Jorviks Return - Story AAR - Brytenwalda (Complete)
SUMMARY: A Story based AAR that follows the adventure of Jorvik, a one-eyed Norse raider who becomes stranded on a Hibernian coastline and becomes embroiled in the miss-haps of his new companions as he searches for a way to return home.
Chapter 1: Charity
Everything hurt as the icy sea finally showed mercy and spat Jorvik out upon the Irish coast. He lay, spluttering amongst the salty froth, gasping for air. His hands shivered and grappled at the smooth pebbles as they clattered beneath the tides push and pull. He was exhausted. His body throbbed and ached from the oceans battering. Wobbling to his knees Jorvik steadied himself and gazed upon his surroundings. The coast on which he found himself spread far and wide. A beach of brown shingle crept up ahead to a high embankment of dark sandy soil. Covering this were thick tufts of grass, waving against cold winds which blew in from the ocean behind. A grey sky hung low, blotched with darker clouds that swept fast inland. These winds were strong, lashing at Jorviks naked back as they howled like wolves tormented by their own turbulence.
Not far from Jorviks side lay a long wooden plank, snapped and twisted it rocked heavily on top of the wet pebbles. The ocean surf lapped around its splintered edges, a remnant of his destroyed longboat which had bore him and his doomed companions far across the sea from other lands. Armed with axe and shield they had come to plunder the Hibernia isle. To raid the coastal villages greedily for wealth and prestige, as was his Norse tradition. Yet they had been thwarted in the night by an unforgiving storm that had chewed apart their vessel, casting all on-board into the swallowing depths. Now Jorvik was isolated and alone, trapped on the edge of a land he had come to with hostile intent. Desperate and close to death he laughed, shaking his fist back out to sea he shouted, “Thor protects me still!”
With little ease he climbed to his feet. Beaten by cold winds and bruised from his rough arrival he slowly stumbled forward. He was weak, tired and alone but unlike his sunken longboat he was not completely ruined. Grabbing handfuls of grass Jorvik pulled himself up the embankment. Looking back he could see no other survivors, nor food or clothing that the sea had cared to spare. Ahead he saw the land was barren. A vast landscape of grey hills and old stones as large as huts were standing before him. Rising steadily into the distance the land crept towards the foot of a great mountain, dark and jagged it reached high into the encircling clouds. Further to his west he could see the outlay of a woodland, tall and shadowy it swayed. This was the northern lands of the isle Hibernia. A land of poor Irish farmers and shepherds that resided in small hamlets made of wood and thatch. Jorvik would need to beg for their kindness if he had any hope of surviving the next few days. Should they suspect his original purpose was to raid and plunder their hard earned goods he would find his last days spent locked in the village stocks, humiliated and left to starve, he was sure.
Though many Norsemen would come to pillage these desolate farmers some would arrive peacefully as hopeful immigrants or eager traders, either he could pose as. Reaching one of these villages however could be difficult. There were many who could benefit from a stranded soul such as Jorvik. Slavery was profitable and not all here desired a life of hard labour with poor returns. Smugglers and slavers were rampant on all coasts. Lurking from hidden dens they kept keen eyes upon their surroundings, on watch to ambush a rival or ensnare an easy gain such as Jorvik. Proceeding ahead would be a matter of luck more than skill. Rubbing his arms for warmth and coughing up salty sea water he scurried ahead naked in hope of aid.
