(This is confusing- you said Gunnar's armies were camped up between Powys/Gwynedd, but they're now at the River Severn? I assume this is in the higher levels, towards the current-day Brecon Beacons.)
The ArrivalThe sea was a cauldron, further out into the Mare Interterra, the very late evening bringing only very little light through the cloud and fog. The longboat rocked, the spray willowing in as Halvar looked out, sitting on the front of the boat. He wore his whole armor, helm to his chain-mail suit, the two-handed axe sitting on his back- and it something he knew would come in useful when they were coming in closer. The ship already was travelling at around 10 knots- the favourable wind behind the ship being of a great assistance, though the crew knew that while the ship could go faster, it was not worth the risk at this time of night- with only a few of the crew rowing as a result. At the front itself, it was a bad place to be if you were seasick, but he was observing, with good reason. The chalk could be seen to be reflected in the very distant remnant moonlight, out of this stormy patch, that of a small island. Lundy. It sat in the middle of the Mare Interterra, between the realm of Dyfed and Dummonia, and currently, was in the possession of the latter. A small monastery and a few farmers were all the authority of the island, but Halvar knew his men needed to find food, and perhaps something economical in the process. Halvar knew that they Kingdom of Dummonia would not respond, not to an island like this, which was fairly isolated and cut off. Slaves, wheat, whatever Halvar knew there was on this island, they'd strip it dry, and allow themselves to at least intern themselves out of this storm. There were four other longboats to the right of Halvar's, their red and blue sails distinctively different to that of a regular raiding party. This seemed more organized. Halvar looked out, as he was tapped on the back, by the ship's rigger- Jens, of whom Halvar trusted enough to be his second-in-command aboard this vessel.
"Halvar, we have sightings on the island. What are your orders?"
"Full sail, we aim for the southern corner. There are cliffs and shallows, be very careful steering us through. The helmsman can read these shores like a manuscript, I hear, but I do not want to ground this ship here. Relay to the other ships, we will lead them to the shore." He added, looking back, wiping his water covered face as he looked back, at the crew, who were bringing themselves to bear with weapons and their padded armor, as well as dealing with the sail and masting of the ship.
"You want to eat!? You take the women, kill all the Monks you see, and any peasants, we put to work in the galleys of Harald's Longship. I promise you, you will find blood this evening, and we will make good our killing!" He said, with a respondent hurrah coming from most of the crew, even some of the other longboats, though it was more scattered.
The boats landed at the quay, to the sight of several scared peasants. It was still a sight to see, the flaming lamps aboard the longboats illuminating the crew, who were indeed, coming in with a purpose. Even the slave rowers looked like they meant business, as Halvar looked to the rest. The small beach was probably the only landing site, but it wasn't going to be defended well. He followed the crew, as they made the drop out off of the front of the longboat, already walking up. A few of the farmers yelled back, holding pitchforks- these people mainly being mixed, either Celtic or Romano-British. They were all going to have to be put to the sword or made to kneel. And today, Halvar felt like doing more of the former. The other longboats had already followed, as he looked back, his two-handed axe sternly in both hands, the flaming torches held by some at the back illuminating the fear that was the Viking force.
"To arms!" He yelled in Norse, as the rest of his men yelled, already charging up the beach, as the peasants quickly found out what a Viking charge looked like. Most were cut down in seconds, the sand running with blood as they rapidly subjugated the fishermen and farmers that had offered a first wave of resistance. Even Halvar had himself, managed to cleanly almost cut open one of the fishermen, armed with a mere pitchfork, from ribcage to shoulder with the blood-stained Norse axe, something that left the man bleeding and dead within moments. Adjusting his helm, he moved up, the hill to the rest of the men, the tiring action something that Halvar didn't give a fuck about. Now, they'd ruin any man that dared oppose them, and while perhaps they'd be slower at the top of the hill, he knew he commanded a significant set of power. Already, Halvar's archers were picking off any runners that dared not surrender with their hunting bows, many wearing lighter chainmail vests and red hoods, over leather and iron protection. Whilst not the most numerous, they were accurate, and held their own very well in a melee, something that Halvar always ensured his archers could do- fight alongside the rest of his warriors, whom were armed with far larger axes and swords. The 70 man force had lost one or two, but that was nothing. Tens of peasants were now dead, and that was a good thing.
