Post by Dead Greyhawk on Nov 2, 2008 22:29:25 GMT -5
Intro text from today
The Northmen strip the camp of supplies and the corpses of valuables. They seem well-practiced in such raiding and quickly put to the torch any building that seems to have been the home of a pirate. The freed prisoners scream and run in a panic until they reach the outrigger canoes. Natives of the large island, they jump into the canoes and sail them out into the water, those left behind swimming for the departing craft.
Vieter and Hengir grow impatient and wish to leave well before you do. After all, the pirates have retreated to a cave and their treasure may yet be found! Hengir and Vieter throw their fallen men into the drakkar and begin to push it out to see. Frightened you will be left behind, you chase after the longship, dashing through the surf to clamber aboard. There, in the bottom of the boat, lie the Northmen dead, none left behind.
The Northmen sail northwards, tacking with the wind. They sail through the day and night without cease, seeming to catch the slightest of breezes with a great striped sail. During the second day, while the drakkar is under full sail, the Northmen dead are laid to rest. Wrapped in their cloaks, their arms and armor bound to them, the dead are slid overboard, Vieter and then Hengir chanting their names and deeds.
Several things become apparent to you. Vieter speaks the names and deeds of the fallen four times more often than Hengir, and that all of the fallen bear names ending in -son. While you thought originally that their father’s name might have made their surname, two of Vieter’s dead are named Otterson, an odd name. When you ask about their weapons going overboard with them, Hengir stares at you with a thousand-yard stare. Vieter explains a bit. “Every true warrior, even unblooded men lacking a name, will be called up by the ancestors at the end of days, when the Last Battle begins. They will need their weapons and armor then, to gird themselves and draw the blood of their enemies. We are not animals, to scrabble at each other with tooth and claw! Take away your arms and what have you to show that makes you more than a dog?”
After committing his men to the sea’s embrace, Vieter grows sullen and Hengir falls ill. He begins shivering and sweating. His wounds seem clear of sickness, but he claims that he has been poisoned by the pirate weapons. “The blood sickness will not take me,” he growls, as sweat pours down his face. “We must make for shore and provide a sweathouse for my ancestors to purify my blood.” Vieter nods and the others shift the direction of the boat, turning it north-northeast. Hengir agrees to have Zinc examine him but refuses to let Morvin come close. Hengir doesn’t appear to be poisoned, and a judicious use of slow poison does not cure him of his ills.
The drakkar comes to a small island, forested with sharp pine trees, and the Northmen beach the drakkar there. A crude sweathouse is built from pine boughs and limbs, and Hengir takes up residence within. He joins the others during the warmest part of the day, noontime, but beyond that, he stays in the sweathouse, feeding water and wood to the fire within. The weather has turned, and the crispness in the air makes you all wish that you had furs to sleep in like the Northmen. The ocean has a stark beauty, the moonlight reflecting off of the waves and casting deep shadows where the mast and oars of the drakkar cut through the air.
With Hengir ill, Vieter takes charge of the Northmen and of you. Vieter issues curt orders to the remaining three Northmen, orders that they chafe under. While Hengir appears to be a brutal and impatient men, he rarely commanded the others. Vieter, clad now in chainmail taken from the pirates, seems to have raised his own estimation up to that of Hengir, and the others resent it. Besides the making of camp, what seems to be the most irksome is that Vieter breaks open a store of sealed bottles and begins drinking them, alone, each night, calling himself Vieter Burntower. Honeyed mead, the ambrosia of the Northmen, is available only to the named men, and the others seem unsure that Vieter qualifies. Absent Hengir to rule, Vieter seems to be taking as much leeway as he can. Wisely, Cullen warns you off from drinking with Vieter.
