Bjorn the Fell Handed

Bjorn is the oldest Space Marine in the Imperium. He is so old in fact, that he saw the Emprah in person and fought alongside Leman Russ. Because of this the Space Wolves consult him on matters regarding history, something Bjorn can't stand because they always ask the same questions, and the Space Wolves themselves have become more and more detached from their ancient roots. On each and every event Bjorn carries on a charade, acting as though his mind is degrading to discourage the chapter from awakening him again if not for emergencies, but no matter how infrequently the chapter requests to learn their history, every conference has the feel of being immediately after the last to Bjorn, who only has glimpses of conciousness while he tells the only stories the Space Wolves ever want to hear. Over and over again.

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The familiar hissing of servos being powered up after centuries of idleness filled the echoing sarcophagus he was trying to rest in. As his senses engaged, once more allowing him to see and hear the outside world, the familiar chanting filled his near-dead ears once more. Shit, he thought, it's that time of millenia again. The language of the Space Wolves' rune priests was a harsh, gutteral dialect appropriate for harsh people with excesses of phlegm, and if this lot were like the last lot, that was an accurate description. Oh well, time to put on the show. He cleared his throat and prepared his deep, tired voice for use once more. After all, if he made it seem he was slowly losing his grip on reality, they let him sleep longer. "WHO AWAKENS BJORN?" he spoke into the microphone, letting the vox casters on the dreadnought echo it out into the surrounding room. He could already see who was awakening him - the little gimp with the wolf-pubes for a beard - but he had to follow the ritual, make it look all authentic or they would start asking questions.

"Oh mighty Bjorn, the Fell-Handed-" ahh shit, he hated that nickname, "we awaken thee to help us remember the past, the forgotten and the sacrificed, those who embody the spirit of the Wolf" spirit of the Wolf? That bollocks was new. Normally they went on about the spirit of the warrior and shit. "YOU WISH TO HEAR THE TALES AGAIN, DO YOU?" he recited, having said this shit at least half a dozen times in the past. "Yes, oh Venerable one, please, tell us." The pube-faced-cock and his collection of old farts behind him bowed in supplication. He really, REALLY hated having to tell all these tales. Imagine being asleep, and only being woken up every few hours to tell stories, then being put back to sleep, that was his fate, and he was starting to get sick of it. And they always wanted to hear about fucking Leman Russ, too. Woe betide any fucker stupid enough to ask about Leman Russ. "FIND ME AN AUDIENCE OF LOYAL WARRIORS, STRONG AND TRUE, WHO MIGHT WISH TO HEAR THE TALES."

Gythor was excited. More then excited, he was ecstatic. He was still a Blood Claw, having not yet earned the opportunity to become a fully fledged Grey Hunter in glorious combat, but he priviledged to be one of those alive at the right time to hear the tales of Bjorn, the Fell-Handed. One of the oldest space marines still alive, one who saw the Emperor himself! He would hear the glorious tales spoken from the man's own lips - well, vox casters - of great legends that had been forgotten in the years. While he waited he shared an ale with his packmates, but as a hush settled over the crowd as the heavy footfalls of a dreadnought could be heard approaching. All eyes turned towards the massive oak doors of the great hall as it approached, step after step, agonisingly slowly. Just when it sounded like it was right outside the noise stopped. Second after second ticked by, quiet having settled over the room like a blanket over a frightened child. First it was seconds, then it stretched into minutes. Finally a voice down the back of the room spoke up. "Do we... open the door for him, or someth-" He was interrupted by the door of the great hall, which had stood for a millenia, essentially exploded inwards, shattering into a thousand pieces and flinging themselves at the assembled Space Wolves. The blood claw pack near the door find themselves with cuts from flying wood all over their faces, one collapsing to the ground with a shard of food the size of his fist embedded in his eye. Lucky fucker, though Gythor, he's going to get SUCH a fucking cool scar.

"I AM HERE" spoke Bjorn, the words echoing out through the great hall, emerging lifelessly from the vox caster mounted on the Dreadnought. A great cheer rose from the masses of Space Wolves, before they chanted their traditional song of joy, repeating the word 'Wolf' at varying pitches in an almost orchestral sounding song. For a second Gythor thought he heard the vox casters on the dreadnought mutter 'what the fu-', but he knew such a thing could not be right, Bjorn's voice was as powerful as thunder, a much like that did not mumble. The Space Wolves cleared the path for the enormous, venerable dreadnought to pace down the length of the enormous hall, his pounding footsteps knocking aside ale tankard within a few meters of him as he passed. Gythor held his breath in excitement as the Dreadnought reached the head of the hall and turned to face the assembled masses. "TELL ME, OF WHICH STORY DO YOU WISH TO HEAR?" boomed his dead, powerful voice. A thousand responses rose at once, Wolves shouting their answers all together. The high rune priest, who had followed along behind Bjorn without even being noticed, held his hand out for silence. "Brothers, please! You, Grey-Hunter Rynold, you may ask first." The marine singled out rose from his seat, helmet clutched under his arm with pride.

