Obsidian Curio
It was silent, deathly so, as Fi'inar stood within the now far emptier hallowed chamber that held Helwinter, so quiet was it did the beat of his two hearts sound like war drums to his ears, slow and thunderous, yet calm.
The shadows flickered listlessly about him, given movement by the newly placed candles' dancing flames that lit up the chamber in a haze of warm orange firelight, moving with each other they pulled and pushed with the creeping silhouette of shadow and cauterizing waves of revealing light, akin to reluctant dance partners.
Yet Fi'inar stood motionless to all this.
He looked to the two wolf statues that stood equal to his height, once more the form of Helwinter lay clutched within their jaws protectively; reverently, daring any not of wolf blood to touch the frost axe, or risk the very spirits of these wolves to come to life, and reap the poor soul that dared to defile.
He looked to the curious detail that he failed to notice at his first visit to this hallowed place, one brought to his attention by Havel, though none could fault him for it, Helwinter had been his main concern at the time.
Upon the stone bellies of the wolves Fenrisian script lay engraved, two names he was intimately familiar with, names that brought a smirk to his lips.
Freki and Geri.
How apt that even here Russ' wolf brothers had watched over the Primarch, if only in stone.
A sound of crackling static suddenly spoke out in the silence that Fi'inar was submerged in.
"Rune Priest, Lord Stark is here, he wishes for your council." the voice of Havel crackled over his armour's vox, even though the Iron Priest was only a room away, attending to the many relics.
"Allow him passage." Fi'inar responded, not turning his gaze from the statues of Freki and Geri, not even when the sound of Eddard's boots pattered softly behind as the Northern Lord entered the chamber and walked to where he saw Fi'inar's illuminated form deep within.
"Lord Fi'inar." Eddard greeted out cordially, though a hint of weariness could be heard, stopping his strides as he came to stand just behind the Astarte's hulking frame, in his hand he held a piece of parchment, given to him by his wife, that beheld dire news.
Yet Fi'inar to Eddard's puzzlement remained silent, no hint to having heard him was betrayed in his stance, it sprung a nervousness in Ned's stomach, but vanished as Fi'inar turned his head to acknowledge the North Lord.
"Lord Stark." Fi'inar replied in a strange tone, it almost sounded as if he were caught in reminiscence.
With a slight nod of his head Fi'inar beckoned Eddard to come closer, to stand at his side.
Curious Eddard did as he was bid, coming to stand next to the mountainous form that was Fi'inar, just barely reaching the armoured pauldron of the Astarte, parchment and it's contents momentarily forgotten in the wake of the peculiar mood the Rune Priest was exhibiting.
A moment of silence passed between the two, Eddard following the Wolf' Lord's gaze to what he assumed to be held upon the form of Helwinter.
He heard Fi'inar take a deep intake of breath, an action Eddard would recognize Maester Luwin do in prelude to an account of lore telling, the Astarte was no different, it was a very Human expression.
"Do you not know the relevance of these two wolves Lord Stark?" he asked in a tone both curious and serious.
Looking up to Fi'inar Eddard noticed that the Rune Priest still looked to now what he knew to be the wolves and not the deific frost axe.
"I do not my Lord." Eddard responded slowly, his answer open for the Space Wolf to continue, while he began to wonder just where this was leading to.
Fi'inar chuckled lightly.
"They are not just some artistic liberties correlating to my Father, Eddard Stark." Fi'inar said with features so stern it was as if they were cast from the very same rock as the wolves he spoke, he then waved an arm across from one stone wolf to the other. "These are Freki and Geri, Wolf brothers to Leman Russ."
Fi'inar cut a glance to the smaller Northern Lord, noticing his words had the effect of catching his attention, but there was no look of understanding, the Starks knew not the tale of Leman's Wolf Mother and siblings.
"Wolf brothers?" Eddard questioned while looking to the statues in a new light, trying to see them anew with what Fi'inar spoke.
"Aye, it's a tale of how Leman Russ came to be on Fenris, far from the All-Father and Terra, a tale of his Wolf Mother and siblings, one I shall have to tell you and your family, it's unbecoming of those of Wolf Blood to not know it after all." Fi'inar said, an inflection in his voice that gave a feeling of acceptance to the North Lord, and it was mutual, with each passing moment Fi'inar began to treat the Stark family like they we're Aspirants in need of moulding in the ways of the Vlka Fenryka.
With a sigh Fi'inar then turned his head to face Eddard fully.
"You did well this day Lord Stark." he said as if stating a simple fact, changing the flow of conversation and knowing the Stark Lord would figure his meaning. "To both pass the sentence and swing the sword; as it should be for one of your station."
The Stark Lord remained silent at the praise, continuing to gaze at Freki and Geri, feeling undeserving of it, he did his duty as was required of him that was all.
But he acknowledged the Rune Priest's words by finally shifting his gaze to Fi'inar and gave a slight nod that conveyed humble gratitude.
''Humble as ever.'' Fi'inar chuckled as he spoke once more and then walked by Eddard to the murals carved upon the walls, to the image of Leman Russ that seemed to shimmer and animate with a will of their own in the flickering glow of nearby candlelight, in his mind Fi'inar could see it, a vision of the battle unfurl, as if he were there watching from afar as his father tore apart undead and daemon alike, a great howl of battle lust tearing from his throat, while the Varagyr fought ever by his side, as they should be.
And then his vision returned, and the Wolf King was stone once more.
"I have been delving further into the ways of these lands, Westeros as you say Lord Stark, the tomes you had Maester Luwin acquire for me were useful in that purpose, just as Havel has with the relics here." he said as he looked to the image of his gene-father.
"What we have learned here is invaluable, it has shed light upon both vague revelations the visions the spirits bestowed upon us, we know now that the Wolf King was indeed upon this world for a time, such knowledge is sacred and if he has long since gone from this world, it will guide us in future Great Hunts for the Primarch.'' Fi'inar spoke reverently as he moved his hand to hover over the Wolf King's image.
Only for his hand to close into a fist, as his mind moved to a subsequent matter, his eyes then moving to the image of the reviling daemon that was brazen enough to challenge his father.