Vieter holds his alcohol well, and, even though the small island seems safe, secure, and essentially lifeless, Vieter stands watch with the others, never slipping beyond a slight tipsiness. Vieter does become loquacious when drinking and, while still calling all of you “Shorty,” tells you all about the Land of Song, a land of harsh beauty to Vieter. Vieter describes how the five original clans, Bear, Boar, Tiger, Lion, and Wolf, maintain their authority over the Land, keeping the other clans in lesser stature. Many of the other clans, while not as powerful as the five original clans, are no longer lesser, but should be respected for their prowess, exhorts Vieter, gaining a surprising murmur of acclimation from the other Northmen. Careful questioning reveals the presence of ten or so other clans: Auroch, Badger, Deer, Elk, Fox, Marten, Orca, Rhino, Otter and Wolverine. More exist, but they are either too small to be of import to Vieter or, like the Narwhale clan, the subject of Vieter’s derision.
The Jarl of the Lion clan, Yngvar, rules the Land of Song as Jarl of Jarls, but, according to Vieter, Yngvar is a weak leader, long past his years of strength. Yngvar no longer controls the Land of Song but instead is a ancient man jealously clinging to past glories. Vieter seems to have a hatred for Yngvar, and he leans in towards you all. “Everyone knows that Yngvar's predecessor, Vilfred, was poisoned by his spiteful mistress,” he hisses. “And was that not Yngvar’s cousin? So came gave Yngvar his opening twenty years ago and he has held it since then. It is an abomination that her remains were buried with Vilfred. His angry shade will not rest until her remains are removed from his burial cairn. But I speak too much about matters of which you do not yet know.”
The lesser clans have clamored for their rights as warriors and raiders to be respected by Yngvar. While no one besides the Jarl of Jarls speaks for the clans, Hengir’s uncle, Hemming Swiftdart, Jarl of the Martens, has most forcefully made the case that the Five Clans needs to become a greater number, with a new Jarl of Jarls seated. Sigvard, Vieter’s Jarl, was asked to provide raiders for Hemming’s drakkar, this one currently beached, but Sigvard will be surprised at the catch, laughs Vieter.
While Vieter’s diatribes have been heard by everyone, including the other Northmen, they do not generally agree or disagree with him. Apparently the words of the Named Men are for them to speak and for others to listen to. Vieter’s attention to the details of camp slacks off over the several days that you all are there, with the younger warriors drawing more duty.
Hengir’s health wanes and then waxes. His sweats and paleness increase, and he looks drawn and ill, his skin drawn against his flesh as if his skull was pushing its way out. Finally, his health recovers, and he begins to look more human again, his frame filling back out on the fish caught from the drakkar. As Hengir gains more strength, Vieter appears more and more nervous and begins to take his duties more seriously. Notably, he stops drinking the honeyed mead. Plans are made to depart in the morning, allowing Hengir one last night in the warmth of the sweathouse.
The morning finds Vieter dead on the edge of camp, his throat torn free in the night. The Northmen look surprised and wary. Their guard let down due to long days and nights without sight of any living creature, they now look at the island with greater concern. Hengir stares down at the dead Vieter with a puzzled look on his face. “How am I going to explain this?” he mutters quite loudly. You, wanting to take a look at Vieter, help manhandle him into the drakkar and find signs that he struggled with some large animal. Bite marks and scratches cover him, but his body bears no wounds from blade or weapon.
Vieter is sent over the side with many words from Hengir about Vieter’s storied life. At the end, Hengir claims that Vieter made his name, charging and burning the towers of the pirate isle with their men inside. The others stir a bit at this claim, but no one casts doubt on Hengir’s word.
The drakkar sails northwards for two more weeks before coastline hies into view. The temperatures drop precipitously, and it is common enough to be covered in rime before the morning sun melts it off. Large cliffs rise up out of the water creating impressive views and steep inclines for any trying to land on the shore. The drakkar sails into a large bight that plunges inland, becoming a wide bay. “Battle bay,” grunts Hengir, pointing at the fjord narrowing ahead of them.
Off to the right, a walled town sits on the edge of the bay, a small fleet of longships moored at the base of the cliffs. The stone walls of the town seem ancient and smoke rises up from the wood and thatch buildings within it. “Kerava,” grunts Hengir. “Bring you there in soon enough.” Passing by the town, farms and tilled land can be seen outside its walls, sheltering in its protection.