As Jorvik sought his way ahead the crashing waves grew silent as the winds waned from their swirling gusts. The land was unforgiving however, sloping sharply only to abruptly rise again, often into small creeks where tall reeds hugged the edges as it wound its way back towards the sea. Wading from one side to the other Jorvik could continue forth until finally reaching the woodlands shelter. Now less exposed he trod carefully through the thick bracken that carpeted the soily ground. He found himself using his hands as much as his feet to claw his way past low branches and huddled tree trunks. No edible vegetation could he find though Jorvik was comforted as the sun rose to midday, breaking through the canopy in rays that warmed his bare body. Cursing the sharp twigs and pine-cones that pricked his feet underfoot he eventually came to a clearing laden with felled trees and splintered stumps. The land continued further with grassy hills, rolling gently they seemed fresh and greener under the midday sun. The clouds were abating and soon the winds came to little more than a soft breeze. Not far into this new terrain Jorvik found a series of stones set out as boundary markers. Not far from these a muddy trail trampled with hooves and cart wheels could be seen. Jorvik sighed happily. Wiping back his lank red hair he pressed onwards again following the trail, hopeful now to find villagers sympathetic to his plight. Keeping vigilant Jorvik saw no signs of potential slavers or bandits. And it seemed Jorviks luck was altogether going well as within only a few miles down the trail he came upon, with much relief, a small hamlet.
Sneaking into some bushes he peered out to observe his chances of help. The village was small although to his surprise well fortified. A wooden palisade ran around its entire perimeter which itself was surrounded by farm plots and work sheds. Despite this unexpected defence Jorvik saw that neither the gate entrance nor palisade walls were manned. Hopefully this meant they were passive and would not be too alarmed by a ragged stranger approaching. Mingling outside the walls were women and children performing peasant duties and only a few men guiding cattle towards their pastures. He felt confident. He quickly brushed himself down, unmatted his red hair and straightened out his thick moustache whilst finding a bush of decent size to cover his cold stricken vitals. Whether covered or not his rough face that bore only one functional eye, having lost the other in battle years ago, would still be a frightening sight even to the sturdiest of folk. There was only one way to find out what their reaction would be. He walk out into the open.
A shriek rang out from a women dropping her straw basket spilling its contents. Grabbing the hands of some crying children she fled towards the village gates. Perhaps he could have found a bigger bush to cover himself with or waited for a better time to approach but there was little he could do now. Halting regretfully he considered the benefits of being made a slave back on the coast but before he could come to a decision armed men came pouring out of the gates. Some looked puzzled, some angry and others intimidated but all wielded crude tools as weapons, blunt clubs, spiked pitchforks and rusty scythes. Anxiously he waited as they surrounded him. An old man with a deep frown pushed his way through. He was short and crooked with a sparse beard of white stubble. Twirling a stalk of corn between brown teeth he ask suspiciously, “Who are you, stranger?”
“An unfortunate soul in need of aid.” Jorvik replied, happy at least in knowing the native dialect.
“Unfortunate indeed. How is it you arrive at our gates in such a way?”
“Shipwrecked. Last nights storm sunk my vessel with all my possessions. I ask for any charity you could be so kind as to give. Clearly you can see the Lady of Fortune has not favoured me. Can you help at least?”
A brief silence arose as the old man, clearly the Village Elder, took thought. “What was your purpose sailing off these coasts?” He asked with a narrow squint, spitting out the chewed end of his corn stalk.
Knowing of course his true intent had been to burn and pillage these coastal villages, revealing that would certainly not be helpful. “Looking for trade.” Jorvik replied quickly. “I sailed from the north hoping to find warm furs to return home with. Alas, I am now stranded here. If you could spare just some clothing I will make my way onwards to the closest town?”
“Aileach is your closest town but you will have to pass around the mountain to reach it. It's a few days walk if the weather holds, longer if not. Come, we'll get you warm and fed. And clothed.” He said making one last disapproving look at Jorvik before signalling the others to escort him within the walls.
