The nature of rune was something that Ulfur's skald-tongue could taste. It was the magic of language itself, and of the beating heart of life. It was hail, famine, ox, tree, torch, blade, wolf, house. It was the magic not of names, but of naming. The petty runes were used for communication, the lesser runes for enhancement, the greater runes for transformation, and the elder runes were those of creation.

There were also the Runes of Binding and Protection. The least of these but most versatile was the unique maker-rune of every Great-Smith, which kept metal from rusting, edges from dulling, and the contents of marked containers from spoiling or the containers themselves from breaking.

Ulfur was familiar with the lesser runes; of the greater and elder, all had been lost to the mists of time, hidden away in fallen empires and realms of dream and darkness.

"My makers came from the south. They were not men, but demons with brass skin and silvered tongues. To meet again the mother-of-wolves . . .  a thing of both fear and exultation. She is monstrous hunter and loving mate both. Which instinct drives her now I cannot say."

"Demons in the south, the man-things to the east...", acknowledged Ulfur, accepting the correction from his Skald even as he ruminated on the nature and power of the naming of things. Letting his thoughts drift between the answers to his five questions, he continued, "Perhaps these are among the 'five peoples' your prophecies spoke of? Prophecy, power, path ... there is much to untangle in these runes. These, and those that come to me in dreams of another Trayka..."

Glancing around the ruins of the court, wherein they sat, his thoughts became more centred and present. Standing, he began to pace the great hall, letting his clawed fingers trace out the stonework of the chamber, the rough nature of it, learning it. It had witnessed his unveiling, more than the previous summer when he had been crowned Lord of the Moot; such witness required it's own recognition. As he walked, Ulfur sang softly, infusing the chamber with his nature.

[Private to GM: Attempting to Imbue this Location, the Court of Kailesh, with Souls intending that it provides a sense of wellbeing with the telling of great deeds, glowing with moonlight if they are true. Not sure if that's exactly how it works in Myriad]

With that completed, he returned to the throne, summoning his own small pack to him, "Once my Torc-Bearer returns, I intend to seek out some of the truths that mark me as more than Thane. But I intend to keep Kailesh and restore it. Will you come, beyond Trayka if need be, or will you hold this hall for me?"

[Private to GM: Attempting to raise up the whole pack as God-Touched, or Special Units, if it makes sense; if his will be the pack-of-packs, then it makes sense that they are special]

Myriad works differently than Taeltresin. Rather than being limited (or rather, empowered) by a soul count, you instead are able to perform an ACT once per month per tier of your character - by default, once per month.

You could restore and empower all of Kaliesh with an Act or empower your Pack, but you'll have to wait a few days to get your Act for February.
This message was last edited by the GM at 13:27, Tue 29 Jan 2019.

Thanks for the clarification; Ulfur will empower Kailesh with his next available Act

Ulfur dreamt, and in dreaming, woke . . . 

From the mountains, stone was torn, chiseled, polished. Thousand of cut stones flew to the Ruins of Kaliesh, where already the divine power of the Realm's ruler was manifesting.

Time was running in reverse. Decay retreated, worn stone was made new again, collapsed halls restored, the foundation shored up, the very sea repelled by a sturdy series of levies as the earth rose to its former extent.

Kalish stood new, a grand fortress-town built into cliff and earth. Within, the halls were never dark; even when the sky was clouded, it was a full moon within the fortress-city, save for within the resting grounds of the pack.

The forge was fully equipped, and the armory was stocked with ancient styles of bronze armors and weapons that had been since lost.

Kaliesh stood new, and it knew its Thane.

Distantly, the sea roared, an immense whale-song sounding from the deep.

Kaliesh is restored by divine will. The Leviathan is awoken from the slumber of Aeons.

"I will stand at your side, Wolf-Thane."

"Arm yourselves, my pack", commanded the Thane of Kailesh-Renewed softly, even as the echoes of the distant whale-song echoed throughout the fortress-town. It stirred something in, a primal urge to bend the Leviathan to his will, though time would say whether it was in thrall or as trophy. It was for tomorrow, however; today waited upon the return of his Torc-Bearer and news of his Mother - and whilst today waited, he would not

"Arm yourselves", he repeated, "Let us become familiar with the Old Ways of fighting whilst we wait on Ulfhrafn's return"

Ulfur was a titan of battle, and while much of his skill was instinctual and not teachable, he was nonetheless a capable instructor. The brass far superior to iron, but high-quality steel of the kind Ulfur was familiar with in his other life would be strong competition depending on the specific applications. The worksmanship of the armory's equipment was up to his standards - indeed, they reminded him of his own craft.

