Blood and Duty

Roland sits reading a worn, dog-eared book whose cover long ago ripped off. The rough-hewn, wooden, armchair his father crafted by hand many years ago, holds his large frame. As Roland reads, the sound of footsteps walking into the room distracts him. He looks up curiously at his mother.

"You've been seriously thinking about it, haven't you?" She says without accusation or reproach.

He merely nods his head and looks away from her. A desperation mixes on his face with horror, as he suddenly feels the guilt rise. Only his mother, even though he is now a young man, is able to instill that guilt with such a simple question.

"Its a difference," she continued, "of Duty to your people, or your loyalty to the Jarl. Will you let your emotions and familial connections sway you from what is obviously needed?"

"Would you," he growled in answer to her query, "betray him to his death by plotting with his own son?"

His words are spoken a little more sharply and harshly then he intends. The guilt he feels taints his emotions with a vicious, acrid, bitter, vitriol. His tone of voice sharpens with the anger he directs at himself for ever harboring such, terrible thoughts. She flinches. He sees it, deepening the guilt like a heavy stone in his gut.

Many in the Sept fear their once proud and capable leader, but now they hate him. Their fear of his skill, prowess, strength, and intimidating presence keeps most from challenging him. This eventually lead to an increase in his eccentricity. His father's continued erratic and dangerous behaviors forced Roland's hand. He now feels the irony of it all falling heavy upon his broad shoulders.

"The weight of the world hangs heavy over my head, mother. Please for..," he hesitates as she raises a hand at him, to ward off the apology. It sit on his lips, unspoken.

"No." She stated simply, "I understand."

"I..," she stumbles as her voice wavers and threatens to break.
"I understand better then most. I have failed, and it is up to you to correct both our mistakes."

Roland looks sharply up at his mother. The expression on his face and in his eyes is a cross between confusion and denial. He shakes his head.

"You never understood what I protected you from," she continues quickly, "nor what lengths I went to make sure you and your sister were safe. Maybe I should have let him have his ways, instead of protecting you. Maybe you might find this easier to face, had I allowed your sister to die." A hard look passes into her eyes.

"He has been a mad..," she hesitates again.

"He is a mad dog," she stumbles over the last word as a coldness settles into her features. Roland watches his mother's demeanor change into something far less motherly. A pin prick of fear lances his heart, and he understands who his mother really is as a person. Forged by a harsh life into a sharp-edged finely honed weapon of emotional force.

'She's had to be strong,' Roland muses, 'to withstand father's dementia.'

He swallows hard and his eyes widen, as he now understands. She is held in such high esteen by the Sept not because she is wife of the Jarl. She is a coldly calculating leader herself.

"Children of the warrior caste," she continues through his reverie, "are forged by their parent's fires. Few survive, because few can withstand the anger and vicious, feral, behaviors of those berserkers. I kept him human when the wolf tried to consume his soul. I put myself at risk to keep you both safe."

She shivers with her own pent up wrath. The tears spill down her cheeks unheeded. Roland watched in amazement and a little bit of fear chilled his skin.

"Mad the day he returned from finding that..," she states as her face pinches disgustedly, "butcher shop, that played at being a mental health facility. He was able, with my help, to keep it under control."

"But, what he saw during that mission changed him, Roland. He looked into the face of the Wyrm itself as he watched those poor souls suffer. He was charged to bring them back, and went against his better judgement to just kill them outright."


"He should have freed them," she growled,"Roland. His guilt drove him mad."

Her rolling commentary causes Roland's eyes to widen in shock.

"When he went out on the most dangerous missions," she snapped, "he wasn't just testing himself. That much was obvious from his suicidal exploits. "

Roland never thought about it. His father's returns were always heralded as his skill and prowess as a warrior. Nothing more was ever mentioned, until recently. Until now.

"He was trying to -kill- himself Roland," Roland's mother buries her face into her hands, and slowly she sinks to her knees. Such a a dark and potent secret now haunts them both.

He stands up and walks over to his mother. Roland doesn't touch her, or comfort her. This pain and internal suffering is hers alone. This villiany, her own weakness she must face by herself. He simply stands there, watching.

