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<blockquote data-quote="Arcturion" data-source="post: 3736184" data-attributes="member: 54632"><p><strong>1.0 Darksail Argosy</strong></p><p></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon">Rentiki raised a hand to his chin, idly scratching at the stubble growing there. “Aye, if you say so, dear Cat,” the Captain softly conceded, sounding rather unconvinced. Mirroring Eltera, he turned his attention back to the Dracian host and their Hrundic guests.</span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon"></span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon">Gritting her teeth, the dark aelf tried to ignore the ache of the wounds at her bandaged hands. She felt as if the flesh there were being singed from some unseen flame, spreading out from the stigmata and putting to the torch the surrounding skin. She crossed her arms over her chest, her fingers balled into fists in an effort to dull the edge of her growing discomfort.</span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon"></span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon">By now, the planks between the longships and the docks had been secured. As the first Hrundir warriors began to disembark, their fur-trimmed boots trod upon the wooden boardwalk with heavy steps. Their garb matched Ivar’s for the most part, with studded leather and chain shirts being favored over heavier armor. The majority bore axes at their belts and backs, both of the hand and long varieties, rather than warhammers. Many also had daggers and longswords sheathed in tooled leather scabbards, their ornate hilts contrasting with the relatively simple designs of their Dracian counterparts, while others held round wooden shields banded with iron. Unlike the soldiers of the Contari, the Hrundic half-helms bore no horns, dragon or otherwise, being lined with fur and adorned with nose guards. The well weathered faces of the northmen were fierce and grim, with most covered by thick, long braids and wild, shaggy beards the color of flax, wheat, and summer fox fur. Several of the combat hardened warriors proudly wore intricate tattoos inscribed in deep blue ink as well as the vicious scars of battle plain upon their faces, and more than a few had missing eyes, broad noses crooked from being broken at least once in their lifetimes, and ears adorned by rings that flashed in the weak morning light.</span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon"></span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon">Eltera counted nearly a total of fifty and three hundred northmen, with half of them disembarked upon the wharves and the rest choosing to remain behind upon their drakkars. Each of the two smaller longships had a hundred oars and the lead drakkar nearly one and a half times as many, so it had not been hard to guess their numbers. Destriers were brought off the ships as well, though there were only enough horses for about a tenth of the total Hrundir present. The rest were content as footmen, as the horses no doubt took up a lot of space onboard a ship whose hold was best reserved for loot and plunder. The animals were as large and shaggy as their riders, and just as foul tempered it seemed as the drakes further back in the Contari columns began to hiss their displeasure, prompting the horses to stamp their hooves and bray wildly in response. Muttering oaths, the northmen fought to bring their mounts under control before having them form a line between their longships and the Dracian soldiers.</span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon"></span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon">Finally, ringed by a retinue of at least six personal guards each, the leaders of each vessel came ashore to join their men-at-arms.</span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon"></span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon">The chieftain of the drakkar that bore the sigil of the boar upon its sail was a broad-figured, squat man with a bristly black beard that poked out in all directions and bushy eyebrows that looked like hairy caterpillars to match. A tanned hide of like appearance rested upon his thickly muscled shoulders, while the tusked head of a fierce boar adorned the top of his steel half-helm. The northman’s rather ugly, pockmarked face was red and splotchy, as if from too much sun or drink, or perhaps both. A great iron mace with a multi-spiked head was slung across his back, creaking against the thick layers of his wine-stained hide armor. His expression was balefully dour and more than a little bleary-eyed as he shielded his face from the morning light with a thick, meaty hand covered with coarse black hair, the other clutching at a drinking horn that sloshed as he walked with a slight stumbling gait in his heavy steps.</span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon"></span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon">“The Lord Tuskegrin of Ostegard, sworn Hersir of Haeslund!” yelled a Hrundic herald among the boar chieftain’s men, his accented words spoken in the Common tongue.