The Fellhunters were unused to the millaristic style of fighting, being used to acting as skirmishers and stalkers rather than soldiers. Nevertheless, they applied themselves with full will to the wolf-thane's training. In the short week before Ulfhrafn's return, he succeeded in setting the Fellhunters on the road to becoming a more elite unit.

"I beg your pardon, Wolf-Thane," Ulfhrafn said, prostrated before Ulfur in his throne room upon his return. "When I returned to Zvrok without you in tow and informed her that I had entered your service, she nearly slew me on the spot. She is your mother, and though she cannot command you, she bade me bring you her summons to the Great Den. You are not her only child, though you are her firstborn, and if you will not come to her, another of your kin may challenge and defeat her, and then come to challenge you, with all the might of the Zarroki at their heel. There would be great bloodshed, and she has no desire for her fading days to be spent seeing Trayka descend into chaos and death."

"Other troubles beset the Great Den. Light-ghosts wearing haunted cloth, who wield strange magic, from the northern steppes, have brought a host to bear in a bid to take the West. They say their claim is right, as the Zarroki are settled over the ruins of their civilization. Zvrok contests this, but a curse has befallen her and she is vulnerable. She bids you to come, to send back the ghosts, restore her to her full strength, and the fairly defeat her in combat and by that right take your place as her heir and the leader of the pack-of-packs.

My return was delayed, as I was pressed to aid in defending the Great Den from the possessed servant-beasts of the ghosts."

Watching the clash of arms and techniques as the Fellhunters honed their natural instincts into soldiering Ulfur was pleased. From hunt to battle, from stalking ambush to the clashes he considered might be their future, he recognised their determination and will brought forth. He was careful with his training, wanting to retain their wiliness and ferocity and not sacrifice it to rote and ritual. With time, they would become the core of his Legion of Brass...

It was as they trained that Ulfhrafn returned. His eye watched as each practised: glaive and gauntlet, great glaive, twinned falchions, falchion and kite shield... each had their own forms and flows, working well with the scaled brigandine armours and flared kilts suited to their comfort with ground-fighting and natural weapons.

Frowning as the Ulfhrafn prostrated himself, he clasped the black-furred forearm of the Zarroki and hauled him to his feet, "Never forget you are a Fellhunter and my Torc-Bearer, Ulfhrafn. Do not prostrate yourself. Ever..."

Nonetheless he listened with a furrowed brow as the other told of the foemen that beset the Great Den. He knew he was a child of the Goddess, but had not considered he might be firstborn; it laid obligations upon him, deep and powerful ones.

Summoning his Father and his pack to him, he laid out his commands, "Challenge comes, but subtly, from the north. We must respond and offer challenge of our own: to shades, to the Goddess of the Zarroki and to my siblings. Attend me, Skald. Attend me, Torc-Bearer. We will go direct. Attend me, my Fellhunters. Clad yourselves in brass and follow, by way of the packs who came to my summons. Gather three, each of you, from those packs. Gather three who will come and witness, come and fight, come to learn enough that they may take back the knowledge of these new ways, these old ways. Gather three, and any lone wolves and gloryseekers you encounter on the way, and meet me at the Great Den."

As you drew closer to the great den, you gathered many Karuantii to you - including the lady Aethelwulf, and many of the other young pack lords that still felt the call.

The call of something ancient and fading, the call of home far-forgotten . . .

The Pack Mother calls to the old blood.

While you camped, you saw a strange exchange between Aethelwulf and Ulfrafn - subtle growls and posturing that the Zarroki seemed to pick up and attend to before she even came into view. It was your nose that told her what she was doing - the spring was fast approaching, and with it the heat - the same heat that had kept most of the female Karuantii from joining your expedition.

She approached Ulfhrafn carefully, pulling up her tunic to bare her midriff - a gesture of submission. The black calmed, and carefully licked her. She knelt, taking Ulfhrafn's great head into her arms, and scratched the sides of his face, the roots of his ears, and then sat beside him, wrapping one arm around him and whispering into his ear. She was doing some kind of magic - traceries of dark brown energy pulsing through her exposed skin.

A certain . . . spark faded from the great wolf's eyes, and and he gave in to her, behaving more like dog than wolf; his tail slowly wagging against the loam.

