Org Action response Written by Jared Considine
Actions and additional text by Ryan Maas-Jopp, Mischelle Maas-Jopp, and Cole Potter
Org action assists by Rachel Miller, CJ McNeal, and Michael Hannes
November
The Einherjar gather in Saltrhal, a small city on the southwestern coast of your Clan’s territory. Though previously a quiet locale which had only seen a modest amount of growth, and only because of trade with the nearby colonists, its streets are now overflowing with countless warriors, farmers, fishers, and other refugees displaced from their homelands by the encroaching forces of Clan Grimward. It takes a good amount of effort pushing their way through the crowd before the Einherjar finally make their way into the longhouse, once a place where weary travelers could expect hospitality and a place to rest, now a sort of impromptu war room, where several Jarls are already gathered and in fierce disagreement that seems only a single accusation or drink away from an outright brawl. Two voices emerge as the loudest in the room. On one side is Jarl Othall Wavebreaker, a young warrior, Jarl for scarcely a month, granted his title for valorous service against Clan Grimward: “I have seen far too many of my own die at the hands of the enemy. Young Ulven who will never live to see another day of peace. Who will never live to raise families. I cannot, in good conscience, send more to die. Let us make the most of this reprieve- let us shore up our defenses and let them break their swords against our walls.”
On the other is Jarl Morgda Stormjarl, a seasoned commander covered in scars from battles past. She slams her fist on the table. “Absolutely not! Every inch we give to Grimward is an opportunity for them to raze our lands and kill our people. The blood our warriors spill is civilian blood saved. You would rather have us stay cowering, losing ground to them by the day. Where will we go when they drive us to the coast?”
The conversation continues heatedly. Realizing that the situation is delicate, Jarl Fritha and her cohorts carefully distract Jarl Othall and the others nodding along with him with logistical matters, none so urgent that they need to be addressed now, but complex enough that they’re effective at disrupting their collective trains of thought. They initially attempt to simply argue past the problems raised, but Frithda insists just hard enough until they can’t help but engage.
Meanwhile, the rest of the Einherjar’s entourage, under the guidance of Jarl Bryech, manage to have quiet words with Jarl Morgda. They describe how they have been tearing away at Grimward’s vulnerable flanks, and that they need the rest of the Clan to push back, and capitalize on the opportunity they’ve helped create.
Despite their best efforts, Jarl Othall overhears you and shouts over the din of the room. “Your warriors are great, Einherjar, no one questions that. But don’t ask us to throw ourselves back into their blades the first moment we have rest. There’s no honor in death for death’s sake!”
Jarl Morgda shifts slightly, blocking the view of Othall and purposefully ignoring him. “He whines now, but he’ll follow the will of the Clan. And that will turns towards vengeance. Tales of your fighting at the bridge and at the river have made its way here, and they embolden us. Enough, I think, to break the indecision-” she glances back at Othall for a moment “-that has been plaguing our ranks.”
She sighs and claps a hand on Bryech’s shoulder. “Make them pay for everything they’ve done to us.” After a pause, she looks towards Othall, and her expression hardens and her voice lowers. “And come back alive. The last thing we need are reasons for more cowardice.”
December
The Einherjar find Jarl Morgda Stormjarl in the town of Afrbog, a settlement recently reclaimed from Clan Grimward forces, still quite near to the frontline, but now buffered from immediate attack by their own Clan’s aggression sent further northwards. The town’s main defensive structure, of all things an ancient flourmill whose water wheel still turns proudly in the river, stands tall and undaunted. The town’s defenders, they say, held it like a fortress for weeks until Stormjarl’s warriors drove the besieging forces away.
Jarl Morgda has been using Afrbog as a base of operations, using her warriors to repair and resupply the town and the surrounding area in exchange for food and lodging. The town is quieter than it ought to be, with most of its permanent residents having been killed or driven away, but the sounds that can be heard are those of diligent work. Jarl Bryech’s cohorts quickly find tasks of their own to assist with, ingratiating themselves not only with the people of Afrbog but also with the Jarl’s retinue,
She greets the Einherjar heartily, receiving each of them with a firm grasp of the arm, and no sooner do they explain that they’re here to help than she begins to explain her work: Her scouts, a unit called the First Horns of Winter, have been hard at work probing Clan Grimward’s defenses. They’ve been assessing troop numbers and movements, and identifying logistical vulnerabilities.
While her dedicated warriors have followed up some of these scouting reports with small raids on supply wagons, the Jarl has been eyeing a greater prize. Much of the western region of Stormjarl being held by Clan Grimward is being supported by the captured city of Thungrfiskr, one of the largest ports on the northwestern coast. Longships poured Grimward warriors into Thungrfiskr, who would then mobilize further out into the rest of the area.
Seemingly in response to the colonists’ operation along the Yurnai River, reinforcements coming through Thungrfiskr have dramatically slowed. And, furthermore, what warriors Clan Grimward still has in the area are further and further sent to reinforce their frontline, leaving their logistical base comparatively soft and vulnerable.
Jarl Morgda explains all of this to the Einherjar with a map of the local area and some small carved figurines representing Grimward and Stormjarl forces. “And that…” She says, as she draws from a pouch a wooden piece engraved with the symbol of the Einherjar, “Is where you come in.” She places the piece next to several others. “They’re spread thin. With the right distraction, we can split their defensive line just enough to get a good group of warriors past them. Then we burn their ships in Thungrfiskr and slaughter everyone else there- mostly work crews, not warriors. And then we escape back into the night before they realize what’s hit them.”
