Blades without a Banner

There are many factions in this strange and distant land, and you will never know of many of them. However… in your travels, it's inevitable you'll deal with, and learn about, the mortal realms.

Here, then, is a summation of what you know.

[X] Invoke the Iron Circle; challenge the boarder to single combat.

You leap down from the aft, the familiar weight of your axe- freshly empowered- in hand. Near half the crew formed a dense phalanx on one side, Blessed Kolo a comforting support at their back. At the prow, Islefolk leaped over the edge, falling amongst their terrified foes, or even daring to tumble clear over and past- attacking the foe from behind.

You join neither, target in sight.

A familiar face joins the crew surrounding the single woman, Charging from the other side, the Hoklin doesn't react as the spear blade slides a jagged slash across her waist, monofocused on shattering the guard and shoulder of her immediate target. Four, three, two Islefolk surround her, trying to puncture her with a lethal blow, but she fights on heedless of pain, every strike imbued with overwhelming power.

Her eyes, barely visible, are bloodshot and dilated- flickering erratically at the slightest noise. Her frame shivers as if sickened; her posture is strange, almost hunched, her voice torn and ragged. Her armour is only cloth and padding, shredded and slashed, hair flowing loose. She wields a simple cudgel, shield abandoned, and doesn't quite come up to your chin.

With a single blow, she shatters Alaric's sword, armour and ribs, crumpling the much larger man to his knees. Heln is too far, dragging away her second victim, and so she draws back to kill him, defenceless, choking blood.

You lunge.

She catches your axe.

She catches your axe head with her bare hand, the steel slicing it clean through, pressing into her waist. The killing blow misses, as she flinches sidewards, howling in pain, ruined hand clenching inwards, frame folding to her knees.

You push, pressing her down with weight and power, and she does not move an inch. Breathing raggedly, a gaze that is not and never was truly mortal turns to face you, an unconscious Alaric forgotten, and you have no more time to speak.


You almost fall backwards as your bardiche is hurled up, her ruined hand flexing with agonising swiftness to throw your spear aside. Barely keeping grip, you pull back too slowly as she not so much charges as launches into you shoulder first, pain exploding across your torso as blood and cloth dents cold steel.

Both of you fall, your masked attacker tearing at your face with bloodied hands, ruinous impacts smearing your helm with blood and dents, jagged metal slicing into your cheek and cutting your tongue before you catch her fist with the blade of your seax- turning her hand from merely split to a bloody ruin, questionably whole. That at last forces her to pause, a full body spasm rattling up her arm, as you drive the blade into her and under her ribs just to try and force her off. Steel catches bone, before she abandons her club entirely, grabs your wrist and snaps it like a branch, tearing the sword out of her side to form another bleeding wound, all to try and drive it into you.

Your world flashes white with pain, only instinct letting you grab the blade with your left hand before it pierces fully into your throat. You grip the sword with a desperation, but even though she can only use one hand so can you, and even with one and a half wounds that would have struck you dead, she is, painfully and inexorably, stronger than you. The sword presses down and down, bending the mail into your throat until you cannot breathe, black spots closing into your vision even as rabid-predator's-eyespierceintoyo-


A pulse of warmth flushes through you, and you are alive.

Your wrist resets, your breathe comes lighter, oxygen floods into your lungs even as your opponent only tires. It doesn't last long, but you take the moment to throw her off and grab your axe, injuries reduced from lethal to merely painful. She recovers quickly, leaning against the side; she takes one glance at you, then makes a swift decision.


She swipes, snarling, and you prepare to meet her charge, before she suddenly turns away and leaps!

…and misjudges.

Clearly exhausted, what would have been a graceful dive into the ocean stops painfully as she leaps up, away, and catches her throat on low rigging. Momentum stopped, she promptly crashes to the floor, where Heln and two more observant crew immediately leap onto her with rope and brass knuckles. At first you half fear for their life, but it seems she can't just bleed indefinitely- although she still knocks one of them to the floor, nose broken, she's duly overpowered.

You pick up your bow where you had left it leaning against the edge of the Gale. The adrenaline fades, replaced with shooting pains and delayed shock, and you wouldn't trust yourself to fight in this state- but that doesn't mean you cannot contribute.

———————

They were losing.

It was not because of their shockingly potent archery, that shattered shields and splintered iron, nor their hideous strength, the mutants manoeuvring with uncanny discipline. It was not their bloody steel, or lethal armament- not directly.

