The visions were broken, disparate, like a tome with half of the pages missing. Memories and moments of a dead man's life swam past Scenwulf as he saw the tribesman's life through his own eyes. It was only numbly that Scenwulf realised it was the hunter looking back. Anxious memories had filled the man's mind before he died.

After a while, he'd garnered a name: Edweard. A hunter from some nameless local tribe in the forest. As it turned out, his last hunt was the best one yet. Two deer, three rabbits, and to top it off the largest egg Edweard had ever seen. It was a Wiht-Skal's egg, but at the time the ignorant hunter had no idea. All he saw was something that those idiots in the bigger towns would pay hundreds for, and so, unknowingly, Edweard sealed his own demise, and that of his hunting partner.

It was only the day later the hunters realised they were lost. They made camp as a last-ditch effort, so that they wouldn't veer too far away from home again. Edweard went to a nearby river, and managed to kill another deer. He dragged the body back to camp, but something was waiting for him.

The next memories were blurred, fractured. Something attacked them, something large and fast. It ripped through the air, and before he even knew it Edweard was a dead man. The shock alone knocked him out, and in a waning vision the hunter saw a giant standing over him. His face was grim, his hair was blonde, and his voice was like gravel.

"What killed you?"asked the giant.

Slowly, Scenwulf became himself again. Like a dream, the man’s memories faded into obscurity, and reality took a hold again on his mind.

It was a Wiht-Skal that attacked them. What’s more, it was recent. His prey was close. Scenwulf turned behind to look into the woods where the creature had escaped into. It could be anywhere by now. Then again, there was only one way to truly find out.

Emperor guide me, he thought, as he descended under the trees once more.

He held his boltgun confidently in his hands, trailing the treeline with it as he marched on. His tireless search continued for at least an hour, before he had found it at last.

The den was a thing of animal filth and blood. The neophyte could smell the reeking stench of corpses, bone marrow, and filth before he had even seen the entrance to the den. It was just large enough for a man to enter, but only the most desperate would ever attempt such a thing. Better to draw the creature out than approach its own lair.

Scenwulf took a single, cautious step closer to the thing. An ugly mound, with what lying within being anybody’s guess. Scenwulf only wondered what desperation led the hunters to trawl through such a dreadful place.

He kept his bolter trained on the den, slowly edging forward, the stench hit all the harder the closer he got. By the Emperor, how could something so foul even exist?

It was as Scenwulf dared to enter the lair, that he realised: Claws that scratched across bark, and invisible eyes that burned into the back of his skull. He realised, too late.

The Wiht-Skal was not in its lair. It was behind him.

In a heartbeat, Scenwulf turned around, and he was met with a fixed gaze from his loathsome quarry. "You like surprising people, don't you?" The neophyte growled. There was a click as the shells in his boltgun loaded.

The Wiht-Skal was a creature of the forest. Long arms with razor-sharp claws, perfectly suited for leaping onto bark and branch alike. Black spines rowed along the monster's arched back, and the most concerning thing was that the Wiht-Skal seemed to mimic Scenwulf. It stood on hind legs, and as it did so it seemed taller than any man. And then, of course, there was its namesake. A hide of glittering white scales bedecked the creature, giving it a silvery hue.

A single voice in Scenwulf's mind spoke. It simply said: This is it.

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

The beast’s eyes were deep orange, with black, reptilian slits that fixed themselves onto the neophyte with a cold hunger. The beast’s nostrils flared, and the Wiht-Skal roared, a high-pitched yawp that would have left any human disorientated, stunned. Scenwulf responded with a hail of screaming bolter-fire onto the beast. It moved too quickly, a white blur that shifted between branches and bark, leaping to and fro, with the heavy bolts pounding into the trees and exploding uselessly. Other shells trailed behind the beast as it weaved its way through the environs like a fish through water. It leapt at Scenwulf with a high-pitched screech, and Scenwulf barely managed to roll out of the way of the beast’s claws. He tossed the boltgun to the floor, and drew his knife from its scabbard.