She crosses her arm and looks the map over. “Of course, I don’t mean to presume. We have the numbers to carry this plan out on our own, and we will once the next batch of ships comes in to supply them. But I’d gladly have your blades alongside our own in Thungrfiskr, or along the frontline when we divert their forces. But I need to know what you’re willing to lend now- our window of opportunity may only be open for a short while, and I intend to take it while it’s here.”
January
A Meeting of Warriors
Following the trip to Jotunvik, the Einherjar return to Afrbog. Though the region was under Clan Grimward occupation only a few months ago, you wouldn’t know it by the air of calm and confidence that seems to suffuse the town. It seems a bit premature. Jarl Morgda Stormjarl has turned the town into a rallying point for warriors looking to ‘take the fight to Grimward’, and many have answered her call, with some looking to take advantage of the new situation to earn some ‘easy’ recognition, believing that the enemy is now an easy target to win glory against.
Jarl Mordga shows the Einherjar proper hospitality, inviting them into one of the town’s recently repaired longhalls, and welcoming them all with a hearty toast and warm drink. She asks some token questions about the Althing, and then quickly moves the discussion to the upcoming operation, which she plans to begin in just a few short days. Jarl Fritha takes point on sharing the forces that the Einherjar have brought to bear, as well as the capabilities of its warriors. Morgda does the same.
She’ll be going, of course, along with two close companions of hers: Hersir Hranti Omenwind, a quiet, hulking figure that favors a longaxe taller than most ulven, recently returned to the frontline after recovering from a debilitating head wound inflicted by an arrow only mostly stopped by his helmet; and Lufik Stormjarl “the Cunning”, a veteran of the Longfangs and the Shield of Mardrun, who spent much of their youth living near Thungrfiskr, and returned home shortly after the start of the war. Collectively, they’ll be leading the Howling Avengers, warriors recruited from communities displaced by the Ulven Civil War, trained specifically to counter the tactics of Clan Grimward; the Jotunbani, a mixed-arms unit who specialize in siege and sabotage; and the First Horns of Winter, Morgda’s aforementioned scouts.
Additionally, Jarl Morgda has drafted warriors from Afrbog and the surrounding region, not only to supplement her forces further, but also to serve as the distraction that will let the raid party slip through Clan Grimward’s defensive line. Attitudes among these irregulars vary, with some welcoming the chance to deal a great blow to the enemy, and others realizing the gravity of the situation they’re about to enter. The Jarl makes note of this, allocating some of them, according to her perceptions of their mettle, to hauling the casks of whale oil that will be used to burn Grimward’s ships; and others to sail aboard the Fate-Finisher with Hersir Thrand.
After a few rounds of discussion, and disseminating the plan to all involved, the group travels north to the front line, just south of the River Grugg, and waits until the appointed day of the distraction. In advance of the plan, scouts and spies sent up with the Einherjar by Yrsa infiltrate the sparse defensive line maintained by Clan Grimward, making note of their number and movements. They use bird calls to covertly communicate encoded messages back to the main raiding force, so that last-minute adjustments to the plan can be made.
A Distraction
In the early morning, as the sun has barely crested the horizon in the east, Morgda’s auxiliaries make their move. Full of bluster and bravado, they loudly charge towards the occupied town of Smárhús and throw themselves against its gates. Before long, the small Grimward garrison stationed there rallies and blows their horns, alerting their patrols in the surrounding area. The raiding party waits half a mile to the west, obscured by a thick treeline near the Grugg, watching the enemy move towards the bait, tracking them by their lantern lights. With a final signal from Yrsa’s scouts, the raiders make their move. They ford the river as quickly as they can while weighed down by their armor and supplies, aiming for a ledge a few hundred feet on the other side where the ground slopes down dramatically. When they get there, they let gravity take over, being careful to keep their footing as they disappear out of the sightline of the patrols should they return.
This part, at least, is an unqualified success.
The same couldn’t be said for the auxiliaries. Their job was to put on a good show, draw Grimward’s attention and patrols, and then allow themselves to be ‘fought off’ after the raiding party passed through. Perhaps some were concerned about what the Grimward warriors would believe if they abandoned their attack too quickly. Perhaps some overestimated their prowess and thought they could turn their fake goal into a real success. Perhaps, in the din of combat, they simply missed the bird call that signalled that they could safely retreat. At any rate, they stayed too long at Smárhús, throwing themselves ineffectually at its gate. By the time the patrols had circled in behind them, several of them had already been picked off by arrow fire launched from watchtowers. Only about half would end up escaping the pincer alive.
Now on the other side of the river and safely out of sight, the raid party begins the week-long trek to Thungrfiskr. By the main roads, even with the heavy supplies, it would take only two or three days at a decent pace to reach the city. However, due to the clandestine nature of their operation, the group trades speed for secrecy; sticking to the deepest wilderness of the area, using their superior knowledge of the local environment to avoid any of the places that Grimward patrols might travel, and barely speaking above a whisper.
A Quiet Journey
It’s slow going, through muck and brambles. There’s little to eat beyond rations of salted jerky, which run out by the fourth day, except for berries and nuts foraged in passing. They travel by dark when possible, but cannot afford to light their way with lanterns. The days and nights alike are freezing cold, but a warming fire would give away their position.