They brought him up to their main community shelter. A thatched hut built beside a small cattle pen thick with manure. A crowd had gathered to watch. They were stood beside a wooden stock used to humiliate and punish offenders. For a small community such as this it would be rarely used other than in jest during the harvest celebrations. Jorvik did note however its careful positioning beside the cattle pen, forcing any would be prisoner into kneeling amongst the surrounding cow muck. He felt himself feeling increasingly uncomfortable at their suspicious gazes. The women were both old and young but all mostly as broad as the men. Each face, even the children’s looked rough and worn from the harsh climate. Their cloths where torn and as dirty as their black finger nails. Jorvik was grateful to be taken away into the shelter where inside he found a warm fire. A few occupants left as he was taken towards it. The Village Elder whom spoke to him outside handed him a rough woollen overcoat that hung low to his knees and some coarse trousers which were far too short, barely reaching his ankles. “We cannot spare any shoes I'm afraid.” The Elder said inspecting Jorviks new attire. “But this clothing will help you none the less to keep warm on your travel to Aileach.” Jorvik nodded and got dressed.
“Many thanks,” he replied trying not to show his itchy discomfort.
“Once you reach the town however you can only buy charity. Without coin you wont find much support.” The Elder said handing Jorvik a bowl of cabbage soup. “I would suggest then that you stay here for a short while, any extra labour during the sowing season will be of great use to us."
Wiping the soup away from his moustache Jorvik looked up in surprise. Back in his homeland he was a warrior raider. To be offered work as a lowly farmer would have been taken with great offence. Reminding himself of his need to keep his true profession hidden he instead accepted the Elders offer. Not unless he felt his pride worth a week in the stocks and cow muck outside. He did not. “To work on a farm and help you in your labour during the sowing season would be a great honour,” he lied. The Elder smiled happily at his own fortune and led Jorvik to a small room that was now to be his accommodation. It was a small room, windowless and smelling of old cabbage. Indeed the flooring had a stickiness to it from where vegetables had previously been stored. Left too long they must have begun weeping in decay before being discarded with. For his bedding there was a pile of straw placed in one corner, in the other a clay pot for toileting. 'Inconveniently small,' Jorvik thought.
So it was over next next few weeks Jorvik worked hard, rarely spoken to from the ever suspicious villagers. Afraid that some may find his old gear for raiding washed up on shore , he kept his head down and tried to appear as much of a peasant as he could, even taking to chewing corn stalks like the Elder. He hoped that he could soon raise enough coin to afford the stay in Aileach from where he would then find a means to promptly return home.
The days passed slowly, weeks slower still. The month of his arrival had been in late February and now it was mid-March. The weather since his arrival had turned again into strong winds blowing black clouds that poured rain day and night. The ground was sodden, full of squelching puddles that sucked and slurped around Jorviks bare feet. Still sowing season was yet to start. Jorvik helped where he was asked to and never complained. His arms became worn from chopping so many fallen trees into piles of kindling. His nose was full of a putrid smell from discarding the villagers waste into the communal cesspit. But of all the tasks he performed the one he detested the most was the milking of cows. For a proud Norse raider it was most dishonourable to tug fleshy udders like a milkmaid. Should ever he return home safely, the one exploit of his time abroad that he would not share was the milking of cows.
As March passed into April the grim weather began to wane and show signs of spring. 'How routine and mundane the life of a peasant is.' Jorvik thought privately. Yet he quickly came to regret this notion. Whilst tending the cattle beneath the setting sun he heard a panicked alarm from a shouting villager outside the palisade. “Bandits! Bandits are upon us!” he cried. The villager never made it back inside. A yelp was heard followed by the clonking sound of a club falling heavily upon his skull. A volley of arrows shot over the walls catching one man in the shoulder, another in the rear of a cow. Bandits were here indeed and they had been sneaky enough to fall upon the village unaware. Now in a crazed panic the villagers run left and right whilst forgetting to close the main gate.