Johannas, bannerman of the Dovaskarl, rising war-captain and renowned fighter, knew they were losing when his men started to flee.

'Cowards!'

Even as he said it, the words felt hollow. Three assaults, and what did they have to show? Death on the approach, on the impact, in the melee- yet nothing but the most tenuous of footholds, barely enough for three to stand on, let alone fight, and only their corpses to litter the deck, by arrow, spear or blade.

They were losing, he knew in his heart of hearts. Too many mistakes, maybe- if he ever saw that traitor Reine again, he'd strangle him until he choked on his lying tongue. Or maybe they were never strong enough anyways, against these these steel-workers with ships like fortresses.

To show that as their leader would make it certain, however, and so even as many paused their attacks, or even fled, he plunged back into the fray. Half on the ship, half teetering off the edge- lunge, strike, hook and shove with spear aflame, trying to kill even one before their allies could spirit them away, even a small victory to rally his fighters. Seconds felt far too long, like bitter defeat, when they.. retreated?

An androgynous shieldbearer stepped out, pointing their blade towards him. They were wore a heavy carapace, shield slightly smoking and sword unbloodied, but for once one of them stood alone- alone and talking, clearly suffering some insanity to give up their best defence.

A foreigner out of formation was not an opportunity Johannas could resist. When his followers saw him doused with burning spit, cut down and thrown back in swift succession, they surrendered soon after.
————————-

You come to the prow, and witness a testament to Pacts. What was initially a devastating assault had clearly stalked out, almost two thirds of the attack party awkwardly trudging through waist high smog. Pale blue and malleable like mist, it didn't seem dangerous, but was clearly far harder to push through than it looked. The Hoklin in any shape to fight had clustered some ways away, either loosing arrows or holding a fighting retreat against a vanguard of the Iskefolk. Despite the gap in skill and equipment, Solyn's crew couldn't push through to the sorceress they guarded, who single handedly prevented the Islefolk from swarming then with uncontested spellcratt.

You slowly nock and draw, so far unnoticed, before a flash of movement draws the eye. A Hoklin with a serpent's mask springs up from out of the mist, savagely wounded, spear in a double grip-


You loose, and you know you missed.

The mage unleashes some hidden power, a sheer white storm of biting wind that obscures the entire field, but even as you nock and draw again while blinded you sense that it's too late. The unnatural blizzard fades after three heartbeats, to reveal two corpses- the Hoklin had battered a woman aside and skewered another through the mouth, only for him to return the favour, even while both fought blind.

Blessed Kolo comes up behind you before loose fire again, holding a spear whose tip burns like a torch. The enchanted lance clealry means something to the Hoklin, who surrender at last when he demands it, voice empowered with heavenly wisdom to make it heard by all. The fight is over, the Hoklin's courage finally failing.

Many Islefolk are wounded, some severely- but with divine grace, only one is dead.

(If you were better, it would have been none.)
————————————


Islefolk Losses
Hapti will never again see from her right eye.
Kola was almost frozen solid, standing at ground zero of the final pact. She survived, barely, with supernatural attentions, but not all of her extremities joined her.

Coryn is dead. His next of kin will be given the rest of his pay, plus recompense, but won't have a body to grieve over.
(Is that your fault?)

Hoklin Losses
Of the enemy sorcerers, Ofni is dead. Janna and their teacher, Hanza, surrendered unharmed.

Of their strange champions, Ingr was captured, grievously wounded but alive. Skold is dead.

Johannas was taken alive, but horrifically injured. Even assuming he awakes, his fighting days are forever done.

Of the crew and marines of Eoryn's Fang, three out of thirty survived. Most lacked the knowledge or ability to swim.

Of the crew and marines of the Tidebreaker, nineteen survived, with five permanently maimed, out of the thirty. A quick retreat saved lives, but not before firepower already reaped a brutal toll.

Of the crew and marines of the Eye of the Falcon, twenty six out of fourty five survived, with six permanently wounded. The majority of deaths were in melee.

Your share of the spoils, after repairs for your armour, is 13 silver rings. You'll receive more when the prize ship is sold.
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The first thing after a battle, any battle, is to see to the wounded. The injured, from mortal to mild, are carefully checked and fretted over; light to moderate wounds, like yours, are treated through mundane means and left alone, while the most severe or even lethal injuries see immediate attention by the priest. Blessedly, although some will not come away in one piece, no more are wounded so severely that they're beyond even miracles to save.

