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Post by Eirikr Norling on Dec 27, 2016 4:46:01 GMT
The keels cut the water, slicing cleanly through the waves as the ships skipped over the waves. The sails did not billow or roil, that was a sign of sloppy seamanship. Instead they groaned and stretched taught, the fabric as tight as a drum as the wind took the ships and pushed them across the ocean. With each kiss of the keel came the ocean spray, misting over the bow and across the crew as they worked and toiled.
A weathered hand held the tiller, firmly holding the course true. The man's face was weathered and scarred, a warrior's visage. The ocean's spray covered his face, but he did not look away or shield his eyes. A thousand voyages such as this had come and gone, a thousand more would follow. The gods were watching as they always did and he would not fail them. He blinked once, taking into account the smudge of color on the horizon, and pushed the tiller slightly. The ship responded, skipping over the waves as light and fast as an arrow and the crew adjusted the sails without an order. They were experienced and weathered, his finest warriors. Only the best fighters and sailors were allowed a seat upon his personal ship and many fought and clawed their way to such status. It was the way of things. It was the way of the Suthurmenn.
The great, bearded man gave a slight frown, his eyes gazing intently at the land in the distance. He'd been here before, many times before. It was a wealthy land, one of riches and power, but with such wealth comes the need to protect it. They hid within their walls, behind their barriers, and dared their enemies to approach them. Dared them to come and take their gold and silver away from them. They manned their walls with men, armed and armored, who would die to the last for such riches they would never even own. It was ironic, in a way. Pathetic in others.
Norling knew that he did not need to attack the city to profit, nor did he need to fight a standing army. He just needed to... encourage them to do what he wanted. And what he wanted was the wealth they hoarded. He just needed to make it seem worthwhile to part with it rather than take it by force, as much as he wanted to do just that.
He glanced up and barked a name causing the man upon the prow, the ship's lookout, to turn. The Jarl gave a single hand gesture, one that was well known among his men. The lookout didn't bother nodding, his Jarl knew he understood. He lifted a great horn to his lips, bound and capped in silver, and took a great lungful of air.
The bellow of the war horn was easily heard by the other ships all around, each skipping over the waves, their dragon-head prows bobbing as they flew. Norling grinned once, flashes of white in the midst of his fiery beard. His men had their orders and those on the shores now knew what was coming. Fear was his ally and he would use it to his advantage.
The Suthurmenn had come. All was lost.
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Post by Harrier Wren on Dec 27, 2016 5:02:04 GMT
The Free City of Perona controlled the coast for a good distance in any given direction. Though the city lacked a standing army, one or two hundred mercenary bands called the place home. They functioned as a deterrent to serious aggression. Thus, Harrier Wren should have been at least moderately safe on the beach, barring personal affront or other hazards on that scale -- pickpockets, drunken mercenaries, et cetera. Those things, she could handle. But ships full of steel and beards? No self-respecting totally legitimate wandering tinker and peddler could have reasonably expected that.
As calmly as she could manage, she took stock of the oncoming vessels and her options. She'd chosen this particular beach due to its fine sand, shallow slope, and lack of rocks. The same traits made it an attractive landing site for, say, raiding longboats. In her personal life she was a necromancer and quite a good one, but this stretch of land offered almost nothing to work with. A sewer exited the city some distance away; she sensed dead things in the efflux.
Dead rats couldn't swim. Or, for that matter, bite through ring mail.
Rather than do anything necromantic, Harrier wrapped herself in the length of pale cloth that served her for a dress in this most liberated of cities. As others screamed and ran, she proceeded with all due and dignified haste toward the nearest safe haven. At least, the nearest haven where she could still see what was happening.
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Post by Deleted on Dec 27, 2016 13:51:12 GMT
Perona Sewers Skralk and his Ratsassins, who were sassy Rat Assassins, sat in a cistern of Perona's Sewers. The Ratsassins were quiet, stealthy. Almost like living shadows hiding from the stray beams of light that cut through the darkness in the filthy sewers. Skralk was much less stealthy, stepping through the water with little care. Humans hated investigating their own sewers anyway. The smell of salt wafted from the sea, mixing with the stench of human waste. Dozens of rats followed Skralk wherever he walked, climbing over each other trying to be closest to the Father of Decay. Storms were the specialty of the Warlock. As much as he delved into the darker, more corrupting powers in the world, Skralk was a Storm Mage. Seaside towns were already prone to heavier winds than the arid deserts he was from, and good for sailing in most cases, not always. Commotion could be heard above him, people running and shouting. Good, in commotion there was loss and no one thought about that loss until well after the fact. "Skralk make it dark, make it howl. We go." He didn't have a plan as to what they would do. Maybe poison food supplies, maybe rust an armory full of weapons and armor. Maybe they would help the good citizens of Perona as a joke. To Skralk it was about the journey, not the destination. Shadowy Ratsassins ducked into a tunnel, darting along the walls carrying short blades in their clawed hands. Some of them had shurikens that could be seen on their belts or on bandoleers. They were poxed, and their faces had the occasional boil marking their dangerous Fell corruption granted to them by the Warlock. Eirikr Norling Harrier Wren
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Post by Michael Decatur on Dec 27, 2016 16:49:26 GMT
Perona was a city where, if one knew whose ear to bend, any object of value could be bought or sold with a moderate bribery to the dockmaster being the only tax upon goods of an illicit nature. As Michael Decature placed the last coin within the greasy palm of a squat, aging half-orc with a broken tusk and a filthy beard, the half-dozen or so dockhands worked with two dozen of his own crew to unload the last crates and cages from the Utu-Nammu. A well guarded warehouse stood nearby, Captain Decatur's men moving like ants between the warehouse and his ship. Heavy crates lifted between two to four men, or in a singular case, a lone ogre doing the work of four men.
The cages were covered in thick, brown clothe. The creatures within (the former owners of the rest of the unloading cargo) were gagged and bound and destined for a short life of hardship or sadism. Whichever of the two were to befall them, Michael cared only for the coin they brought him. Concern over the suffering of others was the thing of Clerics, not businessmen.
But when the horns sounded, all work stopped. All but the ogre anyway. The poor dumb thing continued along, plowing through the other deckhands and dockworkers that stood still as the grave, all heads turned towards the line where blue touched blue.
It was a sound as familiar as thunder and has feared as the maelstrom. And as Captain Decatur's eyes scanned the horizon, his conscious confirmed what his subconscious was screaming.
The Suthurmenn were coming.
<Nope.> Michael Decatur thought to himself. <Not today.>
"Back to the boat." Michael called out firmly, with the calm authority of a decade of leadership. "Leave the cargo where it lie." He said as he turned from the dockmaster and marched back towards the end of the pier. The dockmaster, after a moment of dazed wide-eyed terror spinning his head about in panic, began barking out orders to his own men. As the dockmaster began to fortify the warehouses, Michael Decatur planted his feet upon the deck of the Utu-Nammu.
"Run out the Ores!" Called out the first mate as the old human with his sea-weathered skin stormed about the deck, herding the crew to their tasks. As Michael calmly ascended the steps and approached the helm, the forward and after breast lines were already being freed of their mountings on the pier. The head line and forward spring were next to go, men on deck already rolling and tieing the lines to their rightful places upon the Utu-Nammu. Six long ores pressed against the dock on the port side as the ship swung wide, the aft spring and stem line remaining fastened to hasten the turning of Captain Decatur's ship as his crew spun her from Perona and pointed her prow towards the open ocean. Thick axes swung down upon the two remaining moorings and the ship was freed from the grip of land.
"Stroke." Called out the first mate as thirty-six men sat upon the deck, secured by rope, and pulled with all their might upon the long ores that gripped firm the lightly lapping waves of the barrier-protected docks and dragged the hull of the Utu-Nammu towards the mouth of the bay. Elsewhere on the deck, a half-dozen other men scurried about. Ropes were tied and untied and tied again, rigging was loosened, bodies climbed the masts, then climbed down again. Every man not needed to row the ship to freedom was busy preparing the ship to open sail at the moment of her Captain's order.
The Utu-Nammu was not the only ship fleeing Perona. There were half a dozen ships that were in various stages of getting themselves underway, and only two ships that were ahead of the Utu-Nammu in the race for the mouth of the bay.
Michael Decatur stared at the sterns of the vessels ahead of him. A fat merchant vessel and a small ketch. Both had likely been in the process of docking or undocking when the horns had sounded. Either could spell doom for his ship and his crew if they blocked his way.
Michael's eyes glanced up the main mast as his hands gripped firm the handles of the ship's wheel. His eyes locking upon the thin orange flag with a yellow sun that waved upon its peak, and his heart sank as he stared at the fluttering thing.
The wind was blowing into port.
"Stroke." Yelled the first mate.
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Post by Luca da Conti on Dec 27, 2016 17:05:04 GMT
 The Forgotten Sons
"Who do we have nearby?" His own voice sounded strange. Far away, from beyond the cries of the seagulls and the shouts of fear.
Dasha stayed quiet for a moment. Gears spinning, trying to recollect all the details, before speaking once again, no doubt. If there was one thing the little goblin was good at, it was ensuring that she got all the details straight, before speaking out.
"Most of ours are around the Purple District, sir."
That broke his concentration. He cursed as the visions of bearded warriors with axes dissipated into nothing and he was left with only their ships, far out there in the distance. The Purple District was all the way on the other side of the city; the whores and courtesans and seamstresses could be found there. They would not be of any use in this fight.
"Sir, we could just... let someone else handle it."
And they could, but that wasn't Luca's way, was it?
"We are here now, Dash. You aren't telling me ya don't want to save the princes' asses again and get paid for it, right?" The goblin tried her best smile, before turning her frown on again. Only for a brief moment, though, before a light started in her eyes.
"The Sons! They have been stationed by the Southern Docks for the past week, sir!"
This time Luca managed to suppress his desire to curse.
The Forgotten Sons were... a lively bunch, that was for sure. Better than the Crimson Cloaks, but strange, touched by the Fell some said. Which wouldn't surprise the Captain- every mercenary outfit had their own little niche or specialization. The Sons? They had a cadre of mages - former Imperials, if the story had any truth to it, who refused the call of the Emperor-In-Pakellan.
Whenever there was a breach in reality appeared, or an army of ghosts had to be vanquished, or whatever else the world crapped on top of them... they were there.
Bloody good at what they did, but they gave Luca the crawling creeps. Didn't mean he wouldn't take their help though, he'd take all the help he could get at this point.
"Alright, send for them. Brandt still heads their little threesome leadership if I recall correctly."
Dasha didn't wait to hear more. She was already dashing back towards the city.
In the meantime Luca would oversee the influx of peasants, merchants and other beings back towards the safezones. If there was one thing Perona had figured out early on, it was that it was better to lose some gold, than to lose the people.
Gold could always be found again, but the trust of the people? Difficult to reclaim.
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Post by Valerija ast Macharia on Dec 27, 2016 17:09:53 GMT
There was a distinct, unseasonable chill on the air as the Macharian Knights drew close to the walls of Perona, the feathered pennants that framed their saddles like giant, upright wings flickering noisily in the wind. They were less in number when they had started this expedition some weeks ago, the journey from the Free City of Macharia exacting its usual toll upon both the knights and their merchant charges. Eight men, good and seasoned soldiers, knights and squires alike, had been lost in the unforgiving desert and the treacherous mountain paths. Consigned to their eternal rest, all in name of safeguarding the coin and trade that was the lifeblood of their home city.
