A New Strength
Setting:
~%~%~%~%~%~%~%~%~%~%~%~%~%~%~%< The River Moss >~%~%~%~%~%~%~%~%~%~%~%~%~%~%~%
This is a particularly rock portion of the River Moss. Large boulders, smoothed by the gentle caress of the river, and the silent tears of
the rain, rise up from the ground. The shore line isn't. It stands at a cliff that rises a couple meters up, over which cast large white
oaks, shading the river from most direct sunlight.
The trees move gently in the breeze.
~%~%~%~%~%~%~%~%~%~%~%~%~%~%~%~%~%~%~%~~%~%~%~%~%~%~%~%~%~%~%~%~%~%~%~%
Characters:
Slavers, raiders along the River Moss
Kolbjorn, leader of the Vikings
Rinciar, a Viking
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<----> A New Strength <---->
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The scattered settlements along The River Moss are a generally peaceful bunch - woodlanders who make a living off of the river's bounty, offshoots of beasts too wild-hearted to reside at the Abbey or too solitary for Camp Willow. The peace of it all makes it the ideal breeding ground for violence - a cesspool of scattered, unorganized chaos which occasionally manages to devastate the quiet; but it is typically such rag tag group of unorganized misfits, that the countryside has little trouble bouncing back. One such group have set up a raucous camp along the river, bellies full of stolen mead - a line of woodlanders, chained together and to a tree cower behind them. Slavers. The head of them is an ermine, tall and hard-bodied with a whip, coiled at her hip. She bellows orders to her men, and they scatter beneath her wrath.
Kolbjorn is hungry for more. More loot, more plunder, more /everything./ The numbers of the Northmen have swollen, taking in at least twoscore vermin (and even a few woodlanders) who have proven themselves capable. They now number near two hundred, and their presence is hard to ignore, and the driving thirst for /more/ is what keeps Kolbjorn at their head, still moving, still leading. But the bloodlust is not sated, not by far. There is no more mercy, no more talking. Only death by steel and foreign claws. Kol knows about the otter encampment and is rushing to attack before they can prepare. That is their prize. To take it, such a bastion of strength, would mark the end of their great inland journey. For now, though, the raiders are spread out in the woods, creeping with their leader, towards the slave line. Kol shakes his head as he slinks through the undergrowth. The vermin in this country. No /shame/ whatsoever. Rule not by the sword but with screeching and fear. He already wants to turn their whips back on them.
Amongst the raiders, Rincair stalks, the blood pulsing in his forehead, pounding against his temples like hammers against an anvil. They are so close now, so close to their next victory, and the scent of gore and death already teases at his nose. The big marten, bigger even than Kolbjorn, somehow manages to move through the underbrush stealthily, his massive frame hulking darkly in the shadows. The wood of his axe tickles at his palm, begging him to give it trough in the nearest skull, but he resists its urging, for now.
The ermine grabs the scruff of one of her underlings, a fox, and tosses him to the ground. "I DON'T CARE F'EXCUSES, RAGBANE!" She hollers, the slobber flicking from her jowls in her rage. She spins upon the rest of her followers, all sinking back before the coming storm. "I SAID TWENTY! 'OW MANY D'YOU COUNT?!" She demands, stomping to the line of ragged woodlanders, grabbing the lead one - an aging vole - and shaking her, roughly. "What d'you bring me, huh?" She drops the vole and moves down the line, pointing to each of them in turn. "OLD. SICK. YOUNG. WEAK. You useless slabs of /meat/ think we'll make anything with this lot? Might as well turn 'em loose and lob YOU onto th'block instead, eh?" She kicks out, sending an overweight rat sprawling. The slaves seem to think this is a good idea, but no one is asking their opinion. She, the slaves, and the rest of her lackluster crew remain unaware to the danger approaching them.
Kolbjorn has given his orders. Kill everyone that looks too weak to make a good thrall; that is to say, pretty much everyone here. But leave their leaders and a chosen few alive. Storm Father is a wrathful deity, and does not mind his anger being vented through his worshippers. Namely, Kolbjorn. He flicks his tail behind him, making a tiny swish in the air. That is the signal. First: a volley of arrows zipping from the wood, striking down anyone not already on the ground or in cover. And then the first wave. Rincair and his vanguard, the chosen carls who are almost berserkers in their own right. Then Kolbjorn with the rest. The raging bellows and shouts drown out even the caterwauling ermine as the woods come to life with warriors.