Familiar eyes of haunting glacial blue flashed through his mind at his action, causing Fi'inar to close his own eyes as an unnatural chill set itself across his skin like the deep frost of the Broddja peaks.
Releasing a noise akin to a huff like growl he opened his eyes and once more looked at the grim visage of this daemon of frost and ice.
''And we know the identity of our potential enemy.'' he growled out before finally turning to fully face the Northern Lord for the first time since he had entered the chamber.
It was then that Fi'inar took note of the scroll Eddard held tightly within his hands.
"You wished for my council Lord Stark?" Fi'inar questioned with a curious look as his eyes snapped up from the scroll to the Northern Lord's face.
At that a look of apprehension passed over Eddard's features, looking from the Rune Priest to the scroll in his hands, before bringing it up to present to Fi'inar's attention.
"A raven bound from King's Landing arrived earlier this morning my Lord, it carried this message with it." Eddard said as he held out the scroll for Fi'inar to take.
It had to be said that it frightened Eddard slightly at how quickly he'd began to defer to the Wolf Lords that suddenly found themselves in his presence, it was not intimidation either, though he had every right to be intimidated by their presence, perhaps it was the almost deified way the Sons of Russ were held by he and his forefathers that made him act so uncharacteristically subservient and reverent to them.
The Wolf King and his sons were mythic, the bedrock of Northern culture, it felt like blasphemy to even entertain the thought of disobedience.
But there was something else at work, there was an aura about them, subtle and ephemeral that spoke to him on an instinctual level, they were greater than him, above him on a basal biological echelon, he could feel their will, their presence that must be heeded, their words like a natural law.
Demi-Gods in all forms of reality and spirituality, and this was merely the Sons, he dared not imagine the Wolf King's presence or their Grandsire they spoke of the previous night.
Perhaps that was why he felt so inclined to bow his head to their whims; to accept the ruling of an Iron fist of an Empire he knew so little about, in truth he was likely powerless to influence their machinations.
Or so he thought.
Fi'inar spared Eddard a glance before taking the offered parchment, grief could be seen within his features and Fi'inar could feel it stirring within the North Lord like a maelstrom, yet he also sensed a clear amount of foreboding, the Northman was fearful of the coming future.
Understanding came soon after Fi'inar drank in the scroll's contents, the dim light of the chamber inconsequential to his eyes, the North Lord's grief and apprehension made clear to him; Jon Arryn is dead, the Hand of the King and someone from what Fi'inar could gather from the tales of a previous night, was akin to a Father figure to Eddard Stark was dead.
And yet that was not all the scroll had to offer, only it's preliminary message, an introductory footnote to the message's true purpose, for it also stated that the King of this land now rode forth for Winterfell, a purpose held within that the Rune Priest could guess to easily, a purpose that may serve the Sons of Russ in their endeavour upon this world.
Fi'inar could feel it, like a dull ache at the back of his mind, events were now in motion, forever stagnant gears creeking through layers of rust as they started turning to predestined paths, where a virtual catacomb of futures lay before him.
The Aesir called out to him now, the stagnancy of this world was beginning to fade, and the Wolves were at the forefront.
But which path was the one they must walk?
Fi'inar cast his eyes to Eddard, the North Lord ever quiet and respectful as he awaited him to finish his study of the scripture.
"My condolences Lord Stark, from what you have spoke of this Jon Arryn, he was akin to a Father to you." Fi'inar finally responded as he passed the scroll back to it's original recipient, purposefully remaining silent to the issue pertaining the King of the Seven Kingdoms, wishing to see how Eddard would broach such a subject.
Eddard took the scroll without a sound, only the slightest of nods in acknowledgment of the Rune Priest's words, not wishing to speak of loss at the moment.
"Robert rides north to Winterfell my Lord." Eddard said after a moment's hesitation, voice subdued with tempered unease, finally revealing the true purpose of his visit and his desire for Fi'inar's council.
Fi'inar merely grunted in acknowledgement to Eddard's words, eyes closing briefly with the most minute shift in his grizzled, stone cut features, neither giving the slightest insight to his thoughts to the North Lord's question.
''I believed there would be more time before we drew the attention of those you call the Andals.'' Fi'inar said mostly to himself while he contemplated the information newly brought to him.
''It will be some months before the Royal procession arrives at Winterfell my Lord, no doubt they will be slow and overladen by carriages and luggage.'' Eddard assured the Wolf Lord before him, clear unease to be heard at the topic of Robert.
''Word of your coming I doubt has reached anyone other than the other Northern Houses by now, another day or two and the entirety of Westeros will know, but even then it would only be whimsical speculation of a star's falling within the distant north.''
Fi'inar chuckled at that.
''I am not so naïve and young blooded to believe that Winterfell is free of ears that would listen and tongues that would whisper to those interested of the happenings within this fortress.''
The Rune Priest then without a word to utter strode past the Stark elder with a calmness that looked out of place for a being of his frame, Eddard following his movements with a turn of his head and body, he knew the Wolf Lord's words to be true, the Spider Varys likely already knew of the previous days events and was already spinning his web.
''Regardless we will not remain secret for long, be it by our own hand or another's, we are destined to confront this King of Stags; and that is what worries you Eddard Stark.''
Fi'inar stopped some four strides down the chamber with the echoing clink of his runic staff, it's final clank against the cold stone akin a Bell's toll and Eddard was certain he felt a phantom touch of icy finger across his skull.
''Your mind is beset by ravenous tribulations, conflicted your morals engage in an internecine conflict, torn between oath sworn duties, yet knowing one must outway the other.''
Fi'inar's voice came like a distant wind, every word heard from different directions, yet the Wolf Lord's mouth did not open to carry them, they were in his mind Eddard realised with startling and terrifying clarity.
''You fear for the fate of this Robert Baratheon once he learns of our presence upon this world, you fear for his actions when realisation dawn's upon your supposed change of allegiance.''
Fi'inar then cast Eddard a glance over the wolf pelts at his shoulders, his electric eyes aflame in the dark with calm accusation as if daring him to deny his words' truth.
