OOC Note: This is progression is part of the Combat School System, and if you'd like to participate you can join in with the link found here For three days a party of nine aboard a carrack has sailed from Regalia, and with fortunate winds they’re finally in sight of the snowcapped peaks of Forhborg. The captains in the Regalian harbour had scoffed when Fritjolf Dalgaard asked for passage to a small fishing town whose greatest pride is having held the regional record of largest trout caught for a whopping seven months. It took some luck, but eventually they’d find a captain with enough room to host the party’s journey to Drixagh. The group enjoyed the first day of sailing bantering away under deck, playing cards and various knife games far into the night. Viggo Kensley’s unsurprising move of having brought liquor aboard went by fine with his companions, and the loud laughter from below had the deckhands green with envy untill the drunk bastards had finally gone to bed. In the late hours of the night Garth Viduggla is rudely awakened by someone running past his hammock, pushing him aside in a hurry. Garth doesn’t take lightly to this and follows the man out, where in the dim moonlight he sees Vedrfolnir hunched over the side of the ship. Mister Berdalfsson is quite busy emptying his stomach into the sea as the Grand Duke of Norrlan claps him on the back. “Didn’t take you for a man with a weak gut, Ved. Took the liberty of nabbing some of the sailors’ rum while we weren’t looking?” Garth scoffs, lofting a brow. A sickly pale Vedrfolnir glances over his shoulder to Garth, wiping over his maw with the back of his hand. “I had mussels in Regalia before we left.. They’re- They’re fighting back.. Uueergh!” He croaks out before croaking up. The Lord of Viduggla can’t help but chuckle for a spell before he leans in with a lowered voice. “You had mussels before going off on a voyage?” He mutters with some aggression in his tone. The seafood enthusiast can only nod, groaning. “Ain’t never had it before, my lord.. Thought- Thought I’d try--” He replies with a weak, hoarse voice before being interrupted by Garth. “You thought wrong. Stupid fuckin’.. Alright. You’re staying behind in whatever port we land in.” The nobleman orders Ved in a stern tone. “W-What? No, it’s- I’m fine, I’ll shake it off.” The sickly man insists, but to no avail. “You don’t shake off food poisoning, you fool. You’re staying.” Garth hisses out through gritted teeth before he marches back off to their cabin with a huff. Vedrfolnir grumbles in disbelief, staring off into the waves untill the next bite of his meal wants to go for a swim. The rest of the voyage went with little to no meaningful events, except for the time when Jager could’ve sworn he saw a whale eat a flock of seagulls when nobody but him was looking. This trivial matter was enough to break up the monotony of sea travel that it spurred on an hour long discussion on whether or not the whale did it intentionally. The discussion would briefly pop up in random conversations throughout the trip, but no real winner has been settled. Kaya, Viggo and Brandt insist on their arguments having won, but to avoid further tension no one has really bothered contesting the claim. On the third day, around one hour past midday, land is in sight. “Fohrborg, Drixagh!” A man shouts from the crow’s nest. Kaya cracks a proud smile, gazing out over the beautiful northern landscape with eyes that seem almost in love with what she sees. “I know,” The Graf mutters to herself, “Home.” The Vidugglas share her admiration, hardly able to take their eyes off of the view as the rest of the party prepare to disembark. As was promised, Vedrfolnir is left behind at a tavern in the Sorenvik capital, where Kaya’s bannermen have it on strict orders to keep him under a watchful eye. The shuddering, sickly man has barely the energy to relent, and reluctantly goes along with the Sorenvik soldiers. Garth shakes his head one last time in disappointment, and the party let out a collective sigh as their fellow skagger is escorted away. With horses and a wagon full of supplies at the ready, they make way over the mountain pass to reach deep into the Vekkefjord, which was once named ‘The prettiest place outside of Gallovia’ by a Galloway newspaper in 289AC /and/ coincidentally is where the village of Vekkerud is located. It is a rather quiet place, with meager farmsteads dotted along the waterfront and a handful of simple upturned rowboats having their downtime on the beaches. And at the very end, there it is, the home of approximately 250 velheimers. The village of Vekkerud. On closer inspection the village is eerily empty despite its remote location and low population. The few villagers who are out in the muddy paths hardly dare to speak to the strangers, muttering with a thick local dialect that the halfmen don’t like chatter. These mercenaries certainly have done a number on the locals, but our brave heroes will not let difficulty deter them. Fritjolf wastes no time to prowl the nearby woods for tracks, spending his first day in Vekkerud out in the wilderness. The next morning he returns to the newly established camp, calling out to his companions as he wanders off to his tent for some well-earned rest. “Twenty five! Can’t be more than twenty five of the knee high sellswords!” The enormous warrior shouts, slouching down into his cot with a tired sigh. While Dalgaard sleeps like a bear, the party gets going with their chores. Kaya heads out of the camp, marking spots for traps to be laid out in the most strategic of spots. Her perceptive eyes scour over