As Valerija cast her gaze along the winding length of the trade caravan, performing the same mental checklist she had performed countless time and time again on the road, part of her had to wonder when would the losses begin to outweigh the merchant prince’s greed. Rebellious thoughts for one in her position, what with the spotted-pelt mantle of Third Lance sitting squarely on her armoured shoulders.
Her horse gave a derisive huff beneath her, as if chiding her for entertaining such thoughts, causing a rare ghost of a smile to cross the winged lancer’s features before it was lost as quickly as it had appeared. Like moisture on the desert sands. She twisted in her saddle and flagged down her second in command, a grim-faced Dathani who looked to have suffered more years than he’d had hot meals, with a raise of her hand.
“Vraxos, Perona lies just beyond that ridge. I aim to get there sometime this very day, yes? Tell the merchants that they will need to increase the pace if they wish to remain under our protection. They have wasted enough of our time as is.”
There was a clang of steel upon steel as Vraxos thumped his gauntlet to his chest in assent, as always every inch the model soldier his heritage might have otherwise contrasted. “Your will, my hands, Third Lance.” He intoned curtly, his mount wheeling away to set about the task at hand, only to pause a second later as a rumbling note peeled across the rolling plains.
Thunder? Valerija arched a quizzical brow before dismissing that notion. The sky was too clear for that. A horn call, perhaps. Yet one far too loud and oppressive for the taste of those soft Perona citizens to entertain for any length of time. No, that was a singular note, one she knew all too well. One that held the promise of blood and ruin. It seemed they weren’t the only travellers interested in the Free City of Perona today.
The Third Lance sucked her teeth, her hand already reaching for the steel helm that hung from her saddlebags, a motion mirrored by the two dozen or so of her fellow knights. There may have been no love lost between their respective free cities, but Perona was an important trading partner for the desert city. One too valuable to let simple raiders pillage and burn. Besides which, until they passed beneath the gates and entered the city limits, they were still technically upon the trade roads.
The de facto jurisdiction of the Macharian Knights.
“Lances, form column!”
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Post by Eirikr Norling on Dec 27, 2016 23:46:54 GMT
"<Reef the sails!>" bellowed the fierce man as he held the tiller steady. Ahead of him his men followed his orders, hurrying to reef all sail as they neared the water's edge. At the bow, the lookout gave another bellow upon the warhorn he held, signaling the other ships around them. "<Oars!>" Jarl Norling bellowed, his voice rising above the wind and the waves. The warriors around him rushed around, locking the oars into the appropriate sockets along the sides of the ship. The other vessels under his command followed suit, the dragon-head prows bobbing as their keels skipped along the waves. "<Put your backs into it, lads!>" came the cry as the men heaved upon the oar handles in rhythm. "<The gods are watching! They look to see which among you is worthy! They look to see which of you shall reach glory! Who among you shall sup with the gods tonight!?>"The roar drowned out even the creaking oars as Suthurmenn muscles strained against the sturdy wood. Water drenched his beard and ran down his chest with each skip of the keel, each splash of ocean spray. Battle lust gleamed in his eyes, growing stronger with each stroke of the oars his men wielded.
"<Then row, boys! Row!>" he crowed, his voice cutting through the din of waves and oars and men. "<Glory or the gods await us! Row!>"
Harrier Wren @skralk Michael Decatur Luca da Conti Valerija ast Macharia
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Post by Harrier Wren on Dec 28, 2016 4:18:16 GMT
@skralk Michael Decatur Luca da Conti Eirikr Norling Valerija ast Macharia The refuge she'd found was a shack at the city's edge, with a clear view of the beach. There were other ships in sight besides the oncoming raiders; most were scattering in fear, or angling for one kind of dubious shelter or another. On the nearby road, a column of cavalry was assembling; the horsemen bore the arms of Macharia, another Free City of the region. Not far from the shack, through a gate, she spotted a couple of well-dressed mercenaries, one of them guiding the stream of running people. Crouching in the shack, Harrier tucked her sandy wrap more tightly around herself and examined the situation. The clearest shot at stopping the raiders appeared to lie with the Macharian cavalry. Harrier leaned out the shack's door and found the leader: one rider wore a spotted fur mantle of rank. Harrier began mumbling an incantation not designed for human throats. At the moment, it would change nothing, though if any among the Macharians had sorcerous talents, they might feel unusual, potentially benevolent patterns swell around their commander.
