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THE STORMBORN - STORMSONG


Intorduction

The Saga of the Stormborn was written twenty years after the voyage of the legendary longship by Snaeulf the Wise, a warrior and bard on board the ship. The story accurately describes in full detail the adventures, journey and deeds of the legendary heroes on board, of which Lord Ragnarr the Wolf was master and commander.

Eighty five years passed since those days. Lord Ragnarr the Wolf was publically executed in Nerisella, charged for treason against the Sellenian Throne by the real traitors. His son, Ragnarr Ragnarrson, fled to Slavyarus and returned twenty one years later to liberate the occupied Northern Kingdom. He too had a tragic fate, being murdered by his enemies of his own kind thirty years after his father's death. In the mean time, the war between the Seven Sellenian Kingdoms continued and the Empire seemed it would never be what it was. The Nords themselves had divided themselves into numerous factions, all battling each other.

Vulkoslav Ragnarrson was Ragnarr the Wolf's grandchild. He looked stunningly like him, though his oft smiles and joyous laughs created a widely different image of that of his grandfather. He grew up amongst Slavyarussians, and though he was like them in any other way, he was haunted by the feeling of belonging towards his own kind, the Nords. He was skilled in seamanship, yet didn't boast the skills of his forefathers - nor could he wield a blade as his legendary grandfather. In fact, Vulkoslav's style of fighting never included a great sword. An axe and a round wooden shield, like any other warrior.

On the twenty first autumn of his life, he realized he could not go on without clearing out the struggles and question in his mind regarding his kin and belonging. Vulkoslav started the construction of his very own longship which was ready by spring. He called it Stormsong in memory of Ragnarr the Wolf. This would be the end of his struggle and the answer to his questions. No more hesitation or uncertainty. He was now on his way to the answer - and glory.  The journey to search the Oracle at the world's end, where it is said that the gates of Valhalla themselves and the rainbow bridge to it were visible. There was nothing to lose and all to gain. A voyage, journey, quest, a challenge promising answers, riches and fame.

He bid his closest farewell before leaving Chernomor and sailed south through calm seas with thirty crewmen - all warriors he knew, yet lacking the true experience one gets with a life at sea.

Akhamur was the first destination. A large merchant paradise, haven for traders and city of all cultures. This was a neutral city state, to which all the cultures of the world came and traded freely with no concern of the other's origin. From the longship, it looked like the city was bustling with activity, the same as a bee hive. It was rather odd of a sight, since the poverty around the harbor mixed with extreme wealth of residences and palaces, all with different architectural style. Ships, cogs and caravels were entering, leaving, docking, supplying, anchoring and sailing around. The Stormsong maneuvered by the flotilla of foreign vessels and found a free space in the west harbor, were the city was at its peek of poverty.

Vulkoslav paid the tax to the dockmaster and ordered the shifts and shore leave. He then left for the depths of the town along with Ivarr Fairhair and Yaroslav, son of Knyaz Chernomor, to search for more crewmembers and experienced warriors. If they were lucky they could stumble into a few adventurers, seeking glory, fame and the irresistible journey to the Oracle.

Vulkoslav and his comrades made their way through the dirty narrow streets to a town square of some sort. A large, wealthily built and decorated building stood opposite to them. A large wooden sign was hanging before the entrance, with the large words WISE BERILLIUS' TAVERN and a mermaid depicted just below.

The place looked promising. Vulkoslav, Ivarr and Yaroslav entered. They didn't stun anybody if their difference in appearance: Vulkoslav, looking like his forefathers, had icy eyes, long, light-blonde long hair and neatly trimmed moustaches and beard. He was as tall as any Nord, which was taller than any non-Nord. Ragnarrson's axe was not visible under his white fur cloak. Yaroslav was a large mountain of a person, yet he had a joyous look, long messy auburn hair and a welcoming smile among surrounded by his beard. Ivarr was slim, tall and handsome - that was why his comrades had given him "Fairhair" as a name. Yet there was something wicked and frightening in his eyes. No one seemed pleased by their entrance, yet no one opposed them.

