UPON THE PLAINS

[__Stal27 2126]

 

 

23rd of  Eiriksstanda,

IAÁ 595, Age of Dragonfyre.

They made shore along the coasts of Beleth, prows biting into sand as warriors spilled forth, weapons ready. The raid had one purpose above all others: Peter I. Yet the Liege Lord was nowhere to be found.

It was his heir who greeted them instead.

Simon Peter glimpsed the banners and broke. The moment Norvikingr steel touched Belethian soil, he fled inland, swift enough to earn the name Fleetfoot among the North and abandoning his people to their fate. Citizens and children alike were left behind, leaderless, taken not in slaughter but in capture.

Yet the captives of Beleth were not brought bloodied and bruised, nor were they left to rot behind walls. They were taken to Verdrgrad and placed under the care of the Shieldmaidens of the Northern Host, questioned with restraint and housed with dignity while their fate awaited reply to the ransom call sent south. It was not their Liege Lord who came to answer that summons.

Instead, the Archchancellor of Beleth arrived.

Lord Maddock Tam was wheeled to Norland’s gates by the Vargbane, his presence brimming with accusation rather than wisdom. He sought not terms nor reconciliation, but justice shaped by rumour. He was quick to lay claims of slaughtered kin at Norvikingr feet, as though blood already soaked their halls.

And the High-King met him without flinching.

“Yet I have not killed any,” the High King said evenly. “No bodies pile outside my walls, bodies of adults or children, Archchancellor.  Did you see any bodies on your way here?”

Maddock Tam faltered, then answered truthfully.
“No,” he admitted. “And for that, I am grateful. As it was the only thing that convinced me to keep riding until I met your gate. Unlike Hadrian and the Tar, you hold some manner of real principle outside of power.”

It was enough. Enough to confirm that Beleth bled not from Norland’s hand, but from cowardice within its own walls.

And so the call was given.

THE FIELD OF WAR

Eistalyn’s voice carried over the gathered host, calm yet edged with iron.
“Kynric. Do you know why we are gathered?”

Kynric did not hesitate. He straightened beneath the High King’s gaze, his answer spoken not merely in reply, but in oath.
“The Norvikingr assemble at the King’s behest,” he said. “We shall go viking south to claim glory, and to avenge the honoured-dead.”

The High King turned from him then and commanded.
“To the gate,” he commanded. “We ride.”

Iulius-Thegn moved at once, Tossair beside him, the Ash Kyrnic close behind. Their voices rang out in unison, rolling through the warband like a drumbeat of war.  “Call your steeds. Gather at the gates. We fight!”

And so the battle drew nearer still.

At last, upon the field where reckoning waited, the High King of Norland and the Prince of Beleth, Simon Peter himself, stood before one another at the edge of battle. Between them lay the weight of cowardice and consequence, the thirst for combat tempered by the need to set right what had already been broken, and they spoke, even if briefly.

“Men of good steel, you are.” - “This, I will never, and shall never deny., I ask your name, warrior.”

 

“Haraldr, son of Haakon. May this battle be fruitful for us both.” - “I know who you are, Simon of Beleth. I wish you well in this battle and those that are to come.”

“I have no love for imperials and those aligned with them. Nevertheless, if you claim to be Men of faith, may God have mercy on your people, and greet them honourably.” - “As he will mine”
 

“May your Gods favour you then.” 

Forth did the skirmish upon those plains begin, such a battle starting with a swift exchange of loose arrows and javelins, some bouncing off the plated armaments of the inflicted, some meeting flesh. One notable excerpt from such a fierce skirmish would be the High King falling from their steed, sent to the ground by the recoil from an arbalest. The Uruks and their vassals would flee in turn, the coustiliers of the warband sending them fleeing to the treeline, and the varied warband following in proximity. There within that viridescient glade within the forests, did the true skirmish begin, lances and blades wrought of steel, tight within their grasp, moving to sail through the wind and hit upon their enemy. The orchestra of fierce lances crashing through the steel armour of their foes…

 

-  D R A T H O O M -

 

Sounds of war as both sides clashed into each other, akin to a Thunderbolt granted by the very one above. The Horde would meet none of their targets, all being struck from their steeds and sent forth to the blades of grass by such a warband. One warrior clad in golden armor warming their hands in the blood of three dismounted uruks as they met his fearsome warpick, the armament singing through the air as it punched into their skulls. A Knight of the Imperium, bearing an axe wrought of mighty gem-metal, cleaved a belethian armsman in twain with such an axe. Norns en masse acting akin to berserkers driving such uruks to the ground, then concluding such ferocity by caving in their skulls.

 

There would be no quarter for the wicked, only eternal rest

 

Such a display of fury would bring fear into the hearts of the uruk band, decimating their morale, akin to their men, and soon they fled from battle. Those who fell were left upon the ground as the Uruk, the Belethian, and Salvan horde ran away, lamentations of fear within their cries. Their allies would meet nought but death upon such a field, being met with swift executions for their crimes of existence, and those who ran were cut down like the craven they were by the fierce warband. Only a few men were able to flee from such a slaughter, broken and beaten; only those few were able to depart from their fallen brethren.

 

The battle had concluded at the drop of a singular drop of rain, an instant triumph, concluding as hastily as it began.

 

The final words spoken in the battle were a flurry of many victorious chants, and as the warband stood over their broken foes, the High King of Norland would state his answer to them. 

“They were good and fair warriors.” - “Release our prisoners, they may return to their homes, let us return to the north.”

 

Spoiler

gg to everyone who fought, looking forward to the rest of the war

 

Thank you @tsqv @MonteGiant @Heartesy @Qaz_The_Great @ImmortalShadowZ @_yink_  For writing and Formatting

 

 

 

 

 

[ImmortalShadowZ 1306]

The Vargbane would be seated within his ruined Keep, recounting the story he had to tell to the other members of the Vargveyr. A great tale of open walls, floating wall decoration and the terrible landscapes that housed keeps, empty homes and large, unusual obelisks, centred around multitudes of floating islands within the south. He would then drop a pouch of coins onto the table for members of his guild to take, "Two hundred and fifty mina for a Kha to take another Kha home. We also took his weapons and armour; these beings are being hunted down. Lets atleast give the Imperials some opportunity to hunt them down for their pelts. Their goods are ours first."

[DarkxWalker 249]

Stekvark sat resting within the crevices of his warm home, embracing the riches he had gained from the very fight upon the plains. His swift execution within his horse, Big Bertha, led to the swift fall of many Hordesmen. Thus, a battle of a hundred to none.

Edited January 25 by DarkxWalker

[Qaz_The_Great 1394]

Kynric recalls the initial raid by the warmth of the Hearthflame.

[Calise11 841]

Eistalyn wondered if the child she had provided care for truly had gotten back home safely. His hot chocolate was left without being drunk. She felt for the child as Simon truly had fled from the gathering on the beach. . . Thank the Gods they were not barbarians. . . It would have been a much crueller fate, Simon would have left them to... But surely. He couldnt of known...