"Noble Bjorn the Fell-handed-" an echoed grunt of annoyance echoed around the hall, but no one seemed to notice, "-tell us more of our glorious founder, tell us of the greatness of Leman Russ himself!" Rynold thrust his free hand into the air as if he had achieved some glorious victory in asking his question, though from the cheers of agreement of his fellow marines, many felt he had. As the cheers died off, it took a few seconds to realise Bjorn was silent. He had not yet answered. The high Rune priest cleared his throat once. "Uh, mighty Bjorn, do you need the question repea-" "YOU COCKSUCKERS" bellowed Bjorn. Silence answered his words, until a few of the long fangs near the front of the hall started chuckling, obviously thinking it was a joke. "DON'T FUCKING LAUGH. DO I SOUND LIKE I'M MAKING A JOKE." Again, silence answered his words. "SERIOUSLY, I'M WOKEN UP ONCE A FUCKING THOUSAND YEARS TO TELL YOU FUCKERS OF THE PAST, AND EACH TIME I SEE YOU'VE FUCKED OVER HISTORY EVEN WORSE THEN IT WAS BEFORE. LEMAN RUSS WAS AN ASSHOLE." Again, silence. The Rune Priest cleared his throat. "Perhaps we should allow noble dreadnought Bjorn some more rest, shall w-" "NO, ENOUGH FUCKING REST. YOU ARE ALL GOING TO HEAR ABOUT WHY LEMAN RUSS WAS A FUCKING DICK. SERIOUSLY. A DICK. YOU WANT TO KNOW WHY I'M CALLED 'THE FELL HANDED'? FUCKER CAUGHT ME JERKING OFF BEHIND A ROCK ONE NIGHT ABOUT TWENTY METERS FROM THE REST OF THE DETACHMENT. KICKS THE ROCK AWAY AND SHOUTS 'LO, IT SEEMS HE IS BESTING A MIGHTY FELL-BEAST WITH ONLY HIS HAND."

Again, silence. This time broken by a slight snickering from some of the younger blood claws. "I FUCKING HEARD THAT, YOU CUNTS. YOU FUCKING WOLF FUCKERS. YEAH, DON'T THINK I DON'T NOTICE YOUR GROWING OBSESSION WITH WOLVES. SERIOUSLY, WHEN I WAS AROUND WE WERE JUST CRAZY FUCKERS WHO RIPPED OUT OUR ENEMIES THROATS WITH OUR TEETH. NOW YOU'RE FUCKING RIDING WOLVES INTO BATTLE. YOU KNOW WHAT ELSE YOU CAN RIDE INTO BATTLE? FUCKING BIKES. AND A FUCKING BIKE HAS GUNS ATTACHED." Silence dominated the room in between Bjorn's words. A few of the Wolf-riders cleared their throats nervously and patted their wolf companions, all of whom had a thousand yard stare and the haunted look of molestation victims. "YOU FUCKERS THINK YOU KNOW LEMAN RUSS? THE GUY WAS A DOUCHE. HIS STRATEGIES WERE 'YEAH, YOU GUYS GO CHARGE THE ENEMY, I'LL SECURE THIS SHACK WITH THESE BITCHES', AND HE WASN'T TALKING ABOUT FEMALE WOLVES." The high rune priest held his head in his armoured hands for a second, before standing up once more. "Mighty Bjorn, perhaps we shou-" "HE WAS TALKING ABOUT WOMEN. YOU KNOW WHY HE HATED... WHAT'S HIS NAME, THE DARK ANGELS GUY. THAT GEEK, WHAT WAS HIS NAME AGAIN?"

The Rune Priest, now abandoned to this being the second worst Bjorn story-time ever, answered. "Lion El'Jonson." "YEAH, FUCKING LION EL'JONSON, HE WAS A DECENT MAN. HE AND LEMAN HATED EACH OTHER BECAUSE LION EL' ENJOYED BOOKS. YEAH, THAT'S IT. FIRST TIME THEY EVER MET LION WAS READING A BOOK, LEMAN WALKED IN AND SHOUTED 'HEY, I'M LOOKING FOR MY BROTHER PRIMARCH, ALL I SEE IS A BOOK-READING PUSSY'. THEN HELD HIS HAND OUT TO BE BRO-FISTED. NO ONE DID, SO HE PUNCHED LION OUT TO SEE TOUGH." Again, only silence, this time broken by the sound of an ale tankard being dropped from numb fingers. "YEAH, THE GUY WAS A CUNT. WHEN THEY SHOWED HIM THE SCHEMATICS FOR THE LEMAN RUSS TANK, YOU KNOW WHAT HE SAID? HE SAID 'MAKE THE CANNON BIGGER. LIKE MY COCK.' HE DEMANDED THE SCHEMATICS FOR THE PREMIERE TANK OF THE IMPERIAL GUARD BE ALTERED PURELY SO HE COULD MAKE A DICK JOKE."

The servos of Bjorn's mighty armoured sarcophagus whired into life as he suddenly started forward, his pounding feet bringing him back towards the door he burst in from. He did not stop as he crushed his way through a two millenia old table, and Space Wolves scattered out of his way with each thudding footstep. The entire assembled chapter watched in amazement as the Dreadnought sulked off, stopping only at the door to turn and speak once. "IF YOU FUCKERS WAKE ME AGAIN, IT BETTER BE TO KILL SOMETHING OR ASK ABOUT ACTUAL HEROES, NOT BITCH-STEALING ASSHOLES." And with that, Bjorn walked away, followed by hastily running Rune Priests.