Tanks & Trolls

Space Wolves

A commission

Foreward by Mathias Fenger (now proud owner of this army)

Fenris, sometime past the second founding...

Tarmin forced a smile upon his face. He turned towards the sky and howled as loud as his teenage lungs were able to. Immediately all young bloods along the shore howled with fervour. Tarmin’s look rambled around his peers. Following the fire lights fixed at the masts of the departing dragon ships, no one left the beach. But soon the lights mixed up with the stars above the horizon and couldn’t be separated any further.

They were left behind.

He estimated their number at about one hundred young bloods. Like Tarmin, they watched their elders leaving with sadness. They had to go, he knew, to take revenge for what he was unable to describe, to name or even think about. The ambush of the Iron Hammers Clan took place two days ago. Cowardly the Hammers attacked at the new moons feast and despicable killed most of the women. The clan had no future. The loss was irreversible, the crack in the hearts of Hurakan’s warriors incurable. Those that survived the ambush had nothing left of them but bitter revenge.

They never returned.

About a decade later, Tarmin stood at the beach again. Three ships had shown up at the horizon. It weren’t dragon ships. Fast they reached the cost line and with pleasure Tarmin recognized the grey hammer symbol on the ships canvas. He growled gruesome. The beach was crowded with what had become the next generation of Hurakan’s warriors. The young bloods had grown up. More pristine than any generation afore they had achieved unique strength and power. There was only the right of the mighty and mighty were all of them.

They stood face to face.

Clan leader Rafnek of the Iron Hammers, and mightiest of the Sons of Hurakan, Tarmin Skar. For one moment, the scene seemed to freeze, than the prides charged.The Iron Hammers were experienced warriors, but outnumbered and physical inferior. It was a bloody massacre. When the few surviving attackers fled, dozens of warriors had been killed. Most of them Hammers, but many Sons of Hurakan lost their life’s too. Deathly wounded, Tarmin’s breathing was flat. His friends were at his side, praying to the wind god, arranging the runes of transition. Tarmin passed out. He closed his eyes and died in the moment a bright shining star landed on the battlefield. It was no epiphany, but a Thunder Hawk. Bjorn Tjiar (later known as “the Fell-handed”) disembarked. He had observed the battle, searching for new potential Space Marine aspirants. Needless to say, most of the survivors and those that could be reanimated were recruited.

They stayed together.

During their training the wolf pack kept its coherence. Every time a wolf was separated, the earth was imbued with blood. Because their pride was unbreakable und they didn’t know the word fear. They became ideal, honorable Space Marine aspirants, but accepted none but their peers; those they perceived by their howl. Ever since, the Sons of Hurakan became part of the 8th Company of the Emperors Space Wolves.

They were Space Marines.

The whole force to be painted. I was kind of hoping that painting this lot for somebody else might get the whole wolf thing out of my system and save me a fortune. Sadly as each piece is finished I find myself thinking 'just a little assault force sitting alongside the Crimsons might look cool' <rolls eyes>