The bay has significant traffic in it. Small punts sail down the coast, fishermen and traders bringing their goods and wares to Kerava. Drakkar ply the waters and veritably bristle with armed men, all of which turn a gimlet eye on you. A full day’s travel up the bay reveals magnificent mountains off to the right with a huge collection of three majestic peaks rising up among them. As you sail past, they appear in different forms, first as a great trident and then as a horned creature.
After another day, the drakkar pulls up besides other drakkars to land at the base of a great hill. Far up the sloping mound is a wood-walled town. Two great wooden longhouses act as bastions for the town. “Skalkegard,” grunts Hengir, as he splashes out of the longship. “Stay here.” Hengir, alone, hikes up the hill, crossing over two dry moats and waving to the men guarding the longhouse and the town. He strides up to one of the longhouses and pounds on the door for entry.
Hours pass by, rocking in the beached longship, before the door reopens. A massive man in hide armor carrying a wooden shield and spiked battleaxe across his back accompanies Hengir and twenty wild-eyed warriors back down from the longhouse. This must be Hemming. They clamber into this and another drakkar and sail back down towards Kerava. Hengir is silent on the trip back down towards the ocean.
The drakkar beach themselves at the base of Kerava and, with much attention, Hemming, his men, Hengir, and you approach the walled town. The custom of raiding each other must still be strong in the Land of Song, as warriors stream from the walls to meet the potential raiding party, but Hemming, with a booming, stentorian voice, shouts his mission of peace, friendship, and wish to see Yngvar, his Jarl, and treat with him. Your party is whisked into the town walls with many well-armed friends accompanying you.
Yngvar’s hall is within a great longhouse made of whole trees draped with hides, tar, and other materials. Soaked by storm and sea spray, it seems invulnerable to fire and nature and probably provides great protection from the biting cold. Crude chimneys jut from the roof and the doorway into it is large enough to take cattle or horses five across. Yngvar’s hall is a high-ceilinged room, smoky and full of people. The heads of stags, bears, boars, and aurochs adorn the walls. A fireplace at the far end of the chamber has a small fire burning in it, and now, away from the biting wind, you can feel how chilled you really were. Shivers break out over your bodies as you try to acclimate to the stinking warmth.
Yngvar sits on a wood and horn throne, raised up from the floor of the longhouse a few feet, assuring a good view. Two armored men stand on either side of him. Yngvar is an older man, in his early fifties, and does not look to be the frail and doddering elder that Vieter described. “Come Hemming!” he bellows. “Bring your charges and your charge!” A slight chuckled ripples through the crowd.
Hemming turns out to be a powerful, if crude, orator. He explains how his nephew Hengir traveled southwards to gather the best of the southern warriors, witches, and priests. Hengir traveled far and spoke with civility and kindness, as Yngvar demands, to garner only the best, the spring cream of the southern folk. Through great adversity did Hengir and his drakkar travel, returning now, strengthened by the brave blood of the fallen and blessed by the Martin ancestors, with those needed to salve the Five Clans woes.
Much hissing breaks out of the crowd, and one man, clad in otter fur, asks where Vieter Otterson is. Hengir, in a curt and stuttering voice, states Vieter fought well against the southerners, but fell to a wild beast when his warrior spirit deserted him. Apparently some horrible thing has been said, because the crowd grows hushed, and the man clad in otter fur turns purple with rage. Yngvar interjects into the middle of the situation, “I thought you treated well with the southerners. What battle have you wrought?”
Hemming replies that all fighting was done with the consent of the southerners and for their honor and respect. “We brought no battle except that requested by your new allies,” says Hemming, staring at you all. “Your champions have not returned,” orates Hemming. “Our champions are barred. We have found foreigners who can enter your sacred valley without offending the ancestors. They are the best in the Land of Song and the best of their homelands. If they fail, no others can be found and then, the champions of the other clans must be given leave to go!” Fully two thirds of the crowd seems in agreement with Hemming, and Yngvar is no fool.
“I agree and offer the courtesy of Kerava to these foreign champions. Come, meet with me and my counselors, Viggo, the greatest skald of the Land of Song, and Siri, my Wise Woman,” says Yngvar. “Whatever questions you have, we will answer, and they will help me explain what you need to know. Hemming, your plans have come together well. I am impressed. All of you, get out of my hall!”
