Summer 9/Voyage 1.4
I.F. Ister
Fortifying The Thread
- Pronouns
- He/They
[X] You do, yes
The city of Winchester, citadel of the English, sits on the peninsula to the left of the River Itchen's winding mouth. It stands on flat ground, perfect for building and farming, though slow sloping hills covered in grazing sheep and cattle can be seen in the distance.
Winchester, just from a cursory glance, would be a pain to assault. Through hard work, intelligent planning, and a lot of sweat, the men of Winchester have shaped the coastline surrounding the city into impressive earthworks and walls.
There are only two ways to enter the city if approaching by sea. The first, a small fishers' jetty, sits at the tip of the peninsula and adds a stark weakness to the otherwise impregnable shoreline. It's clear that the men of Winchester are well-aware of this weakness as the the eagle-eyed spearmen of the city's guard keep a careful watch on the earthwork-bordered slope—the only way up from the small beach.
The second is through the gap in the long, curving seawall that closes the shallow harbor off from the greater waters of the world. The gap is near to the fortified shore and also under the watchful eyes of the seawall's tower-endcap, which makes it entering via the harbor a liar's tale.
As you draw closer, you begin to pick out dozens upon dozens of buildings both big and small. Houses and homes, stalls and stables, and the tell-tale steeple of church and city square. Hundreds—no, thousands—of people go about their day-to-day life as they stockpile food and wood for winter. There's not much in the way of nearby forests, so every bit of firewood is a precious and valuable treasure.
The church bells start to toll and the people stiffen and tense—they've spotted your approach. The ringing is not as frantic as if they were certain of hostile intentions, your lack of dragon-prow helping there, but the fact of the matter is that Norsemen are dangerous.
As you beach the Wavedancer at the fishers' beach, you're met by a wall of spears in the hands of grim-faced men waiting to take position at the top of the slope. They number in the hundreds and they stand with archers and javelin-men on the flanking earthwork. But it is not their numbers or choice of location that captures your attention, no.
What has your curiosity piqued is the presence of almost-recognizable power among them—multiple kinds, at that. Light bounces off the well-polished armor of a trio of Knights sitting astride their armor-clad horses. A lightning-wreathed eagle and two iron-talon falcons circle high in the sky—reminding you again of how Knights fight.
But they are not the only source of power at the top of the slope. Of the four-hundred men standing at the ready, forty are clad in mail and helms. All forty of those men possesses strength enough to rival a Norseman—the feeling of their cultivation similar to that of the Thane who gave you directions, which tells you the sort of enemy you could be facing here.
The Knights and Thanes seem to be somewhat at odds, given the way some Thanes choose to stand far away from the Knights while piercing them with sullen glares.
As you step foot onto the sandy shore, a man in mail and helm trots forward on horseback. He's dressed in finery and with a well-groomed and oiled mustache—making it obvious of his status as a Jarl, or, well, whatever they call Jarls here.
To your surprise, the Jarl-like man greets you in perfectly spoken Norse, "What brings Danes to Hamwic shores?"
While you internally scoff at being called a 'Dane', that's not what has you narrow your eyes. "Is Hamwic another word for Winchester or did we take a wrong turn somewhere?"
"You are in Hamwic, not Winchester," your honest confusion breaks the tension as the man's lips curl up at the corners. "I'm sure you understand my concerns so, before I can tell you anything, I need to know your intentions."
"Trade, for the most part, and to return that one," you jerk a thumb towards Gabriel, who stands near the prow with the rest of your men, "to his people. He's a Squire, you see."
As you mention the fact that he's a Squire, a ripple of murmurs rises from the ranks of Englishmen. Before the Jarl-like man can respond, one of the Knights speaks up, "Gabriel? Is that that you I spy?"
The flicker of confusion in Gabriel's eyes lasts only a moment before recognition kicks in. "Colby?!"
The Knight removes his helmet to reveal a grinning face not-too dissimilar to Gabriel's—brothers, perhaps, or some other family relation? He dismounts off his horse as Gabriel leaps ashore, the kinsmen meeting in the middle with equally astonished faces.
Colby looks Gabriel up and down as he grabs him by the shoulders, open-mouth shock playing across his face. He pauses as he feels the muscle and snorts, the surprise turning into a genuine, full-mouth smile, "God be good, it really is you!"
The Jarl-like man watches the reunion with a raised eyebrow, amusement sparkling in his eyes. He too dismounts and makes his way down the beach, stopping a few feet away from you. Extending a hand, he offers you his name. "My name is Harlow Graye, Eorl of Hampshire, and I welcome you to Hamwic."