The high spirits earned through the group’s successful infiltration gradually gives away to a sort of quiet contemplation, and then gnawing dissatisfaction. It’s most obvious in the auxiliaries, who have to be reminded on multiple occasions to be quiet, but it lingers like a miasma among most in the raiding party. In the first few days, there’s much talk in the group about their hatred of Clan Grimward, and the righteous vengeance that Clan Stormjarl will wreak upon them. By the fifth, talk turns bitter, with complaints about the colonists and the other Clans creeping into hushed conversations and eventually becoming commonplace: Yes, Stormjarl stands, but it has held off alone for almost all this time. It has fought and bled for its own survival, sacrificed ground, while its neighbors made plans from their positions of safety. While some claimed ‘neutrality’ in the face of a foe that wants nothing but domination. Some in the group try to speak of unity and a hopeful future, but none can fully dispel the grievances.
At the same time, about thirty or forty miles to the west, Hersir Thrand the Tempered captains the Fate-Finisher in ocean waters, far beyond the sight of land. He, and its crew, enjoy a fair bit more comfort than those traveling through frozen forest and swampland, but sits in a much more precarious position. A Stormjarl ship sighted up the coast would risk exposing the plan, or at least putting the enemy on alert. But the operation stands to gain a great deal from naval support. Thrand sails as far as he can from the likely pathways taken by Grimward ships, navigating by sea and stars alone, timing his actions so that his arrival at Thungrfiskr coincides perfectly with the apex of the raid. He sails with the Fate-Finisher’s crew and its armed escorts, as well as those of Jarl Morgda’s irregulars with the most experience at sea. The ship’s hold is filled with oil, spears, and boarding hooks, as they prepare to assist in whichever way they need to once they meet the enemy.
A Gathering at the Gates
The raiding party finally comes to the woods outside of Thungrfiskr in the dead of night. Just as planned, they arrive under the pitch black of the new moon. They each glow with the faintest light of Gaia’s blessing, enough to see one another, but not enough to be seen by the enemy from the city’s walls. Ylva and Fritha glow brighter still, girded in divine protection, but still shrouded in shadow.
Jarl Fritha sends her spies to quietly approach the city with all the finesse of ambush predators, as Jarl Morgda finalizes the operation. The warriors are to be split into two groups: the vanguard, who will move to breach open the city gates and, through shock and awe, overwhelm everyone between them and the docked ships; and the rearguard, who have the dual duty of hauling the large, heavy casks of whale oil to their fated destination, as well as cutting or shooting down those who try to escape Thungrfiskr. All are equipped with lanterns, wrapped with black cloth to prevent their light from being seen, while remaining a source of flame to set off the oil once it soaks the ships.
Fritha’s spies return half an hour after they departed: The city is lightly garrisoned by warriors from Pack Graytide, whose emblematic gray rope hangs possessively from the walls above the gates. The gates themselves appear solid, difficult to breach with a frontal assault. However, ancient cairns just outside the city’s edge, some forgotten monuments, are close enough that one could leap from them onto the walls and slip into the city unseen. The gates themselves are surely guarded from the inside, but opening them may be easier than destroying them.
Jarl Morgda curses under her breath. The reports she had received had implied to her that the area was almost or entirely unguarded. The raiding party is certainly large enough in number to overwhelm the garrison, but any martial resistance serves to slow their efforts down, and timing is of the essence for more reasons than one.
She turns to the Einherjar. There are still questions to answer about how they will divide their forces among the group, and questions about how best to gain access to the city. After some deliberation, the three Jarls- Morgda, Bryech, and Fritha, decide to take the route discovered by the spies, to try and open the gate from the inside.
A Secret Path
The three Jarls of the raiding party move to infiltrate the city: Bryech, Fritha, and Morgda. Under the cover of darkness, they approach the walls from the west, coming upon the cairns identified by Fritha’s spies. Ancient stacks of stones, left behind by ulven long lost to time, the markers of some sort of site of importance, perhaps graves. Climbing up the stones is difficult, careful work, mostly to ensure that the piles don’t fall apart in the process. Bryech goes first, passing his blade and shield to Fritha, climbing up, and perching atop the tallest cairn, level with the wall but several feet away. He lunges, his feet knocking a few stones loose, which thud softly into the earth below, and manages to land his arms over the wall’s edge. Trying to make as little sound as possible, he tosses his weight to the side, just enough to get one of his boots hooked over, and pulls himself over and onto the wall’s top.
From there, Fritha throws the group’s equipment over, and then follows herself. Bryech catches her and helps pull her up, and then Morgda does the same. Each attempt tosses more stones off the top of the cairn, some starting to clack lightly as they strike other stones on the ground. There’s little chance that someone else will be able to take the same route without assistance, let alone quietly. From there, the three drop down off the wall, into the periphery of the city, and make their way towards the gate.
Eventually, the gate comes into view, illuminated by dim torchlight. Only a few feet away from it are six warriors of Clan Grimward, bearing the same rope that marks Pack Graytide. They’re talking about personal matters, of friends and mates from back home, while playing some game with small wooden pieces on a grid. They have weapons and shields nearby, but clearly have their guard down at this moment. There doesn’t seem to be anyone else in the immediate vicinity, but the place the three Jarls are hiding in doesn’t offer a great view of the surrounding streets. Jarl Morgda silently signals to Bryech and Fritha that they should attack now, and hard.
