Ich hoffe es spricht nichts dagegen, hier auch mal eine englische Story zu veröffentlichen.
Ich schreibe meinen Background hauptsächlich auf englisch, weil ich in einer ganzen Menge internationaler Foren poste, sie auf deutsch zu übersetzen, lohnt aber auch nicht wirklich, weil ich erstens übersetzen hasse und zweitens dabei immer ne Menge Atmosphäre verloren geht.
Über Kommentare freue ich mich immer, und konstruktive Kritik ist ebenso willkommen 🙂
Hier also die Kurzgeschichte:
Hælæif stood on a snow-covered rock formation, watching the battle raging on the dragonships some miles out to the sea before him, his keen eyes enabling him to see every detail despite the distance. Snow was falling in great white flakes from the cloudy sky as the native fenrisians battled for the small island on which Hælæif stood now, their primitive axes and swords already covered in the blood of their foes. Slowly, the tribe that had attacked gained the upper hand, and the others started to regroup and tried to break off. Only one of their number seemed unwilling to give up the fight, and threw himself at the enemy like there was no tomorrow, and Hælæif knew that for the most of his tribe, that would probably be true.
The young warrior, obviously one of the wolfbrothers of that tribe, no older than seven winters, slashed at the enemy with an axe in each hand, killing numerous foes, but he did not care for his own safety at all, and was already wounded severely. Hælæif looked back to the Thunderhawk standing in a small valley behind him, and gestured for Tjorvi, the pilot, to power up its engines.
His decision had been made.
The Thunderhawk rose from the ground, slowly skimming to a halt nearby the gnarled old Wolf Priest, who grabbed the open ramp and pulled himself in. Immediately, the ramp slammed shut and the Thunderhawk roared forward, towards the sea.
Three miles away, the fenrisian warriors suddenly stopped fighting and looked to the sky in awe when they heard the thunderous roar of the iron hawk. Within seconds it was above them, and a door opened in its massive body. From it jumped a figure clad in black, shining armour covered in mystic symbols, one hand holding a long wooden staff encrusted with runes, his face gnarled and framed in long white hair, his beard hanging to his chest in two braids. Along came two young and beautiful maidens, clad in furred leather armour, one with black hair and sharp, narrow eyes, the other fair-haired, both with the rune Hagalaz on their forehead, the rune that embodied change.
The large warrior strode forward, and all the fenrisians stepped out of his way, looking at him in silent reverence. This was a warrior of the gods, the Chooser of the Slain, and they were his shieldmaidens, the Valkyries, who would carry the bodies of slain heroes to the halls of Asaheim, to feast with Russ until the Wolftime, when they would fight by his side.
The Chooser stepped over to the body of young Hrodgæir of the Ironpelt tribe, who had fought valiantly but succumbed to his many wounds eventually. The Chooser examined the young man, who was hardly breathing anymore, and then stepped aside. The maidens lifted the body up and carefully bore him to the iron hawk, which had in the meantime come to a halt beside the dragonship, the ramp firmly placed on the railing. The Chooser took one last glance around, then he followed them, and the mysterious skyship of the gods closed its ramp and took to the skies, to Asaheim. The Fenrisians followed its flight with their eyes, until it had become a small black dot in the dark sky.
Hælæif was satisfied. This young man would make a good warrior, if he would survive the training and the Blooding ritual. His wounds were already healing, the chemicals inserted into his blood doing their work. He looked to Asta and Hallveig, his two shieldmaidens. They did their work well, having lost not a single warrior whom he had chosen to be taken from the battlefields of Fenris. The shieldmaidens were ordinary fenrisian women from amongst the servants of the Space Wolves who lived in the Fang and aboard the Wolves spaceships, chosen both for beauty and medical skill. They accompanied the Wolf Priests in their searches for new initiates for the Legion, and it was they who were in charge of keeping the chosen alive, almost all of them on the brink of death, until they could be brought to the hospital facilities within the Fang.
Hælæif looked into the young mans eyes. They were open, and he could see that the pup was in great pain, but too exhausted to move or even moan. He was fighting an inner battle now, a battle between astonishment and hope about him being taken by the Valkyries, and despair at his tribe losing the battle and the feeling of himself dying, a battle Hælæif had fought himself centuries ago. He put a hand on the young mans shoulder, and spoke to him. „You will live, young pup, and so will your tribe, do not be afraid. But though I know it is hard, your tribes fate does not matter to you now. Your tribe are now the Space Wolves, the warriors of Russ.“
Äh, hoppla...falsches Forum...kann das mal jemand moven? Sorry Sorry... 🤔
Ich schreibe meinen Background hauptsächlich auf englisch, weil ich in einer ganzen Menge internationaler Foren poste, sie auf deutsch zu übersetzen, lohnt aber auch nicht wirklich, weil ich erstens übersetzen hasse und zweitens dabei immer ne Menge Atmosphäre verloren geht.
