Scenwulf stood before his master. After years of honing, of training, the initiate was ready. The Alvonan was still before the great figure, obedient. In a moment never seen by any mortal, an Astartes was kneeling.

“Am I worthy to undertake my final test?” Scenwulf asked, his head bowed to the ground.

There was a pause. The figure gestured, and Scenwulf slowly rose.

“The Trial of White awaits you,” The old warrior began.

“You will go into the heart of the woods, where the sun does not reach. You are to hunt, like he who bore the gene-seed before you. You will find the Wiht-Skal. You will Kill the Wiht-Skal. Only then will you have proven yourself worthy of the drake that rests on our shoulders.”

Find the Wiht-Skal.

Kill the Wiht-Skal.

Oh, he had made it sound so easy...

The thunderhawk sped through the grey sky, and as it did so Scenwulf felt his hearts pound in his breast. All of the neophyte's thoughts had been focused upon this: the only thing standing between him and becoming a White Drake after so many years of training. With a sense of nervousness, his eyes bounced to and from other seats of the compartment, the oversized thrones that now sat empty. The neophyte could not escape the sensation of feeling strangely small as he looked at the empty seats, built for the superhuman frames of the Astartes and their power armour. Even though his own body had undertaken the surgeries necessary to bear the near-mythical war-plate of the Astartes, Scenwulf had not yet earned his suit. Not yet. That, and many other things, hinged on what happened today.

The pilot of the thunderhawk was completely silent, and for a long time Scenwulf was alone with his thoughts. The weapons he’d been given were his own, but they were few, and nothing more than what was given to any other who undertook the White Trial. Scenwulf turned his boltgun over in his hands, admiring its black form with a small smile. For any mortal the hulking gun would seem simply too big to be used practically; Its heavy and bulky form was adorned with only the most basic anointments and holy oils from where the red priests had sought to appease the slumbering war-spirit within. As he turned it over in his hands, the neophyte was left to only wonder at the nature of the semi-sentience that the tech-priests believed he held in his hands.

His knife, on the other hand, lacked any sense of piety; sleek and slender, with a single jagged edge along it’s silvery blade. It was as long as his arm, and sharp enough to easily hack through flesh and bone with ease. The tribes of Alvona had always held a barbarian's respect for such weapons, forgoing the “craven” craft of guns and bullets and instead preferring what they called “purer” weapons. Scenwulf was no exception to this unspoken rule, and as he turned over the knife, he soon felt far more confident. More comfortable, if nothing else.

His armour was the same given to all initiates of the White Drakes; infiltrator armour, sleek and light. It would keep the Alvonan mobile, and in the thickets of the Argoed Forest, that was perhaps more important than anything else.

The jade-coloured thunderhawk ripped through the air at a screaming pace, the boggy land below becoming little more than a hurtling blur underneath. The end came suddenly. Too suddenly for Scenwulf's liking. He heard a static voice in his ear.

“Brother. We’ve arrived.”

The thunderhawk thrummed on the ground, like a wolf resting from a hunt. Scenwulf rose from his seat, and the thunderhawk's ramp slowly opened. The neophyte was hit with a wave of moist air as he descended.

“Good hunting, brother.” The pilot’s voice was low, made tinny by the vox, and the neophyte couldn’t truly tell if there was any sincerity in it.

“How long do I have?” Asked Scenwulf, turning back for a final time.

“Eight hours. We will expect you to return here.”

And just like that, the thunderhawk had blasted off, zooming through the grey clouds. As soon as Scenwulf left, and as he took his first steps along the plashy, rain-clogged ground, the situation in his mind quickly changed. He was met by a fortress of thick, entangled trees. Surrounded, imprisoned, not by any enemy, but by the very woods themselves. Of course, Scenwulf had heard of the Lower Argoed; the creeping behemoth of a forest that dominated all lands south of the River Marregn, but this defied all his imaginings.

Hunting was one thing, but hunting in this? It would be a miracle if he found anything within eight hours. He would have to proceed carefully.

Scenwulf began by following a path - or in truth, a mere suggestion of a path, - that snaked between the heavy black-barked trees, and led deeper into the forest’s bowels. The Astartes followed it, his eyes naturally adjusting to the near-complete darkness of the forest around him. The forest was composed of two layers: the ground was a minefield of dangerous pitfalls and shrubbery. For any mortal, a simple slip-up could very well have meant death. Above the Astartes’ head, an unbroken lattice of branches and boughs extended across the sky, leaving only the barest of sunlight to peek through. The Argoed was teeming with animals. The deafening squall of beasts, whether nestled in the boughs or hidden amongst the shadows of the ground, nearly completely destroyed any sense of orientation, despite Scenwulf's augmented senses.

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He walked the path for a short while more, and the trail meandered lazily through the woods, at some points becoming little more than wet ditches and ruts of mud. Soon, however, Scenwulf’s ears pricked to something outside the morass of woodland noise.