"BLOODY - " Their leader is the first to die; staggering backwards, clutching the arrow as it protrudes from her chest. "Help..." She wheezes, and then speaks no more, crumpling to the ground. No one takes notice - they're all scattering, reaching for weapons, reaching for shields - running for cover. While unorganized, they are not wholly unskilled. One clutch of them, in particular, forms a hard knot of four vermin, unphased by their leader's demise. They bring shields up, swords extended as they back towards the river, arrows clanking from the steel - but when the Vikings come and they know that escape is futile. "Stick together!" The smallest of them - a tiny, red fox - hollers, and they tighten their ranks as their kin fall around them. He strikes out with his shortsword as his friends do the same, keeping their backs facing each other, swinging as they're attacked - surviving as long as they can. Another of the four, a stoat, wields a mace and swings it at the chest of an approaching attacker with a holler.
With a roar of fury and twisted delight, Rincair bursts from the undergrowth, his axe immediately chopping its short, curved iron blade into the nearest face. His shield lashes out with astonishing alacrity, bashing the teeth from his next victim's face, an activity that seems almost a hobby for the big marten. Probably explains the tooth hanging from a cord around his neck. The cluster of shields, essentially a sad imitation of his own crew's shield-wall, draws his attention, and with a throaty laugh he charges forward, his wooden shield couched against his shoulder to barrel into the mobile barrier.
Kolbjorn tramps over the bodies of the dead. If the slaves were hoping that this was their freedom, they will be sorely disappointed. The old and the weak are killed outright, the rest left in their chains next to their dead fellows. Kolbjorn's raiders have the group completely surrounded. In moments the little knot of fighters in the middle is set upon by dozens of angry northmen and one Rincair, their round shields giving them the safety to push in and finish the slavers with spear and axe. "/Thessi!/" Kolbjorn shouts out, pointing out the small red fox. "Taka hann a lifi!"
His face split from the rest of him, a weasel lets out a final howl as he collapses, sputtering and gurgling, to the mud. "RANK-!" His friend cries out, before his teeth are forciblly separated from his mouth. Half of them were rotten, anyway. With a cry of pain, he falls beneath the next slash. As their defenses are smashed into, the little group fight back - from the end, a spear jabs out, aiming for Rincair's side - the small fox, now marked - lets out a shout as he swings his short sword, trying to batter the marten back as his little 'band' struggles to surge forward. Left in their chains, and unable to drag the combined weights, the remaining slaves can only cover their heads, hunched together as the tide of Vikings crash over them. Some cry and one faints.
The spear rakes over the thick leather belt encircling the big marten's waist, skittering off to the side. It's good to have things that are fashionable /and/ protect your entrails from becoming extrails. Rincair's shield presses in, and the short fox's swings clatter against its rim and surface, but it will take more to sunder it. With his vanguard pressing in along with him, it doesn't take long before a gap opens and his short axe comes singing in through it, taking a slice out of a weasel's chest, then darting back in to hack into his collarbone. That one down, the shield 'wall' is permeated and who knows how long it will stand?
Kolbjorn advances, finding nobody left to kill - no big surprise when there's so much weaknes in these creatures. He nods with pride as he sees his soldiers go to work, killing quickly, gloriously. He comes upon the fox and grunts in annoyance as he tries to fight, clumsily, out of desperation than real skill. "/Pathetic,/" he grunts as he smashes the sword aside and then nails the fox across the jaw with the hilt of his sword, hard enough to split his lip open.