She came towards you, Ulfhrafn snoozing fitfully. She inclined her head in respect, then knelt beside you. "Did you like my little display, hmm? The magic of our people. It is called Pack magic - it allows the creation of compulsions, and freedom from the same. It can make a pack fight with one mind, calm beasts, read social ties, and more. I am only an initiate, but there are still masters working in the shadows to protect us and prevent chaos. It is a blend of magical aspects of Order, Chaos, Mind, and Illusion."

She whispered, her voice changing to something inhuman. "While in the waking-world I am a mortal, here I am Aegisi - a guardian spirit that speaks for the land. Even once I perish in the waking world, I will remain in this Dream - protecting it and remembering it. In exchange, I receive power in the waking world - I am a natural lycanthrope, and will grow stronger with age, rather than weakening with the passing of years."

The heat was on her, you could smell it. That she was so composed in your presence was a result of an immensely powerful will. At this close distance, you felt your mind . . growing slightly hazy, as if you were drinking firewater, but you were strong enough to resist any compulsion it might offer to a lesser Karuantii.

She touched her forward to yours - a bold move that indicated she felt she was your equal. "I will sometimes accompany you in your travels when I sense the realm is in danger, but you will never command me, wolf-thane. I belong to the land, and none other. Tell me that you understand this. And then tell me what you desire for this land, and for me, its Aegis."

Breathing deep of her scent when she first approached his side, Ulfur recognised something primordial in her - a suspicion already half-formed by her waking-self's eyes in her dreaming-self's body. Around them the scents of fur and brass and leather collected, the cloying fervour of young Karauntii thanes preparing to quest. Both scents spoke to him: on one claw, glory and the bloody-copper of battle; on another, rutting beneath the moon and all that followed after.

He had watched her tame Ulfhrafn, a needful thing albeit a disconcerting demonstration of power, and then listened as she spoke of ancient lore.

Our magic, she had said.

His and hers both.

Ours.

When she spoke again, he knew it was not her, but the Great Wolfess behind her. She called it Aegis, but that was a name for the truth, a rune that held the power in naming what she was.

When she spoke, he listened. To the challenge in her manner, in her words. Another, less assured, might have challenged in return. But he was the Wolf-Thane who had been the Great Smith and the Skald and the Lord of the Moot. His own counsellors, wrapped in Godhood both here and in the waking world - if those two were not reversed.

When she spoke, he answered, with the wisdom of the pack, "Does the Thane serve the Realm, or the Realm them, Aethelwulf-Aegis? Do they rule their Pack, or serve it's interests? Do they lead alone, or with a mate beside them?"

" . . . with a mate beside them?"

She rocked back a little, her eyes widening. Words spilled from her mouth in a hurry - "I am the guardian of the land; you may be the Wolf-Thane and the lord of this Dream, but my concerns are for the Realm - only one who was the Pack Father, Great-Smith of the Iron Knights, and -"

She huffed out a breath, then another, and her voice returned to normal. She was just herself. "I am still flesh-and-blood. I live still. My blood is warm and my destiny is unwritten. I am not just . . . the ghost of this place. Not yet."

She softly ran a hand through the ruff of fur at your throat. "I will not be won. You will not earn me. I will choose you of my own volition. My will is still mine."

She looked around at the other wolves and Karuantii that were sleeping or quietly talking nearby.

"But you must understand. This dream, and the real, are interlinked. If I become your mate here, my waking self . . . she will be affected, you understand? Her wolf will call to yours, even outside the Dream. She is a fragile thing, for all her brashness. She is young and foolish, but there is strength in her just as their is delicacy. You must . . . you must help her to grow, and you must make her your equal, before you take her; you are a god there too, and she is still mortal."

Her brow furrowed. "If only she was a wise wolf, like I . . . but we are not in life what we dream of at rest, are we?"

She brushed her muzzle against yours. "You are right, and I am . . . amenable. But not in camp, and not without blood. We will go a ways from camp, and fight. When you win . . . well . . . " she blushed deeper than before. "Nature will take care of things from there."

Destiny.

Words, spilled like blood from a hunt whose first scent had not found itself upon the wind. Words, and prophecy. Promises, ties.

Ulfur tasted them, let them flow over him, until she returned.

Letting her words flow, then, the ones of the wolf not the Aegis, he smiled, "Will and freedom, these things all wolves know; whether true or Karauntii or Zarroki or even, I hope, of shadow. You, I sought, before your full nature was known. For you, I hunted the stag, took it's horns"

That fateful hunt.

"Her ascent has begun. She will come to know power, in time", whuffled Ulfur softly, letting her fingers tease at his fur, "But tonight is not hers"

He breathed of her scent as her muzzles moved against his own, nipped gently at an ear, then pulled her to her feet, "Tonight is ours."