The Northmen strip the camp of supplies and the corpses of valuables. They seem well-practiced in such raiding and quickly put to the torch any building that seems to have been the home of a pirate. The freed prisoners scream and run in a panic until they reach the outrigger canoes. Natives of the large island, they jump into the canoes and sail them out into the water, those left behind swimming for the departing craft.
Vieter and Hengir grow impatient and wish to leave well before you do. After all, the pirates have retreated to a cave and their treasure may yet be found! Hengir and Vieter throw their fallen men into the drakkar and begin to push it out to see. Frightened you will be left behind, you chase after the longship, dashing through the surf to clamber aboard. There, in the bottom of the boat, lie the Northmen dead, none left behind.
The Northmen sail northwards, tacking with the wind. They sail through the day and night without cease, seeming to catch the slightest of breezes with a great striped sail. During the second day, while the drakkar is under full sail, the Northmen dead are laid to rest. Wrapped in their cloaks, their arms and armor bound to them, the dead are slid overboard, Vieter and then Hengir chanting their names and deeds.
Several things become apparent to you. Vieter speaks the names and deeds of the fallen four times more often than Hengir, and that all of the fallen bear names ending in -son. While you thought originally that their father’s name might have made their surname, two of Vieter’s dead are named Otterson, an odd name. When you ask about their weapons going overboard with them, Hengir stares at you with a thousand-yard stare. Vieter explains a bit. “Every true warrior, even unblooded men lacking a name, will be called up by the ancestors at the end of days, when the Last Battle begins. They will need their weapons and armor then, to gird themselves and draw the blood of their enemies. We are not animals, to scrabble at each other with tooth and claw! Take away your arms and what have you to show that makes you more than a dog?”
After committing his men to the sea’s embrace, Vieter grows sullen and Hengir falls ill. He begins shivering and sweating. His wounds seem clear of sickness, but he claims that he has been poisoned by the pirate weapons. “The blood sickness will not take me,” he growls, as sweat pours down his face. “We must make for shore and provide a sweathouse for my ancestors to purify my blood.” Vieter nods and the others shift the direction of the boat, turning it north-northeast. Hengir agrees to have Zinc examine him but refuses to let Morvin come close. Hengir doesn’t appear to be poisoned, and a judicious use of slow poison does not cure him of his ills.
The drakkar comes to a small island, forested with sharp pine trees, and the Northmen beach the drakkar there. A crude sweathouse is built from pine boughs and limbs, and Hengir takes up residence within. He joins the others during the warmest part of the day, noontime, but beyond that, he stays in the sweathouse, feeding water and wood to the fire within. The weather has turned, and the crispness in the air makes you all wish that you had furs to sleep in like the Northmen. The ocean has a stark beauty, the moonlight reflecting off of the waves and casting deep shadows where the mast and oars of the drakkar cut through the air.
With Hengir ill, Vieter takes charge of the Northmen and of you. Vieter issues curt orders to the remaining three Northmen, orders that they chafe under. While Hengir appears to be a brutal and impatient men, he rarely commanded the others. Vieter, clad now in chainmail taken from the pirates, seems to have raised his own estimation up to that of Hengir, and the others resent it. Besides the making of camp, what seems to be the most irksome is that Vieter breaks open a store of sealed bottles and begins drinking them, alone, each night, calling himself Vieter Burntower. Honeyed mead, the ambrosia of the Northmen, is available only to the named men, and the others seem unsure that Vieter qualifies. Absent Hengir to rule, Vieter seems to be taking as much leeway as he can. Wisely, Cullen warns you off from drinking with Vieter.
Vieter holds his alcohol well, and, even though the small island seems safe, secure, and essentially lifeless, Vieter stands watch with the others, never slipping beyond a slight tipsiness. Vieter does become loquacious when drinking and, while still calling all of you “Shorty,” tells you all about the Land of Song, a land of harsh beauty to Vieter. Vieter describes how the five original clans, Bear, Boar, Tiger, Lion, and Wolf, maintain their authority over the Land, keeping the other clans in lesser stature. Many of the other clans, while not as powerful as the five original clans, are no longer lesser, but should be respected for their prowess, exhorts Vieter, gaining a surprising murmur of acclimation from the other Northmen. Careful questioning reveals the presence of ten or so other clans: Auroch, Badger, Deer, Elk, Fox, Marten, Orca, Rhino, Otter and Wolverine. More exist, but they are either too small to be of import to Vieter or, like the Narwhale clan, the subject of Vieter’s derision.
