Lokyar’s Chosen

Lokyar’s Chosen

The ammonia-choked winds of the extraction moon howled, but Lokyar’s Chosen were ghosts in the grey-blue of Fenris.

At the crest of the ridge, Hrolf, the massive Fenrisian Wolf, pressed his belly to the frozen dust. His hackles rose, a low vibration in his throat alerting the pack before any sensor could. Beside him, Lokyar, the Pack Leader, rested a scarred hand on the beast’s matted fur.

"Steady, brother," Lokyar whispered. He glanced back at his circle.

Perched on a jagged spire above, Skarin—the pack’s Frosteye—had vanished into the terrain. Through the vox, his voice was a cold clip. "Target marked, Lokyar. The heretic captain is in the lens." 

"Wait for the snap," Lokyar commanded.

In the gully below, Torvin, the Trapmaster, moved with the fluid grace of a shadow. He pressed a seismic trigger into the soft silt of the pass, masking the device with a layer of frost-bitten gravel. He signalled a silent 'clear' with a closed fist, slipping back into the rocks just as the crunch of traitor boots grew loud.

"The air is thinning," Kjell muttered, his eyes glowing with an ethereal, storm-blue light. The Rune Priest clutched his staff, the leather wrappings frost-rimed as he drew upon the world-soul of Fenris. "I smell their rot in the wyrd."

"Let them smell the sun first," grunted Solvi the Gunnar. He hunkered down, the cooling vents of his Plasma Gun hissing as the weapon began to hum. The coil glowed a dangerous, blinding white against the black ice.

"Now," Lokyar barked.

Skarin’s carbine cracked—a suppressed hiss-thump. The traitor captain’s chest erupted in a spray of red mist before he could draw his sword.

BOOM.

Torvin’s trap bore fruit as the lead transport hit the buried charge, flipping the metal hull like a toy. Before the smoke could settle, Kjell slammed his staff into the ground. A localized blizzard erupted from nowhere, blinding the survivors and freezing their lungs mid-scream.

"For the Allfather! Hunt!" Lokyar roared.

Hrolf was a blur of grey muscle, leaping into the trench to tear out throats. Solvi stepped into the open, his plasma gun shrieking as he unleashed a bolt of artificial starfire. The blue projectile turned a traitor’s barricade—and the men behind it—into molten slag in a heartbeat.

In the centre of the carnage, Lokyar and his scouts moved as one—the Chosen of a dying world, proving that even without power armour, the bite of the Wolf is fatal.

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Details

Type: Army
Author: Dan Taylor
Published: 12 Mar 2026
Views: 272
Likes: 1
Faction: Space wolves
Game System: Killteam
Universe: 40k

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