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Sven's Day Massacre


SimplySeo
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Years ago, when the Svarlings first arrived in the lands of Almaris, the first to meet them in battle were neither the noble knights of Haense, nor the stalwart northguard of Norland, but simple tribesmen who themselves were once roving hordes. The Skanarri were fierce, like all northern peoples, and zealously guarded their independence.

 

Which made the day four Svarling retainers slaughtered nearly fifty of their number all the more infamous. Though the crimson-plated lord of the Svarlings had shown himself few times since that day, his presence loomed like a shadow over the north ever since. For the Skanarri, it was like a spectre of doom hung over them, even as peace with the Norlanders was declared.

 

Venturing into the northern mountains, where game had been caught for many-a-year, was no longer viable, as hunters returned with mutilated corpses more often than they did with game, and only the land immediately on the southern shore of Lake Ikarus was viable for farming. Because of the threat from these sea-raiders, the Skanarri had bolstered their defenses as best as they were able, fighting men patrolled the perimeter of the village day in and day out, and thankfully, no further attack had come from the raiders.

 

The Skanarri had no way of knowing, however, that the Svarlings had been gathering their strength, and had since been fully mustered...


 

 

 

 

Galti Ketillsson huffed and puffed as he brought firewood to the townsquare, and his nerves were shot. He didn’t mind the hard work, after all that just came with tribal life, but venturing out to collect wood at sundown? That was a risky thing these days, especially with rumors of monsters lurking in the nearby forest. More monsters than usual anyway. Just his luck for drawing the short stick, he thought. Nevertheless, his father was appreciative, especially as it would no doubt leave a good impression of the boy on Grejon, their High Chieftain, Ketill knew that since he was one of the few fighting men left among the northern tribes, it wouldn’t be long before his boy would join him. Galti was almost to his sixteenth summer after all…

 

Those Skanarri who were not on patrol like Ketill gathered by a bonfire in the center of town, Galti’s mother and sister among them. To call the spring celebrations this year a ‘feast’ wasn’t entirely accurate, as food was scarce this far in the north even at the best of times, but it was still a celebration, which was dearly needed to lift everyone’s spirits of late. Galti looked over the food as everyone gathered around the fire. Mead from the Nords was the highlight of the menu, while most dined on rye bread and lakefish, what little venison there was had been saved for Grejon and his family. Galti didn’t mind it much, he preferred fish in truth, deer didn’t have much meat on them these days.

 

Galti took his place by his family, his mother raising a brow at him. “You were almost out past sundown.'' She reprimanded, much to Galti’s frustration, the boy responded raising his hands as if to say ‘not my fault’. In effect, that is exactly what he did say. “The logs were heavy, I came back as quickly as I could!”

 

This answer didn’t seem to please his mother, but before she could chastise him further, a ringing sounded throughout the townsquare. Grejon sat at his seat by the fire, tapping his seax against a gold calice to garner everyone’s attention.

 

“Some of you might question my judgement in throwing a feast this year, in fairness I will grant you that acquiring game has been tough, what with the northwood being off-limits. But, we have food enough, I assure you, and with how bleak everyone’s moods have been as of late, is that not all the more reason to celebrate?” He marched around the fire as he spoke, moving to the table where the kegs of mead were held, and filling his chalice, moving back to his seat as he did so.

 

“These have been a bleak few years, but we have survived worse. Famine, disease, the war with the southerners, we have persevered so far, and that, I think.” He remarked with a raise of his drink in toast. “Is something worth celebrating.”

 

Galti was passed a drink by his mother, and mimicked the gesture. Though as he looked towards his Chieftain, he couldn’t help but shake the feeling Grejon was putting on a face for his people…


A storm brewed among the peaks of the Kaldrfjells, the Svarlandic name for the range which separated northwestern Almaris from the arctic wastes beyond, and Svarlandic Warlord Zharrtýr Rykhässon looked down at the hinterlands below in brooding silence, ice webbed up his armor as if spun by a spider, and his breath formed a frozen mist beyond the visor of his horned helmet. He was not the only figure whose gaze loomed upon Almaris from those frigid northern peaks, Vikne Kjeldsdóttir stood beside him. Silence reigned in this part of the world, animals no longer lingered in this part of the range, but that did not mean it was dead. Below, nestled in the valleys the Svarling host awaited in a silence which was only broken by the screams of the sacrificed, which echoed throughout the mountainside, and the crowing of carrion birds…

 

“Tell me Vikne…” Zharrtýr began, addressing the other, though he did not lift his gaze from the valleys beyond to face her. “Why do you follow me?” He asked plainly.