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Post by Valerija ast Macharia on Dec 29, 2016 21:05:23 GMT
There was no fanfare as the Macharian Knights approached the beach, their presence only heralded by the quickening sound of hoof beats and the jangle of armoured discipline.Unlike the raiders, there were no Gods for them to pay lip service nor war cry to split the heavens. Just a grim sense of purpose as they transitioned from a canter to a gallop, steel tipped long lances glinting in the sun as they werebrought to bear, the column now a battle formation twelve riders across and two deep.
It was clear they aimed to take the Suthurmenn as they made landfall, hitting them hard and fast while they were still walking on weakened sea legs, punching through clear to the other side. Granting them a privileged taste of Macharian shock combat.
Somewhere in the middle of the charge was the Third Lance, Valerija ast Macharia, her expression hidden behind a crested, full face helm. The only thing that saved her reputation from taking a beating as a look of shock crossed her features, her dark eyes widening as a ghostly glimmer arouse from the sands ahead and made a beeline for her. Only the knowledge that she was both too far out and too far gone kept her from faltering in her advance.
“Vraxos, mage!” She bellowed once, the only warning she would deliver for her second. There was no need to complicate it further, the Dathani Lancer would understand well enough. They had served side by side for years now, fighting bandits, raiders and even mages alike. If she fell victim of a fell ensorcement, he would have to step into the breach. As she had done at the battle of Vacino, as the former third lance had done before that and so on, so forth, ad nauseam. After all, the burden of duty, much like the charge, didn't stop at just one Lancer.
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Post by Harrier Wren on Dec 30, 2016 2:04:10 GMT
Valerija ast MachariaA whisper boiled through the commander's mind. This doom I seal upon youIf curse it be, then let it curse your foesAll those who perish by your sideShall there remain, unseen, unheard,Unless they choose it, and the moment strikeNow I consecrate the oath each sworeTo you and to the duty that you shareLet that oath bind them, though they dieLet those you lose from this day forthForever follow you, for their oath's sakeFor each friend that you leave interredHis soul shall never more be left behind
Though far you ride from where he fellAs spells went, this one had heft and complexity. A good solid mage would probably be able to unpick it given enough time, but maybe this commander of lancers might choose to keep the curse intact. It might even give closure, ease the death of losing comrades. Harrier had never been a soldier herself, but she rather imagined she would like to have a similar curse if she ever enlisted. To have the spirits of lost friends appear at moments of great need wouldn't just be handy or lifesaving, it might be comforting.
All that was a matter for tomorrow. For now, it meant the Macharians could keep fighting as half-tangible spirits even if the Suthurmenn cut them down.
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Post by Michael Decatur on Dec 30, 2016 9:06:33 GMT
"Stroke" Called out the first mate.
Twelve teams of three men moved as one, long ores pulling against the waters of the bay. Calm, harbor waves broke upon the bow of the Utu-Nammu. And Captain Decatur's ship raced for the freedom of an open sea. His hands upon the handles of the ship's wheel, Michael's eyes were upon the pair of ships ahead of him. Long ores extended from each ship as crews of unknown skill worked to race their ships from the harbor. What was intended as a shelter from rough waves and strong storms would be a tomb for any ship and crew stuck in the harbor when attacked by sea.
The Merchant ship was fat and round of beam, bobbing and rolling along the surface with each wave. It was a design unfamiliar to Michael. Whatever her class, she looked like a slow-going, long-haul cargo ship, and a clumsy one at that. Her ungainly plodding against the waves worried Michael and caused his lids to narrow the longer he gazed upon her stern. She was the closest ship the the mouth of the bay and she was big enough and clumsy enough to trap every other ship within the harbor if her crew screwed up and put her under.
