The Last Saga, The Tale of Ragnarksson
It is a beautiful night in the land of Brettonnia, and the port town of Hendaye burns. Located on the north coast of Brettonnia, just north of the great city of Couronne itself. It acted as a bit of a military port, its naval garrison designed to escort merchant ships and hunt down pirates. Some sailors vividly remember the times when they were called to do battle with the Norscan Longships before the Peninsula was cleansed by the forces of the Empire to their west and Kislev. Hendaye itself was also rather well fortified, its garrison of Men-at-Arms and Knights of the Realm rather substantial for the area. All of this was not even allowing for the fact that a small chapter of knights beholden to Manaan also made their home here, often riding out to do battle in support of the Gallic marines. Hendaye was a veritable fortress that, while oftentimes battling with Orcs and Beastmen, has never been truly threatened by any force. It's walls were too high, its store too deep, and there were a bevy of far easier targets surrounding the town that protected Hendaye from its foes. But tonight it burned.
The walls remain untouched, if empty. It's main gate was barred shut, preventing the masses of peasants from fleeing into the hills, and the resulting slaughter left so many corpses that the gates could only be opened if swung outward. Of the city itself, much was set ablaze. Between the gore filled streets and bloody puddles that filled the gutters, block after block of buildings were burning fiercely. Soon to join them were the town's keep and the Chapter House of Manaan, as these were the places the knights had formed their desperate last stands (atleast, those not slaughtered at the docks or in the streets). Only the harbor remained mostly intact, the sinking and burning warships of Brettonnia removed from their mooring to make way for the iconic wolf ships of the Norse. All of this was observed by the architect of Hendaye's destruction, who sat upon the roof of the central keep in solemn contemplation. Despite still towering over most southerners the lad was short for his people's standards, but no less robust when it came to muscle. Clad in a mix of furs and mail, armor looted from a dozen places, the young and weathered face of Atli Ragnarksson, now Ravenoath, sat in thought as he held his bloody axes, slick with the blood of the city's ruling Lord.
THIS IS BUT A TASTE, MORE IS NEEDED! MORE!
Yes, Your Hate Is Strong. But There Is So Much More You Could Indulge In. Let Me In, And My Power Will Be Yours…~
yOu lAcK FiNeSsE, mY DeAr sImPlEtOn. YoU GoAl iS BeYoNd yOu iF YoU SiMpLy cRaSh yOuR SkUlL InTo tHe wAlL! tHiNk, MoRtAl, ThInK!
my boy, so tired and sad. let grandpa take you in, i can take all that crippling pain away if you just let me love you.
Vengeance! Blood for Blood! An Eye for an Eye! It will be yours! It is your Birthright!
HGBTUYITFGYUgyUvbfguytjGyuiFtyBFVguiGFbuiNGyuIBGuREVENGEytIBFtyUfgtyuIGyUtyuTyuBtyutyuiBTgyuiNgbyuiGyuGNYugyu
Atli closed his eyes. They screamed in the back of his mind, the voices. Always tempting, always offering more power. He took in their power, true, but he refused to let them conquer him. They wanted a servant, a champion, something he could not be. He just needed an edge. A chance… to get to
HIM.
Wooden handles cracked under his steel vice, those damned voices finally going silent as their corruption was burnt away by the pure, single minded fury unknown to any mortal. Atli could see him, in his minds eye. He could see him, imagining the one responsible for all of the pain, agony, and suffering he and his people felt. Blood began to drip down the handles of his axes when he came into focus, the same face he had imagined over, and over, and over again. No amount of fantasizing could justify his thirst for revenge, no amount of pain, injury, or death Atli's fractured mind could conjure could ever form a scene that truly encapsulates just how much vitriolic hate the young Norscan could feel towards a single man.
That man named-
"Jarl Ravenoath, the men are ready." The Huskarl declared from behind Atli. The Huskarl stood tall, greatly favored by the Four, but not Chosen. Not yet. So few were left chosen, and the favor of the four had shifted to the horse riders of the east. Not out of disfavor even, but out of pure necessity. So few of the Northmen remained. With the Kurgan and Beastmen encroaching above and the Ratmen and Dwarfs rising from beneath, the Jarls and Kings live in fear, willing to sit in their mountain fortresses as Norsca loses its identity, its legacy to its foes.
"My Jarl?" The Huskarl questioned, nervously. Jarl Atli grunted and stood.
"Good. We're leaving." The Jarl stepped over the corpses of the Lord and the half a handful of Grail knights who came to the town, forewarned by their 'Lady' of the great evil that came (jUsT As pLaNnEd!).
Soon, the Longships weighed anchor and made for the North, their hold's filled with plunder, not to share with their clans and villages (there were none to share with) but to bribe and shame those so-called lords out of their hiding places. Atli would force the remains of his people into line, by blade or by bread. Then, steppe nomads would submit, or perish. Then, with those forces under his command… Vengeance would be his.
In the coming days, the lords of the country side and their levy's would find the fortress harbor-town of Hendaye a hollow shell, charcoal ruins ringed with stone. The corpses of knights, beheaded and stripped of their armor were crucified within the town square, surrounding a hoard of treasure and piles of bodies. 'This was no simple plunder,' that message would send, 'this was an act of cruelty and death.' Several other coastal villages and towns would suffer the same fate. The Sons of the Drake, the last true warband of Norsca, would slaughter and plunder like the times of old. The marauders of the band were like the golden flakes one panned from the mud and sand of a river stream, the some of the greatest warriors of Norsca by process of elimination. This warband, hundreds of men strong, would go on to terrify the coasts of Brettonnia and the Empire this raiding season. But that was in the future, both near and far.
Now, as the Brettonnian town glowed like a beacon from the ocean, Atli Ravenoath stared up to the stars. He recalled the pacts and deals he made for power, for vengeance. The battles he fought so hard for to earn his host, their respect, their undying loyalty. The battles that were to come. And yet always, always his mind was focused far ahead to the same point. A man, spoken as if he was a god of terror himself among their people. As the young Jarl beheld the constellation he was born under, Dragomas, he whispered the oath he made to himself the day he started his quest. The oath
that the Four listened to, the oath that attracted that bloody handed one.
"On this day I swear, under pain of death, by my honor, my life and my soul, I will slay the man responsible. I will kill the thousand-damned Emperor
Magnus von Bildhofen, if it is the last thing I or my people do."
Was thinking about Norsca and their essentially removal from the board and got this idea bouncing about my head. They probably both Fear and Hate Magnus, so I thought might as well make a story were Magnus is the bad guy in this situation for our 'protagonist' Atli Ravenoath. Working on some other projects right now, so enjoy!
