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[Event] A Growing Threat


AstriaS
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A Growing Threat

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Seven years had passed since the first scouting parties arrived in Almaris. And in that near-decade, the Svarlings had spread terror and bloodshed across the frozen north. When the first war parties came, they clashed with both Norlandic forces and the Skanarri tribes. So staggering was their brutality that the name ‘Svarling’ soon became a household saying, even among those who had never laid eyes on the foreign warriors. Many, if not most, had regarded them as just another nuisance. Yet, that was about to change. The entirety of the Svarlings’ host had arrived, and on this day they gathered in the center of their war camp to hear the words of their honored leaders.

 

There, seated upon a simple wooden throne in the center of a raised platform, was the giant of a man known as Lord Zharteyr Rhykasson, the Chosen. And before him, addressing the gathered warriors, stood a figure the warriors knew almost as well- Vikne, the Kjörnarling warmaiden. Her voice rose to carry out over her battle-hungry audience, and her words rang with a hollow echo within her helmet.

 

“Brothers, long has it been since we first set our boots on this southern soil,” She began her rallying speech. “Day by day, we have crushed the southlanders everywhere they have faced us. We have haunted their hills and forests, we have tormented their hunters and their scouts, and we have looted and burned their villages. And every time their blood stains this land, our legend grows; we have struck fear into hearts even beyond the King’s borders. Yet, these pitiful skirmishes are not a war. Not truly.” The giant of a woman then thrust a gauntleted fist skyward. “The real war begins today, my brothers! With our host finally assembled, the time has come to drown these southlings in a sea of blood! We will grind the tribals beneath our heels, reduce the King’s city to rubble, and give their souls as offerings to the Gods!”

 

With that conclusion, the warband gave out a collective roar as cheers, whistles and the clashing of weapons against shields filled the air, and the orator turned to face the seated warlord behind her. “Your warriors stand ready for your orders, my Lord. What say you?” She queried, prompting the plate-clad titan of a man to rise to his feet and raise his own voice in answer.

 

As the Chosen rose, the camp fell silent, cheers deafened in respect as the Svarlandic warlord spoke.

 

“Brothers and sisters, warriors of my army. Each and every one of you has already reaped a bloody toll in the name of our masters, and they have not been left wanting. You have followed me to this wretched corner of the world to make war, and I only lament that thus far I have given you a slaughter without challenge instead. These Southlanders hide behind their walls, only venturing out when they can bring a score to bear against a single of our warriors, it is pitiful. 

 

We have delayed long enough. The Gods call us south, even now I hear them. They beckon us towards a destiny worthy of the sagas. The hillmen, the Nordfolk, the Snærálfar and the Westmen only delay us from our destiny. No longer. We will march, let the north burn in our wake.”

 

Within moments, a cacophony of yells and warhorns sounded all throughout the crowd, chants and cheers ringing out in great volume. The Chosen had spoken, and a storm of blood would follow.


 

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As warhorns and carnyxes sound about the Svarlandic camp. Zharteyr Rykhasson casts his gaze south, preparing to vent his frustration upon whichever unfortunates his host happened to meet first.

 

He had a certain village in mind.

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Several cloaked figures chatter excitedly to each other in the background. There was much to prepare, much to be done... who knew when they may next be called upon? They await their deliverance with bated breath.

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Sortsvinaer The Unkillable sat nearby with a recent gash in his right eye, listening to the speech as he shoveled potatoes into his mouth. "There is much to do, and so much time to do it."

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"Seems we'll need more wine." Ellenore frowns.

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