The Astartes had barely enough time to react before the creature struck again. Claws met metal, and sparked in the dark forest. There was a short, desperate struggle of strength, and Scenwulf hurled forward, slicing at one of the Wiht-Skal’s scaly claws. Black blood issued forth from the wound, and the creature hissed, before retaliating with a swipe of scythe-like talons. Scenwulf stepped back, but the claws kissed his cheek with an agonising sting. Then, the Wiht-Skal hurled itself once more at Scenwulf.

The two scrambled in the mud, the Wiht-Skal flailing it’s gangly limbs wildly in a blood-hungry hurricane of teeth and claws. Scenwulf dodged and weaved along the ground, crawling out of the beast’s way and jumping up from the floor in a cloud of dirt. Several cuts and lacerations marked where the beast’s claws had fallen across his torso, arms and face, and his implants were already at work, staunchly re-knitting claw-marks and fang-bites, even as new ones were being made on Scenwulf’s flesh.

The Wiht-Skal used its lean and long form as an advantage to reach and wrap around Scenwulf with its scaled limbs. The neophyte swatted off one claw with a parry of his knife, but the other claw ripped deep into his thigh. Instinctively, the Alvonan leapt back, and the beast pounced forwards. Again, Scenwulf reeled back, another flurry; and the claws were met with cold steel once more as the two locked. Scenwulf’s eyes, bloodshot and furious, met with the cold, hungry slits of the Wiht-Skal’s eyes. The two were locked in the struggle for a few more moments, with the two swaying back and forth for a few moments. Suddenly, the world began to swirl for ScenwulfIt slashed down, leaving an ugly gash across the beast’s scaly hide. Immediately, it’s grip on Scenwulf’s shoulder abated and the beast screamed a high-pitched squeal of pain. Fuelled by adrenaline, Scenwulf roared. It was as loud as any Astartes, and it was certainly more ferocious than any mortal noise. He brought his knife up, and let out a fury of slashes. The Wiht-Skal coiled and hissed, but it could not escape. Scenwulf’s knife cut open the beast’s belly, and black organs slid out from the monster’s insides. Scenwulf hacked, and hacked, and hacked again, until what remained of the Wiht-Skal was left in ripped and blasted chunks of flesh that were only held together by a thin facade of stringy, torn flesh and slashed hide.

He collapsed to the ground, and for a long while Scenwulf felt nothing but his implants doing their work. Cuts slowly knit themselves shut, and lacerations abated, leaving ugly scars in their wake across Scenwulf’s arm, torso, and his face. He was never handsome, even before the surgeries and gene-craft had done their work. A few scars would never hurt. His shoulder though - that would need seeing to. The Wiht-Skal had bitten deep, near enough to the bone. Scenwulf didn’t exactly relish the thought of going back to the apothecarius.

His knife, slick with black, oily blood, was stabbing into the Wiht-Skal’s back triumphantly. Slowly, Scenwulf rose, and wrenched it from the beast’s spine where it was lodged. Then, he began the easy part. He skinned the Wiht-Skal, removing it’s ghostly-white scales from its pale, slimy, flesh. By the time he was done, Scenwulf carried the hide in a bundle under his good arm. He left the gruesome sight behind and was greeted by a blanket of stars that covered the Alvonan sky, with the sun sinking suredly below the horizon. Scenwulf made his way back, undisturbed save for the sound of the Argoed and his own footfalls.

By the time he reached the clearing where he’d landed, just eight hours prior, the thunderhawk returned. It barrelled through the starry sky, and to Scenwulf there couldn’t have been a better sight. It landed with a breathy thrum, and the ramp slowly lowered.

The pilot was quiet as Scenwulf entered, leaving the Wiht-Skal’s hide at the side of his throne and falling into it.

“You hunted well, Scenwulf.” The pilot’s voice, whether by intention or not, was terse and cold.

Scenwulf was in no mood for talk, not now.

“Take me home,” Scenwulf said simply, and then, almost immediately, the Alvonan fell into a slumber, dreaming of distant stars and endless plains.