this Abbey was not more than eight foot high. Less than twice as high as a man. And looking at it, the Redjay and the Bear glanced at each other. 'Are You Thinking What I'm Thinking?' The Redjay asked. The Bear nodded. They then proceeded to grab a coil of rope. It got knotted around the Bears waist, he unslung the round boss shield he'd been given, drew his axe, and the pair of them ran at the wall. At the last moment, the Bear lept, catching his foot on the wall. As the Redjay ran up behind him, her cupped hands caught under his other foot, and she lifted it as high as she could. His shield hooked over the wall, caught in between a pair of crenellations. The beard on his axe caught over the rim, and he hauled himself up, hopping down onto the rampart. As soon as he was stable, he roared defiance and struck out, feeling the tug on his waist as his companion started up.
He braced his heels against the crenellations, wielding his shield as a weapon, his axe cleaving through flesh and bone almost effortlessly. The tugs on his waist came quickly, even as he slaughtered the poorly armed monks who stood against him. The few knights who had been at the abbey were all before the gate, waiting for the ram to get through, and most of the other defenders were worrying about the grapnels. Within seconds, the Redjay was up on the rampart behind him. She drew her sword and unslung her shield as the Bear stepped forward, and then she hopped down, striking the rope from his back, such that he had a tail of but a foot, rather than ten. Together, they struck down those around them, and turned and rushed to the gatehouse. She with the crenellations on her left struck down those who stood before her, whilst the Bear simply hooked the neck or the side or the leg of any ahead of him and yanked them over the edge of the wall. Within moments they were in the gatehouse, and moments later it was cleared.
There were two capstans, pointing in and meeting at a point where the middle of the gates would be. Were the doors not barred, the gates could be swung open. Luckily, the bar was tied to a pulley in the gatehouse, and as the gate shuddered under another impact from the ram, they pulled it up, just enough that when they dropped it, it fell outside the hooks. As the ram pulled back for another blow, they got behind the capstans, and heaved the doors open. The Huscarls and the knights both were taken by surprise, even more so as the pair flung open the shutters and lept out, landing heavily with knees bent. The moment of hesitation passed, and the Huscarls began to rush past them as they straightened, letting none know of the pain in their legs and knees. Once the gates were open, it was a slaughter. Every defender died, and the treasures of the abbey fell into the keeping of the Norsemen. Not a single one of the Vikingr had died, and few of them were even wounded, all due to the Redjay and the Bear.
After that, theirs was the right to come off the ship just behind Sven, theirs the right to first pick of the loot. No one else could fight longer than that pair, but soon, their strength would be tested. Until now they had raided english villages and abbeys, and whilst that people was not exactly week, repeated invasions had beaten much of the fight out of them. Now though, they sailed further north, into Scottish waters, and the Scottish clans had not an ounce of yield in them. From thence, to Orkney, and then further to the Faroes, before they would strike east for Norway as the season drew to its close.
Having finished with such detailly things... here be the next step in the saga of the Redjay and the Bear
The summer had been, for lack of a better word, Fun. They spent it riding with the Norsemen for whom they now worked, taking the dragonship all up and down the east coast of the breton isles. As when they had sailed on a merchant ship, they put in at every village that looked big enough to have goods of value. However, unlike when they had sailed on a merchant ship, this time they weren't there to trade.
The procedure was simple. A Norse longship was shallow of draft. The crew would run it up as far up the beach as they could. This meant hard work for those on the oars, a task spared only for the best fighters on board. And that meant proving oneself in battle. Amongst the Norsemen and not against them. So, the first few villages found the Redjay and the Bearsark being amongst the last into the fight. Not a feeling either of them were used to. Anyway, the boat would run right up, beach itself as far up the shore as it could. Then, Sven, the norse captain, would leave over the bow, followed by his Huscarls, his strongest warriors. They would rush into the village, and once there, would demand tribute. Such valuables as the inhabitants had, and supplies, but not slaves. Sven didn't hold with the idea. No Man, he would say, should own another. They would slay no man without provocation, but they would respond violently to the slightest hint of aggression, and the rest of the crew would be following them.
Also unlike their previous trip up the coastline, the Norsemen would put in at abbeys and monasteries. Their intent was not peaceful. Much of the wealth of britain was kept in such places, decorations of gold and silver and gems hidden behind plain stone walls, simple brown robes, and ponds of mullet and carp. Some such places, by this point were almost fortresses, and there, there the acts of the Norsemen were different. They would run up the beach as they always did, the Huscarls vaulting over as soon as the water was no deeper on a man than his waist. And yes, as always, the Huscarls would head up towards their goal first. But it was at that point that they began to do things differently. If they could, the Huscarls would take the gates, but if they couldn't, well, in the Longboat, they had grapnels, and knotted ropes of braided sealskin. The Huscarls would signal the ship with horns, and the rest of the crew, rushing up would bring these tools. That, and no Norseman would be caught without his Axe, making the furnishing of a ram rather easy.
Sven would hold his men off till a Ram was prepared, and then he would give the word. At that point, those who figured a ram would work best went for the gate, and those who figured grapnels would work tried to go over the walls. And it was in one such battle that the two outlaws both ensured they would remain that way for ever...