''You fear our response to any perceived resistance and hostility, for Robert Baratheon is not a man to back down to a foreign power no matter how powerless he may be in the face of their unassailable might, he will see you with indignation to be a traitor, perhaps not to the Crown for the Stark oath to the Wolf King is stronger, but to him as a brother is where the betrayal lies.'' Fi'inar turned to face the northerner fully as he spoke these last words to reality and for Edward's real ears to hear.
Eddard looked up at the giant warrior with troubled eyes, the tell-tale sign of trepidation nipping at the expression of his mouth, yet he pressed on in determination, this council had to be done.
''I swore an oath to Robert after the rebellion to serve him as my King, but I am blood bound by a greater oath to the Wolf King, I will be forsaking the former for the latter, I do not do so easily, for Robert is my brother just as much as he is my King, there is no doubt in my mind he rides north now to make me Hand of the King.'' Eddard said as he held his gaze with Fi'inar's own, the Astarte looking to him as if he had already bore witness to the conversation of present, how he knew every word and action Eddard would and wouldn't take, it was unsettling to the North Lord.
Fi'inar's eyes were that of indomitable will and yet ever so slightly a flicker of understanding found genesis within those icy chasms as he gazed down at the Stark Lord and the oppressive presence within the chamber seemed to lessen and wane.
''Loyalty and honour are the bedrock to your being Lord Stark, admirable for a mortal to hold such righteous convictions when not fuelled by hate, greed or dogma, I believe I am beginning to see why my Father chose your family all those eons ago.''
''You honour me with such words my lord.'' Eddard responded humbly, yet he continued quickly. ''Robert is not blind to the North's histories, through his love of my sister Lyanna and my own kinship he knows the the old tales, he knows of the Wolf King and that of his sons.''
''Indeed, and we shall use this to our advantage.'' Fi'inar stated as turned and made his way to the Stark lord, before he was standing over him. ''There will be no need for you to choose allegiances at this time, you will accept the Stagg King's offer and become his Huscarl, and we shall create a farce, a shroud to be placed atop his antlers so I and my brother may move without hindrance, the Sons of Russ shall be portrayed as the Starks mythical protectors, not their Jarl, there will be no mention of the greater Imperium, it will place a sense of false security within their minds, and the King of Staggs will not feel his rule to be threatened.''
Eddard looked stunned at the notion proclaimed by the giant, unease churning at his stomach at the thought of deceiving Robert, and what more leaving his wife and children again for the far south.
''My lord I do not wish to leave Winterfell...'' Eddard began only to be cut off by a furious scowl across the Astarte's face along with the thud of his runic staff hitting the stone of the chamber's floor, cracking it in turn and causing Eddard's eyes to widen in sudden nervousness at the action.
''This is our will Lord Stark, it shall be heeded, we do not want a war at this time, there are greater threats to be faced than the petty squabbles of egotistical mortals fighting over a claim they hold little right to.'' the Wolf Lord ground out slowly and with a cold calmness, his authority so clear it made Eddard feel as if a mountain had just fallen atop his shoulders. ''As an Hersir of Russ you will help us achieve this Lord Stark.''
After a moment of regaining his countenance Eddard bowed his head in deference.
''I.. of course my lord, House Stark is at your will'' Eddard stated loyally, his head was still lowered when he felt an armoured hand come to rest upon his shoulder in a show of succour, causing the northern lord to look up at the Rune Priest once more.
''Duty is not always honourable Lord Stark, and yet it must be fulfilled, a blade unsullied and without ware is a blade unused.'' the Rune Priest then relinquished is hold of the north lord, turned around and strode to the chamber's door.
''This is path is the one we must travel Eddard Stark, you will be council to this King of Staggs, and if you value him so perhaps you may even convince him of the coming changes and his place among them.'' Fi'inar spoke being intentionally vague to which 'changes' he eluded to, as he halted his strides between the door frame and half turned to look at Eddard. ''Or at the very least keep him ignorant as we hunt our Father's footsteps and the daemons of the north, but let it be known, I and my brother's will suffer no indignity or ill will upon ourselves and those we have taken as our charge.''
And with those final words the Rune Priest of the Blackmanes Great Company left the Lord of Winterfell in silent contemplation, his mind perhaps more heavy and troubled then when he first entered the hallowed hall as the north lord turned his sights to the mural upon the walls, to the image of White Walkers feeling a chill creep it's way down his spine, before turning away and looking to snarling forms of Freki and Geri, eyes troubled and doubtful of the coming times, the Stark mantra upon his lips.
Winter is coming.
Three Weeks Later
Crypts
A muted clink echoed across the desolate chamber as Havel placed the bolt round he'd been scrutinizing closely upon the pseudo altar before him.
With a statuesque demeanour did he gaze at it, along with the four other kindred rounds he'd recently catalogued from the strangely gilded munitions box he'd retrieved from amongst the relics of this hallowed hall.
In the dim light of breathless candles, the five munitions could perhaps be mistaken as some kind of vaunted relics, an illusion that did not serve to entwine Havel's logic driven mind.
The bolt shells themselves were of no particular interest at first appraisal, in fact the Iron Priest almost dismissed them entirely as inutile, due to the fact that signs of age and warped casings were clear to see, they would be more of a detriment to the user than an enemy.
Yet there was one thing of note, and the only reason why he had yet to turn his attention elsewhere, it was not their age, nor their gilded container.
It was their weight.
Havel had spent no less than two centuries within the Chapter's Armoury, and in those two centuries he has become intimately familiar with the workings and traits of all housed within, from the rituals of maintenance of the standard Mark Vb Godwyn Pattern Bolter, to the liturgy of appeasement to the disgruntled Machine Spirits of ancient Land Raiders, and even the divine creation of Helfrost constructs.
So even a minute discrepancy would appear as a virtual mountain of error to his well attuned mind.
Curiously, Havel reached for one of the ancient bolt rounds once more, at this he confirmed that indeed all of the .75 Caliber rounds held the same error.