 

Vikne looked to Zharrtýr, a surprised expression invisible beneath her helmet. “Pardon, my Lord?” She asked, seemingly caught off guard by the question. Zharrtýr spoke once more.

 

“You have followed me to this end of the earth, and for what reason? You know I am no seer by birth, you have no reason to believe I commune with the Gods, and yet you still follow me loyally. Why?” The question Zharrtýr posed was a loaded one, but he said it as if making idle conversation, if he was concerned about his servant’s motivations his tone of voice did not betray as much, only...Idle curiosity.

 

The woman pondered the question posed for a moment’s time, her gaze gast skyward for the moment. After some few seconds of silence, she replied in a direct, honest tone. “Because you are the one with the strength to rule, my Lord. The people of this land- many of the people in our land, even- they are weak. Their supposed unity is built on ill-made foundations; when circumstances become dire, they will turn on each other, because they lack a leader with the strength to guide them. Why else would they cling to the teachings of their silent, distant gods? They lack the willpower to do otherwise.” She stated, her arms folding across her front as her gaze turned back to the crimson-clad warlord. “I follow you because no other is worthy of my loyalty. The rest are weak, arrogant, or just overall unimpressive.”

 

Zharrtýr simply nodded, seeming satisfied with her answer. “Spoken with honesty.” He remarked admirably, turning to leave their perch by the cliffside. “That is why I count you a friend, Vikne Kjeldsdóttir, thank you.” He remarked before finally descending into the valley below, where his warriors awaited.

 

Four Svarlings struck fear into the hearts of the Skanarri, he would be bringing four dozen to finish the job….


Galti protested at having to eat the river-eel, and only did so at the insistence of his mother. Good meat was growing harder to come by after all, and if he didn’t fill his stomach with that, what else? Half-rotted fruits from the south? The boy needed to eat.

 

For Grejon, his mind during the feast was...Occupied. Long were his nights with his most trusted warriors, planning potential avenues for when Ikarusburg became uninhabitable, but of the few choices there were, none were particularly great. His people could integrate with the Norlanders, but then again, did he not fight a whole war against those people? A long and bloody war no less, but migrating south was equally unrealistic. If they fled into the southern realms of men, they would be treated no better than bandits and brigands, Imperials were hardly known for their tolerance of tribal cultures.

None of this troubled his tribespeople though, only a few, the elders and his trusted warriors knew how dire their situation was, and all of them, especially the elderly, preferred to stand and fight rather than flee, but Grejon wasn’t so sure. All this and more distracted him from much of the banter among the feast, he spared a few moments to speak to Ketill’s boy, whose coming of age was less than a week away, Galti did his best to be respectful towards the High Chief, it was clear the boy wasn’t sure what to say without his father.

 

“Best prepare yourself my boy, you’ll be a fighting man soon, it’ll be up to you to protect your family, and the tribes.” Galti didn’t really have a grasp of how soon those words would become a reality, perhaps neither did Grejon.


It was under the cover of the setting sun and snowfall that five boats set out from the northern shore of Lake Ikarus, moving silently save the batting of their oars against the water, this was not a marauder rabble, nor horde of maddened berserkers. Zharrtýr’s Huskarls, the men and women who followed him from the beginning of his conquests, were the most disciplined in his hosts. Clad in black armor, engraved with the icons and runes of Old Svarland, each one shielded from the cold by cloaks of wolf or bear pelt. Some carried axes, others swords, and many clasped shields likewise decorated with tribal talismans and engravings. Skard Hæfnirsson, one of Zharrtýr’s captains, discarded the heavy armor of his compatriots in favor of cloth and fur clothing, to move light, and properly wield the longbow over his back.