"Halla Skyfire, leader of this expedition, and I'm honored to be here," you take the proffered arm and shake it firmly. As you do that, though, the Eorl's eyes travel across your form and lingers on your breasts and hips as confusion sparks in his squinting, brows-furrowing eyes.
"Wait, are you a woman?"
You glance down at your chest, "Unless something changed since last I checked, yeah."
"Huh."
0~0~0
After a small party—where you swiftly learn that your English is more then a little rusty—you find yourself outside and surrounded by the evening tunes of creatures called 'crickets'. You're not alone in watching the sun set, either.
Gabriel leans against a fence as muffled laughter leaks from the hall. He's silent as you join him and stays that way for a long while.
Eventually, you tire of this game and break the silence over your knee, "So, you never told me about this 'Cousin Colby' of yours."
He swirls a spoon around a cup of some manner of herbal mixture the locals are fond of—it's not to your taste, unfortunately. He swallows some of it and frowns, the bitter taste coating the entirety of his mouth, "Colby and I... We didn't really get along." Gabriel pauses, then corrects himself, "Well, I didn't get along with him. He was only two years my senior, yet outclassed me in just about every category imaginable—even the ones I thought myself talented in."
"That'll breed resentment," you reply as you too lean on the fence.
"Yeah, it did." Gabriel sighs, cringing at memories of the past. "In my absence, he's been named heir of Blackstone Keep."
"Does that make you angry?"
"No, no," he shakes his head. "If I asked, Colby would step aside in a heartbeat."
"Are you going to?"
Gabriel opens his mouth, but pauses. "I... He's a better candidate then I ever was. He's brave, honorable, strong, handsome, and loyal."
"All traits you share with him," you say a with a snort as Gabriel looks away, his face turning red.
"I... I have something I need to tell you, something I can't hold in anymore," he says as he eventually turns back towards you.
"Whatever you've got to say, I'll listen."
'He's gonna confess, I bet.' That's what you're reckoning, too. You're not exactly a moron, after all, and you do have a perfectly good set of eyes—for the most part anyways.
Gabriel takes a deep breath and looks you square in the eyes, "Halla Skyfire, I am going to kill your father."
'Well, shit.'
How would you like to respond?
[ ] Write in
0~0~0
AN: It's been a little while since I got to stretch my writing legs properly ;P
15-minute moratorium.
The city of Winchester, citadel of the English, sits on the peninsula to the left of the River Itchen's winding mouth. It stands on flat ground, perfect for building and farming, though slow sloping hills covered in grazing sheep and cattle can be seen in the distance.
Winchester, just from a cursory glance, would be a pain to assault. Through hard work, intelligent planning, and a lot of sweat, the men of Winchester have shaped the coastline surrounding the city into impressive earthworks and walls.
There are only two ways to enter the city if approaching by sea. The first, a small fishers' jetty, sits at the tip of the peninsula and adds a stark weakness to the otherwise impregnable shoreline. It's clear that the men of Winchester are well-aware of this weakness as the the eagle-eyed spearmen of the city's guard keep a careful watch on the earthwork-bordered slope—the only way up from the small beach.
The second is through the gap in the long, curving seawall that closes the shallow harbor off from the greater waters of the world. The gap is near to the fortified shore and also under the watchful eyes of the seawall's tower-endcap, which makes it entering via the harbor a liar's tale.
As you draw closer, you begin to pick out dozens upon dozens of buildings both big and small. Houses and homes, stalls and stables, and the tell-tale steeple of church and city square. Hundreds—no, thousands—of people go about their day-to-day life as they stockpile food and wood for winter. There's not much in the way of nearby forests, so every bit of firewood is a precious and valuable treasure.
The church bells start to toll and the people stiffen and tense—they've spotted your approach. The ringing is not as frantic as if they were certain of hostile intentions, your lack of dragon-prow helping there, but the fact of the matter is that Norsemen are dangerous.
As you beach the Wavedancer at the fishers' beach, you're met by a wall of spears in the hands of grim-faced men waiting to take position at the top of the slope. They number in the hundreds and they stand with archers and javelin-men on the flanking earthwork. But it is not their numbers or choice of location that captures your attention, no.
What has your curiosity piqued is the presence of almost-recognizable power among them—multiple kinds, at that. Light bounces off the well-polished armor of a trio of Knights sitting astride their armor-clad horses. A lightning-wreathed eagle and two iron-talon falcons circle high in the sky—reminding you again of how Knights fight.
