Wolf RPG

Draugur could feel the cool kiss of winter settle in the marrow of his bones — a chill that buried beneath the skin and lingered like a parasite until the bringing of Spring upon the lands. This winter was young still, newly born and it would remain for a long while, this the Sigurvegarinn knew. The season of the Vetur had only just begun. The further the world declined into the abysmal chill of winter, however, the harder it would become for Draugur to survive it without the support of a pack. This was a simple fact that he knew, and yet even still the savage denied it for just a while longer. Too long had he been a Sigurvegarinn, either on his own or usurping some pack's leader and claiming them and those within it for Odinn's Cove. The idea of bowing his head to another, no matter how temporary or false it was made the Northman's lip curl with detestation. He had bowed his head to Eitri but his Jarl had also been his elder brother and the circumstances of his elders' reign had been much different. To bow down to some creature he did not know was an unappealing idea as any. Yet, the winter as it pressed on would leave the pagan with little, to no choice. Whether he liked or he did not.

Eventually, survival would push him to his knees, if only for a short while. Draugur was not the kneeling type and would rise back up so long as his life was no longer in jeopardy. Self survival was how he had lived pretty much all of his life, despite that the idea of death did not cause a tremor of fear to strike his heart. If death were to come for him then he would welcome it. Why be afraid when he knew that when he drew his last breath Odin would take him to Valhalla where he would feast and fight? There was nothing to be frightened of, as far as Draugur was concerned.

The day was overcast, though undeniably warmer than the previous couple of days had been. The air was still nipping eagerly at his black, leathery nose, but the Northman did not feel the need to seek shelter against the chilling winds. Instead, he shouldered on, further into the forest, in search of food, or abandoned caches. Anything that he could hunt or raid. He was not particularly hungry at the current moment but he would be, eventually and why lay to waist food that might have been left and seemed forgotten about?

It was with sure step that the bulky man-child walked forth from his territory borders. His steel gray eyes hinted at the intelligence that lay beneath them and the mask that covered them, or in a way cradled them cutting a dark contrast to his silken tawny fur. he held his head high and his large shoulders that would not quite boast his father's height, but perhaps their girth. He traveled his stocky body taking up more room than it should, though his overly large ears and large paws still hinting at the youthful air that beat beneath his breast.

As he walked he thought of different ways to earn his trades, thus far he had not had the chance to do any of them, but not for want to trying. He wished to focus on gamekeeper more than anything at the present time, due to the fact that winter nipped at their heels and was almost fully upon them.

He stopped in his tracks when he came upon another wolf, white as the foam that frothed among the sea and he studied him. He did not call out to him or anything just merely watched. Though he did chuff in kind to let the brute know he was standing near. He held himself stiff and straight for he wished to make his father proud and by not showing fear he believe he would do so. Not to say he was fearful, not much scared him as of yet. He had the reckless abandon that all youths have, that some never lost.

With his black, leathery nose poised towards the ground, Draugur began his search with something of a vein hope. Though there were errant trails of wolves having traversed back and forth through this forest there did not linger a scent of pack, or even the fading one. Finding caches here would, he had little doubt as he wound deeper and deeper into the heart of the darkening forest, be difficult if null and void. It was unlikely that any wolf would let a cache here unless they were in the habit of making random caches through the land — which when it came to raiders such as himself there would be literally nothing left of it until the time that they returned. Smaller carnivores might have thought to make caches but even then Draugur was not overly hopeful. Fate was not often so kind and generous to those who chose the life of a scavenger and though he had been on this mission from the Cove for years Draugur knew all too well how kind Fate could be.

Fate had brought with her the death of his elder brother at the jaws of his own eldest son.

Fate kept Draugur from returning, his mission never changing, simply he was unable to report back his progresses. There was little doubt that the story of the Sigurvegarinn did not proceed him, but that was not a chance that Draugur was willing to take; and anyway what was there to return to? A smug nephew who had worn the blood of Eitri like a crown? Nothing that truly appealed to Draugur in any sort of manner, though he could not claim that he was any different. He usurped a couple of Alphas and claimed their packs and lands, fighting how only he knew how to fight: until the death.