Water. Running water. A river was nearby. He followed along the trail, and stopped when it ended at a rushing stream of murky water that cut its way through the woods. Scenwulf stooped to the brook’s edge, watching the inky water as it passed. This stream was one of the hundreds of black, veiny tributaries to the River Marregn, and would pass through here, and converge with the River Argoed further north, before travelling onwards with its other, sister-rivers to the dark waters of the sea.

He looked around. The dark, soily banks were completely bare, except for one disturbing detail.

Blood, splattered across the dark grains of muddy sand. Although he could not discern to who or what it belonged to, it gave Scenwulf a trail, at the very least. Someone was wounded. Possibly dead. The real question for the neophyte however was not "who was wounded", but rather what had struck the blow.

A small chance of finding the Wiht-Skal was still a chance. With no other choice, Scenwulf followed the crimson trail.

For Scenwulf, the minutes slowly stretched into hours as he travelled, seemingly in vain.

Three hours had passed since he’d reached the river, and he only had five hours left. Only four of those were in what passed for daylight amongst the sunless reaches of the Argoed forest. Scenwulf moved quickly, scanning the ground and what lay ahead like a hungry wolf moving in for the kill. He followed the blood, though it seemed less and less promising over time. It brought back old memories, of before the Astartes had inducted him into their chapter, and before he had been blessed with the God-Emperor’s gifts. When he was just a boy, his father led him hunting across the craggy foothills of his homeland of Caer Dwynn. They tracked for hours, and by the time the sun set beyond the hills, his father pointed it out to him.

“Look, boy! Deer.”

He remembered how long they’d travelled, scoured and searched for such a sight. He remembered the devilish grin of his father as he tightened the fur cap he wore around his head, notched his bow, and when he was absolutely, completely certain, loosed. He remembered the satisfaction that day, and Scenwulf could only hope that this hunt would be as successful.

The memory was broken by a sudden noise, loud and sharp. A human scream. Scenwulf immediately broke into a hungry run, racing through the forest to the source. By the time he’d got closer, he could smell them. The rich scent of blood lingered in the air, as did the tell-tale animal secretions of mortals who felt fear. Blood, sweat… Urine. They had been attacked, and whatever had attacked them had surprised them.

There were two of them, Scenwulf immediately discerned as he got closer. He heard a gasp, and a man moaning on the floor. As Scenwulf came into sight, he finally grasped the full picture. The blood was a mix of animal and human. Deer carcasses, skinned and killed, dotted about the sparse camp. Hunters. Their camp was awash with rich bounties; guts, skins, hides. In any other case, Scenwulf would have called it an impressive haul, were the two hunters not dead on the floor. He stood before them, a veritable giant, his braided blonde hair swaying silently as he watched them with stony, slate-grey features.

“What killed you?” He asked, almost to himself as he studied the hunters. One was dead, for certain; his guts splayed out on the floor from where their attacker had ripped open his stomach. The other was missing half of his leg and a good chunk of his right arm. From simple observation, Scenwulf immediately noticed the long, scythe-like claw marks that covered the hunters.

One of them coughed up a gibbet of blood. He was still living. “Stercniht…” He breathed, his voice awash with amazement, even in his death throes.

Scenwulf took a step closer, standing over the hunter.

“Tell me, hunter. What killed you?”

Later, Scenwulf would have reflected on his choice of words. Perhaps stating that the men were already dead was cruel of him. At the time, he didn’t care. The men were dead now, and Scenwulf didn’t lose any sleep over the fact he was the one to deliver the ugly news.

“Wiht…” The hunter said, his voice a slurred drawl.

Wiht-Skal. Finally. His prey was close.

“Did you see where it went?”

The hunter let out another hacking cough, spraying blood over his furs. With the bleeding, red stump of his hand, he merely gestured outwards, behind the Astartes, and into the blackness behind him.

“Came…” The hunter’s breaths were becoming more rapid now. “The egg… Stercniht… The egg…”

Oh, you fools. You damnable, ignorant, fools.

“You took its offspring,” Scenwulf stated.

Great.

The hunter did not respond. He had fallen back, staring emptily at the trees above with his bloodied mouth agape. He was dead. Behind him, Scenwulf saw it: Their greatest spoil. An egg that would have been roughly the same size as a man’s head, nearly crystal-white. It was smashed on the floor, it’s flaky shell mingling with the blood and mud.

The Wiht-Skal had been hunting not for food, nor sport, but because its own child had been taken.

The initiate kneeled to the ground, looking over the two dead men dourly. The information given had been inadequate at best. There was, however, one other action. Usually detested by most, and truth be told, the Alvonan would have taken another option if he could find one. Alas, such mercy was not bestowed upon him.

Slowly, Scenwulf reached down towards the dead hunter, and pulled out his knife. The flesh cut quickly and easily, like paper. The neophyte cut out a hunk of flesh from the hunter’s still-warm corpse. Roughly the size of his fist. Slowly, uncertainly, he bit into the meat, felt the sticky, coppery tang of blood wash into his mouth, and he chewed. Swallowing the human flesh down was a feat in and of itself, and Scenwulf’s mind swirled as the visions began.