Men ran into one another clumsily, women shrieked as they fled inside and children sat crying having been forgotten in all the mayhem. To add to the confusion the cow struck by the arrow had bucked braking open the cattle pen. The herd now stampeded across the vegetable patches whilst opportunist dogs attacked the squawking chickens instead of the bandits. Sheep fled in circles whilst the pigs sat stubbornly in the mud. Jorvik however kept his mind collected and sought a means to save himself. In his quick judgement he could see a choice between either jumping over the palisade wall and risking a broken limb or by fleeing through the gates where the bandits now poured in. Seeing some villagers create a feeble counter-attack and distracting the bandits he chose to flee for the gate. He ran quickly pushing over any defenders who stood in his way and ducking the blows from any attackers. His skill had not been lost in the weeks of peasantry labour but his doom came not from the sharp edge of an axe but from the slippery mud beneath his feet. Losing his balance he slipped with outstretched arms falling face first into the wet mud. Before he could pick himself up he felt and heard a loud clonk on the back of his head. All went dark.
As the morning chill began to recede and the birds begun chirping Jorvik stirred. It would seem he had survived the raiders assault. His head pounded sorely but he felt no serious injury, except to his pride. Coughing deeply and squinting out of his good eye he saw amongst swirls of ash and smoke the village had been set ablaze. Around him lay the less fortunate. Battered and beaten were the slumped bodies of village men. Some moaned with pain whilst others remained stiff in death. The raiders had been victorious will little to no casualties. They had looted the stores and made off with all they could carry, setting alight the thatched huts as they did so. Jorvik nursing his head stumbled to his feet and lent against the gate which the witless villages had forgotten to close. He had come to this land to cause such a tragedy and was now a victim of one. He could see wandering through the haze the Village Elder, starring gormlessly at his ruined home like a helpless child. Beside the gate he saw a forgotten bundle of fine furs discarded by the bandits as they had hurriedly departed. Likely the most valuable piece of all the loot they could have claimed. Jorvik picked it up saying aloud to himself, “They have dropped such a prize! What a bunch of fools! Surely they are led by an imbecile if he left this behind?” Looking back at the Elder who watched on solemnly Jorvik waved and dusted off the furs. He smiled at the old man and then turn't his back on him to go in search of the bandits who clearly required better leadership.
SUMMARY: A Story based AAR that follows the adventure of Jorvik, a one-eyed Norse raider who becomes stranded on a Hibernian coastline and becomes embroiled in the miss-haps of his new companions as he searches for a way to return home.
Jorviks Return
Chapter 1: Charity
Everything hurt as the icy sea finally showed mercy and spat Jorvik out upon the Irish coast. He lay, spluttering amongst the salty froth, gasping for air. His hands shivered and grappled at the smooth pebbles as they clattered beneath the tides push and pull. He was exhausted. His body throbbed and ached from the oceans battering. Wobbling to his knees Jorvik steadied himself and gazed upon his surroundings. The coast on which he found himself spread far and wide. A beach of brown shingle crept up ahead to a high embankment of dark sandy soil. Covering this were thick tufts of grass, waving against cold winds which blew in from the ocean behind. A grey sky hung low, blotched with darker clouds that swept fast inland. These winds were strong, lashing at Jorviks naked back as they howled like wolves tormented by their own turbulence.
Not far from Jorviks side lay a long wooden plank, snapped and twisted it rocked heavily on top of the wet pebbles. The ocean surf lapped around its splintered edges, a remnant of his destroyed longboat which had bore him and his doomed companions far across the sea from other lands. Armed with axe and shield they had come to plunder the Hibernia isle. To raid the coastal villages greedily for wealth and prestige, as was his Norse tradition. Yet they had been thwarted in the night by an unforgiving storm that had chewed apart their vessel, casting all on-board into the swallowing depths. Now Jorvik was isolated and alone, trapped on the edge of a land he had come to with hostile intent. Desperate and close to death he laughed, shaking his fist back out to sea he shouted, “Thor protects me still!”
