A champion sleeping on red snow. Another thread cut, murder made. The champion had fought honorable, with a skilled sword arm. A veteran of many a campaign, the champion had carried himself with dignity and confidence. When the Wolves from Fenris had come to his home world, he had stood valiantly before the oncoming wave of predators. Being denied the chance of becoming part of the growing Imperium by a Tyrant he called his liege, his thread was cut, his empty body on the red snow.
Njot the Watcher, skjald of For, looked on as his pack brothers fought on, killing the remainder of the Tyrant’s forces. He felt his axe in his hand grow heavy with anticipation with what was to come. The Watcher was aware of what the Imperium thought of his legion, of his brothers. Even other legions, brother Astartes, believed the VIth to be little more than savage beasts. Barbarians with no place in an enlightened Imperium of Mankind. Njot still looked at his axe. It was a dark blade, with bright silver runes inscribed upon its face. He had wielded the weapon ever since he became a Wolf. Born on Fenris, the skjald had always preferred the axe. A weapon of war and a tool for survival. Many a thread was cut with its smile. But now he hesitated, as he looked at the sharp smile of his weapon and the champion sleeping on red snow.
For had changed. He wasn’t sure if it was a good change. For certainly had become more cunning, more predatory. Its Jarl was not an easy man to like. Choleric and quick to anger, the Jarl of For was a predator always on the hunt. His victories were told of by the Skjalds, as much as by the grisly trophies in his quarters. The heads of all the worthy enemies the Jarl had killed since becoming a member of For, each with its own tale. Now all in the company were expected to tell their own stories. Their own trophies. The heads of their enemies. Njot did not like that change, for it confirmed the opinions others had.
But he was Vlka Fenryka. Of the Rout. It did not matter what others thought was true, only that the VIth would do what no other would. To be the tireless hunters. The relentless predators. The makers of murder in the Allfathers name. That was the reputation that mattered. Even though he did not like the changes to For, he understood their reason. He respected his Jarl, The Red Blade, and willingly served under his banner.
The face of his axe caught the light of the bleeding sun as it was slowly sinking into the sea of red snow. The runes reflected in the light. The weapon swung down. A clean strike. A new trophy, a new tale to be told.
The war on this world was done for the Wolves. They had received new orders from the Wolf King. They were sent to the Ouroboros Constellation, to hunt down a psychic priesthood.
Hunt Maleficarum and make murder and red snow. For the Allfather!