But they are not the only source of power at the top of the slope. Of the four-hundred men standing at the ready, forty are clad in mail and helms. All forty of those men possesses strength enough to rival a Norseman—the feeling of their cultivation similar to that of the Thane who gave you directions, which tells you the sort of enemy you could be facing here.
The Knights and Thanes seem to be somewhat at odds, given the way some Thanes choose to stand far away from the Knights while piercing them with sullen glares.
As you step foot onto the sandy shore, a man in mail and helm trots forward on horseback. He's dressed in finery and with a well-groomed and oiled mustache—making it obvious of his status as a Jarl, or, well, whatever they call Jarls here.
To your surprise, the Jarl-like man greets you in perfectly spoken Norse, "What brings Danes to Hamwic shores?"
While you internally scoff at being called a 'Dane', that's not what has you narrow your eyes. "Is Hamwic another word for Winchester or did we take a wrong turn somewhere?"
"You are in Hamwic, not Winchester," your honest confusion breaks the tension as the man's lips curl up at the corners. "I'm sure you understand my concerns so, before I can tell you anything, I need to know your intentions."
"Trade, for the most part, and to return that one," you jerk a thumb towards Gabriel, who stands near the prow with the rest of your men, "to his people. He's a Squire, you see."
As you mention the fact that he's a Squire, a ripple of murmurs rises from the ranks of Englishmen. Before the Jarl-like man can respond, one of the Knights speaks up, "Gabriel? Is that that you I spy?"
The flicker of confusion in Gabriel's eyes lasts only a moment before recognition kicks in. "Colby?!"
The Knight removes his helmet to reveal a grinning face not-too dissimilar to Gabriel's—brothers, perhaps, or some other family relation? He dismounts off his horse as Gabriel leaps ashore, the kinsmen meeting in the middle with equally astonished faces.
Colby looks Gabriel up and down as he grabs him by the shoulders, open-mouth shock playing across his face. He pauses as he feels the muscle and snorts, the surprise turning into a genuine, full-mouth smile, "God be good, it really is you!"
The Jarl-like man watches the reunion with a raised eyebrow, amusement sparkling in his eyes. He too dismounts and makes his way down the beach, stopping a few feet away from you. Extending a hand, he offers you his name. "My name is Harlow Graye, Eorl of Hampshire, and I welcome you to Hamwic."
"Halla Skyfire, leader of this expedition, and I'm honored to be here," you take the proffered arm and shake it firmly. As you do that, though, the Eorl's eyes travel across your form and lingers on your breasts and hips as confusion sparks in his squinting, brows-furrowing eyes.
"Wait, are you a woman?"
You glance down at your chest, "Unless something changed since last I checked, yeah."
"Huh."
0~0~0
After a small party—where you swiftly learn that your English is more then a little rusty—you find yourself outside and surrounded by the evening tunes of creatures called 'crickets'. You're not alone in watching the sun set, either.
Gabriel leans against a fence as muffled laughter leaks from the hall. He's silent as you join him and stays that way for a long while.
Eventually, you tire of this game and break the silence over your knee, "So, you never told me about this 'Cousin Colby' of yours."
He swirls a spoon around a cup of some manner of herbal mixture the locals are fond of—it's not to your taste, unfortunately. He swallows some of it and frowns, the bitter taste coating the entirety of his mouth, "Colby and I... We didn't really get along." Gabriel pauses, then corrects himself, "Well, I didn't get along with him. He was only two years my senior, yet outclassed me in just about every category imaginable—even the ones I thought myself talented in."
"That'll breed resentment," you reply as you too lean on the fence.
"Yeah, it did." Gabriel sighs, cringing at memories of the past. "In my absence, he's been named heir of Blackstone Keep."
"Does that make you angry?"
"No, no," he shakes his head. "If I asked, Colby would step aside in a heartbeat."
"Are you going to?"
Gabriel opens his mouth, but pauses. "I... He's a better candidate then I ever was. He's brave, honorable, strong, handsome, and loyal."
"All traits you share with him," you say a with a snort as Gabriel looks away, his face turning red.
"I... I have something I need to tell you, something I can't hold in anymore," he says as he eventually turns back towards you.
"Whatever you've got to say, I'll listen."
'He's gonna confess, I bet.' That's what you're reckoning, too. You're not exactly a moron, after all, and you do have a perfectly good set of eyes—for the most part anyways.
Gabriel takes a deep breath and looks you square in the eyes, "Halla Skyfire, I am going to kill your father."
'Well, shit.'
How would you like to respond?
[ ] Write in
0~0~0
AN: It's been a little while since I got to stretch my writing legs properly ;P
15-minute moratorium.
Last edited:
