Rogier was explaining some of the Space Wolves' transformation rituals to Situval-only the parts he still remembered.
As a rule, the chosen warriors had to drink the bitter draught of the Wulfen, then be abandoned on the great ice wastes to fend for themselves until they overcame the transformation and regained their human forms through sheer will. Then they had to quickly master their abilities and find their way home.
Of the thirteen worlds Evan had reformed, Taste's warriors would probably meet the requirements. Atris and Langjuxu had vast ice wastes, but they were not dangerous enough.
The pressure fell on Rogier. He was undoubtedly among the finest of the Space Wolves; every member of a Great Company's Wolf Lord's Honour Guard was an exceptional warrior.
Evan believed he could train the recruits well. Right now, however, he was as sullen as a dead log.
Rogier was conflicted. There was no liquor here-none strong enough to drink an Astartes under the table.
How was he supposed to train the warriors' drinking capacity? If they returned to the Parent Chapter and collapsed after a few cups, wouldn't their wolf-brothers laugh at them for a thousand years?
Taste's hot, humid environment had nurtured towering, damp rainforests and, with them, extraordinarily powerful native beasts.
Every man on Taste was a mighty fighter. Only strength earned respect.
That had become even more important after Evan's reforms.
They had repaired the hive city, but anyone who lived inside it was looked down upon.
It was a place for trade, a place for socializing, a place where warriors returning from a hunt carried their most prized kills to show them off.
Taste was too poor. It lay off the main Warp routes, mining on the planet cost more than it earned, and without good raw