</span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon"></span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon">The chieftain of the longship that displayed the crest of the bear upon its lone sail was an impossibly tall, broad-shouldered man with a long beard woven into a neat row of braids, his dark brown hair equally trimmed and ordered. A thick furred bearskin flowed out from behind him, framing the huge two-handed greatsword sheathed at his back, its wire-wrapped hilt longer than a man’s forearm. The fanged maw of a grizzly’s head adorned the top of the northman’s half-helm, looking every bit as fierce in death as it did in life. His armor was that of brigandine, its layers of leather and lamellar as thick as he was powerfully muscled. Intricate knot-work of blue ink flowed across his face just underneath his dark eyes and over his cheeks and broad nose. Handsome if imposing, this chieftain’s expression seemed more at ease than the other as he smiled crookedly at some whispered jest made by one of his guardsmen.</span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon"></span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon">“The Lord Ursodrik of Vestegard, sworn Hersir of Haeslund!” bellowed a different herald, this one from the bear chieftain’s entourage.</span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon"></span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon">The chieftain of the vessel that flew the symbol of the grey wolf upon its white sail appeared similar to Ivar Wolfgarsson in his stature and bearing. However, his half-helm not only bore the head of a slain wolf, its gray and white mottled fur hide draped across his powerful shoulders, but was also crowned with large, curved horns of some great beast, a ram or possibly even a dragon. A steel-gray greataxe, the twin crossed symbols common among all three of the longships, was strapped across the northman’s back, while numerous throwing handaxes adorned his broad leather belt. The noble chieftain’s face was hewn in the same image of his son Ivar, his eyes the unyielding sky gray color that bespoke of storms upon the horizon. The northman wore no braids of any sort, nor did his hair appear very long at all if there was even any beneath his majestically horned half-helm to begin with. He also bore no beard save for long, white whiskers that framed his stone-chiseled features on either side of his strong jaw, the pale skin marred by four long scars that crossed diagonally from the top left side of his temple down to the bottom right of his chin. The hideous marks had long since healed, but carved their way over brow and nose and lips alike in a terrible, ruinous path.</span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon"></span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon">“All hail Bulwygar Wolfgarrson of Sodergard, Slayer of the Jotunbrud, Jarl of the Seven Tribes!” three heralds boomed concurrently, one amidst the wolf chieftain’s retinue and the other two the same heralds who had spoken up before.</span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon"></span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon">“And Konnungr of all Haeslund,” Ivar added with more than a touch of pride in his words as he bent down to one knee before his father, speaking in the Hrundic language, while Sharis and the young Contari captain remained where they stood, their expressions neutral.</span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon"></span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon">At this, Bulwygar seemed to approve and gave a slight nod, raising a large, calloused hand to beckon his son to arise. The two men clasped each at other at the wrists in the traditional greeting of warriors before they embraced as father and son, the mail links of their chain shirt armors sighing as they shone brightly.</span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon"></span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon">“To be King,” Bulwygar replied pensively in their native tongue after breaking away from their embrace, his voice as deep and gravelly as stone itself. “Were it to be true.”</span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon"></span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon">“And so it shall be,” intoned a female voice in the same language, sounding supremely confident. Strangely, Eltera had not noted her presence among the men before but there stood behind Bulwygar a tall Hrundic female warrior clad in chainmail and a breastplate molded to fit every curve of her lithe form perfectly. Her long, raven-black hair was unbound and hung well past her waist, the dark tresses stirring not in the least despite the stiff breeze blowing off from the waters of the Ebontine. Her flawless, pale skin seemingly sculpted from the ice of her homeland, the woman’s eyes was a disconcertingly clear shade of blue. When she raked her steely gaze over the gathered host of Hrundir and Dracians alike, it appeared to strip away the flesh of mortal men to peer straight into the darkest corners of their desires. Eltera supposed that most humans would find the female warrior beautiful in a coldly haunting way. She bore no weapons at all upon her person, save for a round shield forged from some dull black metal strapped at her left forearm. Its inky surface reflected no light while its unfathomable depths appeared to greedily drink in the warmth of the sun itself. The sable-trimmed cloak around her slender shoulders was midnight in color as well, billowing out from behind.