With little ease he climbed to his feet. Beaten by cold winds and bruised from his rough arrival he slowly stumbled forward. He was weak, tired and alone but unlike his sunken longboat he was not completely ruined. Grabbing handfuls of grass Jorvik pulled himself up the embankment. Looking back he could see no other survivors, nor food or clothing that the sea had cared to spare. Ahead he saw the land was barren. A vast landscape of grey hills and old stones as large as huts were standing before him. Rising steadily into the distance the land crept towards the foot of a great mountain, dark and jagged it reached high into the encircling clouds. Further to his west he could see the outlay of a woodland, tall and shadowy it swayed. This was the northern lands of the isle Hibernia. A land of poor Irish farmers and shepherds that resided in small hamlets made of wood and thatch. Jorvik would need to beg for their kindness if he had any hope of surviving the next few days. Should they suspect his original purpose was to raid and plunder their hard earned goods he would find his last days spent locked in the village stocks, humiliated and left to starve, he was sure.
Though many Norsemen would come to pillage these desolate farmers some would arrive peacefully as hopeful immigrants or eager traders, either he could pose as. Reaching one of these villages however could be difficult. There were many who could benefit from a stranded soul such as Jorvik. Slavery was profitable and not all here desired a life of hard labour with poor returns. Smugglers and slavers were rampant on all coasts. Lurking from hidden dens they kept keen eyes upon their surroundings, on watch to ambush a rival or ensnare an easy gain such as Jorvik. Proceeding ahead would be a matter of luck more than skill. Rubbing his arms for warmth and coughing up salty sea water he scurried ahead naked in hope of aid.
As Jorvik sought his way ahead the crashing waves grew silent as the winds waned from their swirling gusts. The land was unforgiving however, sloping sharply only to abruptly rise again, often into small creeks where tall reeds hugged the edges as it wound its way back towards the sea. Wading from one side to the other Jorvik could continue forth until finally reaching the woodlands shelter. Now less exposed he trod carefully through the thick bracken that carpeted the soily ground. He found himself using his hands as much as his feet to claw his way past low branches and huddled tree trunks. No edible vegetation could he find though Jorvik was comforted as the sun rose to midday, breaking through the canopy in rays that warmed his bare body. Cursing the sharp twigs and pine-cones that pricked his feet underfoot he eventually came to a clearing laden with felled trees and splintered stumps. The land continued further with grassy hills, rolling gently they seemed fresh and greener under the midday sun. The clouds were abating and soon the winds came to little more than a soft breeze. Not far into this new terrain Jorvik found a series of stones set out as boundary markers. Not far from these a muddy trail trampled with hooves and cart wheels could be seen. Jorvik sighed happily. Wiping back his lank red hair he pressed onwards again following the trail, hopeful now to find villagers sympathetic to his plight. Keeping vigilant Jorvik saw no signs of potential slavers or bandits. And it seemed Jorviks luck was altogether going well as within only a few miles down the trail he came upon, with much relief, a small hamlet.
Sneaking into some bushes he peered out to observe his chances of help. The village was small although to his surprise well fortified. A wooden palisade ran around its entire perimeter which itself was surrounded by farm plots and work sheds. Despite this unexpected defence Jorvik saw that neither the gate entrance nor palisade walls were manned. Hopefully this meant they were passive and would not be too alarmed by a ragged stranger approaching. Mingling outside the walls were women and children performing peasant duties and only a few men guiding cattle towards their pastures. He felt confident. He quickly brushed himself down, unmatted his red hair and straightened out his thick moustache whilst finding a bush of decent size to cover his cold stricken vitals. Whether covered or not his rough face that bore only one functional eye, having lost the other in battle years ago, would still be a frightening sight even to the sturdiest of folk. There was only one way to find out what their reaction would be. He walk out into the open.