Destiny?

The two of you were lithe shadows loping through moonlight, until you crashed together in a snarling mess of teeth and claws at the edge of a small lake. She was a formidable opponent, and while initially you underestimated her and went easy, that proved completely unnecessary and earned you a deep cut across your snout that would likely scar.

Once you fought in earnest, it was barely a minute before she was baring her throat in submission beneath you. You seized her, and she went limp in your jaws; and once you released her, she wrapped her legs around you - and for awhile, there was only the blur of her hot breath on your ear and the mutual satisfaction of giving in to nature's call beneath open sky.

=

You woke the next day curled around her smaller form - your scent covering her, marking her as yours in a way that made the emptiness of words pale in comparison.

The pack pressed on, coming within a day's lope of the Great Den. You found evidence of spectral activity - areas of earth cold as permafrost, tattered white cloth, and a dead Zarroki, its hide partially melted by some kind of black acid-like substance that Ulfhrafn identified as ectoplasm.

Resting was important for keeping up the pack's strength and giving them opportunity to seek out game, but with evidence of the enemy nearby hunkering down would also inevitably invite an ambush. The choice was left to you and your mate, who counselled you.

"We should rest, and ready ourselves in shadow away from the camp, to flank the enemy when the strike. We know almost nothing about the enemy, and it would be good to test our strength against them in a skirmish before we go to battle in earnest."

Loping northward, the echoes of his real-self finding balance in their power even as he found it in the pack-of-packs forming around him, Ulfur felt electrified and alive. His eyes scanned the trail ahead, his ears and nose twitched at the slightest clue from his realm as he travelled through it.

And his it would be, in time.

That felt inevtiable.

"Your plan is sound, Aethelwulf", he permitted, "But I would call upon the shadow wolves who came at my summons before. They might provide insight into the nature of such spectres"

Attempt to summon the shadow wolves

"And those who would wait must be ready, armed and armoured for the ambush if it falls", he finished, "I would not have my people dangled like helpless bait"

The spirit-wolves come at your call, but they are true-wolves and do not comprehend what you ask of them. Even in the language of wolves, they do not understand that they are spirits; they are beasts, and do not participate in such self-reflection.

The camp is prepared for ambushed, and watches are kept. You move with Aethelwulf to the edge of scent range, so that you will be able to smell blood or any other sign that an ambush is silently occurring the moment it happens.

The night passes uneventfully, however.

Frustrated by the edge at which he had kept his pack, Ulfur was eager to set forth the next morning. Knowing this, self-reflective in a way the true wolves and shadow wolves were not, he kept a careful pace, alert for any counter-ambush as they continued towards the Great Den

It was day when the pack first encountered the strange spirits that had assaulted the the Great Den. "We are a day's lope from the Great Den," said Ulfhrafn. "We will arrive at sunset."

Aethelwulf, at your side, counseled you as the Pack entered the province of the Great Den, which a strange kind of cold desert; there were broad expanses of sand, dried rivers and lakes, and thickets of old trees, but no new saplings. "A curse. The ghostmen's doing. They have yoked the land . . weakened the prey. Dwindling prey threatens the hunters."

The ghosts were shaped like men wrapped in cloth, armed with short, curved blades of folded steel - they lacked good iron, or the makings for bronze? - and spears marked with red glyphs along their hafts.

The ghost-men were feeding on several dying Zarroki, their cloth soaked in its blood. Its wounds regenerated, only to be opened anew, and the strange spear crackled with foul magic; its iron-hide was rusted over, crumbling.

Ulfhrafn huffed. "Hungry ghosts! Foul beings of the afterlife. Fire kills them, as does immersion in water. Things of life, both. And this curse, it takes away both from us . . ."

"It seems I an beset as if a mirror, Aethelwulf", observed the Thane of the Forge of the Sea wryly, "Leeches in one Dream, blood-suckers and iron-stealers in this one. Perhaps my bronze will resist them sufficiently"

He turned to Ulfhrafn, wind ruffling his mane, "Fire and water. What of steel? Bronze? Claws and teeth?"

Even as he spoke his gaze remained fixed on the ghost-men and their spears, trying to discern any meaning behind them. He was a master of battle, but keen of mind with it. He knew when he may require strategy and when simple instinct would best serve

Activate his Bardic Ken on the foul runes

Your knowledge of the runes told you enough - those staves were foul things, bind runes turned to decay and destruction. How this had to come to pass was unknown to you; but these marks were not the runes you knew, nor were they the runes of the wolf-thanes before you.