He hazards a glance at the book in his hand. His thumb still held open the section he read earlier. Flexing the spine of the book with his thumb against his palm, he re-reads the section and smirked.

"In general, men judge more from appearances than from realness. All men have eyes, but few have perception. Everyone sees what you seem to be, few know what you really are, and those few do not dare take a stand against the general opinion." It's point clear to him, now. The book dropps to the floor, startling his mother out of her miseriable state. She looks up at her son, and knows by the look of determination in his eyes that he's chossen his path.

Perception. His father's behavior was dictated by the needs of perception rather then the truth. Roland muses on this small small but nasty fact. The Jarl failed as a leader, because he could not keep the perception true.

'Because,' Roland thinks to himself, 'it wasn't true. The Fenrir are notablly an honorable people. So, eventually, everyone sees what his mother has known for years. Only now do they judge him as unfit.'

All because, only now, does the general opinion coincide with the truth. He feels the hot, angry, fiercely proud, and violent tears rise to his own eyes. Deep inside him, a part of his heart dies and his soul falters.


Suddenly, his heart flares up at the insult this instills from these, so called, Sept-mates. Weak, cowardly, FOOLS! Roland walks directly over to the wall of his father's trophy weapons his father. He grabs his father's grand, if ancient, viking-sword klaive. Roland then chooses the equally ancient Claymore, his rightful weapon. Years ago he earned the Claymore, but both weapons were 'retired' shortly thereafter to this wall of honor.

Angry tears well up in Roland's eyes, as he studies both swords. The memories pull at his heart and soul. His father knew this day would come, and did not want anymore blood to soil or ruin either of the ritual blades. Now Roland understood what his father had meant the day they both placed the weapons on the wall.

"Until the time comes," his father once spoke, "they will stay here."

Roland turns and brushes past his, now standing, mother to walk outside into the sunlight. She turns and at first only her eyes follow him. She then walks to the threshold of the door, and watches as the Fates' loom intertwine the two into a deadly crash course.

~~~~
~~~~

Eyes turn curiously as he strides purposefully through town. The more curious onlookers follow, wondering at Roland's ever so strange behavior. Roland, as one of the more even-tempered Philodox of the Sept rarely stirs to such a passionate and outwardly agressive demenaor. The lines of determined and righteous rage are etched clearly on his features. The pair of swords, on in each hand and one of them well renowned amoung the memebrs of the Sept, cause lips to stirr. Questions abound with no answers.

He leaves the small town and heads directly for the area cleared out for sparing. When he finally reaches it, a small crowd has gathered. Word spreads like wildfire in this small country setting, and few by this point do not know of Roland's strange behavior. Voices, whispering and gossiping about this strange occurence flow through the crowd as if by rippling river currents.

He ignores them all.

The sun rises warm in the chilled mountains that surround the deep valley. Behind him the spur of black onyx rock from the deeper vally-lake bed below them, peeks up over the ridge as if watching. Standing in the center of the ring, he strips down to his breeches. The swords lay in the dust, one proped against the other. The sun shines glints off the well-forged metal blades. All of the scars, welts and weals across Roland's skin glisten under a light coating of sweat.

"FATHER!" Roland bellows the one-word summons.

"Yes?" his father answers with a touch of amusement in his voice, from the back of the crowd. The gathering of people part like melting wax to allow the powerful and frightening figure of the Jarl to pass into the sparing ring. There is a smirk on his face, as if he expects this.

Roland's eyes narrow as his chest heaves. His breath quickens and heart races from the surge of adrenilin. Doubt crept into his mind to be viciously shoved away.

"Jan Gassner," Roland snarls as he feels the change take over his body of its own accord, "Jarl of the Black Fang Sept, son of Fenris Wolf, I call you to the Challenge Mound. You stand accused of being a weak, caern violating, coward. By allowing the Tradtions of the people, who once called this land Home to die and be forgotten, you have allowed the sacred lands in you care to come under a sublte but dangerous attack. I, Roland Gassner, challenge you for leadership of this Sept."