Mercy was not a word that lingered in the Northman's vocabulary.

There was a chuff to announce a presence, though Draugur had heard the footfalls of the other, awkward and heavy as they were. Pallid ear rotated back, and slowly, the silver eyed wraith peered at the child with chilling indifference. Silently, the wraith studied the boy. He was big, nearing, if not at his full height, about average sized for these southern wolves if he was being biased (which he was), but he was a child, his adolescence still very evident still to Draugur. Lips parted and spilling forth was a deep voice accented by the Scandinavian accent that he bore, adding to the words of his native tongue, “Þú ættir ekki að vera frá heimili, barn”. Not that it concerned Draugur much. He cared nothing for the child's life, anymore than he cared for anyone else's other than his own.

Gunnar watched as the older male kept his nose to the ground. As if he were searching for something, perhaps he was trying to find a pack. Gunnar could certainly send him in the right direction, if he so wanted. He could send him to his father. Gunnar had never looked, but he supposed there could be food in the forest from when the isle pack was there.

Gunnar knew about fate his father told him often enough about it. His mother even said it was fate that brought them together and bade them stay together. There was a part of him that was a bit angry with fate for giving him the biological father he had. He felt he had to prove himself twice as worthy to earn his father Ragnar's love, even though it wasn't true, his father loved him as if he was his own as well as his siblings.

Gunnar was medium smaller than many males his age, but larger than some and the females too. He was more of a stocky build than a tall one. His brother was the lanky tall boy. His sister silver grace. Gunnar's eyes narrowed and he stared the other male down put off by his rude behaviour. After all he could understand him, just as well as the man could speak, probably didn't even know the boy understood him. Gunnar parted his maw and spoke in the harsh language of his family. "Þú þarft ekki að hafa áhyggjur sjálfur með það sem ég geri og þar sem ég fer gamla. En heimili mitt er ekki langt. "

Whether the child could speak Norse or not was of no concern to Draugur. It was his native tongue and he would speak it if he wished too, regardless if his company spoke it or not. He, too, spoke the common tongue with roughly honed fluency, his translations sometimes imperfect. Languages were so diverse to the Sigurvegarinn and though he'd learned many different languages in his never ending journey, accompanied by the never ending presence of Thor, he was selective about his use of those that he knew. Life had never been even remotely easy for him why was it that he was thought to make life easy for others? His mission from Eitri was to take them, and their lands in the name of Odinn's Cove, expanding them from a pack to something of a networked empire. Once, the ghost had, had a companion, a hawk that had grown rather attached to him and the Northman had allowed her to stay, to join him on his travels, until one day she did not return and he was left to assume that she had been intercepted by another as she flew to deliver his message and killed. The only life that was not his brother or his owns that Draugur could claim to have cared about, strange though the affection with the avian had been.

The child stared him down, and the wraith let out a small chuckle accompanied by a soft snort that pushed past black, leathery nostrils. The old man bit, particularly, made the wraith amused, for he was only just four years of age. An adult in his prime, full of experience. It was unusual that the child knew Norse but Draugur did not question it. It made sense that they had begun to spread out of the Cove: after all that was what their culture were known for: conquering other lands. Some preferred the nomadic life while others sought to colonize. “Foreldrar þínir ættu að hafa kennt þér að virða öldunga þínum, drengur,” Who did this child think that he was, speaking to the Sigurvegarinn in such a manner? Just because he, too, could speak in the tongue of the Northmen did not make him a Northman, and if he wasn't careful he would find himself in a sorry state. Draugur had no qualms about attacking the boy if he did not back down and recognize that he could not just throw his weight about around loners just because his parents were not there to stop him, or humble him.