the forest floor, the woman sucks at her teeth as she plots out the next set of placements before she steps off again. The daylight stretches out over the valley as the hours pass, where we see the party hard at work with setting up traps. The well-rested Fritjolf shows his companions how to make the more rudimentary spike pits and the like, while he himself ventures off to construct more elaborate traps. Foreheads are gleaming with sweat and calloused hands are in the dirt more often than they see the sun. Piles of leaves grow tall as the Skaggers prepare to hide away their newly forged traps, with gentle movements they backtrack into safer ground to finish up their work. The boredom of their endless effort is thankfully given a brief reprieve as Urijah has a scare of a lifetime as he steps on a particularly loud stick, mistaking it for a trap. The man stumbling back panting and gasping for air looks over his shoulder in embarrassment as Brandt and Frejnir point and laugh at their red-cheeked friend. He grumbles and shakes it off, offering the two a kind one-fingered gesture. Meanwhile in the village we find Garth and Viggo talking to the locals.. Or at the very least making a worthwhile attempt. The villagers hardly dare to open the door, preferring to mutter from behind closed shutters by the windows. “They’s bad folk.. Took my swine three days ago, and my chickens the day before. War’s been costly on us, taxes took my last coin, and no merchant comes by here no more.” One comments, “Saw them break Old Svend’s boy’s legs day before you lot showed up. Fifteen he is, nearly got levied to fight Milady Sorenvik’s wars, and now the fool figured he’d be our hero anyways, he never accounted for someone so short being able to pack such a punch though. I wonder how Svend is, Gods save him, ain’t taken it took well.” Another would say. A bandaged hand sneaks out from the door to point the two in the direction to a hovel that certainly has seen better days. Viggo and Garth exchange a look to one another, knowing fully well that they should at least make sure the old man and his son’s alright. Doors and windows shyly creak open as curious, wary eyes study the newcomers. Indistinguishable whispers can be heard from within as the two make cautious steps over to the hovel. Viggo wraps his knuckle over the door thrice, “Old Man.. Old man! Your neighbours are worried, are you alright in there?” He asks, angling his ear toward the door, patiently awaiting an answer. With not so much as a sound coming from within he turns to Garth with a lofted brow. Garth offers him a nod, and so Kensley slowing opens the door and takes a short step inside. The Viduggla knows something’s wrong from the moment he sees Viggo stop after his only step into the house and would carefully move in-doors to join the man. “Varfal give them justice..” Viggo mutters in contempt, solemnly staring at the body of a bloodied boy carelessly thrown over his murdered father. “I believe that may be why we’re here, friend.” Garth replies in much the same tone, biting at his cheek while scanning over the ransacked room. In disgust the two head back outside, taking note of the sun’s descent towards the horizon. They wordlessly agree to leave the bodies there for later, not wanting to stay out there alone until night arrives. Hearty laughter and merry shenanigans is heard as the two leave the village, and come to the worrying realization that it’s coming from inside the settlement. The voices outnumber them at least four to one, and with quick thinking and even quicker feet they retreat towards the camp. “Woah laddeh! Wossis then, eh?” A commanding voice croaks out from an armoured, five foot source. “Geh’ ‘em, lads!” It shouts, and soon the two have sixteen stunted legs chasing after them. The dwarves are unnervingly faster than they had anticipated, at times feeling like they’re breathing down their, well maybe not their necks, but at least in a metaphorical sense. The camp’s in sight. Almost there now. Any second. It must be dwarves’ lucky day, for not a single one has stumbled over a trap, but do you know has? Garth’s foot hooks into a root in an attempt to avoid a trap, falling like timber into the forest floor. With lightning quick reflexes Viggo turns on heel and pulls Garth up by the scruff of the neck, “Die next year, come on!” He shouts, the duo sprinting up to the palisades. Up by the camp the group can hear commotion coming up from the woods. Kaya Sorenvik grits her teeth at the sight of her fellow skaggers’ hunters, wasting no time to pull an axe out from the woodcutter’s log and climbs up the makeshift palisade. Urijah stood there already with bow in hand and a vigilant gaze. Kaya throws her axe with great determination and fire in her eyes down the hill, where a dwarf would promptly catch it. Catch it in his chest however, falling dead immediately. Urijah nocks his arrow, drawing back his arm as he has found himself a target. The arrow whirs through the air, lodging itself straight into a dwarf’s shield with a good amount of force. No damage is taken, other than Urijah’s pride as the foe keeps charging. Garth and Viggo finally make it into safety, with the dwarves hot on their tails. Kaya calls for the party to grab spears and make ready. “Fire!” She shouts, and every capable man and woman in camp fling their javelins into the air. The dwarven advance ceases, is it over already? The spears barely make it a few feet from the palisade, the dwarves having a quick laugh over it until they’re caught unaware by the only accurate shot as Kaya’s spear closes off the windpipe of the