Roland's Ritual Challenge catches him off guard. Jan's shock is evident on his face. Maybe this wasn't what he first assumed. Slowly the shock fades as a deeper more insulting realization settles in. Jan hates being called a coward. His face twists into a human snarl, as Roland's change takes him to the half-man, half-wolf hybrid war-form.

Jan now understands with a sickening dread. His son, the one who his hope of the future rests upon, is now facing his own death. Somewhere inside a part of him withers and weeps, even as amore insane gibbering invades his mind. The Native Tribes did this. Yes.., its their fault that his son stands before him now, begginf or his own death. They put him up to it, and now Jan has to kill his own son.

Jan faces hardens in an all-too familar way. The Rage within him is bubbling over and Roland realizes just how dangerous a situation he is in now. Roland sets his shoulders, his right hand flexing as it itches to have his Claymore in its palm.

Jan dives for the pair of blades, rolling under his son's massive almost 12 foot hulk of furred muscle and sinuew. Roland moves fast and leaps out of the way. He understands the danger of his father's move on an almost instinctual level. Surprisingly, instead of coming back up and using the momentum of his roll for a strong slice, Jan merely rolls out of Roland's reach, with both blades. One in each hand, they are carried with an ease that belies the weapons' true weight.

Jan smirks at his son. Then he scowls.

"You call me coward, and a caern-violator. Your own moevemnts show you do not trust that I am an honorable warrior. You think I would force this fight, rather then wait for our Battle Master to oversee this challenge to me authority? The rituals of our Ancestors will be adhered to, and the proper rites encated.., first."

Roland growls. Though seemingly small, this first victory is still a potent one. The younger warrior's hackles rise at the insult to his own wisdom and honor. Reason invaded his mind, reminding him that his father was a crafty one. This was merely a bait, a trap ment to trigger a blinding rage.

Roland breathing steady's. The blessings of the balanced moon showed through, this time. His eyes narrow at his father as a vicious snarl appears across his muzzle. The temptation to bait his father in return sat tenderly on his muzzle and tongue. Instead, he waited for the Battle Master to show.

She walked up, a short woman covered in scars and missing an eye. Carried with her was a staf at least twice her height. The end that sat in the dusty earth was weighted with a solid looking, silver-colored, metal ball. The upper portion that jutted into the sky sported a duel- serrated edge of a simialr kind of metal. Beside her strode a young man, her apprentice in the ways of War.

Across from her appeared the grizzled form of the eldest Philodox of the Sept. He made eye contact with the Battle Master and merely nodded his head. The laws and Traditions of the Fenrir were well known to him, and by his presence would be upheld. The Battle Master nodded in return, then turned to face the two combatants.

Jan appraoches first, and places the weapons at her feet. Once he is away, she begins the rituals. Both Roland and Jan, as the combatants, join in the Rite while the rest of the Sept watched in growing awe. This was not a normal challenge of leadership, but the most formal form of challenge. The only outcome of which was death of one or both.

As the ancient rite of bloodshed ends, the only sounds that were audiable were the breathe and movements of the combatants, and the soft sigh of the mountain breeze. Even the animals nearby were silent.

The two squared off across from each other; Jan in his human guise and Roland in the hybrid form. Jan streached his shoulder while hefting the sword to check its balance and weight. Roland's claymore fit snuggly and comfortably into his war-form palm. The claw of the last two fingers clicked against the metal of the pommel.

A heavy pause hung in the air, as each battle-scarred warrior gauged the other. Both had expereince and cunning, but where Roland had his youth, Jan had his power.


~~~~
~~~~

"So old man," Roland spat the words out in the werewolf tongue of growls, scents, body language and half-formed words.

"What have you to say to these charges?" Roland snarled.

"Give your proof, son," The elder Gassner stated. The Elder of the Half Moons stood nearby to over see the charges, while the eldest of the Song-moons sat watching the events. Roland states each charge seperately, for clarity's sake.

"By your severe mis-managment of this Sept and its resources, you have allowed a Bane that was once bound at the edge of our territory to weaken its bonds. Kinfolk and werewolf alike have suffered for this."