Draugur had only met his nephews a handful of times, besides being present for their birth. There had been three of them: Björn, Ragnar, and Váli, and the last he had heard Björn had usurped Eitri because of his own greed and ambition. Ambition ran deep within their family, but killing blood, regardless of it being tradition or not was not something that the Sigurvegarinn could agree with. If he would have known that the presumed arrogant boy before him was a great-nephew his thoughts might not have been so dark, but he did not know. Even then, it might not have made a difference. The game had changed when Björn had spilled Eitri's life blood, who was arguably the only one that could control Draugur. Without the hold of his elder brother, without his guidance Draugur was left to make his own rules and continue his legacy of Conqueror, now in the name of his brother who feasted and fought in the hall of Valhalla.

Gunnar was usually a compliant child, he spoke respectfully to most, and he tried his hardest to be kind. However, he also disliked being called a baby and after all he was just a child still. There was going to be moments in time where he was not on his best behavior and this just happened to be one of those times.

Gunnar bit back a sharp retort to the older male in front of him. Who though may not be much older than his own father, but looked older thanks to the life he had lived. Gunnar thought long and hard about what he wanted to say, and he really did want to give the other male the oh what for. After all his mother always told him to respect his manners, should everyone else too. It was common courtesy and he hated that others were not that way. "Virtu mínum já. Og ég afsaka ef ég móðga þig, en þú ræsir brotið með því að kalla mig barn herra þegar ég er ekki lengur einn." Perhaps he was overstepping his bounds a little bit, but he was annoyed at being called a baby when he was far from one.

Gunnar sighed and looked at the other male and heard his father's voice in his head about respect. So he tightened his own reins so to speak and coughed once, because he was want to gag on the words he was about to utter. "Fyrirgefðu mér herra. Það er rétt og ef faðir minn var hér sem hann vildi láta mig vita. Eigum við að byrja aftur? Ég er Gunnar Loðbrók."

Draugur was not sure why the child was so upset — Draugur had spoken nothing but the truth. Whether the boy before him wanted to believe it or not he was still a child. Physically, definitely, despite that he was growing into his body well enough. Mentally, Draugur would tell him that he was definitely still a child in intellect, even if the Sigurvegarinn had an unpopular (or wrong) opinion. Draugur's silver eyes rolled when the child turned to the “but you started it” and then proceeded to explain why he was behaving the way he was. Perhaps the boy's Norse was not as good as he would have liked to believe it was, for the boy had mistranslated the word 'barn'. “Brjóta mig? Nei Þú þarft að horfa á tunguna. Eða gleymdirðu foreldrar þínir eru ekki hér til að verja þig?” Draugur was attempting to make a point to Gunnar. Not so much of a threat, though one lingered in the warning tone the Northman used upon the boy. Despite the ghosts' savage nature he did not just attack without good reason, and thus far he was no reason to go for the child, beside there wasn't much victory in destroying a child that, logically, had no chance against an experienced adult. Would Thor condone it? Unlikely. Despite the things that the Sigurvegarinn did, or would do in the future, he still wished to go to Valhalla when he died, and the All-Father would not take him if he caused pointless deaths.

“I called you child,” The Northman rumbled in the common tongue. “Not baby.” Heaven forbid he cause the child more offense given that he did not, obviously know the proper translation of 'barn' from Norse to English. Draugur did not speak aloud that he would call the boy whatever he so pleased, because the man did not have to do anything for the child. Of course, he expected that, that door might swing both ways, but as far as Draugur was concerned he would always rank above the child while he was still a boy, even out here in the lawless, anarchy of the lone wilds. The name 'Loðbrók' grabbed at the interest of the wraith, if only because he'd heard stories that his one nephew, Ragnar, had taken to calling himself that, as a nickname. The boy that looked the most like Eitri; but Draugur's interest quickly faded, certain that all of Eitri's boys were as lawless as his eldest. Those who went against the Gods and the laws of the Gods did not deserve to call themselves Vikings, nor did they deserve to go to Valhalla.

“Draugur; or known as Sigurvegarinn to most.” It did not matter how the majority of Northmen knew him, as long as his legend was spread wide. He was one and the same: ghost or conqueror. Legend or man, there was no real difference.