 

Skard looked to the shoreline rising in the distance, then to Zharrtýr, but neither broke the silence. Soon, buildings grew visible through the snow, and at the dock, sentries on watch. Zharrtýr raised his hand, the rowing of the ships ceased, and within moments Skard had put an arrow in each guard before an alarm could be raised. The Svarling warchief nodded in approval, and lowered his hand once more, as the rowers brought the boats to the southern shore, at a small dock which led into the village. As the sun began to lower behind the houses of the Skanarri village, several torches were lit among the Svarlings, and Zharrtýr reached to his belt, drawing his broadsword from its sheath as he dismounted from the boat, crimson greaves thudding upon the wooden dock.

 

As the boats disgorged their fell passengers. Zharrtýr moved forward, stepping over the corpse of one of the Skanarri guards, before finally breaking the silence, his voice was low, but it carried in the deafening night, and even those who did not hear him understood the reaction of those who did.

 

“Spare not one living thing, man or beast. Put them all to the sword.”

 

At once, nearly fifty weapons were unsheathed, the hiss of metal being drawn, before finally, Zharrtýr’s huskarls marched for the townsquare, where the Skanarri now gathered...


The scene that engulfed Ikarusburg, home of the Skanarri tribes, could only be described as a nightmare ripped from the depths of the Ibleesian netherworld itself… Black-plated juggernauts set upon the Skanarri as they feasted, or slept in their beds, and the screams of women and children gathered in the townsquare were deafening. The few men present, Grejon’s guards, and the elderly did their best to resist, but were utterly unprepared for what set upon them now. None had expected the Svarlings to set off across the frozen lake, least of all Grejon, and the fact that he hadn’t had the mind to set more guards at the dock would haunt him as long as he lived… Which, if he had to guess, would not be very long.

 

They had broken through the northern half of the village in a stream, torching the thatch-roofed houses, only after marching inside to butcher those occupants who hadn’t attended the feast, or had and retired early. The screams awoke those in the next row of houses, though they rushed outside only to be met by the silent Huskarls, or worse, hid within their homes as they were put to the torch.

 

Grejon rallied those he could, though a handful of his band were unlikely to do more than slow down the horned monsters in armor. Grasping a greataxe from one of his band, he moved to face down the Svarlings as they rushed down from the north-face of the town square. He arrived just in time to see a handful of elderly shield-warriors put to the axe, fathers, grandfathers, and wisemen all.  Behind Grejon, the alarm was rung, calling the warriors on patrol back to the village, though he had a feeling they would not arrive in time.

 

His axe was raised, finding itself hooked under the helm of one of the Svarlings, he wrenched it back, violently as he could, digging the beard into, and likely breaking the Huskarl’s neck as he crumbled to the ground. He reared the axe back, and brought it down on the bulky pauldron of another, causing the warrior to stagger. Though as he swung it down a third time, a hand reached out above the shieldwall, and clasped the haft of his axe, which he tried to pull back to no avail.

 

Through the rapidly disintegrating battle-line, a crimson plated giant emerged, standing a good head and shoulders above the tallest man Grejon had ever met. His bulky, immobile armor only added to this effect, though were it not obvious enough, the color of his armor denoted this man as the leader of the Svarling warband.

 

As Grejon jostled for his axe from the Svarling, his eyes met the other’s from beneath the t-shaped visor. Zharrtýr’s bloodshot, ice-blue eyes locked onto Grejon for a moment...Before driving a broadsword into the Skanarri’s gut. Grejon wished to say some last words of defiance, but quickly found his voice lost in a torrent of blood. His thoughts were a daze, and as Zharrtýr ripped the sword from Grejon’s stomach, the last thing the Skanarri Chieftain felt was rage at being denied the chance to even wound the man who took his life…


 

 

 

 

 

 

Elsewhere in the village, Galti ran. He ran faster than he’d ever ran before. He ran for dear life as the demons from the sea set upon his neighbors, his kinsmen...His mother. There was little he could do to stop them, after all. Fully grown men tried and failed to halt the slaughter, to strike back against, or even just tackle the warriors. He did not stop when the warriors from patrol rushed to the village, his father among them, he did not stop when his family home, the only home he’d even known was set up in flames. He only stopped from exhaustion after what felt like hours, though was likely only a few minutes. Beyond the outskirts of the village, along the treeline where those who ran now fled, he finally heard something new over the sounds of butchery, of slaughter, and the screams of his kin.