The second is to round up prisoners, a task for the heathy and lightly wounded- most of whom aren't needed for medical care. Others are already handling this, but that is not your place. You sit quietly amongst the moderately injured or freshly healed, and although some come up to congratulate you on your prowess- and on saving a life- you don't have the heart to talk to them long.

The third, if nothing is pressing, is the funerals.

Only the minority of the crew, those who cared for him, attend. The majority are already tasked by Halna, to repair, corral, pillage- but none of them approach the aft of the ship, where Blessed Kolo resides over a funeral.

Islefolk rarely dump anything into the sea, unless it's completely impractical otherwise. One of the exceptions is bodies; Islefolk killed far from home, and many who pass in Haven itself, have their corpses discarded into the sea, weighed down by stones. The Five Fold Queen is the daughter of the depths; no matter where the corpse may be, as long as it's ten fathoms deep, the soul will be swift to her embrace.

Coryn's body lies on a table dragged up from below, upon a shroud with rocks nearby. His steel and most of his clothes has been removed; his lethal wound bare for the world to see. Blessed Kolo gives a succinct epigraph for someone who died still young, before well wishers can personally attend his corpse a final time.

You're surprised to see his sister weep, but the Snaga must believe differently than you.

You're one of the last in line. It doesn't feel right, when you barely knew him, to push up in front; Talyn is just ahead of you, and seems surprised at your presence.

'I could have saved him.', you preempt. 'Don't tell me I did what I could, not to let it weigh. I know. I just wish..'

She nods, turning away.

The line moves forward, slowly or quickly, both priest and mourners staying a respectful distance from whoever's currently grieving. At last, you see Talyn only nod to him and squeeze his hand, and then it is your turn.

His eyes aren't as judgemental as you thought they'd be, and you're not sure why you'd think that.
———————

[] ….You died as bravely as any could hope for. There are no strangers across the endless sea, as long as we hold true; until we meet again as friends, rest in peace.
(You are his kin in spirit. It's not much, and you didn't know him well, but you hope he's pleased nonetheless.)

[] …..I'm sorry.
(Did he die because of you?)

[] ……..
(You turn away. You are no longer kin of the Isles, and have no right to this sacrament.)
————————-

The ships- the Laughing Gale towing along her prize- come to landfall. If not for the Hoklin, you doubt you'd have touched the sparse coast until you sailed into Sovistegrad, but now you hold over fifty prisoners- a crew unto itself. Prisoners who, slavers or otherwise, deserve to send off their dead before you go.

You watch from the ship, the unarmed Hoklin let aground with the bodies of their dead, surrounded by a broad ring of guards. Fascinatingly, they throw up a makeshift camp first, simple hearths dug into the ground, before arranging the dead- nearly as much as the living, even despite the corpses lost or mangled- around them, as if they were sitting amongst them.

Then, they seem to take their blood into flasks, boiling it over an open flame and adding some manner of herbs. While it boils, they pray in silence. Some of them cut their own palms, to add their own blood to these personal mixtures; others seem content to simply contemplate.

After some time, they take the flasks and pour some out into the dirt in front of the corpses, talking to them as if they were alive, just sharing a meal. Some take longer, some shorter, but all wait for the rest to finish.

Lastly, they drain the rest, before setting the corpses alight. The Hoklin come back to the ship on their own volition, and do not look back.

(The champion you fought Is the only one who does it differently. She makes no fire, nor produces a flask. Instead, she cups her counterpart's blood in her hands, drinking a small amount raw, before washing them clean. The man's corpse is left untouched, for the wild things to pick apart.)
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In three days, you reach your destination- the town of Sovistegrad! At last, your journey closes to a end. What do you wish to do before saying goodbye?

[] Start writing your letter home. You may never write another, so you will have to make it last.
[] Polish up your Trade. You're probably about to use it for real.
[] Talk to the prisoners. Some of them can speak Trade; they seem quite intimidated by Islefolk in general, however.
[] Practice archery. You promise you're not brooding.
[] Something else?

A reminder that there are two votes in this update, counted separately.

Of the Hoklin prisoners, they were given the choice of either divulging much of their excess wealth and being left ashore, losing some and submitting themselves to the Sovistel Lodge, or losing some and paying some more for the Islefolk to organise transport for them further south. Most picked the first or third; Ingr has left already.

All were made to swear an oath to not wage war upon Islefolk for another decade. Whether they will honour this, you do not know.

I'm surprised you didn't kill anyone during your first battle at sea.

Although I'm happy to make light of the death of non sapients, it sits poorly with me to make light of real warfare.

Questions always welcome!