Jan smirks, and looks un-impressed. Roland continues as he flexes his msucluar, furred shoulders and lowers his massive head in a feral threat-display.

"The spirits are angry at you, and you do not seek to serve Chiminage."

Jan shrugs, again un-impressed. There are whispers around the group as some of the more potent spirits on the Sept materialize amoung the crowd. Many are ancient ancestors of the Uktena and Wendigo. They push to the front, to watch justice take place in their names.

"By your tyrannical rule, you have forced bloodlines of non-Fenrir to become Fenrir. While I do not deny that our forefather is a powerful Totem, and many of our adopted siblings are more then worthy of claiming the name of Fenrir.., I do believe that bloodlines should serve the Totems that adopted their ancestors. By not allowing this, you have placed this Sept at risk. Those who needed to learn the ways of their Ancestors were denied this, as their elders were.., one by one.., forced to leave this Sept. I have also found out that you made them swear an oath of non-contact."

Jan stiffens some at his son's last words. His eyes narrow as he watches Roland speak. Looking around his son's massive hulking form, he can see clearly many of the ancestors. Fear, doubt, and unease creep into his mind.

'It must be true,' he thought silently to himself, 'Roland must have been corrupted by the Pure Landers. Why else would he be here? Why else would he bring these charges of not allowing the Uktena and Wendgio blooded kin to learn the ways of their collective peoples?' To Jan's twisted mind, it made no sense. So, in Jan's warped reality, Roland had betrayed him.

His heart sank more, as Roland's charges continued to spew forth. There was no turning back now. First his oldest and best loved daughter fled like a coward only to end up in the bed of a ditry 'urrah. Now his only son, and true-born son at that, was turned against him by his enemies.

"My own packmate is kin to the Uktenna, but has served as an adopted member of the Fenrir.., Honorablly, Gloriously, and Wisely for several years. The sacrifice he endures now has kept this Sept from falling into the hands of a powerful Bane. Uktena has claimed him, even as Fenris claims him, so he now serves both. It was Gaia's design that he be Uktenna.., but YOUR actions forced him to be rejected by the mysterious Totem of the Pure Landers."

Jan snorts. What did he care about the Totem's desires. He made sure all were worthy of being full flegded Garou.., strong.., powerful.., all survivors. Who cared what Totem accepted them. It wasn't his fault! If anything it was the Den Parents' fault.

"You have suppressed the Tales and History of this Sept in favor of the Tales and History of the Ancient Fenrir. While, again, I do not deny the wonder that is Fenris.., by not keeping the original PACT that was forged by our illustrious ancestors and the honorable ancestors of the Pure Landers has caused many of our allied spirits to turn against us. "

Again the powerful Ahroun sneered. Those who had challenged him before were found unworthy of being memebrs of -his- Sept. He, or so Jan believed, had been very leniant. He could have killed them, but allowed them to live if they promised to never return to their once-homes. He didn't need them to stirr dissent within HIS Sept. So better to have them leave, and be seen as merciful.

"You have proven, by your brutish ways, that the sterotype we carry in the Pure Lander's eyes, are true. This is the highest form of insult to the Tribe as a whole, as we are NOT mere brutes with the Mother's rage burning in our chests. We are -HONORABLE- sons and daughters of Fenris Wolf! Your actions have throughly dishonored our Tribe."

The sneer worsens, as Jan's temper errodes. His physical body slips unconciously into the sahpe between the human and full werewolf hybrid war-form. The not-quite-human but not-quite-werewolf shape was bulky and hairy, looking very Neanderthal-ish. A growl rumbles softly in teh Ahroun's throat.

Roland hunches down some, seeing his father' s shift of forms, waiting for him to respond with violence at any moment. Even so he continues his diatribe of charges.

"Your policies as Alpha have caused a number of our kin.., our futures.., our shieldmates and our support.., to LEAVE. They did not -abandon us- as you seem to believe.., they fled your insanity. I do not condone cowardice, but I cannot believe that their exxodus was due to cowardice."

A frightening stillness enwrapss the two, as the crowd around them goes very still. Each size the other up as predators do to prey.