"My longship shall sail east to seek the Oracle," Vulkoslav almost yelled above the noisy crowd, attracting its attention. "Shall anyone join me?"

Curious eyes were lifted towards Vulkoslav. The Oracle is not a place that anyone could reach at any time he likes - in fact in the whole history of this world, only five mortals have ever reached it - and this was in the legends.

[ Sign-ups start now: please introduce your character so that his history/background is somehow understood - either by given info before the actual introduction, or by the character's tale (if you want to be original, that is) Please keep it consice, people, let's keep the game clean and tidy.]

[ Rules are as in previous games, however I'm thinking of placing a limit of each player in between my posts - probably two. This is to be done to avoid previous issues with disorganization and chaos (:  ]

[[OOC: My original character was immune to the effects of time due to a ring he received in the original Stormborn. The original started during the time of Cephorus Septim in Era 27, so I'll play as him. Lets also pretend the Stormborns I made weren't canon.

Name: Ciwulf Skarim (real name: Cephorus Septim)
Other names he has gone by: Caell Rajin, Yuri Baskov, Gaius Baramir, Valan Maris.
Weapon: Firengard
Age: He is over one hundred, but is physically in his late twenties.

Description: Has brown hair and green eyes, average height. Has a short brown beard to keep his face warm in the northern weather, and has let his hair grown to shoulder length for the same reason. He carries a whitesteel blade called Firengard.

Bio
First mate on the original expedition with Ragnarr the Wolf, Septim has watched those around him die. To avoid being executed due to his immortality, Septim left the West and took on a new name: Ciwulf Skarim. For thirty years he travelled the world, learning of many cultures and peoples and meeting many friends and enemies. Now, upon hearing of Ragnarr the Wulf's grandson starting a journey, Septim has returned to the Northern Lands in order to aid his friend's descendant.
Skills:

A master of the sword. Was taught many techniques by Eastern swordfighters, also has Western military training. He also spent some time with the master spearfighters of the Cijini tribe, learning to wield a spear. Finally, he has learnt to wield a two handed axe from the Northmen. However, he knows his limitations, and knows that he is not invincible.

In his travels, he has met many people and learned of many cultures. He has learnt the basics of many languages, but is fluent in the dialects of the Western Empires and the languages of the Northmen.]]

***

"I will join you," said Cephorus as he rose from his seat at the bar, "My name is Ciwulf Skarimson. I am experienced with longships, and able with a few different weapons."

Name: Lanoc
Weapons: A yew shortbow, a dagger.
Age: Twenty or so years of age.
Description: Short, clean-shaven, and has short brown hair and bright blue eyes.
Bio: Born in the forests of the south, raised by his father until he died when Lanoc was near fourteen. They had communicated in grunts and gestures. He departed from the wooden cabin and wandered from country to country. He found a job in the North, copying various writings and soon learning the language(he could copy the shapes of letters quite easily, even without a language). He lived on the streets, saving up the few coins he earned, and eventually managed to buy a humble dwelling.


The Oracle. The young man wondered. Surely he had not the fortune to find such a ship and crew, few ever travelled to the place. True, fewer still came back, but his future over those seas. He rose himself, standing up to his full height, barely five foot and six, and addressed Vulkoslav. "I shall travel with you, if you would allow me. I'm not much good on a ship, I was not born around the seas, but far south of here. I cannot say I will be much use at all, but I have a fair shot with my bow, though I can't use much more than my fists and a staff for close fighting. I lack a true name, I was born without language, but over the course of my ten or so years in these parts, I have learnt this language with great difficulty, and none other. I call myself Lanoc. I do not see the reason for another name." The young man quietened, and awaited the decision.

[[I promise I won't sp@m this up... much. :-)]]

Name: Larson Glaravich
Weapons: Two massive broadswords, one with a saphire in the hilt, the other with a ruby.
Age: 31
Description: Tall and athletic, brown hair, green eyes, and white.
Bio: Born into a warrior family, Glaravich was the son of a famed warrior, now deceased from his wounds.  The two broadswords he wields were inherited shortly after his father's funeral, and carried at all times.  Not much is known about him, other than his prestige in melee combat.