</span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon"></span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon">“It is known,” echoed another female voice, this one belonging to a second Hrundic woman who was an exact mirror image of the first only her hair was the color of spun gold woven into twin elaborate braids that framed her face. She was likewise unarmed except for the round shield clutched in her hand, its metallic surface a shimmering gold polished to a mirror finish. The golden fur-trimmed cloak she wore was the color of the sun. Stepping past a guard, the shield maiden seemed to tower over the squat Lord Tuskegrin as she walked by him to stand at Bulwygar’s side.</span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon"></span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon">“It is known,” answered yet another woman’s voice, this third one also an uncanny replica of the other two, though her hair shone like silver and was bound into a single braid that hung down her back. The shield she bore was brushed silver, and no less bright than her blonde sister’s while her white fur-trimmed cloak flashed silver as well. The woman edged past Lord Ursodrik and his men to stand opposite of Bulwygar with the other shield maidens.</span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon"></span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon">The Lord Tuskegrin harrumphed slightly, muttering under his breath before taking a long pull from his drinking horn. Ale ran from the corners of his mouth to trickle down the thick, black bristles that was his beard. The Lord Ursodrik gave his fellow hersir a cursory sidelong glance, his expression one of bemusement, or so Eltera thought.</span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon"></span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon">Rentiki’s breath seemed to catch in his throat as a murmur began to rise through the crowd on both sides of the boardwalk, a sound that tasted of anxiety and fear. “I didn’t think the rumors were true,” the Daoshan Captain whispered in disbelief in his own native tongue. “The Nornir.”</span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon"></span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon">Eltera turned to look at Rentiki. “Nornir?” she asked curiously, taking note of the way the nervous tension hung in the air over the gathered throng of people. It suddenly occurred to the dark aelf that she was starting to grow dizzy and lightheaded, her vision blurring at the edges. She shook her head, trying to banish the ill sensation she was feeling.</span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon"></span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon">“Witches,” the man replied softly in disquieted tones. “Immortals that appear every few centuries to guide the fates of mortal men whether they wish it or not. It is said that whomever they favor is destined to become King of All the North, and that all others shall bend the knee to the one so chosen. If the stories are to be believed, then the Dracians have much to worry. Why, I even heard . . .”</span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon"></span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon">Rentiki stopped suddenly as he regarded Eltera with wide eyes. “Dear Cat, your hands . . .”</span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon"></span></p><p><span style="color: LemonChiffon">Alarmed, the dark aelf looked down at her hands and saw that the linen bandages were soaked through with dark red, her life’s blood weeping from the wounds down slick fingers onto the wooden planks at her feet. No one else in the crowd seemed to notice save for Rentiki, their rapt attention focused squarely on the northmen and the three sisters of the Nornir. The wounds burned and throbbed with remembered pain as if the H’jenn-Ra’s black sickle blade had once again pierced through her flesh as it did before the winter snows appeared.</span></p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Arcturion, post: 3736184, member: 54632"] [b]1.0 Darksail Argosy[/b] [COLOR=LemonChiffon]Rentiki raised a hand to his chin, idly scratching at the stubble growing there. “Aye, if you say so, dear Cat,” the Captain softly conceded, sounding rather unconvinced. Mirroring Eltera, he turned his attention back to the Dracian host and their Hrundic guests. Gritting her teeth, the dark aelf tried to ignore the ache of the wounds at her bandaged hands. She felt as if the flesh there were being singed from some unseen flame, spreading out from the stigmata and putting to the torch the surrounding skin. She crossed her arms over her chest, her fingers balled into fists in an effort to dull the edge of her growing discomfort. By now, the planks between the longships and the docks had been secured. As the first Hrundir warriors began to disembark, their fur-trimmed boots trod upon the wooden boardwalk with heavy steps. Their garb matched Ivar’s for the most part, with studded leather and chain shirts being favored over heavier armor. The majority bore axes at their belts and backs, both of the hand and long varieties, rather than warhammers. Many also had daggers and longswords sheathed in tooled leather scabbards, their ornate hilts