"I have it on good word that your insanity is deeper then most dare belive. In your time you have made these policies of yours worse in order for someone to challenge you.., on purpose. That you are sucidal, and have sought your own destruction.., and now that you are so long in the tooth, you seek to bring the Sept down around our ears with you."

Roland opens his mouth to continue to speak, but the roar of an enrage beast rips trhough the air. His father launches himself at his son.., no longer seeing his son as his flesh and blood.., but as an enemy. Jan, in his nearly frenzied state of mind, is blind to all but the blood and anger pounding through his mind.

~~~~

The clash of steel on steel rang through the air as the two furious werewolves hammered away at each other. Skill, and raw power mixed together in a show of grace and deadly purpose.

Jan's inital drive was ment to throw the younger garou off his feet. Roland well knew his father's tatics, and saw the intent advertised through Jan's forward momentum. He side stepped while bending his elbow in towards himself, while pulling his whole arm backwards. This motion matched Jan's rush. The inertia carried the older garou past his son, while the edge of Roland's blade slid along the older werewolf's mid-torso.

Roland spun to face his father. Jan was carried well past ths point of contact by his heavier bulk, before he turned to face his son. The younger werewolf took the oppertunity to check his blade for blood.

Nothing.

Roland grimace. His father's battle-scarred hide and thick fur lent him an almost armor-like quality to his body. The Philodox mused to himself as he scowled down the length of the battle field at his father. This was going to be a much tougher fight then he had anticipated. A cold chill crept the length of his spine.

He was, indeed, facing a monster built for dealing out death.

Roland continued to fight with cunning, using his multiple forms and their various talents to his advantage. He aimed for, and often hit, what was susposed to be the softer areas of the body. Most of his blows drew no blood, instead they seemed only to slice through fur. Bald pacthes were beginning to show on the older werewolf. Roland's instincts recognized this and began to formulate a plan.

(( wip ))


The older Gassner drove into his son with as much force and power he could muster. Nearly none of his attacks landed, as Roland was able to duck out of the less flexible warrior's reach. But those few that hit their mark bit deeply and bled.



While Roland waited for his father to flag, he felt his stamina sapped from the wounds to his upper arms. there seemed to be no end to the old werewolf's stamina.

They used their forms, and the skills each form had, to their best advantage. Even as steel rang, the used claws and teeth as well as to draw blood on the other. Brute strength was used in attempts to push at the other, trip the other up, or cause the other to loose footing.

As the battle wore on, their stamina seemed to go on forever. The sun passed through the sky, and began to set before either showed any sign of faltering. Blood coated both combatants, and the ground around them. Their movements slowed, became more exacting as their strength ebbed and dexterity was compromised.

((wip))

~~~~
~~~~

Roland sits in the Council Chair at the heart of the Table. Before him sit the wise, educated, and well experienced, Elders of the Sept. In their eyes sit a mixture of fear, respect, and curiosity.

Yes, they now fear him. The son, blood of blood, brought down the more powerful father in a one-on-one clash. The earth's body still bright and sticky with heart's blood spilled in the ritual combat. The fire in his heart burns brightly, fueled by the anger and dejection of what Duty forced him to do. Patricide.

But, he vows now silently to himself, to not fail where his father so miserably failed. He must correct the past mistakes and reforge the Sept into something stronger. Only then will his father's soul be freed of the taint of pride and perception. Only then will Roland purge himself of the guilt and purify his soul. He looked into the faces of his Council.

"First thing on order is to bring back the old Council, as per the Native Tribes of this area, as we once had," he stated simply. The Elders look stunned.

"I want," the new Jarl continues, "those Traditions back and being taught once more. Next, and more importantly, the kinfolk that were claimed by my father, must be returned to their relatives. Imediately. Call forth to the Spirits and have them send word that those who were ousted are to return if they are willing. They are the blood of the land, and deserve to be here more then many of us."

Some of them offer arguements, dissenting his rule. Roland growls fiercely, silencing everyone. They remember the battle, and many eyes went to the new scars on Roland's upper arms and chest. Some physically quake in their own skins.

Yes they'd fear him..., and rightly so. But they would never hate him, so Roland swore to himself.