---

A strong man unsheathed two massive broadswords and looked at the speaker.

"I shall join you in your Quest," he declared.  "It shall be a fun venture, hopefully."

[[ I'll leave the sign-ups for another 12 hrs. Sorry for dely. ]]

Ciwulf Skarimson, or Cephorus Septim, got up the next morning at an early hour and packed his small bag with some clothes, he did not have any armor. Afterwards, he buckled Firengard and walked down to the docks where the Stormsong waited. On it was the grandchild of his old friend.
Grandson...has it been that long since the journey? It seems like yesterday that I approached the docks to find good Ragnarr the Wolf waiting for me.
Before the journey, Cephorus had been a young Cidellian Army Officer that had sought adventure in the North, afterwards he was an immortal. He never had a wife or son, he did not see his family die, but his friends still passed. Tak-Ne, a man he had known and fought beside in the South, had died of old age forty years ago. Gajim Dujon, a great Eastern warrior, had taught Septim how to wield a sword like the Easterners did it, but he too had fallen to time. Septim sighed as he approached and gave a non-genuine smile.
"Greetings, I am Ciwulf Skarimson, we met in the tavern," said Cephorus.

[[ Drat =[. Cant believe i missed sign-ups.. ]]

Revenge strolled along the shore
Shuffling along with his feet on the gravel
The seagulls crowed above him in the blue sky

Revenge looked into the distance and noticed a ship half-way onto the shore
It looked like a long-ship from his perspective
He'd been on a ship before for a few months in the rough north sea
He felt a strong need to investigate this ship, for some reason not known to him at that current time

As Revenge got closer he noticed some people on the ship

" Hello !? " Revenge cried slightly , still from quite a distance
He heard a mumble come back through the thin warm air

Al he got up close he was greeted vageley by the name and man he came to know as Ragnarrson
Though he didn't know it at the time, this ship would see him go on a long journey, a journey which would make him the Bard
Revenge soon got aqquaintanced with the crew members
Including a man by the name of Septim

Revenge buckled down, with nothing else to do with his life it so happened
He became a crew member of the Stormborn

[ OOC : Yes Baby Rev's back on board :D ]

[[ Although sign-ups ended (for Christ's sake!), Rev is back on board. Welcome (: ]]

[[ Second in command -    Septim

Ragnarr and I are still the only ones from the first one...XD...we need Seloc, Samos, Game and Watch, or Defensive! =P]]

Septim smiled and turned to Ragnarrson.
"If you would like, I will take the position of second in command, I had that post on the last longship I had and was quite good at it," said Septim.

Lanoc had arrived just as the sun set across on its daily journey across the sky. He glanced upwards as the clouds pinkened, and saw the seagulls tracing the fishes' paths across the sea. It was a cool morning, and despite his long stay in these colder climes he had not yet gotten used to it. He hugged his woollen cloak tighter still around him. He strolled about the deck, looking at the wonderful craftsmanship until Vulkoslav begun his speech. He walked into hearing range and listened to the wise words.
          He decided it would be best not to assume any of the positions, he knew little about weapons and ships, and at any rate, they were taken within a fraction of a minute. He was unsure of the other people, and decided it would be best to keep out of their way. He awaited orders while gazing across at the horizon.

[Revenge, I have to ask you, why don't you use full stops?]

"Ciwulf, your position is there on the commander's deck, beside me. John and Revenge, you can choose freely. The rest - welcome. This shall be your home for the next few months. Treat the Stormsong with repsect and care, and she shall withstand any storm or sea!"
Septim gave a smile and turned to look out at the sea. Septim had been to Cala Bahiya around a decade ago, he had spent two years of his life there. He had many friends, and a few enemies, in that city. Dismissing those thoughts for later, Septim began working around the ship.