As his men pulled upon wooden ores with all their might, Captain Decatur held firm to the helm and corrected their course ever so slightly. Ahead of them, the Merchant ship began to pass through the mouth of the bay. Intently watching, Michael held his breath as her keel bobbed and slid upon the waves, her stern drifting slightly to starboard as the ungainly barge turned to port on ores. The significantly smaller Ketch was racing along, closing the gap between herself and the barge as quickly as the Utu-Nammu closed the gap between herself and the Ketch. A quick eye upon the expanse of water that still lay between themselves and the mouth was all it took for Michael to know that his ship would reach the mouth of the bay at the same time as the Ketch.
"Ease down two knots." Captain Decatur called out to the first mate, nodding towards the Ketch when he felt the gaze of his most senior officer upon him. "And get me two off the ores."
The first mate pointed toward the two endmen on the stern-most pair of ores and the pair of them hopped to, rushing the port and starboard stares to stand at the ready on the poop deck, ready to receive whatever orders their captain was about to give.
Removing a hand from the helm and reaching up under the sash at his waste, Michael withdrew a small fold of cloth from his garments and tossed it to the deckhand on his right. "Key to the armory. Get it all on deck." Michael said calmly as he returned his hand to the helm and turned his gaze to the rigging. As the two men hurried down below to complete their task, Michael barked out loud enough for the handful of men in the rigging to hear him. "We'll be turning to port once we clear the gap. Get booms and battens on the right side of the masts, and start with the fore."
A small chorus of "Aye Captain" rang out from the rigging as the handful of men swung and ran and climbed their way to the for of the ship. It would take all six a fair minute to free one side of the boom and furled sails, dip the weighty assembly toward the deck, and slide it back into place upon the opposite side of the mast. And it was a task they would have to repeat two more times once they'd done it.
But it would get done. The Utu-Nammu was a smart ship and most of the crew had served aboard her for at least three years, a handful of men having served aboard her for longer than she had belonged to Captain Decatur. Hell... a few of the men had served aboard her since before Michael had first set eyes upon her when he was but twelve years old.
Pushing the memories from himself, Michael focused his gaze upon the line where blue sea and pale sky met on the horizon. Already he could see the shape of the Suthurmenn's long, narrow ships. Already he could make out the sight of ores splashing upon sea and thin crests of white rushing away from the cutting of their bows.
They were close. But not too close.
His gaze darted back to the merchant ship as she trundled onward with her painfully slow turn to port, then to the Ketch that raced as quick as she could towards the mouth of the bay, heedless to the barge that blocked her path, clearly blind in faith that the ponderous ship could pull herself onward soon enough that the Ketch could slip handsomely by.
The first boom was set in place by the time the Ketch made it to the mouth of the bay, the gap between her bow and the barge so narrow that she had to bring in her ores on the port side, drifting forward on momentum alone until she was far enough past the barge to run out her port ores without the rowers of the two ships competing for sea. Michael had turned the ship ever so slightly to starboard to give the two fools their berth.
At last the Ketch ran out her port ores as the barge brought hers in, her crew fumbling over their selves to loose the wide, square yards of her rigging. Michael freed his left hand from the wheel and softly spoke words of power as he gestured towards the thick cordage that extended between the forward and aft mast of the heavy barge, the heavy line that ran from the top of one mast to the top of the other, holding the two a set distance from one another in tandum with the forestay and mainstay. The fullstay.
With words of power, and the simplest of magical tricks, Captain Decatur cut the fullstay of the fat merchant barge.
The fat ship creaked and groaned, men calling out the two masts jerked suddenly and violently away from one another, shaking her rigging and stretching her keel. Men fell from the ship's rigging... Michael could hear their shrieks and the dull thud of their bodies slamming against the deck. Already the men of the ship stopped their efforts to set sail and started to reverse the process, securing the sails as more men rushed to the top of the masts and tried to secure a new fullstay. Without it, any strong gust upon an unsecured sail would shake the mast and rip the ship apart.
