[Skanarri Eventline] The Grand Host

[Javert 5540]

 

Spoiler

Six years had passed

since the beginning of the war against the Kingdom of Norland. In those six years, the war had been fought to a brutal stalemate. Both the Norlanders and Skanarri had changed leadership, and it was this new chieftain of the Skanarri whom sought to finally bring an end to this war...though differently than the way his predecessor had. What Grejon sought now, was total victory against the Norlandic government. He had been the servant of the past Chieftain for far too long, and now it was finally his turn to act on his ambitions. No longer would he hold back against a foe he looked down on, and no longer would he settle for anything lesser than total control of the far north-west. Whether that included Varhelm or not meant little to him, but by the Gods he was determined to take it regardless.

 

Not long after the rescue of his most valuable prisoner, Grejon decided now was the time to make his grand move. He gave out orders to cut down every tree nearby the Skanarri-controlled village and use it for the war effort, as well as properly equipping his soldiers with shields to protect them. For too long, the Norlanders had not taken the war seriously, and now was the time to make them truly regret it. Scrap metal from around the burnt village was melted down and made into weapons, armor, and anything that could supply the war effort. Bowstring was made from the wild sheep that inhabited the lands of the North, and arrows made from the bones of slain animals. With the guidance of Chieftain Grejon, the Skanarri were beginning to slowly become better armed. This feat, only accomplished thanks to the mostly untouched forges within the village, was being used to the fullest by the Skanarri.

 

 

As the blacksmith hammers of the Skanarri thundered away, Grejon himself began to draw up his own plans for facing the Norlandic foe. He knew that as it stood, his main advantage was quantity. He knew through experience that Norlandic soldiers were better armed and better armored, and he knew that there was no way this could be matched even with the rapid armament of the Skanarri. And so, Grejon decided to make use of his numbers. Every man and woman who was capable of wielding a spear had one placed in their hands. Though the Skanarri had lost a handful of their engagements with Norland and some were demoralized, Grejon knew that without numbers on his side the war would be lost once and for all. From experience, he knew that besieging the Norlandic army in a heavily defended city such as Varhelm would be suicide no matter his numbers. He knew that his only chance of winning a decisive victory over Norland was to meet them in the field of battle.

 

 

In the night, the entire force of the Skanarri marched from the burnt village of Nueva Tierra and positioned themselves in the mountains just beyond Varhelm and established camp. There, they laid in wait for further orders. All Skanarri warriors knew that the coming battle against Norland would be the deciding factor in the ongoing war, and knew that if they lost there would be no hope for them to claim the lands they sought control over. Grejon especially knew that he was about to enter into the biggest gamble of the entire war

 

And he was willing to take it.

---

 

Some time after the Skanarri moved into position, a runner was sent to dispatch a message from Grejon all around the Kingdom of Norland.

 

"People of Norland! My name is Grejon the Warrior, the new Chieftain of the Skanarri. I have a message for all citizens, soldiers, and leaders of Norland. My army is in position to attack Varhelm, and I will not hesitate to storm and lay waste to the capital. However, my fight is not with everyone within Norland. To those of you who do not claim to be Norlanders yet reside in the Kingdom, to those warriors who do not wish to fight with Norland any longer, do not fight. Lay down your arms, and allow us to slay the King's Council and King Vane Freysson Ruric as well as any stubborn enough to defend him."

 

"To King Vane, If you have courage within you to muster everyone willing to fight for your weak crown, meet my army beyond the walls of Varhelm. Our armies shall clash, and hundreds shall die. By the end of it, only one army shall remain standing, and that shall be mine. Your Kingdom will crumble, your followers slaughtered, and the North will be mine. Come, King of Norland, and face me."

---

 

OOC:

Event Location: Land between Nueva Tierra/Nedvedmor and Varhelm

Event time: Thursday 3:00 PM EST (Negotiable, contact Javert#3430)

Event Objective: Defeat the Skanarri horde

Event result if successful: The Skanarri shall be shattered and Nueva Tierra will be open for besieging

Event result if unsuccessful: The Skanarri will immediately storm Varhelm and put everybody present to the sword

 

[SimplySeo 5209]

Far to the north, a storm gathers, a blizzard the likes of which strikes one in a generation. The likes of which poses a foul omen to the faithful of the Allfather. It's origin is natural, but what it heralds is of no natural design. Upon the icy gray seas of Almaris's northern coast, a fleet of longships gathers. A dozen are smashed against glacier and rock alike, or blown hundreds of miles off course...

 

But three reached their destination ahead of their comrades, and it was enough. Two bore the scouting parties, horned warriors whose eyes have lurked on the homes of the Nords for several months. And one ship, of ashen-gray hull and leathery sails carried an individual with designs far more malevolent in nature than mere conquest. His Huskarls too were borne upon this vessel, singing the profane sagas of their blood-soaked Lord. Let Fnod's Folk and the tribe of Ruric dull their blades against each other, their dawdling will only ensure a quick victory for his marauders once they arrive in earnest.

 

[!]

♪♪♪

Over the following months, those intrepid few who venture north enough will find that, upon the shores of the ice-wastes to their north, longships of foreign make rest, their crews gone. And to an even rarer few still, a panicked soul might tell of a pack of horned warriors, steadily but surely marching south under the cover of a winter storm

 

And at their vanguard, a crimson-plated warlord plots his intervention.

 

[Sevastiel 285]

A silver haired warrior exhales softly, watching his breath mist from under his helm, an ornament of bone clicking against the elk-horns so carefully carved and set onto the metal helm, staring after the young messenger as the lad disappears beyond the twisted gates of that twisted city, carrying a fools tune. 
 

Disappointment. That was what he had been feeling, what he did feel, as he had heard the words spread among his people. A head on battle against the cowards in their castles, holding better armor and weapons, many of which he had never seen before their unfortunate encounters with these… perhaps worms was an off word, but it’d do. Too much was at stake, too many lives could be lost, their culture shattered, their tribes gone. It was foolish, hunting prey they had never before truly chased. No, more than that, it was treating the winter winds lightly, it was dancing with hungry bears, carrying fish, it was suicide. 
 

Snow crunches beneath his heavy boots as he turns, the pelt across his shoulders rippling in the frigid wind, pulling at his clothes, his braided hair, its fingers pushing against anything it could touch, his body and shield, his weapons strapped on so safely were not spared as the gusts did all they could to push him over, to drive him into the snow as these monsters had done. A raven caws at him from a tree, sheltering there for the moment before the winds would sink enough for flight. She was a wise thing, wiser than a man like him deserved. 

 

It was time to return, the lad would die, or he would not, as the Allfather would decide, but he could not stay. He would not stand by and wait this time, not any more. Too much was at stake for him to watch from the sidelines. 

Perhaps even with all his bravado and purpose, Grejon would listen to a touch of reason, unlike their last mistake of a leader. This would not work without care. Armor, weapons, numbers, none of it would mean anything in the face of their prey without a plan.

 

And planning, well. That was what Folke did best.