I. Through the Seas to the East

The Stormsong had kept a course towards the south-east along the rocky coast, whom nature enriched with numerous small islands, coves, gulfs and caves. It was a scenic view indeed, yet it seemed a perfect place for ambushes...
It was a calm day, late morning, and no clouds to be seen. Fine, steady wind kept the longship going lightly above the waves. The oars did not need to be manned and the warriors and sailors were lazily sitting around on the deck around their chests and belongings, cursing the heat and telling each other moments of their lives. And dirty japes - as always.
No one expected the two galleys that sailed out from behind one of the numerous rocky islands. Not even Vulkoslav, who was at the rudder oars, speaking with Ciwulf.
"Two ships ahead!" someone yelled. Immediatly everyone looked in the direction of the two light galleys, which seemed to have directed themselves straight for the Stormsong. Fearsome battle screams from the ambushers tore the air between them.
"Battle stations! To arms!" yelled Ragnarrson, who himself took hold of the hilt of his axe...

John heard the call to arms and grabbed his sword from next to him.  He attached it to his belt and removed his cloak, as it slowed his movements.  He walked out on the deck slowly and observed the two galleys as they approached.  "So, this is the first obstacle of what could be many."  John thought to himself as he drew his flamberge and rested it on his shoulder.  The flame-blade was unique from the other swords he saw and it was not used by too many.  He then felt his adrenaline starting to pump and awaited the unfortunate enemies to come close enough for him to spill their blood.

The two galleys sailed straight for the Stormsong, one slightly ahead than the other. The wind was in their advantage and a strategic manouver or a sleezy escape was impossible. Battle was inevetable.
"Ivarr, take the bloody rudder oars!" Vulkoslav grabbed his battle axe in one hand. It wasn't a weapon of any beauty or art, but it had neat carvings in the metal and the hilt which signified its user's honour. Ragnarrson didn't bother to take a wooden round shield and instead ran to the larboard after Yaroslav, who had donned his healmet and grabbed his heavy sword. Most of the warrios had lined on the side, shields up, protecting from the incoming volleys of arrows.
The first galley (the Vizaria) had let its sails loose and drifted slowly towards the longship's side, ready to hook. The other galley (the Bazilleus) was aiming to do the same on the Stormsong's other side. The ambush was well planned, and the odds were strongly against Ragnarrson's warriors.
"Blood!" someone screamed horridly as the Vizaria touched the board of the Stormsong. The warriors were hit by a wave of attacking sailors from the galley. They were poorly armored, yet all had steel half-helms, leather armor of some sort and short swords.
"Hold your positions! Let them tire on our shield wall!" Vulkoslav lifted a wooden shield from a dead sailor by him and slashed sharply towards an attacking enemy. The poor lad didn't see it coming and fell backwards, his skull cracked and blood spluring on Ragnarrson.
The Bazzileus touched the Stormsong's starboard. A shield wall awaited the attackers there too, yet they didn't seem they could last long...

John felt the Stormsong move slightly as the first enemy galley touched the side.  He saw the first side begin defending from the attack.  He then saw the other galley along the other side and decided to join the defenders there.  He grabbed a wooden shield and held it close to him as he moved in line with the defenders on the starboard side.  The attackers jumped towards them and fought to break through the line of shield carrying defenders.  One of the attackers moved at John to his misfortune.  John blocked the blade of the enemy with ease, and thrust his sword into his neck.  He pulled it out quickly and pushed the dead man into a comrade behind him.

Another attacker moved towards John and slashed at the shield with incredible strength.  John was surprised that his shield almost splintered and tossed it aside.  He parried the next attack with his sword and was pleased to see that the attacker's sword was vibrating thanks to the flamberge.  John took that to his advantage and slashed across the chest of the man, feeling his sword tear through flesh, muscle, and bone.  The enemy stumbled backwards, dropping his sword, and fell to the deck, practically dead and no longer a danger to anyone.  John then found another wooden shield close by and attempted to fill any holes in the defense.

"Finally, some fight!"

