Fluff Article – Kinslayer

I regularly write stories to run alongside my armies as I play them on the table. It’s always been an extra layer to the fun of wargaming for me. As a result, I have a short story today that explains my Space Wolves and their involvement in the last stages of the campaign for Agora, run through Dicehead Games in Cleveland, Tennessee. Enjoy!

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Space Wolves - Kinslayer

The Hall of the Great Wolf rang with the howls of drunken heroes. Mjod filled many cups, only to be drained and filled and drained again. The feast was well underway, with roasted elk and spiced pig filling wooden platters across the length of the hall.

Young Ragnar was in attendance, as was Sven Bloodhowl, and Egil Ironwolf, and mighty Gunnar of the Red Moon. Many of their Wolf Guard were present, along with a pair of Wolf Priests. Mjod dripped from three dozen waxed beards, and the bellows of laughter echoed from the stone chamber, taunting the defeated enemy.

At the head of the table, on his stone plinth, the Wolf King sat in silence. The remnants of his demolished meal fed the two wolves at his feet. The Rune Priest Jagr Trollslayer stood quietly beside the Great Wolf, leaning heavily on his runic staff. An Ork axe had found the back of his leg, but he would not show weakness before the men. His face was hard, but his eyes carried the merriment below.

Logan allowed a smile to tip the corner of his mouth as two Wolf Guard from Sven’s Great Company climbed onto the oak table, reenacting the battle between Logan and the greenskin warchief. The murder-make had been worthy of the sagas, and when the proxy Logan smashed the greenskin’s head from his shoulders, the hall erupted to the sound of roars and howls. The false Ork collapsed to the table, shattering dozens of plates in the process.

“A dark omen approaches,” murmured Jagr.

The door at the end of the Hall opened silently, yet every pair of yellowed eyes turned to regard the newcomer. Erik Morkai strode into the hall with his usual deadly quiet, his gaze locked on the Great Wolf. His furs gusted as he walked, revealing the leather sack he wore on his hip. Everyone in the room could smell the blood leaking through the seam.

“Erik,” called the bass voice of Gunnar. “We hadn’t expected to see you back for some time. Did the Chaos reavers give up so easily?”

“Not quite,” Erik said, his voice never more than a whisper. “I thought this matter more urgent.”

“Speak then,” came Grimnar.

“We engaged the Red Corsairs above Prendax. During the battle, we were boarded by a group of the Blackheart’s own. They were joined by three berserkers in the greys of Fenris. Men that once stalked the decks of the Wolf of Fenris.”

A low growl emanated from Sven’s throat. “Kinslayers,” snarled the Ironwolf.

Erik nodded, but Grimnar still said nothing, his face impassive.

“When we repelled them, several other ships broke into the Warp in the outer system. One of them was the Wolf of Fenris.”

“Did you get a fix on their coordinates?” asked Ragnar.

“No,” Erik said, reaching into the leather pouch. “But before I tore out his tongue, the last one alive told me where they were going next.”

Three bloodied heads came out of the sack. Their eyes had been put out during Erik’s time with them, and two sported the beginnings of mutation. Still, the Blood Claws’ faces wore the granite features of Fenrisians.

“Tribute, my king,” said Erik, tossing the severed heads to clatter against the foot of Grimnar’s throne. “The rest are on the Wolf of Fenris, and she sails for the Agora system as we speak.”

A new clamor tore through the hall, as the Wolf Lords screamed for the right to go after this stain on their honor. The sons of Fenris were hardy warriors and their oaths meant more than their lives. Rarely did they turn their backs on these promises, yet the warriors who once owned these heads had committed further atrocity by murdering their Wolf Priest, the very warrior who brought them to the power they possessed. As the Lords clamored, Grimnar stroked his beard. At length he drew The Axe Morkai to hand, laying his palm on the pommel, and all talk ceased.

“Agora is a system long under conflict,” he said. “Even if these errant pups slip through our grasp, the system still needs our help.”

Grimnar stood, gesturing to Erik with his axe. “You carry on to Agora, and see that the Red Corsairs are put to flight or destroyed. Root out their warchief and bring me his head.”

Erik Morkai nodded, already ghosting toward the door. An expectant hush fell over the remaining Wolf Lords.

“The Wolf of Fenris belongs to you, young one,” he said, pointing his axe to Ragnar. “Find them, and bring the wrath of the frozen hells down on their heads.”

“They will taste Frostfang,” Ragnar growled, to roars of approval from his Wolf Guard. He then gestured to the half-rotten heads staring up from the floor. “When I return, your collection will be complete.”