The Utu-Nammu slid past the stern of the fat barge as the main boom slid into place, prepared for a strong starboard tack. The crew in the rigging rushing towards the mizzen mast to repeat the process one more time. Sword and spear, bow and crossbow, arrow and dart. All the ship's weapons were laid out upon the deck, near the base of the pair of stairs that led to the poop deck. "Quarter turn to port." Captain Decatur called out to the first mate. "Then put two thirds crew on sails and arm the rest, I want every swivel manned, the harpoon readied, and everyone else ready on the starboard side."
"Aye Captain." The first mate called out in response before turning to the men and barking out orders. The ship turned slowly to port, aided by a spinning of the wheel to Michael's left, then she straitened out. The ores were brought in, and three dozen men hopped to.
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Post by Luca da Conti on Dec 30, 2016 21:36:39 GMT
The Forgotten Sons --- Brandt smelled it in the air.
Change.
For a decade no one nation or entity had gathered up the balls to attack the Free Cities of the South. It was beyond question, beyond a doubt, even with the decline of the Empire... the Free Cities always had their due and paid their debts equally. Fifteen years ago the hosts of the serpent riders flew against Perona and its allies, yet, after initial success their victory turned to ashes.
No one spoke of the serpent riders of the Lowly Mountains no more.
But now this. She surveyed the scene from a nearby hill - for all her talents Luca's far-sight eluded her and she had to be happy with the looking glass provided for her.
"Five boats, as far as I can see." She spoke to her companions. Not Luca, her two brethren; Ora of the West and Big Thom. Together they had forged the Forgotten Sons, together they fought and bled and laughed, together they got paid and got killed. Over and over again, like the merrily dance it was.
"Ora, you see anything more?" Brown and black and bronzed his skin was. Eastern paint decorated it, even now she was unsure what they all meant.
"No." It was a soft voice, softer than it had any right to be coming from him. "But magic is at work, I can taste it in the air... I cannot be certain, forgive me."
Brandt simply nodded.
"Da Conti." She shouted over her shoulder. Captain Da Conti was infuriating and too smug by half, but he knew his trade well. It was the only reason there wasn't a dagger through his throat. "I'd say about a hundred score men, might be a bit more, might be a bit less."
"I came to a similar conclusion." Luca responded in kind, while eyeing the horizon. The raiders were still a fair amount away, but the riders and paladins of Macharia were already responding to the threat.
"How many?" How many do you have here?
"Sixty."
That wasn't good. Not good at all. Luca turned to watch Brandt, who refused to meet his eye there. Oh yes, you were on a campaign just a month ago, weren't you? Many losses? Seems that way. You haven't been able to gain as much as you already lost.
Before the Captain could speak, though, Dasha piped up again. Perhaps she sensed that he wouldn't be entirely too diplomatic.
"I managed to gather up another thirty of ours, sir!" Sixty and thirty was ninety. Then there was the cavalry consisting of the Paladins of the Macharian Order... he liked those odds more, still an unknown quantity was the quality of the raiders, but wasn't that half the fun? Finding out?
"Very well. Brandt, not gonna presume to tell you your business. Go at it, we will meet again in..." He looked again at the horizon. "Five. And see where we stand."