A shriek rang out from a women dropping her straw basket spilling its contents. Grabbing the hands of some crying children she fled towards the village gates. Perhaps he could have found a bigger bush to cover himself with or waited for a better time to approach but there was little he could do now. Halting regretfully he considered the benefits of being made a slave back on the coast but before he could come to a decision armed men came pouring out of the gates. Some looked puzzled, some angry and others intimidated but all wielded crude tools as weapons, blunt clubs, spiked pitchforks and rusty scythes. Anxiously he waited as they surrounded him. An old man with a deep frown pushed his way through. He was short and crooked with a sparse beard of white stubble. Twirling a stalk of corn between brown teeth he ask suspiciously, “Who are you, stranger?”
“An unfortunate soul in need of aid.” Jorvik replied, happy at least in knowing the native dialect.
“Unfortunate indeed. How is it you arrive at our gates in such a way?”
“Shipwrecked. Last nights storm sunk my vessel with all my possessions. I ask for any charity you could be so kind as to give. Clearly you can see the Lady of Fortune has not favoured me. Can you help at least?”
A brief silence arose as the old man, clearly the Village Elder, took thought. “What was your purpose sailing off these coasts?” He asked with a narrow squint, spitting out the chewed end of his corn stalk.
Knowing of course his true intent had been to burn and pillage these coastal villages, revealing that would certainly not be helpful. “Looking for trade.” Jorvik replied quickly. “I sailed from the north hoping to find warm furs to return home with. Alas, I am now stranded here. If you could spare just some clothing I will make my way onwards to the closest town?”
“Aileach is your closest town but you will have to pass around the mountain to reach it. It's a few days walk if the weather holds, longer if not. Come, we'll get you warm and fed. And clothed.” He said making one last disapproving look at Jorvik before signalling the others to escort him within the walls.
They brought him up to their main community shelter. A thatched hut built beside a small cattle pen thick with manure. A crowd had gathered to watch. They were stood beside a wooden stock used to humiliate and punish offenders. For a small community such as this it would be rarely used other than in jest during the harvest celebrations. Jorvik did note however its careful positioning beside the cattle pen, forcing any would be prisoner into kneeling amongst the surrounding cow muck. He felt himself feeling increasingly uncomfortable at their suspicious gazes. The women were both old and young but all mostly as broad as the men. Each face, even the children’s looked rough and worn from the harsh climate. Their cloths where torn and as dirty as their black finger nails. Jorvik was grateful to be taken away into the shelter where inside he found a warm fire. A few occupants left as he was taken towards it. The Village Elder whom spoke to him outside handed him a rough woollen overcoat that hung low to his knees and some coarse trousers which were far too short, barely reaching his ankles. “We cannot spare any shoes I'm afraid.” The Elder said inspecting Jorviks new attire. “But this clothing will help you none the less to keep warm on your travel to Aileach.” Jorvik nodded and got dressed.
“Many thanks,” he replied trying not to show his itchy discomfort.
“Once you reach the town however you can only buy charity. Without coin you wont find much support.” The Elder said handing Jorvik a bowl of cabbage soup. “I would suggest then that you stay here for a short while, any extra labour during the sowing season will be of great use to us."
Wiping the soup away from his moustache Jorvik looked up in surprise. Back in his homeland he was a warrior raider. To be offered work as a lowly farmer would have been taken with great offence. Reminding himself of his need to keep his true profession hidden he instead accepted the Elders offer. Not unless he felt his pride worth a week in the stocks and cow muck outside. He did not. “To work on a farm and help you in your labour during the sowing season would be a great honour,” he lied. The Elder smiled happily at his own fortune and led Jorvik to a small room that was now to be his accommodation. It was a small room, windowless and smelling of old cabbage. Indeed the flooring had a stickiness to it from where vegetables had previously been stored. Left too long they must have begun weeping in decay before being discarded with. For his bedding there was a pile of straw placed in one corner, in the other a clay pot for toileting. 'Inconveniently small,' Jorvik thought.