With the multitude of augmented ocular lenses upon the right side of his helm he and spirit of his armour worked in perfect instinctual synchronicity, highlighting points and nodules of interest in a halo of white against the red of his sight, he blink clicked away a stream of non pertinent data denoting the bolt shell's composition, irrelevant as it was and obstructing in it's task.
''Magnify.'' Havel spoke in his vox distorted tone to the spirit of his armour, his command devotedly heeded an instant later by the initializing and manipulation of his larger central primary ocular lens.
Focusing on the gyrostabilizers below the head of the bolt shell he swept his further enhanced gaze across the metals and alloys of the munition, he noted that even with the age and warped nature of the round, there was nothing else that could cause such a blatant discrepancy in weight.
With little choice he knew what his next course of action must be, reluctant as he was to do it, as it could almost be defined as heresy to what was essentially a relic of the Chapter.
He let loose a soft sound akin to a disgruntled passing of air between lips, the noise procured and vocalised by his helm's vox to be that of a harsh static hum.
Havel then extricated his magnified sight to that of normalcy and began to dismantle the relic round with a patience and feather touch, as to not inflict unintended harm to the inner mechanisms that have been rendered fragile by time, trusting not his servo-arms and mechadendrites, only his own hands would serve him in this task.
Twisting the head of the round, he slowly unscrewed the munition from the shell that housed the round's chemical propellant, the two separating just above what was the small grooves of the gyrostabilizers with the torturous scrape of rusted trails.
With that done he set aside the shell casing and focused solely on the diamantine tipped and depleted uranium core, the 'blade edge' of the bolt round if you will.
At first glance nothing, no error or anomaly presented itself to Havel, and yet still did the discrepancy in weight persisted.
It was of no use, one of the rounds would have to be sacrificed to justify his persecution and put an end to the infernal curiosity that had plagued his cognition since his first study of the ancient munition.
Assured in the security of the bolt round's head being removed from it's casing which housed the main explosive charge, Havel willed the servo-arm that wielded his plasma cutter with a neurological command to attend to the bolt round he still held.
In the Quest for Knowledge a cost is almost certainly always tallied, be it in the lives of the faithful or material resource no price comes at too great a cost, it matters not for knowledge is divinity, sacred and prized above all as is the will of the Deus Mechanicus.
Soon the chamber was once more lit with the fleeting flashes of sparks and filled with a noise akin to a den of disgruntled vipers, as Havel slowly and methodically cut apart the ancient round.
''Honourable vessel of fury and fire I beseech thee, spirit of this munition forgive my transgression and the desecration I inflict upon you, by the Omnissiah's will are my actions consecrated, your sacrifice in reverence to the Quest of Knowledge, praise be to thee Omnissiah.'' Havel's quiet benediction spoke out in both remorse and veneration.
As the last spark faded away, it's internecine battle with the alloys of the bolt round done, Havel looked on in intrigue and bewilderment at what was revealed to him as he pulled apart the now two pieces of the bolt round.
Where once the hollow shell only housed the dense metallic core and fuse, now was filled with shards of small black serrated fragments that spilled out from their housing to lay across his armoured palms.
Curiously Havel picked up one of the small shards and held it up to the flickering light between an armoured thumb and finger, looking to it inquisitively with his augmented ocular lenses, it was no bigger than the fingertip that held it, like black glass it shimmered with the dim light that was offered as he moved it ever so slightly, it's face was uneven with small bevels, it's edges cut to razor points, clearly it and the rest of it's brethren were intended to be some form of makeshift fragmentation.
And that birthed another question within Havel's mind; why and for what purpose?
White Fenrisian script birthed itself within the red hue in typing stutters at the top left of his helmet's heads-up display as he studied the shard in his fingers.
''Obsidian.'' came his deep vocoded voice held in undeniable curiosity and slight bewilderment.
Why would their ancient brothers see fit to replace the round's pre-existing fragmentation ordinance with such a fragile and ill fit counterpart, one that would likely shatter upon an enemy's armour rather than puncher it.
And why would the Wolf King allow it, perhaps even ordain it?
At that thought Havel's mechadendrites subconsciously shifted like defensive snakes in disgruntle unease as his search for answers birthed more questions, perhaps this was a lost ritual from the elder days when the legion of Russ was whole and the Primarch was still amongst them, or something birthed solely upon this world by the Varagyr, he then clenched the Obsidian fragments and autopsied bolt round in an armoured hand and then set his gaze upon the crypts stairwell, the Rune Priest and even Surtir would know the lore of such times better than he, decision made soon the sound of his armoured gait filled the crypt as he thundered his way on a path demanding answers.
The deadened sound of slow yet mighty drumbeat steps filled the hall as the lone Long Fang walked it's stone floors, it's sound akin to the war beat before the battle or the thunder held in a storm's bosom, yet despite all that the features upon the aged Astarte's face could only be described as calm, even as two servants quickly, almost frantically pressed themselves to the walls and bowed their heads at his coming, wash basket and chamber pot within their hands respectfully.
''M'lord.'' the two women, one young, the other middle aged said with all the reverence and honour a low born could conjure within the presence of someone far beyond them.
Skald'mor simply gave a slight noncommittal, yet respectful nod at them in response, his strides unwavering as he continued passed them without further acknowledgment.
They had grown used to this new state of affairs, the two servants only continuing with their morning duties once the Wolf Lord had turned a corner and was out of sight with one last flurry of his wolf pelt cloak.
Three weeks had passed since the Wolf Lords' arrival and where Winterfell's denizens had once trembled with breathless tension at the sheer presence of the demi-gods and their every thundering step, when a single word from their mouth would quell the greatest of wills to submission, the Lords and dregs of the north alike had found the Son's of Russ to be quite amicable, cordial and in some cases friendly in a far away manner, akin to the moon's greeting from the distant horizon.
Now the cautious fright of fearful self-preservation that had demanded they press themselves to the walls with heads bowed as the Astartes passed them by, was lessened now of it's fear and filled more of awe and reverence, respectful and subservient.
Though it would seem the Starks themselves, perhaps unsurprisingly, had been afforded a more personal attention and along with it certain merits that in turn gave genesis to a boldness amongst some of the youngest.
Skald'mor's thoughts were else where as he mulled over the last three weeks within his mind, since the revealing of Helwinter and the Starks connection to the Wolf King, relations with the Starks had improved.
Jorkil had seemingly took both Robb and Jon under his tutelage after a peculiar incident involving the Grey Hunter and the two Stark boys, namely Jorkil in his jesting manner challenging the two teens to a test of might at dinner, where both boys tried to force down his arm, eventually leading to both boys in unison trying with all their might to move his hand, while Jorkil himself looked bored as he drank from a mug of ale, that was until he decided to stand up and lift the two boys from their feet as they clung to his hand, the rowdy laughter of the Grey Hunter filling the hall along with the surprised exclaims of Robb and Jon and the petrified look upon Lady Stark's face.
Sansa and Rickon could bare to be in the same room as the Wolves of Fenris without them clinging to their mother's dress skirts now, or greet them without prompting, though conversation was sparce due to the nature of the two parties, it was genial nonetheless.
Fi'inar had been insatiable in his hunger for knowledge pertaining this world, hunting tomes and devouring their contents, the archive within the Maester's tower having been thoroughly plundered. What he learnt soon being passed down to the rest of the pack, and Skald'mor found the knowledge of this world could fit into three categories, disconcerting, puzzling and humorous.
It was disconcerting to learn of the clear warp touch upon this world, documented sorcery, daemons of ice and other none human entities, mortals with clear psychic links to the fauna of this world, yet it felt they were residing within the wake of perilous times, in the shadows of threats the Primarch had faced, ones that held the promise of resurgence if the Rune Priest's visions hold true.
And that was the puzzling part, the wildlife and biome of this world, akin to a paler shadow of Fenris herself, Drakes, Mammoths, Krakens, Direwolves, Jotunn and more, then the seasons of this world with it's long winters and summers, they could currently be in the mist of this world's version of the Season of Fire before the winter came back with a vengeance along with all it's cruel intent.
''Winter is coming'' Sklad'mor thought in intrigue, it was a seemingly favoured phrase of the Starks, one with foreboding connotations that the Long Fang couldn't help but feel carried a bad omen for the coming times.
And then there was young Bran, Fi'inar had refused to speak on the matter after he had spoken to the boy, but the rest of the pack could see something had caught Fi'inar's interest, when pressed of the potential of the young Stark being a witch the Rune Priest shut it down, the only information the Wolves could glean from their suddenly reticent brother being that the young Stark seemed to be inexplicably linked to this world, the pack eventually decided to drop the issue and leave the subject of potential shamanistic or arcane happenings to the Gothi's judgment.
Yet that wasn't where the similarities ended when it concerned House Stark, they had learned just how kindred they and Vlka Fenryka really were, it started with the subject of the Greyjoy Rebellion and how the Starks thwarted it's aspirations, a Wolf laying low a Kraken, felling it across the rocky coasts of this planet's World-sea, symbolic in the way Leman Russ once slew the Father of Krakens, and then there was the telling of one of House Stark's rivals upon this world, that of the Lions of House Lannister and the distaste in which the Starks held them, Jorkil had roared in a humorous fervour of incandescent laughter at the tale, his mood infectious as the rest of the pack soon followed after he uttered the words ''Even upon this world do the Wolf and Lion claw at each others throats.''
The memory brought a feral grin to Skald'mor's lips as he released a throaty chuckle even as he held it from becoming a full laugh.
But the wolves had come to the conclusion that they had two trials upon this world, a hunt beyond the Wall must be done, in search of the Primarch's trail and the threat of daemons foretold. Second, Winterfell must be made safe and kept guarded at all times, for the relics within and the Starks themselves honour demanded it.
His thoughts were soon interrupted however as the sound of footfalls reverberated down the hall in front of him from a corridor that branched off to his right, they seemed hurried and were putting far too much effort into being as quiet as possible without being detrimental to their swiftness.
By the sound of his enhanced senses alone did the Long Fang know it's owner, the sound could have belonged to a disgruntled mouse so light and hurried were they as they spoke of a tiny form, the sound was one he had become familiar with in the past weeks, wild with unbridled energy of youth akin to a wolf pup, he found a small humoured smile form across his lips against his own volition.
Arya came thundering around the corner of the hallway in a burst of motion, too late did she realize that the corridor was in fact occupied and she needed to slow her steps, in consequence she would have met the hard unforgiving ceramite of Skald'mor's knee if it wasn't for said Astarte's hands that caught the girl by her shoulders and brought her to a sudden halt.
''Careful there little wolf, unless you wished to give your face the resemblance of a Hvaluri.'' Skald'mor said jokingly to the surprised girl who looked to him with wide eyes, she clearly hadn't expected him to be standing around the corner.
Though she soon over came her surprise and offered the giant in front of her a brazen smile.
It had become a common sight around Winterfell to find the youngest Stark daughter following the old wolf's shadow akin to a curious grandchild, it wasn't at all surprising for Arya was indeed curious to a fault and Skald'mor was the most receptive to the whims of mortals of his brothers, yet they made for a strange sight, Jorkil personally found it hilarious, he'd seen Skald'mor tear apart traitor Astartes in a howl of bloodthirst, and here he was playing nanny, the Grey Hunter wont let him live it down when they returned to The Fang, though Skald'mor had delt with mortal children before upon the world of Armageddon.
''I need to hide.'' came Arya's hastily response, her face taking on one of slight desperation though not one to be concerning.
Skald'mor rose an eyebrow at this before he heard another pair of footsteps coming from the same corridor Arya just rounded, this one was the hurried shuffling of thick cloth, taught strides and the smell of candle wicks and book pages heralded their coming.
Looking to Arya the Long Fang nodded to his left side while spreading his wolf pelt cloak wide, Arya taking the hint proceeded to duck under his arm then hide herself under the wolf pelt and then shield her tiny frame from sight behind the armoured legs of the Astarte.
Once situated the Astarte stood with the hidden Arya and waited patiently till the little wolf's pursuer came into view.
Septa Mordane practically died of fright as she turned the corner and her face met the armoured abdomen of the Son of Russ, but a scant few inches away, quick was she to look up to the Astartes' face where a red glowing bionic eye and the baleful yellow of it's sole organic brethren stared down at her with an expectant gaze.
''M..my Lord, my most sincere apologies, I had not seen you.'' the Septa stuttered out in haste, a clear tone of unease filling her voice as she stared wide eyed at the demi-god, hoping he wouldn't take offense at her miss step.
Skald'mor merely snorted.
''A truly mighty achievement to miss a Son of Russ, Septa.'' Skald'mor replied sarcastically with no real fire merely a jest.
The Septa rung her hands nervously at that and the fact that the Long Fang's yellow eye's attention reminded her far to much of a predator's hungering gaze, confounded also by the glimpse of long canines when he spoke.
''I..Yes indeed my lord, I was looking for young lady Arya, has she come by this way by chance?'' Septa Mordane replied with a great test of will and managing to speak without a quiver.
Skald'mor crossed his arms at that.
''The little wolf has not walked these halls while I have been here Septa.'' Skald'mor then made a show at inhaling at that the air akin to a predator tracking prey. ''Nor can I track her scent near by, only that of serfs, the ravens' aviary above and the fresh ink of the Maester's parchment, you seem to be on a path destined to fail in your search.''
A look of bewilderment crossed the Septa's face at the Wolf Lord's actions and just how wolf-like, primal it made him truly appear.
''You can tell all that from smell alone?'' The Septa asked despite herself before remembering herself and giving sight clearing of her throat. ''I... I see, I thank you for your assistance my lord, I shan't trouble you no longer.'' she said with uncertainty before offering a shallow bow and then turned back to where she'd just walked, eager to be away from the wolf disguised as man's attention.
Skald'mor watched her leave before he heaved a sigh and uncrossed his arms.
''She is gone little wolf, you can cease your trembling and come out from under my pelt.'' Skald'mor called out to Arya, a mocking jest in his words and mirth in his lone eye as he watched the Stark girl reveal herself from her hiding place, a spark of indignant thunder brewing in her eyes at his words.
''I wasn't trembling.'' came her sharp reply as she stood at the Long Fang's side and looked up at him hotly, her actions causing the old wolf to reveal a grin full of fangs.
''So you say little one, yet I could see you shake like a Tilbrád cornered by a pack of Kroxar.'' he replied with a chuckle before he began with his thundering strides once more, though his strides were shallower as he anticipated Arya to follow his shadow as had been their ritual this past weeks, and sure enough he heard her run to catch up to his side.
''I wasn't shaking, I just didn't want to sit through another lesson of what's expected of a proper lady, just a glorified cow expected to have babies and serve her husband.'' Arya practically spat out in distaste, she'd been vehemently against the notion of becoming a lady and wife since the first lessons had been started two years ago, her mother had been left aghast by her attitude, though her father merely smirked saying how she was too much like a her aunt.
''All-Father preserve you from such a fate.'' Skald'mor jested as he kept his gaze forward. ''No you would much rather be off doing battle with Orks or hunting Konungur wouldn't you little wolf.'' he laughed out with a hint of good natured mocking, making Arya look to him with a grin and a sparkle dancing in her eyes as he spoke of creatures not from her world.
''Yesterday you spoke of one your brothers, Lukas, tell me about him.'' Arya practically begged, she'd learned much about the Wolf King's sons and Fenris from the Long Fang before her, each tale was enrapturing, these mythic warriors from the stars that did battle with foes she could scarcely imagine and their world, a deathworld so perilous it made the tales beyond the Wall seem like milk mother's stories.
Skald'mor shut his eye with a distasteful grimace at her request, a huff of irritation escaped his lips causing Arya to look to the old wolf puzzled, of all his brothers she wished to to know of the Jackalwolf, yet the fault was his for mentioning that fool in the first place.
''Lukas the Trickster is a fool.'' Skald'mor stated with a point of certainty one would use when talking of an immutable truth. ''He's an arrogant welp with no respect for authority, forever a Blood Claw even though his skills outmatch many within the Wolf Guard, he's a clown, the fool in the court of Russ, speaking truth where it is neither wanted, nor acceptable... Because it must be done. There must be one voice at least, that howls against tradition, else we grow complacent. Lukas' wyrd is to move out of step with the rout.''
Arya looked to him in astonishment and slightly bewildered, all tales of his brother's had been ones of mighty deeds, wolf blood courage and fraught with nightmarish foes, yet the words of this brother Skald'mor spat with clear distaste, not quite hate.
''The fekke hálfvit has been past around every Great Company, the Blood Claws revel in his rebellion and no Wolf Lord is willing to deal with him longer than an half decade. I'd trade my Wolfskin and power axe to have the chance to throw the fool into the jaws of Morkai myself.'' Skald'mor finished with a petulant huff, not truly meaning his words. ''I curse the day Blackmane saved that fool from Bjorn Stormwolf's wrath, now our Great Company has the honour of his presence.''
''You don't seem to like this brother.'' Arya spoke the obvious causing Skald'mor to look to the Stark girl and then shake his head.
''He is a great warrior, greater than Jorkil or I, and I am proud to have him as a brother, but he is a liability, disobedient and a dishonourable fighter, as quick to cause mischief in our own ranks as he is to cause terror in the enemies'.'' Skald'mor stated as he and Arya came to a halt at a set of thick large doors that led to the Great Hall.
Skald'mor heaved open the doors to the Great Hall and strode in without falter, Arya still at his shadow, inside he was pleased to see all his brothers sat breaking their fast, with a flock of servants around them, even with the surprising addition of Havel this morn as the Iron Priest sat opposite Fi'inar in a rare moment of sharing a feast with his brothers as his helm lay upon the table, his features open to the world, his long dark hair shaven at each side while held in a plait that fell down his back to rest upon a servo-arm. His skin was as pale as the snow planes of Asaheim, his eyes a deep brown nearing black as a chasm, the skin at his forehead and below his bottom lip was marked with lines of deep blue tattoos of Fenrisian script, denoting his origins from the Isle of the Iron Masters, emotion seemed to be lost to him as his face never wavered from logical scrutiny.