The three charge, howling, trying to catch the warriors by surprise and overwhelm them before they can react. The quiet of the night erupts into the cacophony of shouts, boots slamming across cobblestones, and the shaking of chainmail. Morgda arrives first, plunging her blade deep into the back of one of the game players, delivering an immediate fatal blow. Jarl Fritha fires off an arrow into the hip of a warrior leaned up against a nearby storehouse, who screams and falls to the ground.
As Bryech moves to join Morgda, however, the player on the other side of the table reacts. In a flurry of movement, he comes to his feet and kicks the table, hard, sending it into Morgda and her prey, and causing Bryech to have to change direction to avoid being caught up in the impacts. The warrior puts two fingers to his mouth and blows, sending out a shrill whistle: Three quick tones. As Bryech closes the remaining distance, he whirls and retrieves a battered blade and large, painted shield, and holds the former threateningly, buying him some distance and creating a brief standstill as the initial shock of the attack subsides. He takes in their torchlit faces, and as he sees Jarl Bryech, his mouth splits open into a wide, manic grin.
“You!” He laughs, “I thought this place a punishment, but I see I am rewarded. I am Hersir Loga Graytide, brother.” The word is dripping with malice. His eyes flick to the gates and then to the three of you, putting together what’s going on. “And I think I will be rewarded further still, should I manage to be the death of the Jarl Bryech Savagefang. The Traitor-Son of Graytide!” He bares his fangs threateningly. “I challenge you, traitor, to an honor duel. To the Maw of the Wolf. There’s no chance we both leave this place alive anyway. Let’s get it over with.”
A Wolf’s Maw
Jarl Bryech steps forward, sword raised. “I accept, may his ears ring!”
Hersir Loga Graytide slaps the face of his shield with the flat of his blade as Jarl Bryech the Untouchable approaches. Jarl Morgda Stormjarl hisses at Bryech as he goes by, “What are you doing? We don’t have time for this! Thrand will be here any moment!”
Bryech knows that this is an opponent he’ll make short work of. It’ll be faster than fighting him and the other warriors at the same time. And if the others yield after seeing his decisive victory, all the better. The two square up, just in front of the barred gate that leads beyond the walls of Thungrfiskr, sizing each other up. The other Grimward warriors watch from the other side of the street, while also keeping an eye on Fritha and Morgda.
Without delivering even a single swing, Bryech can tell that he has the edge of experience and skill over his opponent. That advantage is mitigated, somewhat, by the fatigue and the hunger dealt to him over the last week of rough travel, but not enough to change the outcome. The Hersir seems to have no interest in striking first, and so Bryech takes the initiative, charging forwards and sending strikes meant not to wound, but instead to test his opponent’s defenses. Loga seems to favor his shield, focusing on having it ready to intercept the attacks. The Hersir counters the assault by smashing the shield forward and into Bryech, sending him staggering a few steps back and creating an opening between them again.
Loga’s voice comes from behind the shield, “Haygreth Grimward was a great Clanleader. The best one you could have asked for, Savagefang.” The statement throws off the rhythm of combat, just enough. “My Clan has sent me here, because my love for my fallen Clanleader has not waned in the last two years. But though they scorn me, unlike you, I have kept loyal to my people. I’ve kept my honor.”
They clash again. Jarl Bryech scores a pair of blows that nick flesh through unarmored tunic. Enough to draw blood, but not to maim, but he finds himself thrown back once more. Bryech spits back, “You speak of honor, after all that your Clan has done? After seeing who it’s allied itself with? This war dishonors your Clan! When we drive you out of our lands, we will march on yours, and when we’re done, Clan Grimward will be broken and scattered to the furthest reaches of Mardrun!” The Jarl runs forward in performative recklessness, leaving a false opening for the Hersir to exploit, ready to retaliate the moment he does.
But it never comes. Loga doesn’t take the bait, instead parrying, blocking, and striking to make Bryech move out of the way and create space once more. The Hersir laughs. “Clan Stormjarl has broken every ulven taboo that our peoples once clung to. Poison? Treachery? Males wielding Gaia’s gifts? All these and more- you just use humans and syndar so that you can act as though your own hands are untarnished.”
This goes on for a while- too long. Jarl Fritha Stormjarl watches the duel intently. Bryech is steadily gaining ground, but only inch by inch. True to one of his many titles, he’s gone untouched. The Hersir meanwhile fights with a heavy focus on defense, attacking only occasionally, and only to interrupt the Jarl’s momentum. His shield is battered and chipped from the sheer number of times it’s caught Bryech’s blade. He’s panting from the exertion, bleeding from the dozens of wounds that have been opened up, but he’s managed to avoid a mortal injury.
Fritha sees, from the corner of her eye, Jarl Morgda’s body tense with anticipation and frustration. She keeps looking to the gate, waiting to bolt for it the moment that the warriors’ combat has driven them in a different direction. But it never comes. Every time the two separate, Loga takes just a few subtle steps to reposition himself in the gate’s path, leaving no opening.
In the other direction, Fritha sees the black that is the sky and sea beyond Thungrfiskr’s edge. At any moment, Thrand’s ship would be coming into view. And then everything crystallizes before her. The Hersir’s movements, his taunts, the whistle he blew at the sight of the three of them. She shouts over the two of them as they continue to trade barbs, “Bryech, he’s stalling! He’s wasting your time! You have to end this, now!”
A Runner in the Dark
Meanwhile, beyond the walls of the city, Ylva, Toralf, and the rest of the raiding party wait in darkness and silence. With her keen eyes, Ylva spots movement on the wall, just east of the gate, illuminated only by moonlight. Is it the Jarls? Grimward? Prisoners making their escape? She moves forward, still secluded in shadow, enough to make out two figures attempting to drop from the sides of the walls. Intuition and a need to act overtakes the uncertainty of the moment. “Runners. They’re going for reinforcements.”
