Forums / Roleplaying / The Stormborn - Stormsong

"Wait here, I have an idea," said Ciwulf as he walked outside and down a few houses. Sitting there was a large shed. Ciwulf stripped the soldiers he had killed earlier of their armor and weapons and brought a set back to Vulkoslav. Vulkoslav put the ar*beep* and Ciwulf led the way through the city cleverly disguised as a Genevesian.

Ragnarrson struggled in following Ciwulf with the heavy Genevesian armour he was given. He simply could not imagine what it would be like when one was in the heat of battle in this kind of weather. Now, it was night, and the light breeze cooled the air, so it was bearable to walk in the open while wearing a thick wool tunic, chainmail on top, a heraldic surcoat and a steel helm, while carrying along a sword and a large shield. His wounds ached with every step, but he moved on.

The two passed by several patrols, which did nothing more than greet them in their own language - their lack of response was not accepted as something unusual. Ciwulf and Vulkoslav crossed a wide street, which was obviously beautiful before the siege began - now the houses, mansions, markets, temples and libraries were being pillaged, some were burning, and dead bodies, broken weapons and drunken Genevesians littered the place.

The two continued south, passing through an alley, when a rushing figure ran into them. It was a heavily wounded man, who was surprisingly still on his feet. His left arm bared a broken shield that hung freely, and his right arm gripped a magnificent sword. The man cursed in surprise and raised his weapon quickly in an attack, when Ciwulf suddenly roared with amazement:

"Berkeley!"

The man hesitated, then lowered his sword, being exhausted from just this action, and coughed lightly before speaking:

"Ciwulf?" he then looked towards Ragnarrson. "Vulkoslav?" he then smiled.

"You look like you have fought Fafnir himself!" grinned Ragnarrson.

"We must not be heard speaking…we're heading towards the longship, now follow me." Ciwulf spoke quietly before the leading the way...

The longship was before them once the reached the river bank. However, it was docked just opposite, on the Qauqji side. Obviously those from the crew that survived the massacre docked the Stormsong on the other side.

Vulkoslav, Ciwulf and Berkeley observed the scene before them. Several abandoned and wrecked Genevesian gallies flowed with no direction on the river Hatul. They burnt ferociously, being slowly consumed by the flames which reached over to the crumbling masts. A battle to cross the river was fought here a while ago. Vast quantities of Genevesian warriors were leaving the battlefield towards the city, where they would seek shelter for the night. However, at least a few hundred stayed behind to guard the central bridge, around which the whole battle had been fought. The bridge itself was crudely barricaded on both sides and well defended. Several regiments of archers were positioned behind a quickly built palisade, behind which they shot a few arrows from time to time towards the other side. Everyone seemed tired though the night was fresh and cool, lacking any unbearable heat or thick with sand and dirt air.

Nobody noticed the three, who silently stared across, until Vulkoslav spoke:

"How are to cross without being thought an enemy by our own?"...

"You of all people should know that I am not an easy man to slay," said Ciwulf with a smirk, "Let us come inside your fortifications, Vulkoslav has things to discuss with you."

"Don't get yourself killed when I'm not here to babysit you, old friend," said Ciwulf with a smile.
"It's you I have to worry about, running off with nords now? You know the crazy stuff they get into," said Roderick.
"I doubt any of them have done worse than I," said Ciwulf.
"Too true," said Roderick, "And I've been in worse than this, remember Hardow?"
"How could I forget?" asked Ciwulf.
Roderick laughed and turned back to his men.
"I wish to talk more when we meet again, but right now I've got a war to fight," said Roderick.
"And I've got a nord to protect," said Ciwulf, smiling.
"Until we meet again," said Roderick.
"Until then," said Ciwulf as he walked off towards the Stormsong.

The Stormsong was docked a hundred meters west of the bridge Ragnarrson and Ciwulf crossed. It was easily recognizable in the night due to the raging, burning remains, still floating in the river.

Vulkoslav and Berkeley were soon joined by Ciwulf and the three approached the longship together. As soon as they entered the torch lights, they recognized Lanoc and Yaroslav yelling some orders, Ivarr standing near the rudder oar, looking important, and twenty other nords carrying dead, wounded, captured plunder in the form of weapons and armor, and supplies. Minor repairs were being made to the longship. No one seemed to notice the "newcomers".

"Imad Al-Nasser has released us from our duty." Vulkoslav's voice was loud and made of steel as he paced onto the deck, looking into no one's eyes in particular, finding his away amongst the surprised nords to the commander's post. "I assume the ship was resupplied."

Yaroslav coughed. "Uh…yes, we were at it. Yes, it is."

"Then we shall continue east. Now." Ciwulf and Berkeley were standing still beside their lord.

"You heard him, men. Let's get the hell out of here." Ivarr roared.