As he grew closer noticed that both the Iron Priest and Rune Priest seemed to be in deep conversation, Fi'inar looking to be securitizing a black arrowhead between his fingers before storing it away in a leather pouch at his hip.
''Hjá Skald'mor, Arya, Fenrys Hjølda!'' Jorkil's greeting rung across the hall as he noticed them enter while he ate his food and raised his mug of mead, breadcrumbs caught in his thick beard.
''Fenrys Hjølda brother.'' Skald'mor replied in kind as he soon came to sit at the table with his brothers next to Havel, nodding at them all in greeting, Arya sitting at his side also, if there was any offense in her actions the Wolves either did not care or were accepting of her presence.
Ivar suddenly slammed his mug upon the table, a look of irritation upon his face and causing Arya to jolt in her seat and direct her attention to the fiery haired Astarte that seemed to be snarling at a foe unknown as he wiped at his mouth with an armoured hand.
''Ghorghe's bones I could piss better mjod than this.'' Ivar snarled clearly displeased with the quality of the drink he was given, his outburst sending Ulrik next to him into a fit of chuckles.
''Quit your whining Ivar, I never took you to be as prissy as an Aeldari whoreson crying over their dead gods.'' the rumbling thunder of Surtir's voice called out in response to Ivar's outburst, this causing Ulrik to laugh out with greater might as a sour look crossed Ivar's face at the comparison to the xenos, though Ulrik's laughter was quickly stemmed when Ivar shoved a strong arm at Ulrik's pauldron causing said Blood Claw to spill his bowl of broth.
Ignoring the two Blood Claws Skald'mor turned his attention to Havel next to him while reaching for bowl of cut meats.
''To what honour do we owe for your company brother.'' Skald'mor inquired to his brother amiably, truth be told Skald'mor had his misgivings from those born of the Isle of the Iron Masters, they were so unlike the rest of the tribes of Fenris, and their craft was viewed with weary unease as machine sorcery, especially for one such as Skald'mor born to the Glacier Nomads, but Skald'mor respected Havel too much as a brother and fellow warrior to allow ancient mortal supposition to cloud his dealings with the Iron Priest, and after all they were both sons of Russ.
Havel shifted his calculating gaze to his aged brother at his address, yet before he could reply the doors to the Great Hall opened once more and in flocked more of the Stark family, namely the matriarch, eldest daughter and two youngest sons.
''Good morning Lady Stark, little pups.'' Jorkil greeted out at their entrance, causing Catelyn to halt her steps to the other table occupying the hall and turn to the Wolf Lords while her children took their seats after their own quick greetings.
''Good morning my Lords.'' she replied courteously with a bow of her head, her voice once strained and false, now genuine with hospitality towards the Wolf Lords, though she did send Arya an exasperated look when she took note of her place beside Skald'mor, before she too joined her children for breakfast.
Skald'mor then gave Arya a nudge and nod in the direction of her family, knowing she would probably be better suited to breaking her fast with her own and to allow he and his brother to speak freely. Arya looked to the old wolf at that before nodding and join the members of her family.
''To answer your question Skald'mor, Havel has elucidated certain points of interest to me that I deemed it necessary to hold a council amongst us,.'' the voice of Fi'inar brought the wolves back to point, the Rune Priest sat opposite Skald'mor and Havel, Lokni upon his pauldron pecking at a scrap of dried meat. ''As you all know we are few upon this world, the Great Hunt demands we set forth upon the Wolf King's trail, the spirits warn of the threat of the Ruinous Powers, both trails lead to the far north of these lands, beyond this Wall of ice raised by our father. We are indebted to House Stark for their diligent service to the Vlka Fenryka, their Lord will soon take up another duty, by our will he is to leave the north for southern lands when this King of Staggs arrives, and one of our number shall join his household and keep safe our charge and honour.''
''And yet Winterfell must also remain guarded, Helwinter must always have a wolf looking over it, lest we be craven unfit to stand by the All-Father's side in the halls of Kaajhalla.''
Fi'inar looked around at his brothers seeing understanding flicker in the eyes of all of them, they looked disgruntled, others eager and some dutifully resigned.
''We must split the pack?'' came Jorkil's response, saying what his brothers were thinking as he pushed away his now empty bowl and rested his arms upon the table, looking to the Gothi with an expression devoid of mirth.
Fi'inar nodded at that.
''Aye, we must, we will decide at a later date who's destiny lies where.'' Fi'inar said pre-emptively as he saw the questions growing within Ulrik and Ivar's eyes. ''For now we must be smart, we know not if our brothers have set sail their drekkars for us, the aethersea holds no whispers for me to hear, we must prepare for the coming trials, and as of now we are woefully ill-equipped, Havel.''
At the passing of the council's lead Havel looked to each of his brothers with his cold gaze, eyes like the ice sheets of the worldsea.
''Our stores of munitions is critically low.'' Havel stated in a clinical tone, his voice like the beating upon an anvil, garnering the undivided attention of his brothers at those few words. ''Collectively we can muster 643 bolter rounds, 10 plasma energy cells, 4 helfrost crystals, 2 promethium cannisters, 4 pyrum-petrol fuel cannisters, 7 frag grenades, 3 krak grenades and 1 melta charge.''
A silence spread across the table at that accounting, grim reality of their situation setting in amongst the seniors of the pack, though Ivar seemed to dismiss the worry entirely as he took a great chug at his mug of drink.
''Bah! what foe upon this world can truly offer us a challenge, mortal kaerls of southern jarls? tribes of berserkers to the far north? or raiders of western isles, what need to we have for any weapons other than our own might and blades?'' Ivar called out in triumphant might, Wulfen spirit clawing at the edges of his soul.