contrasting with the relatively simple designs of their Dracian counterparts, while others held round wooden shields banded with iron. Unlike the soldiers of the Contari, the Hrundic half-helms bore no horns, dragon or otherwise, being lined with fur and adorned with nose guards. The well weathered faces of the northmen were fierce and grim, with most covered by thick, long braids and wild, shaggy beards the color of flax, wheat, and summer fox fur. Several of the combat hardened warriors proudly wore intricate tattoos inscribed in deep blue ink as well as the vicious scars of battle plain upon their faces, and more than a few had missing eyes, broad noses crooked from being broken at least once in their lifetimes, and ears adorned by rings that flashed in the weak morning light. Eltera counted nearly a total of fifty and three hundred northmen, with half of them disembarked upon the wharves and the rest choosing to remain behind upon their drakkars. Each of the two smaller longships had a hundred oars and the lead drakkar nearly one and a half times as many, so it had not been hard to guess their numbers. Destriers were brought off the ships as well, though there were only enough horses for about a tenth of the total Hrundir present. The rest were content as footmen, as the horses no doubt took up a lot of space onboard a ship whose hold was best reserved for loot and plunder. The animals were as large and shaggy as their riders, and just as foul tempered it seemed as the drakes further back in the Contari columns began to hiss their displeasure, prompting the horses to stamp their hooves and bray wildly in response. Muttering oaths, the northmen fought to bring their mounts under control before having them form a line between their longships and the Dracian soldiers. Finally, ringed by a retinue of at least six personal guards each, the leaders of each vessel came ashore to join their men-at-arms. The chieftain of the drakkar that bore the sigil of the boar upon its sail was a broad-figured, squat man with a bristly black beard that poked out in all directions and bushy eyebrows that looked like hairy caterpillars to match. A tanned hide of like appearance rested upon his thickly muscled shoulders, while the tusked head of a fierce boar adorned the top of his steel half-helm. The northman’s rather ugly, pockmarked face was red and splotchy, as if from too much sun or drink, or perhaps both. A great iron mace with a multi-spiked head was slung across his back, creaking against the thick layers of his wine-stained hide armor. His expression was balefully dour and more than a little bleary-eyed as he shielded his face from the morning light with a thick, meaty hand covered with coarse black hair, the other clutching at a drinking horn that sloshed as he walked with a slight stumbling gait in his heavy steps. “The Lord Tuskegrin of Ostegard, sworn Hersir of Haeslund!” yelled a Hrundic herald among the boar chieftain’s men, his accented words spoken in the Common tongue. The chieftain of the longship that displayed the crest of the bear upon its lone sail was an impossibly tall, broad-shouldered man with a long beard woven into a neat row of braids, his dark brown hair equally trimmed and ordered. A thick furred bearskin flowed out from behind him, framing the huge two-handed greatsword sheathed at his back, its wire-wrapped hilt longer than a man’s forearm. The fanged maw of a grizzly’s head adorned the top of the northman’s half-helm, looking every bit as fierce in death as it did in life. His armor was that of brigandine, its layers of leather and lamellar as thick as he was powerfully muscled. Intricate knot-work of blue ink flowed across his face just underneath his dark eyes and over his cheeks and broad nose. Handsome if imposing, this chieftain’s expression seemed more at ease than the other as he smiled crookedly at some whispered jest made by one of his guardsmen. “The Lord Ursodrik of Vestegard, sworn Hersir of Haeslund!” bellowed a different herald, this one from the bear chieftain’s entourage. The chieftain of the vessel that flew the symbol of the grey wolf upon its white sail appeared similar to Ivar Wolfgarsson in his stature and bearing. However, his half-helm not only bore the head of a slain wolf, its gray and white mottled fur hide draped across his powerful shoulders, but was also crowned with large, curved horns of some great beast, a ram or possibly even a dragon. A steel-gray greataxe, the twin crossed symbols common among all three of the longships, was strapped across the northman’s back, while numerous throwing handaxes adorned his broad leather belt. The noble chieftain’s face was hewn in the same image of his son Ivar, his eyes the unyielding sky gray color that bespoke of storms upon the horizon. The northman wore no braids of any sort, nor did his hair appear very long at all if there was even any beneath his majestically horned half-helm to begin with. He also bore no beard save for long, white whiskers that framed his stone-chiseled features on either side of his strong jaw, the pale skin marred by four long scars that crossed diagonally from the top left side of his temple down to the bottom right of his chin. The hideous marks had long since healed, but carved their way over brow and nose and lips alike in a terrible, ruinous path. “All hail Bulwygar