The Jarl of the Lion clan, Yngvar, rules the Land of Song as Jarl of Jarls, but, according to Vieter, Yngvar is a weak leader, long past his years of strength. Yngvar no longer controls the Land of Song but instead is a ancient man jealously clinging to past glories. Vieter seems to have a hatred for Yngvar, and he leans in towards you all. “Everyone knows that Yngvar's predecessor, Vilfred, was poisoned by his spiteful mistress,” he hisses. “And was that not Yngvar’s cousin? So came gave Yngvar his opening twenty years ago and he has held it since then. It is an abomination that her remains were buried with Vilfred. His angry shade will not rest until her remains are removed from his burial cairn. But I speak too much about matters of which you do not yet know.”
The lesser clans have clamored for their rights as warriors and raiders to be respected by Yngvar. While no one besides the Jarl of Jarls speaks for the clans, Hengir’s uncle, Hemming Swiftdart, Jarl of the Martens, has most forcefully made the case that the Five Clans needs to become a greater number, with a new Jarl of Jarls seated. Sigvard, Vieter’s Jarl, was asked to provide raiders for Hemming’s drakkar, this one currently beached, but Sigvard will be surprised at the catch, laughs Vieter.
While Vieter’s diatribes have been heard by everyone, including the other Northmen, they do not generally agree or disagree with him. Apparently the words of the Named Men are for them to speak and for others to listen to. Vieter’s attention to the details of camp slacks off over the several days that you all are there, with the younger warriors drawing more duty.
Hengir’s health wanes and then waxes. His sweats and paleness increase, and he looks drawn and ill, his skin drawn against his flesh as if his skull was pushing its way out. Finally, his health recovers, and he begins to look more human again, his frame filling back out on the fish caught from the drakkar. As Hengir gains more strength, Vieter appears more and more nervous and begins to take his duties more seriously. Notably, he stops drinking the honeyed mead. Plans are made to depart in the morning, allowing Hengir one last night in the warmth of the sweathouse.
The morning finds Vieter dead on the edge of camp, his throat torn free in the night. The Northmen look surprised and wary. Their guard let down due to long days and nights without sight of any living creature, they now look at the island with greater concern. Hengir stares down at the dead Vieter with a puzzled look on his face. “How am I going to explain this?” he mutters quite loudly. You, wanting to take a look at Vieter, help manhandle him into the drakkar and find signs that he struggled with some large animal. Bite marks and scratches cover him, but his body bears no wounds from blade or weapon.
Vieter is sent over the side with many words from Hengir about Vieter’s storied life. At the end, Hengir claims that Vieter made his name, charging and burning the towers of the pirate isle with their men inside. The others stir a bit at this claim, but no one casts doubt on Hengir’s word.
The drakkar sails northwards for two more weeks before coastline hies into view. The temperatures drop precipitously, and it is common enough to be covered in rime before the morning sun melts it off. Large cliffs rise up out of the water creating impressive views and steep inclines for any trying to land on the shore. The drakkar sails into a large bight that plunges inland, becoming a wide bay. “Battle bay,” grunts Hengir, pointing at the fjord narrowing ahead of them.
Off to the right, a walled town sits on the edge of the bay, a small fleet of longships moored at the base of the cliffs. The stone walls of the town seem ancient and smoke rises up from the wood and thatch buildings within it. “Kerava,” grunts Hengir. “Bring you there in soon enough.” Passing by the town, farms and tilled land can be seen outside its walls, sheltering in its protection.