 

The warriors began to chant.

 

“Skeggǫld, skálmǫld

skildir ro klofnir

vindǫld, vargǫld

áðr verǫld steypisk.”

 

[!]

For days after, the citizens of Varhelm would see fire and smoke rise from the northern woods.

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Vikne Kjeldsdóttir looked over the destruction wrought upon the Skanarri with a hum of contemplation. This, she reckoned, was a good prelude to what was to come; a display of strength and will. And yet, there was no time to waste. Before the embers could even settle out of the air above Nueva Tierra, she collected a force of favored soldiers, and marched off to her next day's battle. . .

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As death and ruination came raining down upon the Skanarri in Ikarusbrug, the very few whom had survived the massacre made their way just a mile south of the village. There, they connected with the Skanarri whom had been stationed at Camp Fnod and moved to fortify the camp, being the very last Skanarri outpost left on Almaris...

 

Spoiler

Skanarri post coming soon

 

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Reserved

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Gorm The Flayer Came to a stop atop a nearby hill, having returned from their raid on fenn and spotting the burning houses dotted with scattering Skanarri. After a moment of silence Gorm would begin giggling, then progressing to full on laugther. This action was followed up by the rest his band of cannibalistic lunatics, their chorus of mad cackles reverberating through the valleys and hills of the northern tundra.

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Lee Sun sighs, setting down a scout report "The Svarlings are certainly out to make my job as Marshal a hard one." He walks out the Northern gate watching the plume of smoke rise, "But I'll be damned if I let them do that to Varhelm."

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Vane stood in the square before the great Ashwood tree, as he began to stroll through the square he noticed the smoke was not from the venerated and smoldering tree, but far off in the distance, he knew not the source, only that such was a sign of something terrible to come. Clasping his hands behind his back Vane walked briskly to Lee who was in the middle of training new Northguard recruits "There appears to be a matter that requires our attention."

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Daibhidh would be sitting by the docks of Dùnrath, and heard about this report from his advisor. He would sigh and say, "The Skannaris, and the Svarlings, whoever they are but they are just fokking up my hometown..." He would then take out his bagpipes and plays music on it, while his advisor, aka his niece will start singing according to the tune...
Oro 'Is e do bheatha' a th 'ann,

Oro 'Is e do bheatha' a th 'ann,

Oro 'Is e do bheatha' a th 'ann,

A-nis tha an samhradh air ruighinn!

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A cloaked figure flanked by two guards sits patiently atop a nearby mountain overlooking the village, their crowdrake mask staring blankly into the distance. As the first screams rise from Ikarusburg, what visible skin on their face curls up into an unhinged smile. "Drekkið vel í kvöld."

 

Viktor Eldrsson watches the smoke rise from the door of the Hearth Temple, a knowing look on his face. He lets slip a sigh of regret. "Ay, it had to happen eventually..."

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Sortsvinaer Styrbjorn watched the village burn as the glow of fire danced across his blood stained armor. He looked up into the sky, a single eye remaining open as the other remained tucked away behind cloth, torn apart from a forgotten battle.

As his mind came back to him he marched onwards to remove any remaining souls from their bodies. In that moment of clarity he spoke before falling back into a rage. "Fyrir úlfinn"

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Far in the hill tops of the east, within the ruined husk of an abandoned cathedral, sat ruminating a strange amalgam of viscera and gore, in mockery of a butterflies beautiful cocoon. Within it writhed a crimson light, and a low grown, as the beast within was ripped apart, molded, reshaped, becoming....something more. The memories that had been lost in ichorous birth return to the monster with a pain like the fires of all the black pits. It remembered who it used to be, the path it was set upon...and with infernal ambitions ignited within it, it saw now just how far the plan could go. With a rupture of flame and blood, the Tyrant rose, spewing embers from ragged gills as grotesque muscle and bone split the flesh, uncontainable...

 

"Zharrtyr........Dark Gods willing....you will be shown the true might we may possess...It is time for me to go home..."

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