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Hidden 10 yrs ago Post by Capra
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Capra Necromancer Lord

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The Matter of Britain

Act I: Seasons of Mist


Britannia, Calendae Ianuarii, Anno Domini DCCCLXXVI.

The ship is slowly drifting on the sea, gently rocked by the shimmering black waves. The captain of the Draco can be seen observing with his sextant the nightsky, embedded with thousands of stars. A crescent Moon lies enthroned in the centre of the firmament, and in the far distance, some sparse lights can be seen, gleaming from the shores of Albion. Some distant cries of seagulls are all that can be heard in the stillness of the night. A light western breeze is the only thing pushing the ship towards its destination, the coastal city of Glevum, in the kingdom of Brythonia. The ship's dock is silent and almost empty, with only a few sailors attending their business walking it. A lone warrior, in a great decorated armor, can be seen silently polishing his sword in a corner.

The sounds of soldiers marching and warmachines being prepared echo in the high hallways of Caersŵs. The mighty fortress, standing on the Afon Hafren, is teeming with warriors, arrived from every part of Powys to repel the incoming Norse invasion. The castle's towers and battlements are lit by many torches and braziers, illuminating the dark, cloudy night. In the center of the fortress, in the courtyard near the main keep, a sacred oak stretches its branches towards the sky, near a small shrine, still bloody after today's ritual sacrifice. A cold wind is blowing from the North, and thunder can be seen striking in the distance. Not far from the castle's drawbridge, the Norse wait, and prepare to strike. The vast army under Gunnar has set camp southeast of the Severn, and the raven banners are flying high in the wind. The Viking encampment is more silent than the Celtic fortress, and not many warriors are still awake: the king and his trusted men, planning the attack, the more devout Norsemen, praying and offering sacrifices to their gods, and the more pragmatic ones, preparing their armors and weapons.
Hidden 10 yrs ago Post by FourtyTwo
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The Guild Is Fucked
Hidden 10 yrs ago Post by FourtyTwo
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The Guild Is Fucked
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(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 Arrival

The 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.)
Hidden 10 yrs ago 10 yrs ago Post by Siti
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The gentle rocking and creaking of the ship was calming to Oanez as lay in her bunk. They'd been at sail for a while now and would be arriving fairly shortly at Glevum. Despite being far from home on the Gaulish coast, Oanez had made note earlier in the day as she looked out at the coasts here, that it bore a striking resemblance to where she'd come from and she loved it. The same cool glasz waves, the same dramatic stone bluffs, the same blue grass--all of it was beautiful. And yet her rex spoke of merciless barbarians sacking cities in the north, leaving the scent of fire and blood on the winds. A seagull's call brought Oanez out of her thoughts and back into the bunk. The bird cried out calmly and strongly, perchance frightened of the large wooden beast that floated beneath it. The thought made her smile. --- The following day was known by a marked chill carried by the wind and crept into the depths of the _Draco_. Oanez would up with a shiver, and rolled out of the bunk and to her feet. She cracked her neck and began to change from her sleeping gown. Despite her being a woman, the Romans had made no exception for her as a soldier, so she changed in the galley where the other men slept. She'd learned to wake and change early in the morning as to avoid any unwanted attention from her comrades… --- ~The sun had risen early and brought with it summer heat. The roman camp was laden with a strong odor of sweat and of dust, which she still hadn't adjusted to. Slaves had brought freshly washed clothes and polished armor today, and Oanez was eager to begin their practice, however Quintus dē Massillia seemed to think that today meant something else all together. He'd been eyeing her since being transferred to this front from farther down south in the country and those soldiers that new her had been egging him on, clearly hoping for a show. It was that morning as she was changing from her sleeping gown that he decided to make his move. **"What's a sweet little ancilla like you doing in here with us soldiers?"** he said, coming up behind her when the gown was over her head with her arms in it and her body bare. He wrapped his arms around her so tightly that it hurt and that the hair on his arms felt like mosquitos on her torso. He grabbed a breast and played with it, and smelled her neck. The word ancilla stung; she was no slave girl. **"I would encourage you to let go of me,"** she said sternly in the best Latin she could manage. Though Quintus didn't take the encouragement and started having his fingers creep down between her legs. **"Stupid pig,"** she muttered in Brezhoneg, before dropping down out of her gown and out of his grip. She kicked in his leg at the knee, making it buckle and followed it up with a knee to his gut. He keeled over gasping for breath, one hand on his stomach, the other on the gown, on the ground. **"You see? Now you know."** He looked up at her, tears in his eyes. **"Hey! Hey!! What's this?! What's going on here?!"** shouted a commanding officer, pushing his way through the crowd of men watching the woman best the fool. He spied the man on the ground and then the naked woman. **"You'd best learn not to harm my soldiers, Celt. Rex may want you here, but this is my domain. Within these walls is my empire and you will listen to me. Go outside and wait by the post for lashes,"** he ordered, his face red and spittle flying from his mouth. Oanez slowed her breathing and nodded with a look of disgust. She reached for the gown, but the commander stopped her, **"No, you will go as you are."** **"As you command."** Quintus looked up at her. Despite her being completely bare there in front of him, he didn't notice it; he just saw a soldier who'd bested him and who frightened him. ~ --- The sun was in the sky to the right and was peering over a stroke of gray clouds, casting rays of light that made Oanez squint in every direction she faced. Despite this, dead ahead she spied the pier of what could only be their destination and the beginning of the task she'd been assigned.
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