Larson pulled out his broadswords and parried the blows of two oncoming sailors wielding metal shortswords.  The warrior threw his weight towards the closest assailant and easily unarmed the sailor, who then held his cowardly hands up and begged for mercy.  The other sailor, taking his chance, thrust his sword towards Larson's head, who jumped to the side, dodging.  The blade swung againt towards his head, but missed and instead cut his torso.  Cursing, Glarovich brought down his broadswords upon the attacker's shoulder, fracturing the bone, and finished him off with a thrust towards the neck.  He turned back to the cowardly man, who now held two longswords in his hands.  Sighing, the warrior simply killed the man, a stab through the heart.  Wiping the sweat from his forehead, he dived into the heat of battle, assisting anyone against the oncoming forces...

"Push them back!" shouted John after he heard a commanding voice give the order to fight on their ships.  He plunged his sword straight through a cheap wooden shield, into an enemy sailor's chest.  The shield then was split in half when John pulled his sword out quickly.  He jumped onto the enemy ship with several other sailors from the Stormsong and began taking the fight to them.  John saw a man who could have been one of the head fighters so he moved towards him.  The fighter saw John approach and readied his sword and shield.  John picked up another discarded shield and readied himself before moving in.

The fighter slashed at John quickly, but the attacker was parried away with the shield so that John could counter attack.  The man almost didn't block the slash, but he got his shield up over his head.  John slashed again and the shield blocked him again, but this time he slammed his shield as hard as he could into the enemy.  The man was knocked off balance and John wasted no time attacking repeatedly.  His slashes were barely fended away until finally he almost cut the sailor's arm off.  The sword was dropped and John stabbed his sword into the man's chest, feeling it go through the sternum with a snap, through the organs behind it, and then out the back of the man.  John pulled his sword out quickly and looked for more opponants.

Ciwulf Skarimson blocked two more strikes with great agility and found an opening in his clumsy enemy's defenses. With two slashes, the enemy fell to the deck with a large gash in his neck and another in one of his arteries. Ciwulf then turned to see an officer of the galley. The man ran forward and slashed twice, Ciwulf moved to attack only to have his blade parried out of his hand. The man then stabbed at Ciwulf, but Ciwulf dodged and grabbed a fallen man's axe. Using it with skill, he blocked two attacks and finally got the officer's blade caught in the strangely shaped head. Pulling the axe back, the officer either had to let go or fall on his face. He chose the former and looked for another weapon, but it was too late. Ciwulf brought the axe down upon the officer's head, splitting the skull. He then picked his blade up and continued fighting.

Ciwulf wiped the blood from his blade on the shirt of one of the dead enemies and sheathed it. He then surveyed the scene. He had been in many battles, some of the first being in his homeland of Cidel, then on the Stormborn. He had fought in the brutal wars of the South, where the casualties were much higher than anywhere else. And in the East, where most of the rulers seemed to have no morals. His emerald-green eyes had seen many terrible things, and behind them an aura of wisdom far beyond his seemingly youthful age came forth. He remembered each man he killed, their screams were burnt into his brain. He often had nightmares of the slaughter at Haran, where he had killed a defenseless man, but his "allies" had done worse. Babies, women, children, all were killed by them, none were spared. That had been the last time he fought for Cidel. In the seventy years since his departure from his homeland, Cidel had gone from a major power to a minor kingdom. The Cidellus family had died out with Emperor Anochus IX. He felt no pity for his homeland, they had brought it upon themselves.
"Ciwulf! We won!" yelled one of the crew.
"The day may be ours, but it is a long journey ahead," said Ciwulf before walking away from the crewmember. He found Ragnarr and approached him.
"What are your orders?" asked Ciwulf.

"I'm honoured that you give me this sword, John. You prove to be a mighty warrior. I shall take it." Then he hesitated. "No, it is your own prize. I want you to keep it for your own. You deserve it."
Vulkoslav then turned to Ciwulf.
"Strip these ships of everything valuable - weapons, armor, arrows, gold, cloth, anything." Vulkoslav Ragnarrson saw a hint of solemness in Ciwulf's eyes, but there was no time to think about that. Eleven dead and five badly wounded from the crew. The able crew was reduced to thirty-five.
"Revenge, get these men's wounds treated."
Vulkoslav saw Olaf's body laying lifeless on the deck of the Stormsong. I spoke with him about his girl yesterday, Vulkoslav thought. Yet then he tried to overcome this pulse of solemness.
"This victory is yours, comrades! Once we strip all the loot from the Bazilleus and the Vizaria, it shall be divided between you."
The sun was high in the sky and midday passed along slowly with heat, light breezes and no cloud at all. The dead given a warrior's burial - they were burnt above the waves.