Über Kommentare freue ich mich immer, und konstruktive Kritik ist ebenso willkommen 🙂
Hier also die Kurzgeschichte:
Hælæif stood on a snow-covered rock formation, watching the battle raging on the dragonships some miles out to the sea before him, his keen eyes enabling him to see every detail despite the distance. Snow was falling in great white flakes from the cloudy sky as the native fenrisians battled for the small island on which Hælæif stood now, their primitive axes and swords already covered in the blood of their foes. Slowly, the tribe that had attacked gained the upper hand, and the others started to regroup and tried to break off. Only one of their number seemed unwilling to give up the fight, and threw himself at the enemy like there was no tomorrow, and Hælæif knew that for the most of his tribe, that would probably be true.
The young warrior, obviously one of the wolfbrothers of that tribe, no older than seven winters, slashed at the enemy with an axe in each hand, killing numerous foes, but he did not care for his own safety at all, and was already wounded severely. Hælæif looked back to the Thunderhawk standing in a small valley behind him, and gestured for Tjorvi, the pilot, to power up its engines.
His decision had been made.
The Thunderhawk rose from the ground, slowly skimming to a halt nearby the gnarled old Wolf Priest, who grabbed the open ramp and pulled himself in. Immediately, the ramp slammed shut and the Thunderhawk roared forward, towards the sea.
Three miles away, the fenrisian warriors suddenly stopped fighting and looked to the sky in awe when they heard the thunderous roar of the iron hawk. Within seconds it was above them, and a door opened in its massive body. From it jumped a figure clad in black, shining armour covered in mystic symbols, one hand holding a long wooden staff encrusted with runes, his face gnarled and framed in long white hair, his beard hanging to his chest in two braids. Along came two young and beautiful maidens, clad in furred leather armour, one with black hair and sharp, narrow eyes, the other fair-haired, both with the rune Hagalaz on their forehead, the rune that embodied change.
The large warrior strode forward, and all the fenrisians stepped out of his way, looking at him in silent reverence. This was a warrior of the gods, the Chooser of the Slain, and they were his shieldmaidens, the Valkyries, who would carry the bodies of slain heroes to the halls of Asaheim, to feast with Russ until the Wolftime, when they would fight by his side.
The Chooser stepped over to the body of young Hrodgæir of the Ironpelt tribe, who had fought valiantly but succumbed to his many wounds eventually. The Chooser examined the young man, who was hardly breathing anymore, and then stepped aside. The maidens lifted the body up and carefully bore him to the iron hawk, which had in the meantime come to a halt beside the dragonship, the ramp firmly placed on the railing. The Chooser took one last glance around, then he followed them, and the mysterious skyship of the gods closed its ramp and took to the skies, to Asaheim. The Fenrisians followed its flight with their eyes, until it had become a small black dot in the dark sky.
Hælæif was satisfied. This young man would make a good warrior, if he would survive the training and the Blooding ritual. His wounds were already healing, the chemicals inserted into his blood doing their work. He looked to Asta and Hallveig, his two shieldmaidens. They did their work well, having lost not a single warrior whom he had chosen to be taken from the battlefields of Fenris. The shieldmaidens were ordinary fenrisian women from amongst the servants of the Space Wolves who lived in the Fang and aboard the Wolves spaceships, chosen both for beauty and medical skill. They accompanied the Wolf Priests in their searches for new initiates for the Legion, and it was they who were in charge of keeping the chosen alive, almost all of them on the brink of death, until they could be brought to the hospital facilities within the Fang.
Hælæif looked into the young mans eyes. They were open, and he could see that the pup was in great pain, but too exhausted to move or even moan. He was fighting an inner battle now, a battle between astonishment and hope about him being taken by the Valkyries, and despair at his tribe losing the battle and the feeling of himself dying, a battle Hælæif had fought himself centuries ago. He put a hand on the young mans shoulder, and spoke to him. „You will live, young pup, and so will your tribe, do not be afraid. But though I know it is hard, your tribes fate does not matter to you now. Your tribe are now the Space Wolves, the warriors of Russ.“
Äh, hoppla...falsches Forum...kann das mal jemand moven? Sorry Sorry... 🤔