She sprints forward, whipping an arrow from her quiver and drawing it before finding a spot to take aim from. It’s a far shot, near the limits of what her bow can accurately hit, in the dark. She utters a prayer to Gaia and looses the arrow, hearing it whistle through the air for a moment before vanishing from sight and sound. There’s no way to know where it landed, only that it didn’t strike her target. She curses, retrieves another, feeling her muscles straining under the exertion of bringing the bow to its full draw- and this one finds its mark. One of the figures, dangling from the sides of the wall by its hands, drops and lands in a motionless heap.
She sends a third and fourth arrow at the other figure, who manages to successfully drop unharmed, and make its way towards the nearby treeline. Lufik Stormjarl, one of Jarl Morgda’s companions, whispers in the dark, “Shit. We’re going to be discovered. The Jarls are going to get killed.”
Toralf says, mostly to himself, “No, we’re not,” and takes off in a dead sprint towards the fleeing figure. His quarry has a headstart, and disappears into the forests east of the city. He has to cross several hundred feet of open field first, but there don’t seem to be many, if any, guards up on the walls themselves. Pain shoots its way up his leg, the injury still not fully healed, but he powers through it and follows suit.
The dim moonlight surrounding Thungrfiskr is blotted out by the snow-covered canopy of pine trees overhead. The sounds of boots crunching through snow is replaced with the sounds of cracking twigs and brush. Toralf has to navigate almost entirely by sound, his visibility limited to only the tiniest glimmers of light reflecting off of bits of frost and ice.
It takes him a while, but he catches up, following the sounds of movement ahead, which start soft and grow louder and more frantic. His hand reaches out and grasps at nothing, then his fingers brush against leather, and then finally he grasps onto a nape. In the next moment, the two of them are tumbling through the snow, wrestling, shouting. Toralf blindly reaches until he finds the runner’s neck. He pins down their arms with his knees, and grabs the axe he’s been using to clear brush during the group’s travels through occupied territory. He grasps the head of the axe in fist and pushes it slowly and deliberately into the chest of the runner, hearing bone crack underneath from the sheer force. A swing would risk missing. This is certain.
The runner goes still, and Toralf stands up, just in time to see lantern lights moving through the forest. He hears the barking of orders, and realizes that a Grimward patrol is upon him. Nine warriors in all. One of them quickly establishes herself as the group’s leader. She says to six- “Kill that one, quickly.” And they march on him.
Toralf draws his sword, immediately finding himself greatly outnumbered, but not outskilled. The movement of the fighting pulls him away from the three that stay behind, who attend to the body. Unbeknownst to Toralf, the runner lives, just long enough to gurgle out the name “Thungrfiskr”. Two of the three are told to light signal torches and coordinate with the other patrols.
In the first minute, Toralf has already killed three of the Grimward soldiers, but he’s taken hits of his own, and after sprinting so far through the rough terrain, he’s tired. He drops the fourth after kicking the fifth away. The sixth slams into him and sends him reeling back, but he swings his sword down even as the wind is knocked out of him and lops their head cleanly off. The lanterns of the fallen warriors illuminate the remaining combatants from below, casting their shadows onto the trees overhead. With one last heave, Toralf thrusts his sword into his final foe, through one hip and out the other, and gets pulled down with them.
He’s panting, exhausted, trying to draw his sword out of the fresh corpse of his foe, as a final enemy abruptly arrives out of the shadows, lantern left behind, wielding an enormous greatsword that could cleave an ulven in half in a single swing. Toralf moves, too slow. The sword is being used as a lance, aimed at his chest. He doesn’t have enough time to avoid the attack. It drives into his stomach and out his back, and pins him to the tree behind him.
The Grimward warrior, the leader of the group, says “You’re more useful to me alive than dead. You’re beaten. Yield.”
Toralf grins. He couldn’t avoid the attack entirely, but he had shifted his body so that it ran through only flesh, and missed his vital organs. He suddenly lunges forward, slicing himself further open, and grabs the officer by her hair. Before she can react, he lurches back again, pulling her down, and slicing her throat upon her own weapon. As she bleeds out at his feet, he leans back against the tree, still pinned, and manages, “You must not have heard of me before. I. Don’t. Yield.”
An Unraveling of Plans
By Hersir Thrand’s reckoning, the time is at hand. The Fate-Finisher makes its move towards Thungrfiskr. The crew and complement steels itself, readying for whatever situation they might find themselves through into. They have plans for fleeing ships. Plan for evacuation. Plans for amphibious support. But as they come into view, as the first dockworker spots their ship on the inky-black sea, they come upon a situation they hadn’t prepared for- the ships are not burning. There is no violence in the streets.
The gates remain shut.
Bryech stands over Loga, laying in a pool of his own blood. The fight took a long time. Too long. The both of them are panting. Bryech’s hand aches from the number of times his sword had hit the hard edge of the Hersir’s shield. Even realizing that Loga was stalling for time, he could do little to finish the duel any sooner.
Hersir Loga Graytide looks up at him as the two of them start to hear horns blow in the distance and shouts from the docks. “I may not have taken the title of ‘Untouchable’ from you, but, today, I know I am the one who has bested Jarl Bryech.”
He dies with a smile on his face.