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Post by Eirikr Norling on Dec 31, 2016 4:17:51 GMT
"<Stow the oars!>" the massive man bellowed out as the short came ever closer. Riding on momentum alone to cover the last stretch of water, the men immediately got to work. Oars were pulled from their sockets and brought back on board along the sides of the vessels. As the last of the oars were stowed away, Norling looked up at the beach barely a stone's throw away and getting closer. He could see riders further up, towards the edge of the sand. Their armor and lances glinted in the sunlight and though he didn't know from where they hailed, he realized it didn't matter. His men needed no orders, they were no beginners to raiding. No novices to war. Shields were pulled from the vessel's sides where they sat, adorning the longship. Axes and spears were readied and as each ship's keel kissed sand, warriors leaped into the shallows. The Jarl moved up to the bow and clapped the hornman who still stood upon the prow of the vessel. "<Give the signal for orders,>" stated the bearded raider. The hornman nodded only once and belted out a short series of blasts on the war horn he held. Knowing his men were now listening. "<Into squares! Now, lads!>"Reacting quickly, his men rushed to comply knowing full well that the hoofbeats would only grow louder. In a mere handful of moments the raiders faced not a loose gathering of rabble nor a traditional Suthurmenn shield wall, but five square formations, spears raised and presented at their attackers, their shields and feet braced as best as could be. It was a textbook maneuver against cavalry, one that generally bode ill for horsemen. Coupled with the soft ground of sand and water, he felt, would place the scales solely in his favor. He waited for the crash of metal and steel and flesh, the bloodlust rising within. Luca da Conti Michael Decatur Harrier Wren Valerija ast Macharia @skralk
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Post by Valerija ast Macharia on Jan 1, 2017 13:59:45 GMT
Even as their mounts churned the sand beneath them, taking them close and closer to the raider line by the second, Valerija couldn’t help but recognise her blunder with ever increasing clarity. As she watched the Suthermenn form squares and levy spears, she knew she had been too eager to hit them as they disembarked their vessels, too quick to bring the charge to bear upon them. She hadn’t waited for them to fall into proper position before. A rookie mistake, one that would very likely cost the men and women under her banner dearly within the next few minutes.The knowledge of which further underscored by the realisation there was very little she could do to change that now. The die had been cast, the charge had been commenced, all that was left for her was to see it through to the bitter end. She could only hope that the squires they had left behind with the caravans would discharge their duty a touch better than they had. “We make them pay for every inch, every grain of sand taken.” She commanded loudly, the rushing wind stealing the body of the message even if the sentiment was not lost on the column. They bunched tighter, shoulders locking, boots tightening in stirrups. They knew, just as she, what was about to unfold. To their credit, and her infinite pride, they did not attempt to shy away from that fact. Not when they still had one last, final charge within them. Their lances, twenty-foot-long poles of toughened hard wood, tipped with a steel point, would grant them that much. Hitting the raiders before the effects of the terrain became too taxing on their mounts, reducing their mobility and making them ripe targets for the taking.
The radiers were in full view now, so close she imagined she could catch the scent of their salt-stained bodies on the air itself, time slowing to a crawl as they pounded those last few agonising feet. A grim smile spread beneath her helm. There were worse ways to end a tale, where there not?
“FOR THE FREE CITIES!” One final battle cry before the reckoning. It was hard to say if it was picked up by the rest of the line, the sound of anything in the immediate vicinity instantly drowned out as they thundered into the first ranks, lances exploding even as they punched and tore through flesh and shield alike.
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Post by Harrier Wren on Jan 3, 2017 20:21:37 GMT
Michael Decatur Luca da Conti Valerija ast Macharia Eirikr Norling @skralk No question, this beach was about to get hazardous to one's health. She'd taken shelter on a grassy bluff, in a shack that wouldn't keep out a breeze let alone a stray arrow. As her spell took effect, her hands shook and her body felt as if she'd run half a mile. The enchantment on the Macharian commander would require no further focus or energy from Harrier, but pulling off something else of comparable magnitude probably wasn't in the cards. Not if she wanted to get clear of the area, anyway. And she very much wanted that a lot right now. Yes indeed. She cinched her towel tighter under her arms. It came down to, oh, mid-thigh: downright decorous for a Free City's beach attire. The sooner she got to her room at the nearest in, the sooner she could change into proper clothes, gather certain resources, and reap the utter heck out of the raiders. She bolted from the shack. Off to her right, the cavalry crashed into squares of spearmen. She felt men die.
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