Within minutes, the men of Halvar's raiding party had cleared the island, or swept up survivors and anyone that had offered any forms of resistance to the Norse raiding party. It had been a place that no Viking or other raiding party had perhaps attempted to claim, but this was't a kingdom. It was a small island with a relatively moderate farming population, if even that. It was just merely an invasion to grab supplies and rest for the night, a simple raid to put . They had been on the waves for a few days, and Halvar could tell from any man that fighting broke that up. Lundy was a stop-off point, before they sailed up the Severn, past the Brythonic Kingdom to where Halvar wished to have an audience with the King of Manx. He had stopped at the King's island already- and been very critical of his methods. This was a pirate, a simpleton that did not see a wider Norse empire as an existence. Halvar knew that he was a key figure, but how long could his forces be united? His home island was indeed, well fortified. The castles and settlements could easily resist any naval incursion by any other rogue Viking force, or the Welsh or Eire peoples, simply because Manx's naval superiority was a Norse one, not a "British" one. Yet Gunnar seemed like a fool, from what he heard. And bringing about an allegiance to the King of Norway, was Halvar's ulterior motive. With either Gunnar bending the knee or with his head at the end of Halvar's axe, to turn the tides in one way or another. All Halvar knew was, that he wanted to be a Jarl of his own part of this country. Lundy was a tiny place, and as Halvar had commanded, the Monks were all slaughtered, decapitated by Halvar's personal crew. The rest of the longship crews swept the rest of the island, bringing all the surrendered men, women and children to the monastery, a small but spiritual place that now stank of blood and dead bodies. He had to go have a look.
Looking around at the steps of the small hermitage, he saw Jens come over, at least a dozen fishermen and farmers behind him, subjugated on their knees and truly conquered indeed. New rowers was all that Halvar thought.
"Well done, Jens. Bring these men to Harold's ship, ever since we lost a few of his rowers, his ship has been slow." He said simply, as Jens commanded another pair of Norsemen, armed with spears, to bring them out of the monastery, then looking to Halvar again as they yelled at the group and then swiftly left.
"And the women and children?"
"Have the children's throats cut. The women, is our pleasure to have. The monks must have some wine and bread, so we shall have ourselves a little feast, before we depart tomorrow morn."
"Yes, sire." He simply said, as he headed out, going to rally a few of the men to do the job, as he stared at them, almost remorseless in the way he looked. They didn't understand him, and he didn't understand their cries, in Celtic. It wasn't like that of the Scots' Celtic that he had heard before, it was a more alien language, perhaps further south in the country.
The hours passed, of drunkeness, practically emptying the Granary and Foodstores of anything edible, and generally having fun with the female population, of which even Halvar got involved in. He wasn't a strong drunk, but the hermitige burned, it's dedication to a Catholic God now a burning pyre for all to see. Halvar didn't entirely care for what his crew did, so long as they worked and they fought as hard as he demanded, and that they always held him as the leader of this party. He knew that so long as his men didn't suffer, they would not have any thoughts for rebellion. And that was why the traditional Norse action of pillaging and raping was something that Halvar was determined to keep alive on this island, until tomorrow came and they would depart for the Severn. There were many things to achieve, and he wasn't even very drunk, because he knew foremostly, what they would need to accomplish. The winds and the rain had died down, and while the fog remained, the illuminated darkness, lit up by burning farm houses and the hermitage, the occasional movement of Norsemen with fire torches could be seen to bring some more light in. But they'd be going soon, that was all Halvar knew.
(Bits of this post feel really incomplete- it isn't the best, but I did what I could.)