The moment the Hersir’s back hit the ground, Jarl Fritha looked to Morgda, exchanging a silent understanding of the work that still had to be done. The two of them rush to the gate and heft the log that braces it from behind, hauling it out of the way and throwing the doors open. Jarl Morgda cups her hands around her mouth and shouts, “We have to act, now!”
The remaining Graytide warriors had fled the scene almost immediately following the duel, not to escape from the city, but to escape further into it. Fritha can hear the slams of fists on doors, and the shouting of orders, as the Grimward work crews are rallied and conscripted to defend Thungrfisrkr.
Fritha takes stock of the raiding party as they come into view at the gates, and starts giving out instructions, “Oil crews, I want you in three teams. Einherjar, you guide them to the docks. Guard them with your lives. Jarl Morgda, I suggest your warriors seek the enemy out first, before they have a chance to encircle or ambush us.” She nods.
The whole discussion only takes a minute. Everyone has their orders, and starts making their way deeper into the city. Even from the gate, Fritha can see movement at the docks as workers prepare to receive the Fate-Finisher. It’s a race now.
A Battle in the Streets
The oil crews have made it halfway to the docks now, and Ylva is among those guarding the rear team. She keeps a few seconds ahead of them, so that whenever she stops to fire her bow, she ends up in the thick of them rather than falling behind.
The streets are filled with howls of rage, and screams of pain. While the Einherjar prioritize the safety of the carriers, Jarl Morgda and her warriors cut through alleyways and side streets, tearing a red path through anyone they run into. There’s still a token complement of Graytide warriors, but the majority of the enemy force is made up of workers that have scarcely held a blade in their lives. They seem motivated more out of fear than valor.
Regardless, they’re numerous enough that despite Morgda’s efforts, the oil crews still find themselves under attack. There’s little time to stop and properly tend to the wounded. When a carrier finds themselves hurt, they lag behind, until Ylva in the rear team catches up to them. She comes up to the wounded, struggling under the weight of their cargo, and lays a light hand upon them. “You’re fine, it’s just a flesh wound, keep moving!”, they hear her say. They grit their teeth, full of determination, and power on through the pain, catching up to their group.
In truth, Ylva takes their injuries upon herself. The Lifemender channels Gaia’s blessings, scarcely stopping her stride. Her own body splits and tears, as her patients’ mends in turn. Her steps become pained. Blood begins to soak into her clothes, spilled only through her own will. But still, she persists.
She sees a Graytide warrior lurch from the shadows, axe raised high, ready to split the skull of a young male who hardly has the nerve to move forwards. She plants her feet, knocks an arrow, draws, and is a half breath from ending the threat, before she hears a soft thrum, very familiar to her, from the shadows. The same as her own bow. And before she can react, she finds herself shot through her knocking arm.
Her world turns white and searing. The head of the arrow digs into the bone of her arm, cutting into the very marrow. She has just a few moments before unconsciousness or another arrow claims her. She utters a curse. Its last syllable becomes the first of a prayer, spoken through gritted teeth. She urges her flesh to heal. The head of the arrow cannot move backwards. As her magic heals her, it pulls the arrowhead forward, making it grind across the bone of her forearm. It tears new wounds into her. It’s excruciating, but she doesn’t stop her chanting. Only once the head of the arrow bursts through the other side of her arm, only after the shaft and the fletching passes through the hole it’s bored through her, does the injury actually knit itself closed.
The entire process takes only a few moments, but they feel like an eternity. As the arrow drops from her, she swipes and catches it, whips in the direction it came from, and sees the archer perched upon a nearby watchtower. She fires back, and the arrow returns to its owner, lancing through their neck and sending them tumbling over the tower’s railing, landing on the ground with a sickening thud.
As Ylva comes down from the agony of her ordeal, she takes stock of what’s around her, and sees the body of one of the Grimward workers. Something catches her eye, though. The worker’s tunic, though made brown and muddied by dirt and grime, is blue. A familiar blue.
A Battle in the Seas
The Fate-Finisher was spotted from the docks before the gates were open, before the fighting broke out, and so the Grimward work crews had the time and wherewithal to prepare for its arrival. These are not naval ships. They do not bear great armaments, nor warrior crews. And so in preparation, they choose flight, not fight.
The bulk of the crew piles onto a pair of vessels, which have only been partially emptied of the supplies destined for Grimward warriors on the frontlines. They set to work unmooring the ships and taking to oars as quickly as possible, and are out in the water before the Fate-Finisher arrives.
Hersir Thrand directs the crew of the ship to orient towards one of the vessels. The longer it takes for Clan Grimward to know of this operation, the better it is for Clan Stormjarl, and every ship burned is a ship the enemy does not have. The Grimward ships are larger and slower, designed mostly for the transport of bulk goods, allowing the Fate-Finisher to intercept with relative ease.
As the Fate-Finisher pulls up alongside the enemy ship, Thrand sees a female Grimward standing at the edge, a panicked look in her eyes, and red glows upon her fingertips. She’s in the midst of channeling shattering magics, and while one ulven would have a hard time sinking an entire ship, every bit of damage matters.
And so Hersir Thrand holds a hand up into the air, the crew of the ship and Morgda’s auxiliaries that are traveling with him already knowing to look to him for commands. He points towards the caster and simply says, in a calm voice, “Javelins”. The barrage that goes out strikes true, and before she’s able to complete her spell, she screams and tumbles forwards into the icy sea waters.