''Drakks for one or had you forgotten of their existence upon this world, some said to rival Stormbird Anzvitis in size?'' Jorkil responded to his younger brother's belligerent bravado, his words speaking that of Dragons. ''And what of these sorcerers from across the Narrow Sea, these Priests of Fire and those of many faces like a Dopplegangrel, they and their pagan gods, I'd rather face a psyker with a loaded bolter. Besides, even mortals can drowned us in blood and bodies, you forget we number but a few.''
''Have you forgotten that the drakks of these lands have been gone for centuries, and show me a witch that would dare stand up to a son of Russ and I'll show you a corpse that knows not it's death is already foretold.'' Ulrik's brazen confidence rolled from him in waves as he slammed a hand on the table and smirked at the Grey Hunter, though it didn't last long as Surtir gave an irritated huff.
''And what of these daemons to the far north, what of the one Leman of the Russ saw fit to challenge himself? Temper your youth's fire you arrogant pups if you believe you can face such a creature with blade and fists alone.'' Surtir growled out at the Blood Claws as his patience grew thin, causing the youths to catch their tongues and lower their eyes.
Havel gave the ancient an appreciative nod at his intervention.
''What's more without a vox network we will be deaf to each other when the pack splits it's paths, with the Howl of Morkai lost to us, along with her augur arrays we will be blind to most of what this world will offer.'' Havel continued with his assessment of their situation.
''Then what is it that you suggest Iron Priest, are we meant to rely on ravens messengers like the mortals of this world.'' Skald'mor questioned waving a hand at Lokni who in turn squawked at the Long Fang, knowing Havel wouldn't have brought this to light in such a manner if he didn't also hold a solution to their plight.
''We must return to the Howl of Morkai and gather what resources were not lost to the void.'' Havel spoke gaining the wolves intrigue and some incredulous looks.
Skald'mor scratched at the underside of his beard, a habit the Long Fang had when deep in contemplation.
''Such a venture may be naught but suicide, you said it yourself Iron Priest, the drekkar's fiery heart could detonate like the rising of the Sun Wolf and spirit us all to the halls of Kjaalhala, an ignoble death for a son of Fenris.'' the old wolf voiced out in concern to his silent brother, who merely nodded his head at the words knowing he spoke truth.
''The frigate's plasma reactor has not entered a state of critical mass in the three weeks we have inhabited these lands, her heart is likely cold, her machine spirit silent, either dead and now within the motive force of the Omnissiah's embrace or entered the deep sleep of binaric stasis.'' Havel reasoned with his brothers, quelling their concerns of the Howl of Morkai enacting sudden retribution upon them.
''Even if what you say is true, what could you hope to reclaim on the drekkar, most of her decks were voided, the armoury open to the black of the void, the embarkation deck reduced to molten slag by the fires of this world's atmosphere, only the Dark Wolf occupies her halls now.'' came Surtir's voice in opposition causing the Iron Priest to shift his focus to the ancient at the table's end.
''We must try venerable one, to reclaim what we can.'' Fi'inar spoke up in Havel's place as he turned to look at the rest of his brothers, all knowing he was indeed right in his claim, before he opened his mouth to speak again. ''And besides the Fengr may have survived, that alone would make this venture worth the risk.''
That got the wolves attention.
The Fengr was a Damocles Command Rhino was a variant of the standard Rhino transport used by all Astartes Chapters. The Damocles is used as a command vehicle during large-scale military operations, and acts as the main communications link between all Space Marine ground forces and the orbiting Astartes fleet assets.
This vessel of the Machine God was a good example of the kinds of advanced Imperial technology that the Astartes were given access to, and it is equipped with unusually sophisticated communications and tracking equipment.
The Fengr was meant to be their link to the Kaerls' forces and the Howl of Morkai in orbit, if it had survived or at the very least it's equipment had remained functional, it's vox signal boosters, squad-to-squad, ground-to-air, and ground-to-orbit Vox-links would cover a greater part of Westeros and allow the wolves to remain in contact with each other with minimal delay.
It was also equipped with a bio-status readout for every single Space Marine engaged in combat that is relayed directly from each Astartes' Power Armour.
''How would we bring that beast down the mountain side, it barely held under Surtir's weight, never mind the crushing of treads loosing stone and breaking ice, we'd bury ourselves along side the drekkar in her tomb.'' Ulrik spoke up with a valid point causing Havel to look to the blonde Astarte.
''The equipment within it's metal bones can be removed, it's vox, augur and auspex arrays, along with the primary cogitator interface and it's data-crypts, the machine spirit of the Rhino's thermic combustion reactor will serve as it's connection to the Motive Force by the grace of the Machine God.'' Havel said with a spin of his plasma cutter wielding servo-arm in emphasis.
The wolves looked amongst each other at that, gauging each others' reaction to the knowledge, that was before Jorkil rose his mug to his lips and chugged down the rest of it's contents, not caring at the golden rivers of mead that trickled down his beard and cheeks, then slamming his now empty mug upon the table with a great sigh of satisfaction.
''Well what are we waiting for, let us jump into the jaws of Morkai and enter Hel itself, last one still breathing is a cowardly lion skitnah.'' Jorkil roared out in jest as he rose from his seat with a laugh, the two Blood Claws brothers following his lead with their own jubilant cries and followed his lead to the exit of the Great Hall.
Skald'mor looked to the Rune Priest at that, Fi'inar's only response being a humoured nod of his head leading Skald'mor to sigh with the muttering of 'impatient pups' before standing from his seat along with Havel and following after the Grey Hunter and Blood Claws.
''I shall remain here Heartfeaster, a wolf should always remain within Russ' legacy; and besides I would only slow you down.'' Surtir rumbled out and earning the Rune Priest's attention.
''Of course, by your will Helfrost.'' he nodded to the ancient in understanding.
Fi'inar rose as he watched his brothers leave the hall in a rowdy pack, before departing to the doors at the side of the hall, for he had a different destination in mind, first he would find Lord Stark's two oldest sons and have them gather some strong men and horses, no need to pull the Stark patriarch from his duties for what amounted to a supply run, and then they would head north to Long Lake once more, to the desolate halls of the Howl of Morkia and the dead therein.
End of Chapter Five
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