"icelandic translation here"


Gunnar would have taken child and not said a word, it was the mistake of his own where baby was concerned that had caused his ire to break. "Nei þeir eru það ekki, en ef ég get ekki að minnsta kosti tilraun OT vernda mig hvers konar maður er að gera mér? Ég mun ekki fela sig á bak foreldra rass minn og hafa þá heyja orustur mína fyrir mig. Hvort munnleg eða annað" Gunnar was not giving the elder a hard time, merely explaining that even if his parents were there he would not allow them to fight his battles if he had started them, even if it was an accident that had started them. ANd his father would not fight his battles anyway. He would expect his son to condone to his own actions.

It was no lie that the older male was to be deemed more important than him in a manner of speaking. However, he could do with some manners whether he was a conquerer or not. Gunnar's ears splayed apart when the other man reprimanded him and corrected him. And he wrinkled his nose in distaste, but not at the elder more so at himself. He hadn't meant to translate it incorrectly, but in his defense he didn't speak the language as often as he should. Something he should rectify immediately he would ask his father for some more lessons just to refresh, even though he grew up speaking it.

Gunnar stared at the legend come to life before him. His brother had enjoyed listening to stories of this man. The conquerer, whom some thought to be a ghost, but was very real. He stared in reverence for a moment then shook his head. Didn't give him the right to treat others so regardless, but he held his tongue. My father has told me of you. You left after his brother killed Eitri, though father killed Bjorn for that. His father had glossed over the killing, not mentioning that it was also for a female at least not yet. Gunnar was fairly certain that many of his father's tales would have a woman or two in it, though none could compare to the fiery imp of his mother.

Draugur listened to the child's inquiry of if he did not fight his own battles what kind of man him. Draugur did not feel that it was necessary to remind the boy that he was not yet a man. It was not the Sigurvegarinn's job to antagonize a child. Even though this meeting already felt like a form of babysitting to the Northman. “Þú hefur hugrekki drengur, en að ekki láta hugrekki snúa til hroka. Það mun koma þér meiða eða verri,” That was a lesson better learned young. If Draugur would have been in the right mood, he would have without any doubt taken Gunnar's willingness to stare him down as a challenge, and unless the boy was willing to fight to his death, it was better that he stand down. At least in the presence of Draugur. “Að skora mig væri að berjast til dauða. Ég geri ráð fyrir að sé ekki eitthvað sem þú ert tilbúin til. Mundu að.” Draugur felt only disappointment in the boy's lack of discipline, and this disappointment traversed into an ugly irritation at his nephew. All of Eitri's sons were disgraces to their family, to the Vikings as far as Draugur was concerned. Even the middle son's own child did not know the rules of their culture, of their people. Draugur was thoroughly disgusted.

Even the legend that Ragnar told his children was wrong. “That is wrong,” If only Eitri were still alive, though there was a part of Draugur that was glad, in this instance, that his brother was not still drawing breath. Better he not know how his sons were failures. “When your grandfather,” Draugur corrected the boy, irritated that the boy had called Eitri by his name which the wraith took to be disrespectful. “took to the throne as Jarl he sent me off to conquer the many lands and packs in the name of the Cove. When word reached me of my brother's death I did not return. My mission has not changed, the Gods still demand my skills.” Likely, Ragnar killing Björn was the only good thing, not mention notable, the middle son had ever done, though Draugur kept that to himself.

With that the wraith fell silent not having much else to say at the moment.

Gunnar hadn't meant that he was a man yet, he had meant what kind of man would he become. But well it was all lost in translation and it wasn't like he could read the older males mind anyway. "Já Sir I mun leitast við að gera betur og vera minna hrokafullur. Ég er því miður fyrir upsetting þér." He shifted his overly large paws and laid his ears to his skull much like a youth scolded. Which in a way he was.

At the next words Gunnar quickly averted his eyes from the older male. He hadn't meant to challenge him, he was just studying him. He really needed to work on that, sometimes he got so lost in his own mind he didn't realize he was being overtly challenging.

Gunnar did not know much of his grandfather, so he did not call him grandfather. He supposed that wasn't very kind of him, but what else was he to do. Gunnar listened with attention. He cracked a small smile. You sound like father in a way, he is also following the gods missions though I believe it is different from yours. I should ask I have not ever done so.