From there, Thrand steps to the edge of his own ship. “Warriors, forward with me. I want boarding hooks slung up onto their railing and I want boots on their ship, now.” There’s an aggressive cheer from the Stormjarl warriors as they lash their hooks onto the transport ship and begin pulling the two vessels together. The Grimward crew members desperately try to uproot the hooks from the railing and deck of their ship, but they’re too slow, and soon the two ships touch, rocking both of them side to side.
From there, the situation resolves quickly. The Einherjar and Jarl Morgda’s warriors stampede onto the ship and begin dispatching with the fleeing Grimward crew members. Several surrender in a bid for their own lives. Others plunge into the water and take their bleak chances in the wet and cold. Others are cut down, and eventually, the ship goes still.
A City Razed
Jarl Fritha is the first to step foot upon the docks, leading the way for the oil crews as they march towards Grimward’s remaining ships. She sees several stockpiles, where supplies already unloaded from the ships have been arranged, and diverts a couple of barrels to them. They’re the first to burn, lit by their shrouded lanterns, casting an orange beacon of a glow into the night which grows and grows as more is consumed by the fueled flame.
As the burn teams continue down the docks, Grimward workers either fight, and are cut down, or flee onto the ships, and make efforts to take off like the two already upon the sea. Fritha prioritizes these ships. There’s not enough time to properly douse and raze them, so she orders the crews to hack holes in the sides of the barrels, toss them aboard, and break a lantern upon the deck where the oil leaks. Some of these ships do manage to pull away from the dock, but not before the fires take them. Ship crews burn as the flames spread across the decks, eventually consuming them in a greater conflagration.
Soon, the docks of Thungrfiskr are bright and hot, and the sound of the cracking of flame becomes a roar. The dockside supplies are all but obliterated. Not every ship has yet been burned, but there is oil enough to ensure that they are, the raiders just need a bit more time.
Jarl Bryech and Jarl Morgda arrive on the docks, drenched in blood, exhausted, rejoining with Fritha.
Morgda is grinning, “We’ve done it. The destruction of these ships will go a long way to disrupt Grimward’s control here, and their effectiveness further south. As soon as we finish slaughtering the work crews, we can leave.” Her warriors are still in the streets, cutting down anyone they come across.
The last of the oil crews arrive, and Ylva with them, carrying a body. She seems shaken. As she comes before the Jarls, she puts the body down before them. “Bryech, Fritha,” she starts, “They’re not Grimward. At least, not all of them. Look, the color of this tunic.” And they see the blue. Perhaps, a Stormjarl blue. She continues, “I think they’re honor-bound, from Stormjarl. Maybe from other Clans, but honor-bound to Stormjarl.” She throws herself down and starts trying to resuscitate the casualty. She lost a patient, recently. She won’t lose another.
Morgda scoffs, “Absurd. We can’t know an ulven’s Clan from the color of the clothes they wear. And besides, even if they are our honor-bound, even if they aren’t drawing blades against us, they’re aiding the enemy. That makes them the enemy. Their work here puts our people at risk. If we leave them alive, they will rebuild this place and undo our efforts here.”
Ylva is torn between concentrating on her healing and acknowledging Jarl Morgda’s words. “I know it isn’t proof, but I feel it in my heart that these are our people. And we can’t kill them just because they’re being forced to work by our true enemy. We should take them from here, help them escape this place, and rejoin us. We should at least talk to them! Figure out who’s on our side!”
Bryech and Fritha think back to the ulven they fought to clear a way to the docks. Perhaps some of them may have been Stormjarl honor-bound. Plenty surrendered, though in the heat of battle there wasn’t much chance to learn why. Some of them, certainly, had the look of duress upon them- malnourished and beaten bodies. But… Not all of them. Even if there are honor-bound here, some of them may be willing collaborators. And of course, many of them are still workers from Clan Grimward.
There’s not enough time to sort through every potential enemy here, only enough time to convey orders to the rest of the raiding party. Clan Grimward reinforcements haven’t arrived yet, but they might at any moment, and if they do, it’ll be difficult to leave the city safely.
A Schism
After just a few moments of deliberation, Bryech makes a decision. “Bring the Fate-Finisher and the captured vessel in and load up for extraction. Gather our wounded and don’t leave anybody behind. Our mission is accomplished. If we push too far, we risk failure; let’s end this as victors. Cut the work crew loose. Leave no room for killing a bondsman here against their will. And have them spread the word about what happened here. Let Grimward know that anywhere we can reach we can bring to ruin. Let them know that nowhere is safe for them. Let them know that if they would play the conquerors they will be shown their folly with hills of bone and rivers of blood. Let them know: Stormjarl stands.”
He begins sending the call to rally at the docks, as Jarl Fritha signals the plan to the Fate-Finisher with one of the lanterns: Bring the subdued Grimward ship back to the city and use the two vessels to evacuate the raiding party. It’s difficult for Hersir Thrand to make out the light of the lantern among the inferno that the docks have become, but after some back-and-forth, the two manage to confirm what Fritha is communicating. They let the remaining Grimward ship escape, doubtless heading to warn the next port over of what’s transpired.
Bryech sends his cohorts out into the city to round up the rest of the raiders, make sure no one is left behind, and tell the surviving occupants to spread the word of what Clan Stormjarl has done here.