The ropes were untied once the last few barrels were taken aboard. The longship departed from the decorated shore, and pushed against the river's flow with rudder strokes. Ragnarrson navigated it past the burning wrecks and below the bridge, the Qauqjian warriors staring silently. Did they see him as a deserter to the cause or as a noble foreigner who did what he could? He had a harder time to try to understand the suspicious looks his crew often gave him. All he could do was look back coldly, which resulted in the other to avert his eyes quickly.

Several arrows flew over from the northern, Genevesian controlled shore, but did nothing. Soon, the Stormsong had passed through another three bridges and had reached the eastern river gate, which stood collapsed, a pile of rubble and stones blocking the passage by half. With skill, Ragnarrson avoided the rocks, dodged through ruin and got the longship out of the falling city. Everyone rowed silently upstream. The shelter they had made of cloth in the beginning still stood and created the breezy night into a cool night.

Four hours passed before the longship halted, dropped anchor and the men went to rest in what ever way they chose.

Vulkoslav's inherited battle axe was lost during the battle, his helm and armor as well. He took a brief look at the spare weapons and equipment stored on board, but instead he came across a small barrel of mead, somehow survived the journey all the way from Slavyarus. He took advantage of the unexpected find and woke up after four hours when the sun rose to continue the journey to the east...

John sat upon the ship, not fit to do any of the tasks due to his injured arm.  He did attempt to help but was told to rest and recover faster so that he was capable of helping the crew again.  Saddened, John had sat down upon the deck and watched the stone gates of the city pass by.  He wondered if they really could have done anything more for the Quaqjians, but the entire death of the crew would probably be the result.

III. Passage to the East

The Stormsong made a hard journey of two weeks against the flow of the river Hatul. The landscape remained the same: arid planes, a strip of cultivated land along the river, several peaceful settlements and small towns, and large, black mountains in the northern horizon. Two sandstorms swept the sandy planes and nearly capsized the longship. At the end of the first week, the longship stopped at a town, resupplied and acquired an additional twenty local warriors to the crew, who by some miracle knew a dialect of the common tongue. The most remarkable of these Qauqjians was Ashraf Al-Kahil, who formed himself as the "first" of the Qauqjian warriors on board. He was an interesting character, as he seemed to always have a slight grin on his face; but when matters became serious, he treated them with the needed care. Al-Kahil was almost as tall as Ragnarrson himself, and had messy, wavy black hair which almost reached his shoulders. His face was unshaven, and his dark brown eyes were cheerful and lively to look around. All he carried with himself aboard was himself, his flowing robes and keffiyeh he was wearing and his elegant weapon - a slim, lethal scimitar. Ashraf seemed to know something about seamanship and seemed comfortable on board.

On the thirteenth day of their journey against the river flow, the Stormsong reached what seemed to be a narrow lake, that made a turn northwards. Ashraf had explained this lake was called "Zuhayr", which meant "bright" in Qauqjian. Truly, the morning's sunrise shone over the mountains, flanking the lake, which seemed to be a sea of fire, reflecting the light in a marvelously scenic way. The lake, as Ashraf further explained, was supposed to have a narrow canal, constructed by an ancient people long forgotten, to the Endless Sea to the east.

The journey through the lake was supposed to take four days.

On the evening of the second day, the longship was anchored by the rocky shore, which presented steep highland, covered in awkward vegetation (what seemed to be a kind of wild olive trees). The Nords took out barrels of mead and ale, while the Qauqjians brought out some large glass bottles, heated on top, connected to hoses (they called it "nargile");when one inhaled from the hose, he was struck by a sweet lightness, his head seemed to whirl around and it relaxed every muscle of the body in rest and pleasure. It was a strange new experience for the Nords, but so was the mead for the Qauqjians, who had only tried something local, similar to wine.

During the "feast", the Nords and Qauqjians competed in boasting their battles, struggles, defeated foes, spectacular kills and quests (most of which were highly product of fantasy, loosely based on true events). Vulkoslav took part in this actively, but, being struck by lightheadedness, felt the need to part from the others and leaned for a while on the starboard of the longship. He gazed into the woods before him, which twisted before his dizzy eyes. The combination of nargile and mead is definitely strong… he thought to himself.

[ OOC:  May I just add that a nargile is: a single or multi-stemmed (often glass-bottomed) water pipe for smoking. It operates by water filtration and indirect heat. It can be used for smoking herbal fruits, tobacco, or canabis.Widely popular in the Middle East. ]

Lanoc chuckled as a quarter or so of the crew passed out, the rest chattering merrily. He declined both mead and nargile, and relaxed and watched the sun set. He did however, partake in the boasting, though he did not lie as much as some. He told the rest of the southern forests, but he had few tales of fighting against vicious foes, and gave up trying to explain the wonders of the forests. He listened to the others' stories, some were truly skilled in the art. He watched as the last clouds sail over the woods as the sun shone its few last rays to brighten the world, and reflected on times gone by as the rest dropped off to sleep, unable to fall into unconciousness.