Wolfgarrson of Sodergard, Slayer of the Jotunbrud, Jarl of the Seven Tribes!” three heralds boomed concurrently, one amidst the wolf chieftain’s retinue and the other two the same heralds who had spoken up before. “And Konnungr of all Haeslund,” Ivar added with more than a touch of pride in his words as he bent down to one knee before his father, speaking in the Hrundic language, while Sharis and the young Contari captain remained where they stood, their expressions neutral. At this, Bulwygar seemed to approve and gave a slight nod, raising a large, calloused hand to beckon his son to arise. The two men clasped each at other at the wrists in the traditional greeting of warriors before they embraced as father and son, the mail links of their chain shirt armors sighing as they shone brightly. “To be King,” Bulwygar replied pensively in their native tongue after breaking away from their embrace, his voice as deep and gravelly as stone itself. “Were it to be true.” “And so it shall be,” intoned a female voice in the same language, sounding supremely confident. Strangely, Eltera had not noted her presence among the men before but there stood behind Bulwygar a tall Hrundic female warrior clad in chainmail and a breastplate molded to fit every curve of her lithe form perfectly. Her long, raven-black hair was unbound and hung well past her waist, the dark tresses stirring not in the least despite the stiff breeze blowing off from the waters of the Ebontine. Her flawless, pale skin seemingly sculpted from the ice of her homeland, the woman’s eyes was a disconcertingly clear shade of blue. When she raked her steely gaze over the gathered host of Hrundir and Dracians alike, it appeared to strip away the flesh of mortal men to peer straight into the darkest corners of their desires. Eltera supposed that most humans would find the female warrior beautiful in a coldly haunting way. She bore no weapons at all upon her person, save for a round shield forged from some dull black metal strapped at her left forearm. Its inky surface reflected no light while its unfathomable depths appeared to greedily drink in the warmth of the sun itself. The sable-trimmed cloak around her slender shoulders was midnight in color as well, billowing out from behind. “It is known,” echoed another female voice, this one belonging to a second Hrundic woman who was an exact mirror image of the first only her hair was the color of spun gold woven into twin elaborate braids that framed her face. She was likewise unarmed except for the round shield clutched in her hand, its metallic surface a shimmering gold polished to a mirror finish. The golden fur-trimmed cloak she wore was the color of the sun. Stepping past a guard, the shield maiden seemed to tower over the squat Lord Tuskegrin as she walked by him to stand at Bulwygar’s side. “It is known,” answered yet another woman’s voice, this third one also an uncanny replica of the other two, though her hair shone like silver and was bound into a single braid that hung down her back. The shield she bore was brushed silver, and no less bright than her blonde sister’s while her white fur-trimmed cloak flashed silver as well. The woman edged past Lord Ursodrik and his men to stand opposite of Bulwygar with the other shield maidens. The Lord Tuskegrin harrumphed slightly, muttering under his breath before taking a long pull from his drinking horn. Ale ran from the corners of his mouth to trickle down the thick, black bristles that was his beard. The Lord Ursodrik gave his fellow hersir a cursory sidelong glance, his expression one of bemusement, or so Eltera thought. Rentiki’s breath seemed to catch in his throat as a murmur began to rise through the crowd on both sides of the boardwalk, a sound that tasted of anxiety and fear. “I didn’t think the rumors were true,” the Daoshan Captain whispered in disbelief in his own native tongue. “The Nornir.” Eltera turned to look at Rentiki. “Nornir?” she asked curiously, taking note of the way the nervous tension hung in the air over the gathered throng of people. It suddenly occurred to the dark aelf that she was starting to grow dizzy and lightheaded, her vision blurring at the edges. She shook her head, trying to banish the ill sensation she was feeling. “Witches,” the man replied softly in disquieted tones. “Immortals that appear every few centuries to guide the fates of mortal men whether they wish it or not. It is said that whomever they favor is destined to become King of All the North, and that all others shall bend the knee to the one so chosen. If the stories are to be believed, then the Dracians have much to worry. Why, I even heard . . .” Rentiki stopped suddenly as he regarded Eltera with wide eyes. “Dear Cat, your hands . . .” Alarmed, the dark aelf looked down at her hands and saw that the linen bandages were soaked through with dark red, her life’s blood weeping from the wounds down slick fingers onto the wooden planks at her feet. No one else in the crowd seemed to notice save for Rentiki, their rapt attention focused squarely on the northmen and the three sisters of the Nornir. The wounds burned and throbbed with remembered pain as if the H’jenn-Ra’s black sickle blade had once again pierced through her flesh as it did before the winter snows appeared.[/COLOR] [/QUOTE]
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