Jarl Morgda stands slackjawed for a moment before scowling, and speaking through gritted teeth. “Our work here is not done. Every Grimward body left behind is a weapon to be used against us in the future. We need to leave this city with nothing but ash.” Ignoring Einherjar protests, she gives her own orders to be spread through her own people: “Kill the rest of the workers in the city. Spare no one.” She tells them to return to the docks- but only once the streets around them are quiet, or when she signals for retreat.
There’s a tension between the Jarls. All here came under the stated goal of ‘taking the fight to Grimward’, but each holds a different idea of what that means, and how far they’d go to accomplish it. None dares to contravene the orders of the other, at least not to their direct subordinates.
Fritha’s eyes widen as she spots Toralf limping through the open gate. She starts to run down the main road towards him, past the Einherjar warriors calling for evacuation, and past Morgda’s auxiliaries executing subdued and sometimes even surrendered foes. Grimward workers or Stormjarl honor-bound, she can’t be sure which.
She catches Toralf. He’s pale, covered in his own blood and the blood of others. He still carries the greatsword impaled within him, knowing that removing it would be certain death. There’s no time to treat him, not properly. She prays to Gaia and lays a hand on him, and seals his flesh tight around the sword’s edge. He’s imbued with vigor, enough to keep moving until the two of them are safe. He manages to speak through pained breaths- “They’re right behind me. Reinforcements. Dozens, if not more. I took out as many as I could.”
An Escape
Fritha shouts to everyone that can hear her, Einherjar and otherwise, that they have to leave, now. The Einherjar listen, moving with the two of them. Many of Morgda’s crew relents and runs ahead towards the docks as well, but some are too lost in the killing to give up so easily.
The Fate-Finisher comes alongside the docks. The captured ship, taken over by Stormjarl auxiliaries, follows behind as best as it can. They don’t bother with mooring, the moment they’re within arm’s reach, warriors begin leaping onto their decks and do what they can to prepare for departure.
The mouth of the city gates begins to fill with Clan Grimward warriors, who linger for a moment to take in the destruction, before pouring in.
Morgda stands on the docks, shouting at Bryech. “We would’ve had the time we needed if you hadn’t let yourself be goaded into a pointless honor duel. That hersir made a fool of you, Bryech! And now you want to leave before we’ve seen our task through in full? You say you want ‘show their folly with hills of bone and rivers of blood’? We are doing that now! What do you think it tells them when we leave our work half-finished? Corpses send our message better than mercy ever can!”
Rather than giving in to a shouting match, Bryech calls out to the Stormjarl warriors arriving at the docks, directing them towards the ships that are becoming full with their complement. The Grimward reinforcements begin cutting through Morgda’s auxiliaries, the ones still back in the furthest reaches of Thungrfiskr. They make it halfway to the docks before the last of the surviving Stormjarl make it aboard, and the ships shove off into dark waters.
The journey back is hard. The Einherjar try to celebrate a successful mission- and in their hearts, they know it was successful- but Morgda’s foul temper infects much of her crew with at least a bit of resentment. The Fate-Finisher’s food stores deplete after only a day, not having been prepared with the evacuation of so many warriors, hurting morale further.
Finally, the ships land on secure Stormjarl shores, on the edge of a small nameless fishing village. Warriors practically throw themselves off of the ship, stomachs growling, calling for food, water, and beds to rest in. The locals do their best to accommodate, but the sheer number of Stormjarl in attendance overwhelms their capacity for aid.
A Parting of Warriors
The Jarls speak with the village chief and negotiate to ensure that the villagers’ hospitality is repaid. They ensure that aid is prioritized towards the weak and the wounded, and make plans to send the ships further south with those they can manage, while the rest return on foot.
Jarl Morgda has cooled down a bit since the night of the raid, but not by much. As she prepares to depart, she addresses the Einherjar. “I do not fight to make my enemies bleed. I fight to kill them. I thank the Einherjar for their service. But I ask that next time- if there is a next time- that we strike with unrelenting fury, and give our foe no chance to recover their wits. If you can’t do that, make way for someone who will.” She leaves, and takes her people with her.
Ultimately, Thungrfiskr remains standing, though just barely. Only one ship managed to escape the raid, and most of the crew stationed there, for better or worse, lay dead in the streets. There are still unanswered questions about who exactly it was the Stormjarl warriors were killing, but those that were spared would know that it was the Einherjar that showed them mercy.
Overall, Clan leadership is pleased with the result. They speak of it as a great triumph, as a way of telling the people of Clan Stormjarl that Grimward’s front will collapse any day now. Whether or not it will, remains to be seen. Jarl Morgda knows better than to undermine the tale in public. She and the Einherjar are both praised for their heroism and teamwork, but beneath the surface, there is an unmistakable tension between them now.
The Einherjar emerged from the operation relatively unscathed. By prioritizing the safety and evacuation of the raiders, most of their injuries- and their few fatalities- came only from the strikes and shots of lucky workers, not the warrior reinforcements. Morgda wasn’t so fortunate, with nearly a third of her auxiliaries having died in the night, along with a handful each of the First Horns of Winter and Jotunbani. Hersir Hranti Omenwind sports a wound that will surely become a scar, but is otherwise unharmed.
Regardless of Jarl Morgda’s misgivings, it’s clear that the Einherjar were instrumental to the raid’s success. Morgda underestimated the enemy’s numbers and capabilities, and likely would have died in or even outside of Thungrfiskr, if not for the extra aid and resources that collaboration had brought her.
It is no clean victory- it is perhaps a haunting, painful one- but it is a victory nonetheless. Stormjarl stands, today, and for many days to come.
