ok, here's the next installment. For chronological reference, these next parts are set four hundred years before the prologue. please enjoy and comment
"Kill him! Kill the swine!" the Claws yelled, watching as two of their pack-mates punched one of the younger aspirants to a bloody pulp against one of the great oak tables in the feasting hall of the Fang. Arnbjorn growled deep in his throat and flicked his head to get his large mane of black hair out of his face. He barrelled into the hall and leapt over the table, grasping the two Claws by the throat and using his momentum to drive them to the ground. He hauled them up by the scruff of their necks and threw them across the hall. The rest of the pack started jeering at him for ruining their fun, but a steely glare shut them up fast. Arnbjorn advanced on the two Claws, a slow menacing walk complimented by his sheer size and the aura of brute strength that normally surrounded him. The two turned to look at each other, identical expressions of horror on their faces. They had heard the tales, everyone had, that in the heart of Logan Grimnar's Wolf Guard there lay a berserker; a Wulfen in human form, a man who would kill fellow wolf-brothers, a man so full of hate that the only reason the Old Wolf kept him around was his battle-prowess. Most of the stories were exaggerated, Arnbjorn thought, but he could play on their fears to teach them the lesson they needed to learn. For now.
He advanced slowly, each step of his armoured feet sounding like a beat of Morkai's drum, his fingers curled into claws, his fangs bared. The Claws struggled to their feet and began circling him, like wolves circling a potential rival, fists raised. He swung the first punch, sending his sledge-hammer fist flying into one of the Claws' breastplates with such force that the hardened ceramite crumpled like a dented bronze. The poor marine was sent hurtling backwards, impacting on the walls at the opposite end of the hall with a sickening crunch. The other Claw roared in rage and charged, legs pumping like the pistons of a Land Raider engine, arms outstretched. Arnbjorn leapt, letting the charge pass under him. When he reached the peak of his jump, he drove his right knee straight down, and slammed into the back of his young opponent, driving him face first into the stone floor. He grasped the Claw's arms and pinned them behind his back, placing his knee on top of them. He bent down so his mouth was level with the youngster's ear.
"What's your name whelp?" he growled, his voice like two granite boulders rubbing together. The Claw's face paled as he heard Arnbjorn's voice, and unbidden, Arnbjorn saw a mental image of what the poor whelp was thinking, the image of Morkai himself pinning the Claw to the floor, with his jaws mere millimetres from closing around his throat, cutting his thread. "Th-Th-Thorvald, Lord" he stammered, his voice filled with fear. The aspirant was absolutely terrified, Arnbjorn could tell purely by his scent. "Very well then, Thorvald" Arnbjorn replied, his voice becoming a rasping snarl "Hearken to my words. We do not; do not, assault another wolf-brother unless it is a matter of honour at stake. To do it for anything less in an insult to our ancestors and our Chapter." His words struck home like hammer-blows, each phrase like an axe-cut to Thorvald's pride and honour, which was what Arnbjorn had intended. "I recognise my failing and will be sure to correct it." He said in a choked voice. Arnbjorn nodded, then raised his voice so that all could hear. "Let this serve as an example" he boomed "if I catch any of you brawling again, I'll rip your cocky throats out personally." There was the sound of cheering and applause at the huge doorway, and he turned to see the rest of the Wolf Guard appear, with Logan Grimnar, the Great Wolf himself, enter the hall, flanked by his bodyguard.
"Very well said" the Old Wolf said, his voice rumbling across the vast hall with ease. The Claws immediately leapt to attention, the presence of their lord made them act as if they were in the presence of Russ himself. They bowed as Grimnar passed them, their awe evident in their scents and on their faces. He nodded to them individually as he passed in acknowledgement, his grey mane of hair and beard tumbling over his chest and shoulders like a silver waterfall. He marched across the hall to the head table, accompanied by the finest warriors in his company, and sat on the Throne of Russ, resting the whole of his armoured frame on the suspensor field embedded in the stone. It was carved from a single block of granite, a snarling wolfs head at the back, the arms were its paws. His Wolf Guard immediately, by an unspoken signal, flanked their lord, hands resting on the hafts and butts of their weapons. Arnbjorn himself took his position, closest to the Throne on the right. Logan beckoned him closer, and murmured "Next time try to do that without it scaring the whelps shitless" Arnbjorn grinned, if there's one good thing about being in the Old Wolf's Wolf Guard, it's the fact that he treated with the respect worthy of your deeds.
"I recognise my failing and will be sure to correct it." He said with a smirk. Logan nodded and slapped him on the shoulder. "Now to business" he said and clapped his hands. At that signal, an eerie cry filled the hall, and echoed throughout that level of the Fang, like the wail of the wights of the Underverse. It was a call to battle. All throughout the level weapons were stored, ammo collected, vehicles prepped. The whole area was filled with the sound of preparation for combat. Something had happened. The Lord of Wolves turned to Arnbjorn and said "Gather your brothers Wolf Rider, this day we ride to war."