So it was over next next few weeks Jorvik worked hard, rarely spoken to from the ever suspicious villagers. Afraid that some may find his old gear for raiding washed up on shore , he kept his head down and tried to appear as much of a peasant as he could, even taking to chewing corn stalks like the Elder. He hoped that he could soon raise enough coin to afford the stay in Aileach from where he would then find a means to promptly return home.
The days passed slowly, weeks slower still. The month of his arrival had been in late February and now it was mid-March. The weather since his arrival had turned again into strong winds blowing black clouds that poured rain day and night. The ground was sodden, full of squelching puddles that sucked and slurped around Jorviks bare feet. Still sowing season was yet to start. Jorvik helped where he was asked to and never complained. His arms became worn from chopping so many fallen trees into piles of kindling. His nose was full of a putrid smell from discarding the villagers waste into the communal cesspit. But of all the tasks he performed the one he detested the most was the milking of cows. For a proud Norse raider it was most dishonourable to tug fleshy udders like a milkmaid. Should ever he return home safely, the one exploit of his time abroad that he would not share was the milking of cows.
As March passed into April the grim weather began to wane and show signs of spring. 'How routine and mundane the life of a peasant is.' Jorvik thought privately. Yet he quickly came to regret this notion. Whilst tending the cattle beneath the setting sun he heard a panicked alarm from a shouting villager outside the palisade. “Bandits! Bandits are upon us!” he cried. The villager never made it back inside. A yelp was heard followed by the clonking sound of a club falling heavily upon his skull. A volley of arrows shot over the walls catching one man in the shoulder, another in the rear of a cow. Bandits were here indeed and they had been sneaky enough to fall upon the village unaware. Now in a crazed panic the villagers run left and right whilst forgetting to close the main gate.
Men ran into one another clumsily, women shrieked as they fled inside and children sat crying having been forgotten in all the mayhem. To add to the confusion the cow struck by the arrow had bucked braking open the cattle pen. The herd now stampeded across the vegetable patches whilst opportunist dogs attacked the squawking chickens instead of the bandits. Sheep fled in circles whilst the pigs sat stubbornly in the mud. Jorvik however kept his mind collected and sought a means to save himself. In his quick judgement he could see a choice between either jumping over the palisade wall and risking a broken limb or by fleeing through the gates where the bandits now poured in. Seeing some villagers create a feeble counter-attack and distracting the bandits he chose to flee for the gate. He ran quickly pushing over any defenders who stood in his way and ducking the blows from any attackers. His skill had not been lost in the weeks of peasantry labour but his doom came not from the sharp edge of an axe but from the slippery mud beneath his feet. Losing his balance he slipped with outstretched arms falling face first into the wet mud. Before he could pick himself up he felt and heard a loud clonk on the back of his head. All went dark.
As the morning chill began to recede and the birds begun chirping Jorvik stirred. It would seem he had survived the raiders assault. His head pounded sorely but he felt no serious injury, except to his pride. Coughing deeply and squinting out of his good eye he saw amongst swirls of ash and smoke the village had been set ablaze. Around him lay the less fortunate. Battered and beaten were the slumped bodies of village men. Some moaned with pain whilst others remained stiff in death. The raiders had been victorious will little to no casualties. They had looted the stores and made off with all they could carry, setting alight the thatched huts as they did so. Jorvik nursing his head stumbled to his feet and lent against the gate which the witless villages had forgotten to close. He had come to this land to cause such a tragedy and was now a victim of one. He could see wandering through the haze the Village Elder, starring gormlessly at his ruined home like a helpless child. Beside the gate he saw a forgotten bundle of fine furs discarded by the bandits as they had hurriedly departed. Likely the most valuable piece of all the loot they could have claimed. Jorvik picked it up saying aloud to himself, “They have dropped such a prize! What a bunch of fools! Surely they are led by an imbecile if he left this behind?” Looking back at the Elder who watched on solemnly Jorvik waved and dusted off the furs. He smiled at the old man and then turn't his back on him to go in search of the bandits who clearly required better leadership.
Last edited: