Uruz (Auroch) Rune of the First Aettir of Freyr
strength and speed, untamed potential.
Freedom, energy, action, courage, strength, tenacity.
Sudden or unexpected changes (usually for the better).
Sexual desire, masculine potency.
The shaping of power and pattern, formulation of the self.
obsession, misdirected force, domination by others.
Lust, brutality, rashness, callousness, violence.
Come with me in the twilight of a summer night for awhile
Tell me of a story never told in the past
Take me back to the land
Where my yearnings were born
The key to open the door is in your hands
Now fly me there, to the land of twilight
-Key to the Twilight, .hackSIGN
The sun sets.
The sun sets, and he watches it from half-lidded eyes. He is slumped against the wall, head lolling backwards. One leg, bent at the knee, is drawn up to his chest; the other extends straight out ahead of him. It is a position of careless, sprawling, unthinking ease; one he would not take if there were others to see.
His right hand holds a bottle in a loose grip – brandy, good aged brandy, amber-glowing in the sunset light. He brought it with him from the Highlands, from the wine-cellars of his ancestral home. He raises the bottle to his lips and takes a long pull - it slides sweet and smooth down his throat like honey, like liquid satin, like perfect ice; but it burns hot as fire in his belly.
The walls are bare; nothing mars the pristine blankness of the white paint. The only interruptions in the long stretch are long transparent rectangles, set somewhat higher up than normal – windows of clearsteel, proofed against weapons but allowing him spectacular views. The few times his friends had come to his quarters, comments on the stark minimalism of it had followed. It was sleek, they allowed, but so austere that they could not understand why he had bothered leaving the BOQ back at Command. They give him presents to decorate his room, posters and picture-frames and flatscreen displays; he smiles, and thanks them, and puts them all into the bottom drawer of his dresser.
The bare wall acts like a blank canvas for the light. The entirety of the wall he leans on has turned flame-colored from the sun; the light splashes across him too. His eyes are lenses, reflecting gold. At some point the light is no longer in his eyes, and their golden quality is a matter entirely of his own.
The moon rises, and a wolf stands in its rays.
It is a large animal, deep of chest and powerfully-limbed. A mountain-hunter, this, built to take down the largest and most dangerous of prey, alone if need be. The coat is a pale gray, almost silver, lightening to a snowy white at the belly and throat. The wolf's height is easily three and a half feet at the shoulder, and six feet from muzzle to tail; on its hind legs, it would top most men by a head. White fangs and claws gleam in the moonlight as the gray wolf moves in awakening; it snarls at the empty air, and lets its jaws snap closed with a sharp 'snickt'. It is the sound of intense force.
The gray pads over to a window; it rears up onto its hind legs and sets its paws against the wall. An unstoppered bottle of whiskey rolls on the ground, knocked over by a careless tail-brush, and creates a puddle of alcohol on the polished floor – the wolf does not notice. Whining with suppressed eagerness, it touches its nose to the glass like a puppy nuzzling at a new toy. Biometric sensors set into the wall register the wolf's presence, and the window slides open.
The wolf drops back to all fours, crouches, and leaps – it lands on the slightly angled window-sill as neatly as a cat. A twilight breeze swirls around the gray, ruffling its fur slightly – it raises its nose and drinks in the scents that come with the wind.
The wind sings of the world that awaits the gray wolf; of water, running in brooks and streams and gathering in little pools where fish play; of cool damp earth on the forest-floors, rich with mulch and aerated by the actions of tiny worms; of the sharp scent of evergreen woods, where green needles carpet the ground and gray-dapple shadows make everything secretive. This place is not its world, but it is very like. And the gray had run here before, many times before. To run again would be good.
It leaps, a long limber streak of silver in the twilight. It is time to hunt.