The bay has significant traffic in it. Small punts sail down the coast, fishermen and traders bringing their goods and wares to Kerava. Drakkar ply the waters and veritably bristle with armed men, all of which turn a gimlet eye on you. A full day’s travel up the bay reveals magnificent mountains off to the right with a huge collection of three majestic peaks rising up among them. As you sail past, they appear in different forms, first as a great trident and then as a horned creature.
After another day, the drakkar pulls up besides other drakkars to land at the base of a great hill. Far up the sloping mound is a wood-walled town. Two great wooden longhouses act as bastions for the town. “Skalkegard,” grunts Hengir, as he splashes out of the longship. “Stay here.” Hengir, alone, hikes up the hill, crossing over two dry moats and waving to the men guarding the longhouse and the town. He strides up to one of the longhouses and pounds on the door for entry.
Hours pass by, rocking in the beached longship, before the door reopens. A massive man in hide armor carrying a wooden shield and spiked battleaxe across his back accompanies Hengir and twenty wild-eyed warriors back down from the longhouse. This must be Hemming. They clamber into this and another drakkar and sail back down towards Kerava. Hengir is silent on the trip back down towards the ocean.
The drakkar beach themselves at the base of Kerava and, with much attention, Hemming, his men, Hengir, and you approach the walled town. The custom of raiding each other must still be strong in the Land of Song, as warriors stream from the walls to meet the potential raiding party, but Hemming, with a booming, stentorian voice, shouts his mission of peace, friendship, and wish to see Yngvar, his Jarl, and treat with him. Your party is whisked into the town walls with many well-armed friends accompanying you.
Yngvar’s hall is within a great longhouse made of whole trees draped with hides, tar, and other materials. Soaked by storm and sea spray, it seems invulnerable to fire and nature and probably provides great protection from the biting cold. Crude chimneys jut from the roof and the doorway into it is large enough to take cattle or horses five across. Yngvar’s hall is a high-ceilinged room, smoky and full of people. The heads of stags, bears, boars, and aurochs adorn the walls. A fireplace at the far end of the chamber has a small fire burning in it, and now, away from the biting wind, you can feel how chilled you really were. Shivers break out over your bodies as you try to acclimate to the stinking warmth.
Yngvar sits on a wood and horn throne, raised up from the floor of the longhouse a few feet, assuring a good view. Two armored men stand on either side of him. Yngvar is an older man, in his early fifties, and does not look to be the frail and doddering elder that Vieter described. “Come Hemming!” he bellows. “Bring your charges and your charge!” A slight chuckled ripples through the crowd.
Hemming turns out to be a powerful, if crude, orator. He explains how his nephew Hengir traveled southwards to gather the best of the southern warriors, witches, and priests. Hengir traveled far and spoke with civility and kindness, as Yngvar demands, to garner only the best, the spring cream of the southern folk. Through great adversity did Hengir and his drakkar travel, returning now, strengthened by the brave blood of the fallen and blessed by the Martin ancestors, with those needed to salve the Five Clans woes.
Much hissing breaks out of the crowd, and one man, clad in otter fur, asks where Vieter Otterson is. Hengir, in a curt and stuttering voice, states Vieter fought well against the southerners, but fell to a wild beast when his warrior spirit deserted him. Apparently some horrible thing has been said, because the crowd grows hushed, and the man clad in otter fur turns purple with rage. Yngvar interjects into the middle of the situation, “I thought you treated well with the southerners. What battle have you wrought?”
Hemming replies that all fighting was done with the consent of the southerners and for their honor and respect. “We brought no battle except that requested by your new allies,” says Hemming, staring at you all. “Your champions have not returned,” orates Hemming. “Our champions are barred. We have found foreigners who can enter your sacred valley without offending the ancestors. They are the best in the Land of Song and the best of their homelands. If they fail, no others can be found and then, the champions of the other clans must be given leave to go!” Fully two thirds of the crowd seems in agreement with Hemming, and Yngvar is no fool.
“I agree and offer the courtesy of Kerava to these foreign champions. Come, meet with me and my counselors, Viggo, the greatest skald of the Land of Song, and Siri, my Wise Woman,” says Yngvar. “Whatever questions you have, we will answer, and they will help me explain what you need to know. Hemming, your plans have come together well. I am impressed. All of you, get out of my hall!”