It holds up well, despite the helpless situation. Crashing to the ground, the weasel gasps uselessly - his lungs unable to fill with air, the blood pouring out of him, his sternum ripped asunder and split out in the open. He doesn't die right away. The little red fox only separates himself from the fight long enough to stab his sword through his fallen comrade's head in an act of mercy before their barricade falls. "ReeeeAAARGH!" He throws himself at the attacking force as his remaining kinsmen do the same, crunching shields against shields and steel against steel. In some rare cases, flesh against flesh - but they fall quickly. Outmatched and outnumbered, they are crushed - and he is alone. He tries to swing at Kolbjorn, but his weapon is batted away like a toy, the hilt taking him across the jaw. He twists his paw around and whips his sword back towards the marten on the back swing, allowing his momentum to continue carrying him that way. He's smaller, he's quick! Not quick enough to escape, unfortunately, but his swiftness comes in handy in a scuffle. He licks the blood from his muzzle, beady eyes darting between the surrounding foes: he's never felt smaller.
While the encounter between the small-ish fox and Kolbjorn ensues, Rincair busies himself with his raiding custom; he's found a spear already, the one that scraped off his belt, and there are plenty of heads to choose from, but he likes that weasel's. Or he would have if the fox hadn't /ruined it./ No matter, there's a ferret next corpse. His short axe crashes into the throat, the neck, the spine, the dirt, and then he puts his foot on the shoulder and gives it a good tug, coming up with the severed head.
Kolbjorn huffs as the fox's sword shears off his chain mail, not even penetrating. They do not care for their weapons much on this side of the sea. He brings his shield down /hard/ on the fox's weapon paw, aiming to break it or make him drop his weapon either way, and then kicks him over onto his stomach. "ENOUGH!" he barks out, stomping on the fox's back and holding him down. "It is over. But not for you, tiny mop-tail." He sheathes his sword and holds out his paw. "Rincair. Bring me that whip that wretch was using."
Yelping, his shattered paw drops the shield. The fox struggles beneath the weight of the foot shoving him into the dirt. The fear is starting to set in, desperation writhing out of him. Whip? "No!" He squeaks, eyes wide as Rincair rips the head from a former hordemate. This can't be how it ends - it can't be! Renewed by the adrenaline of fear and impending doom, the shrimpish vulpine surges beneath the heavy marten and a paw goes to his belt, ripping a dagger free and aiming to jab it into the ankle of his oppressor with a shriek.
Rincair doesn't bother to set his head down to fetch the whip for Kol, passing it over with one paw while his trophy dangles from the other. Then an absentminded foot kicks up a spear so he can drive the blunter end into the dirt, setting the head atop the- well, the head, and pushing it down. Delicate fingers adjust the mouth to an open position. "He speaks of Storm Fathir's judgment," the big marten grunts, nodding approvingly as he turns to watch Kolbjorn dish out some more.
Kolbjorn jumps back, having anticipated that kind of attack. The dagger cuts across his booted shin, drawing a little blood. But Kolbjorn hardly notices. In fact, it just makes him angrier. He signals for two clansmen to step forward and seize the fox, beating him into submission as they twist the dagger out of his paw and force him to the ground again. "You are /weak!/" Kolbjorn rages, throwing aside his shield. "And you feed on weak prey! You will take a message on your flesh to your brethren, fox." He takes the whip and unspools it, letting it drop to the ground. "The /true/ predators have come. You, all of you... you will learn what real strength is." He brings the whip back and, with savage enthusiasm, sends it snapping down onto the fox's back. Once, twice, and again, and again.
The screams send ravens cascading from the trees and hang, shrill and pained, in the air. Again and again - each time the lash streaks across his body until it becomes too much. The diminutive fox continues to screech, the sound reaching one long note; held desperately until his throat cracks, eyes bulging, and he passes out. The adrenaline, the shock, the fear, and the pain... His back, sopping wet and red with his own blood, soaked through his tunic - it is all too much for him. The slaves that retain their consciousness cling to each other, shaking their heads with their mouths open in stunned horror - and silent pleads for help that will never come.
Only when Kolbjorn is satisfied does he stop. He cuts the whip with his own sword and lets it drop to the ground, shrugging. "If he lives," he tells the others, "it will be by his own strength, and if the breath of Storm Father blows mercifully upon him. Let him share the tale. Let them all share what they have seen! A new enemy! A new strength! If they claim this is their home, then let them fight us. Let them try to push back the breath of Storm Father and the shield wall of the North!" He raises his sword, and commands the dead bodies be cut from the slave chain. The ones strong enough to survive will be theirs now. As will everything else, soon enough.
They are coming…
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