"Yes, Captain," said Ciwulf before walking away, then, facing one of the ships, he yelled out to the sailors.
"Alright! Strip the ships bare!" roared Ciwulf.
With that order, the sailors began stripping the ship, and Ciwulf helped. Within an hour, the ships were stripped of most valuables, and Ciwulf returned to Ragnarrson.
"It is done, Captain," said Ciwulf.

Ciwulf noticed a few of the sailors drinking and sighed. The "blessing" that came with the ring altered the length of his life, making it endless, but also changed the afterlife for him. He could never go to Aelenus like his ancestors before him, he would never reach the afterlife. If he died of the wounds of battle, suicide, or any other way, he would go to purgatory, where he would wait for two decades, then he would return. However, if he died carrying out a mission, he would be brought back far sooner. He had never tried, but he had heard it from one of the other guardians. The guardians were men and women with neverending lifespans from the Gods who were tasked with safeguarding the lineages of ancient bloodlines. Septim had not failed the Cidellus line, for he was a distant cousin of the Cidellus line, and since he was immortal, he could not fail them. He was by far the youngest of the guardians at an age that was considered that of an infant amongst the other guardians. The oldest and wisest of the guardians, Primoris Victo, had taught Septim the strange ways of the ring. Now, Septim was accomplishing two seperate objectives, one was personal, one was professional. He was protecting Ragnarrson out of respect to his now longdead friend, Ragnarr the Wolf, and making sure that his lineage didn't die out. Septim was by far the most inexperienced of the guardians as well, with mastery of only one weapon, and skill with only two others.

Primoris seemed to believe in him though, and his word was well respected. Primoris was now over 14,000 years old, and he was born a member of the Tek-Ne tribe in the West, he never spoke his original name. He had been the first of the guardians, and had seen his wife die, and his son die, and his grandson die, and had decided to leave his family. He never asked what had happened to his lineage. Septim had asked, and learned that it was alive and well, though no longer prominent.

There were few guardians, with their numbers in the high twenties, but for other fourteen thousand years, they had preserved the lineages of heroes and kings. And as Septim watched Ragnarrson steer the ship, he let out a small smile.
If only they knew, the royals...if only they knew how close they had come to extinction...
Septim sighed and rejected a drink from a sailor, his taste for alcohol had left with his mortality.

John stood at the edge of the ship and gazed at the new lands ahead of him.  The dry looking lands discouraged him for but only a moment.  He saw signs of villages and assumed that they must be surviving well despite the harsh climate.    
John  wore a light tunic due to the heat and attempted to ignore it as best as he could.  The rays beat down upon him mercilessly and he was glad that they may have found a place to rest.  He tied the cloth from his sleeves around his forehead after wetting them with some water, cooling him off even a little bit.  He rested his hands on the hilt of each of his swords at his side while waiting for the Stormsong to approach the land more.

Lanoc gazed across at the desert land, grateful for the light breeze that came from the sea, while slowly dipping the oar into the water repeatedly. Even the cold winter climates were nowhere near as bad as this, the deserts stretched as far as the eye could see. Along the river however, the soil was not as dusty, and a few fields could be seen even from this distance. Of what crop, Lanoc did not know. He was glad he had brought along some lighter clothes, though it can't be said that that was much. At any rate, more supplies could probably be gotten along these shores, though perhaps at a high cost considering the barren landscape. He wet his tunic once more, and put it back on. It wasn't the best of ideas, he would probably catch an illness, but he could not bear the heat. He wondered how the others managed to stick it so well, most had been born and raised in the north. He could, of course, see signs of discomfort, but nothing more than that.