The morning of the fourth day greeted the sailing longship warmly with a sunrise, beautiful enough to have been carefully created by the Gods themselves. It strangely reminded Ragnarrson, who was navigating the Stormsong, of an old legend from the land of the Nords. There was an old saga of the Seven Warriors from Snaegard. The seven nords were closest comrades, like blood brothers, and all were known for their incredibly masterful swordplay. One day, as all seven met in the hall of one of them, Snaeulf, the Goddess Skadi appeared before them in all her majestic divinity and bright aura. She warned the seven that after one winter of her appearing, a great threat from the mountains to the south-west would appear and would swarm in and destroy the land of Nords; the only salvation lay in the Seven Warriors of Snaegard. They were to halt the threat in a fateful combat and die in it - only their blood, spilt in battle, would save the lands of the North. The Seven used every day from then on to train and fight, preparing themselves for the battle. They lived through a year, knowing that their end would come, yet accepted this bravely and honorably, as if it was something normal, accepting their fate and taking pride that they were chosen by the Gods. When the fateful day arrived, the Seven Warriors arrived at the skirts of the mountains, awaiting the swarm. Loki's horde appeared from the depths of Helgardh; the bloody and uneven heroic fight started and continued for throughout the whole day. The Seven were slain by Fenrir, Loki's direwolf, but the moment their blood gathered together in puddles, the horde from Helgardh was forced back by divine thunders and lightning bolts. The Gods themselves erected a Temple on the place of the battle, with a sealed chamber inside; it is said that if the land of the Nords was ever in danger again, the chamber would be opened from the inside by the Seven Heroes, which would fight and protect the North.

Where are the guardians now? They definitely did not appear when Mullendor invaded the north, nor did they restore order in the beginning of the civil war. The chaos in the land of Nords still continues, clans fighting clans, families fighting families.

The Stormsong sailed over the low, calm waves swiftly, reaching the northmost-part of the lake, the shores still being a barren, rocky highland with poor vegitation. Towards its end, unclear shapes dominated in the horizon - they appeared to be some structures. Obviously the "city of former greatness" Ashraf spoke about.

The longship approached the abandoned ruins on the shore and the ancient canal was now visible - it was by far not what it might have been, as little islands had formed in the middle and it had overflowing at points. The solemn, grieving  remains of glory stood wrecked on the sides, the beige stone reflecting white bright sunlight. Several obelisks, most of which broken, flanked the canal. It was evident that the peoples that had built this had mastered engineering and architecture.

"Ragnarrson," Berkeley's voice was cautious and silent, "on our left, on the wrecked dome…"

When Vulkoslav looked towards where John was pointing, he saw a human figure in the distance, standing on top one of the ruins flanking the canal - obviously observing the longship.

Everyone was silent, but quick to look around themselves. More of these wondrous figures appeared from the ruined city, all silent, all staring at the longship.

"On the oars.." Vulkoslav's voice was not high, but everyone heard him and rushed silently to bring the oars out, so they could row their way quicker out of the canal.

There was a blue line in the horizon ahead of them, evidently the Endless Sea to the east. They had a long way to go.

Half way though the city, the trap Vulkoslav was expecting happened. From a nearby building, still partially intact, almost hanging above the canal, a load of logs suddenly came tumbling down, heavily splashing into the water before the longship. There were calls of dismay from the crew. The Stormsong hit the new obstacles and its speed considerably decreased, leaving it venerable and reachable via the logs, floating on the surface.

An inhumane war cry was heard, and suddenly a horde of ambushers swarmed from behind the ruins, running towards the shores to reach the longship, either through swimming or through the floating logs. The attackers looked like an entirely isolated peoples -dressed in rags, armor pieces from looted corpses and swarthy, unclean, unshaven faces. They looked very keen on butchering the Stormsong's crew.

"TO ARMS!" Vulkoslav yelled as he drew out his scimitar he was still using after he had lost his inherited, precious battle axe...

"Damn it, we don't have any chances with seven skilled archers aboard!" By the time Vulkoslav answered Ciwulf, the ambushers had started swimming or making their way through the water, ten meters away from the longship.

[Finally completed my Arab-Israeli Conflict project. Hopefully I'll have at least 30 min. per day for this now.]

Ragnarrson left the scimitar by the rudder oar and grabbed a heavy axe from the small armory aboard. He hammered the huge weapon fiercly upon the first hands that took hold of the longship's board. The responses were horrid yells of pain by the barbaric attackers, who struggles to get aboard. All the Stormsong warriors were doing their best not to allow the ambushers to get aboard. However, overwhelmed by numbers, they were soon cornered around the mast. It wasn't at all the fighting skills of the attackers - it was the human wave of charging madmen that pushed the warriors back...

Snap, I don't even remember who my character is... he was named Mightarius or something like that...