You see, The wall at this Abbey was not more than eight foot high. Less than twice as high as a man. And looking at it, the Redjay and the Bear glanced at each other. 'Are You Thinking What I'm Thinking?' The Redjay asked. The Bear nodded. They then proceeded to grab a coil of rope. It got knotted around the Bears waist, he unslung the round boss shield he'd been given, drew his axe, and the pair of them ran at the wall. At the last moment, the Bear lept, catching his foot on the wall. As the Redjay ran up behind him, her cupped hands caught under his other foot, and she lifted it as high as she could. His shield hooked over the wall, caught in between a pair of crenellations. The beard on his axe caught over the rim, and he hauled himself up, hopping down onto the rampart. As soon as he was stable, he roared defiance and struck out, feeling the tug on his waist as his companion started up.
He braced his heels against the crenellations, wielding his shield as a weapon, his axe cleaving through flesh and bone almost effortlessly. The tugs on his waist came quickly, even as he slaughtered the poorly armed monks who stood against him. The few knights who had been at the abbey were all before the gate, waiting for the ram to get through, and most of the other defenders were worrying about the grapnels. Within seconds, the Redjay was up on the rampart behind him. She drew her sword and unslung her shield as the Bear stepped forward, and then she hopped down, striking the rope from his back, such that he had a tail of but a foot, rather than ten. Together, they struck down those around them, and turned and rushed to the gatehouse. She with the crenellations on her left struck down those who stood before her, whilst the Bear simply hooked the neck or the side or the leg of any ahead of him and yanked them over the edge of the wall. Within moments they were in the gatehouse, and moments later it was cleared.
There were two capstans, pointing in and meeting at a point where the middle of the gates would be. Were the doors not barred, the gates could be swung open. Luckily, the bar was tied to a pulley in the gatehouse, and as the gate shuddered under another impact from the ram, they pulled it up, just enough that when they dropped it, it fell outside the hooks. As the ram pulled back for another blow, they got behind the capstans, and heaved the doors open. The Huscarls and the knights both were taken by surprise, even more so as the pair flung open the shutters and lept out, landing heavily with knees bent. The moment of hesitation passed, and the Huscarls began to rush past them as they straightened, letting none know of the pain in their legs and knees. Once the gates were open, it was a slaughter. Every defender died, and the treasures of the abbey fell into the keeping of the Norsemen. Not a single one of the Vikingr had died, and few of them were even wounded, all due to the Redjay and the Bear.
After that, theirs was the right to come off the ship just behind Sven, theirs the right to first pick of the loot. No one else could fight longer than that pair, but soon, their strength would be tested. Until now they had raided english villages and abbeys, and whilst that people was not exactly week, repeated invasions had beaten much of the fight out of them. Now though, they sailed further north, into Scottish waters, and the Scottish clans had not an ounce of yield in them. From thence, to Orkney, and then further to the Faroes, before they would strike east for Norway as the season drew to its close.
Tuesday, 1 February 2011
A brief history/religion lesson...
Well, Today be Imbolc.
For those of you who don't know what that is, the old Celtic and Germanic peoples had four major seasonal festivals. Around the start of May, they had Beltane, halfway between the spring equinox and the summer solstice. Around three months later, Lammas, midway between Summer solstice and spring equinox. Beltane celebrated the return of spring, and Lammas the bringing in of the harvest.
The 31st of October, midway between autumn equinox and winter solstice was called Samhain, pronounced Sa-Wain. The church later made the 1st of november All Saints Day, making the Samhain All-Hallows Eve, from whence we get the name Halloween. But more on that come the appropriate time.
Halfway between the Winter solstice and the spring equinox fell Imbolc, on the first and second of february. It was a feast and celebration to mark and hasten the return of spring. Preparations for the celebration began as soon as the first ewes were found to be lactating.
All I know of the celebrations was that a bonfire was involved. Which wasn't surprising, for they were a major part of most Celtic celebrations.
Now were I back in Scotland, Me and my companions, most of them, would head up the woods in the Ochils, and we'd have ourselves a bonfire. Much alcohol would be consumed, and there would be much bellowing of Skaal! and also Slangeva! and Nostrovya!... and probably Owls! and Bacon! but those last two would have the being of for different reasons.
Instead, I started in on the final stage of my sack of Moria, beginning the burning this morning. Little alcohol was consumed, and most of the day was spent by myself.
But oh well. I may well be back in Scotland in time for another such celebration, and then it shall be had.
For those of you who don't know what that is, the old Celtic and Germanic peoples had four major seasonal festivals. Around the start of May, they had Beltane, halfway between the spring equinox and the summer solstice. Around three months later, Lammas, midway between Summer solstice and spring equinox. Beltane celebrated the return of spring, and Lammas the bringing in of the harvest.
The 31st of October, midway between autumn equinox and winter solstice was called Samhain, pronounced Sa-Wain. The church later made the 1st of november All Saints Day, making the Samhain All-Hallows Eve, from whence we get the name Halloween. But more on that come the appropriate time.
Halfway between the Winter solstice and the spring equinox fell Imbolc, on the first and second of february. It was a feast and celebration to mark and hasten the return of spring. Preparations for the celebration began as soon as the first ewes were found to be lactating.
All I know of the celebrations was that a bonfire was involved. Which wasn't surprising, for they were a major part of most Celtic celebrations.
Now were I back in Scotland, Me and my companions, most of them, would head up the woods in the Ochils, and we'd have ourselves a bonfire. Much alcohol would be consumed, and there would be much bellowing of Skaal! and also Slangeva! and Nostrovya!... and probably Owls! and Bacon! but those last two would have the being of for different reasons.
Instead, I started in on the final stage of my sack of Moria, beginning the burning this morning. Little alcohol was consumed, and most of the day was spent by myself.
But oh well. I may well be back in Scotland in time for another such celebration, and then it shall be had.
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