"Only fire and water, and the divine power of the gods themselves. They are spirits, proof against mundane weapons."

Aethelwulf pondered. "Do you mean the spirits are repelled by water and fire . .  that they would need to be drowned or burned, I mean . .  or could we perhaps treat are weapons? Consecrate them with holy water? Heat them in fire, so that they burn?"

"They aren't . . . dead beings. They are spirits. The holy water would surely be ineffective ... but torches, or steel heated into a firebrand, that might work."

Summoning Ivalo to him, Ulfur requested he draw his leaf-shaped glaive. With his own claws he scratched upon the surface a rune, one that might summon flame when it struck spirit. If the work felt true, he repeated it upon the blades of his own pack, of Aethelwulf and Ulfharfn

To his pack, "Remember the ways of fighting I taught you"

To the others, "Let us test our ways of battle against these."

The rune was true, and the bronze spat unnatural bright sparks. As a smith, you knew that bronze and copper did not spark as iron or steel did. When the weapons were waved through the air, the rush of wind over them worked like bellows, fanning the sparks into flashes of flame.

It was a minor effect, to be sure, but would hopefully prove enough.

Without more explicit instructions, the pack broke from the faint treeline in a loose skirmish, crashing into the spirits with flashing spears and seax.

The weapons proved effective, drawing unearthly screeches and rage from the spirits.

With superior numbers, greater training, and the benefit of surprise, the result was an instant rout of the enemy. Your wolves gave pursuit, dragging down the fleeing enemy and dispatching it. There were no survivors.

The Zarroki recovered as the remains of the spirits burned.

Aethelwulf reunited with you, licking the inside of your mouth in affectionate submission; power faded from the runes you had hastily cut into the weapons of the pack.

Ulfhrafn was speaking with the recovering Zarroki, asking questions.

After the rout the Wolf Thane paused for a moment, receiving Aethelwulf's affections even as he lent upon his great glaive,  returning them with a slight nip. His heart was fierce in his passion, but choose not to be a slave to them, not now. He was pleased with his runes, but nonetheless knew that such artifice would not serve him unless his packs were prepared to meet the spirits. Better stratagems were needed, and for that knowledge was power.

Growling a little in his throat, he made a promise to the she-wolf, "Later. For now, we must see what news Ulfhrafn's kin brings" and began to make his way towards where they spoke, "Order the scouts out, my mate, to watch for the spirit's return. See if they abandoned any of their foul spears as they fled"

Guards secured the perimeter, and a three of the hexed spears were brought to you.

The surviving Zarroki growled. "There is nothing for the pack to eat! The pups will be runts if they don't starve. We couldn't stand by! We had to hunt! They knew, and the waited for us . . "

A siege, then.

One of your scouts approached you. "These are dead, but more are coming, and stranger, larger, with hexed chains and hooks,"

Aethelwulf counselled you. "We press forward now, and we'll be fighting out of a siege. We retreat, and we lose the advantage of breaking through with surprise. We stand our ground, we'll be surrounded, and doubtlessly lose wolves,"

"We must press forward, at haste. The Den is defensible. We can sally from it on the morrow, with more knowledge, and preparation,"

Listening to the survivor's tale and Aethelwulf's subsequent counsel, Ulfur nodded and stowed the hexed spears upon his back, "Let us put the wind in our fur; I would speak to my Mother before we see about breaking this siege"

With the pack at your back, you arrived at the Great Den before hours before sundown.

Your acquaintance with magic was limited, but the great den was littered with a repeated rune. It was carved on almost every available rocky surface, over and over again, some marks so old you could hardly discern them; and other fresh enough to still have dust from the chiseling.

It was the rune for 'home'.

"Intruder cannot enter, because they are not invited," surmised Aethelwulf. "The den is defended by magically enforced custom, not by walls. A combination of runic and pack magic . . ."

The Den itself was a network of natural caves and small mountain glades, with a large central cavern. With the vouching of the surviving Zarroki and your prior invitation, you were able to enter without hindrance, but your pack was forbidden from entering the central cavern. Only you alone could enter.

Within the large central cavern, it was evident it had once been a meeting place; there were bedding for dozens of Zarroki.

There was only one wolf in the chamber, and it was your mother; a white wolf, with blue eyes, of a size more akin to a woolly mammoth than any true wolf.

Her fur was matted, and her eyes were dim. She did not notice your entrance.
This message was last edited by the GM at 05:30, Fri 26 Apr 2019.