Editing Death Consuls Writefaggotry (section)

=Tale of the Tiger=
'''
The story of how Jurgen earned his name.'''


The ground is cold and hard, countless layers of snow, pressed so close together that the earth feels as though it is made of stone. His feet leave tiny imprints on the ground, all but impossible to be seen by human eyes. His improvised snow shoes are working well. 

He walks by another set of tracks. The beast is four legged. A slight difference on the snow marks where the beast has been crippled by him. A foreleg hit. Were it a deer back home, it would have bled out and died within the hour. No such luck for him, his father would laugh, if he were alive.

It is hard work, hunting a great white tiger. The people on this world say that one doesn't hunt the beast, one must become the hunt itself. The tiger is the apex predator of this world. To hunt the hunter, one must become a force of nature. The blessings of the huntmaster alone allow the tiger to be brought down. The Great white cats are the favored pets of the huntmaster. Only by his grace shall one hunt him. So the old ones say.

The reward for killing the tiger is tempting. Enough money so that he and his mother can live the rest of their lives in peace in the newly constructed hive city. His mother and sister are counting on him. He is old enough to know what the men will do to his mother and sister once the arbites leave in two more days. He is the man of the house, he will not allow that to happen. They are all he has left.

The beast's movements are getting more erratic. It has moved down into the gulley to sleep. A quick shot to the head on full power will kill the thing. Then he can take it's forepaws as proof of the deed. The old ones say that they are blessed by the huntmaster himself. Maybe with this strange god's blessing, He can start a new life with his family.

His father would be proud of him now. The old man had taught him all he knew before he was killed, and since he has come to this world, he has learned more. He knows the lay of the land as good as any hunter born on these cold plains, and knows what plants are dangerous and what plants are edible. He has seen the great cats before, and knows they don't hunt people unless they have to. He moves down wind, knowing the great cat has a keen sense of smell. His shoes make no sound at all. He doubts that even the rulers of this world can hear him. His cloak is as white as the background behind him. At this moment, he is the hunter. A sense of right fills him. He knows that the time of the kill is drawing near. His nerves are tingling with anticipation. He breathes as he had been taught by his father. Eyes on the tracks, and not on the horizon, he matches his breath with the wind blowing across his face, slowing it down as the wind dies. All his worldy cares vanish. Only the thrill of the hunt remains. He is focused.

His world is focused on two things now, the tracks in front of him, and the contours of the land. An excellent place to ambush someone, to stalk a herd and remain hidden. A place that a hunter can call home. Maybe after he has secured the funds so that his family can live in the newly built hive city, he can return here. Just him and the great cats, hunting in the wilderness. No troubles, no worrries, just throbbing feeling of adrenaline coursing through his arteries and the hyper focused analysis of the terrain surrounding him. 

Then he sees the great beast in front of him. It is sitting in by a pool, drinking water. The foreleg seems twisted. He has found his prey. Unbidden, a prayer comes to his lips. He knows he is praying to the huntmaster, beseeching permission to kill one of his favored pets. He has seen the old ones use the prayer a hundred times, but never recited it before today.

He feels a gaze borne up from the depths of the earth staring at him, looking into him, analyzing him with a pitiless gaze. For a moment

He sees every aspect of his life laid bare before his own eyes, and being analyzed by the the being. All his hopes, dreams, lusts and fears being looked over and tossed aside. Then something catches' the entity's attention. It is looking at the memories of his hunt. 

It sees him hunting with his father, and sees him hunting alone. It looks curious now, instead of bored. It watches with stern amusement as his younger self learns from his father. and then learns from himself, and at last learns from the world around him. At that last memory, of him hunting the big cat over the trackless wastes, the creature pauses. He can feel it smile, if such a word could be applied to the entity. It looks at him, for a moment before giving the slightest tilt of it's head and striding back over the wastes. He sees a great spectral cat, walking at it's side. Its forepaw bent out of shape but slowly twisting into it's original form.

The vision passes. He looks back through his iron sights. The great white tiger is lying down on the ground. It is now deathly still. Despite what he has done, a momentary pang of sorrow fills him. It is a sorrowful thing to see such a sublime creature brought low. He walks over to it, all pretense at stealth thrown to the howling wind that has arisen. The creature is doubtless dead, but it's body is still warm. Should he flay it here in this pristine place, reddening the snow and water with the blood of such a noble creature?

A growl brings him back. Over the horizon he sees another one of those cats staring at him. Then another one appears, then then two more. An entire pack sees the boy standing over it's kind and then they move in towards the two of them. In a moment, the hunter has become the hunted. And yet, there is no threat in those growls. Their tone seems to acknowledge him as a fellow hunter.

The people at the logging outpost 52-6 were amazed at the scene that greeted them. The entire night was filled with fear and even the arbites hadn't been able to leave. 
The great cats were roaring during a snowy blizzard that had come up as if from nowhere, and people had hidden behind the palisade. If those things decided to attack they would be dead, power armor or not. 

Arbite Groz was annoyed. He had to make sure that this place wasn't torn to pieces from the scared mob within and no one was trying to cause law and order issues in the general emergency. Duty drove him forward as he patrolled the village all night. Once the storm was over, he could return to the hive city again. It was coming along nicely. The Death's Consuls were hard taskmasters. Hard but fair. Which was a lot more than those criminal scum deserved.

The only other people who were not shitting their pants in terror were the old bastards who kept the temple of the emperor running. They worshipped him as a hunter, and even though it was not exactly ecclisiarchial canon, it wasn't heretical either. The old chucklefucks were laughing instead, promising that the huntmaster had spoken, and they were to witness a miracle.

When dawn broke, Groz was bound to agree. A young boy, stood at the gates of the settlement, with a rifle slung across his back, and one of those cats laying at his feet. The doors swung open and the stunned populace let them in. Apparently, it was impossible for humans to hunt these beasts because of the trackless wilds beyond. And yet, here was a dead tiger with a young boy standing next to it.

The old men knelt before the boy, something. He moved to investigate. Were they actually chaos worshippers? No, they were calling him 'touched by the hunt.' An odd title, but he would need a priest to investigate. Either way, the bounty on one of those creatures belonged to the boy, and with it, he could start a new life, far away from this logging camp.

"young man, if you want to collect the bounty, you must return to the hive city with me". The boy simply nodded. His eyes had the thousand yard stare Groz had seen in veteran soldiers, and he also saw a smoldering spark in them. This boy was definitely not destined for an ordinary life. The auxilia would kill for a tracker this good, or he would be an excellent scout for the newly forming regiment from this planet.

"I am done with this place, I want my mother and sister to come with me to the city." The boy said in a toneless voice. Groz nodded. The vehicle was big enough for an entire infantry section, it could fit a great white tiger and 4 people in easily. The civilians were happy to help load the beast in.

The drive to the city passed in silence. His other two passengers seemed like standard people to him. A mother and a young child that still needed help to walk. It was a girl, dressed in a frock that was a few sizes too big for her. An adorable sight, and at odds with the beast that lay before her.

The boy was skinning the beast with remarkable precision. Despite his age, he seemed to be at home working through the beast. By the time their ride ended, the beast was skinned. It would face a handsome prize in any market in the galaxy. The boy had asked him to sell the rest of the beast or keep it for himself. A parting gift, he said.

Their paperwork done, the boy had with him enough money to buy a penthouse in the hab spire. Apparently the adeptus biologis were paying an extremely high price for one of these great white beasts. The boy went ahead and gave it to the mother. The poor woman seemed scared with that amount of money. She and her daughter would doubtless get robbed soon if they were left unattended. Groz decided that he would help the two find a place. Besides, the woman was pretty in a rustic way, and it reminded him of a time back before he was a peacekeeper.

The boy was restless, and stared back at him. They were moving through the streets making way for an lodging that was safe enough. Their rooms booked, the troupe took possession of them immediately. It was an odd sight, rustic yokels taking rooms in an upmarket area while accompanied by an adeptus arbite.

Groz had suggested that the boy join the scouts for the newly formed regiment. He was doubtless a great hunter and the hide was proof enough for him to get enlisted. The pay would be good and unless they were called to war, he could stay near his family. Truth be told, Groz would rather talk to the pretty mother than this sullen boy. After a great deal of talking, he agreed to accompany the boy to the enlistment center.

They would leave tomorrow, and he had a good few hours to talk to the mother. By the time day broke again, Arbite Groz was head over heels in love. The woman had suffered through much and she had borne it in a calm stoic manner that would befit a Space Marine. Her husband had been executed for poaching, and she had been deported with her son to Siberius. They had etched a living in that logging camp, with her son hunting and her washing clothes and cooking for the men. This was a strong woman, and he wanted to help her. Groz was always a hopeless romantic.

The next day, he took the boy to the recruitment center for the PDF. Within five minutes the boy walked out, disgusted. A similar story happened at the guard enlistment panel. These men were not hunter's the boy claimed. He would die rather than serve under such fools.

While returning to their lodgings, the boy asked Groz about the throng of young men lining up. He seemed very interested in the overlords of this world. The Death's Consuls were hard men, but fair. Then he saw the boy walk towards the line of aspirants. The last thing Groz heard him say was, "Take good care of my mother and sister for me Arbite. You will regret it if you don't." Then he was lost in the crowd.

The crowd doesn't spare him a second glance. He is one face among many. This throng will kill each other to earn a place where they may become spirits of death. This is a place for a hunter. This is where the huntmaster has led him. When he leaves this arena, he will hunt forever more. He feels it in his bones. He has bid farewell to his mother, and his sister. The armored man will take care of them, he sees it in his eyes. Now his destiny lies before him. He just as to reach out and grab it.

He drops his backpack and takes out the hide of the great beast. A hush settles over the arena. Even the two impossibly huge warriors clad in black and white take notice. He sees that their colors mimic those of the great tiger. 
He grabs his flaying knife and begins the last hunt of his old life. 

The sun sets. The crowd is overawed by his display of skill. He has been careful not to kill any one of his opponents except the most bellicose. Those that don't know their place deserve the kiss of the flaying knife. Those who do may rise to do their part again. 

The warriors walk towards him, behind them stands another warrior, whose helmet is carved in the likeness of a skull. He feels the warrior's gaze staring at him. Judging him. He has been judged by betters. He stares back with a faint smile.

"What is your name boy?"

"My mother calls me Jurgen Hohle." He pauses, then speaks again. "You may calls me Jurgen of the Tigers."

The impossibly big man laughs. He smiles back. He has passed. Jurgen of the Tigers has begun the long walk to his destiny.