loudest of them. The skirmish goes quiet for a whole five seconds as the two sides watch the gurgling dwarf drop to his death, and then the carnage ensues once more. Fritjolf charges out into the fray with his shield in hand, bashing down a dwarf with all his might. With a foot on the dazed halfman’s chest he proceeds to cram the bottom side of his shield down on the foe’s head, promptly ending him then and there. As Fritjolf lifts his eyes from the dwarf he already sees three more coming his way, the shield’s lodged itself on something and barely budges. Right as he gets it back out he notices the dwarves’ attention aren’t on him at all, for Brandt runs out from behind him and swings his axe into the first brigand with a ferocious roar, the momentum strong enough for him to throw the man at the next dwarf. The man spits off to the side as he strides over to the pinned down dwarf, raising the axe above his head and strikes down a mercy on his foe’s pains. The Norrvakt rests the shaft of his axe over his shoulder, staring down his next target. The quick loss of lives on their side shatters the dwarven morale, the remaining three foes fleeing hastily from the skirmish. “Don’t pursue them, there’s bound to be more on the way.” Garth commands, climbing up to the palisade to get a good look over the battlefield. The Grand Duke of Norrlan isn’t granted much time to think, as barely thirty minutes later a horn is blown from the distance, fast approaching comes more footsteps up the hill. Dwarves tumble and fall over traps, some losing their shields in the confusion while trying to get back up. A heavily armoured pulls his leg out from a small hole in the dirt, his head darting up to the palisades as he hears the whir of an arrow. Only a second of dread can set in before the arrow passes through. Urijah nods once with a satisfied smile, nocking another arrow. Down below Garth has joined Frejnir’s impromptu flanking move with Viggo. The trio slips out from the right, circling around the camp with careful movements. The mercenaries are no fools however, and see right through their plan. A group of six split away to face the trio, wrapping their hands around their weapons with gritted teeth as they near the three. Frejnir attacks the first dwarf coming, their steel clash back and forth, but nothing comes of it. Struggling to get the upperhand, Viggo joins in by sending the shaft of his axe into the dwarf’s temple, knocking in a daze for long enough for Frejnir to break free and send his dagger into his gut. Viggo shifts the axe in his hands, swinging it down at the second five foot assailant, relieving his shoulders of the burden of carrying a head. Rattling of rings chime into their ears as Garth’s own axe tears through the chainmail of a third dwarf, probably shattered every rib he had. The coordination and cohesion of the Skaggers is an intimidating sight for the sellswords, the remaining three turning on heel to make a swift retreat. Frejnir isn’t having any of it and sticks his steel into the back of a fleeing dwarf, the trio herding the survivors into the larger battlefield. The two dwarves join with their brethren, where five new men have fallen by the axes of unknown skaggers. Eight mercenaries still stand, with the fierce axemen lurking after them. One by one they are struck down. Garth cleaves his way through the first fool to strike at them while Jager’s axe swings down behind the back of the Grand Duke, crashing through the helmet of a sturdy dwarf. The Viduggla’s taste for blood is not yet sated and so he goes for another. His weapon fails him this time, the dwarf able to counter him and grazes his arm, leaving behind a long, shallow gash. 3.6 inches across, not great, not terrible. Urijah joins the fray, his attack once again today held off by a shield. He is fortunate this day, as the dwarf chooses to throw his foot into Urijah’s groin rather than his blade. Jamesson drops to his knee, heaving for air in pain. Garth’s blood is soon avenged, Frejnir finding the culprit and swiftly passing his judgement with his axe swung across from his shoulder and over the dwarf’s hauberk. “No harm against the Vidugglas will go unpunished today.” He says as he goes to his kinsman, offering a hand to bring him to safety. The two Vidugglas leave the fighting for the rest, to tend to their wounds. Their companions waste no time to continue the battle, with Brandt knocking a mercenary into the dirt before his axe ends his foe’s life. The dwarven morale is shaken, huddling together as they make their last stand. Viggo brings his axe into an upward swing, for a moment hoisting a dwarf into the air before smashing his dead body into the dirt. The last three plead for mercy, but it falls on deaf ears as Jager’s arms are already dedicated into ending the life of yet another. The fighting stops as the last standing throw their weapons at the feet of the party, lying down with their faces into the dirt. Adrenaline fueled shouts blow out of the heroes as victory is declared, thrusting their fists into the air while Kaya herself frowns down upon the rogue mercenaries. People might’ve forgotten that these are her lands, and it was her people who had suffered at the hands of these vicious dwarves. Jager and Brandt hoist the two up to their knees before her, the Graf staring at the two with great disdain. She gives herself two eerily quiet minutes to think, two tense minutes which seemed like an hour to those around her. Finally she parts her lips to tell them all, “There is nothing I can do to bring true justice to your crimes against my people. So I shall let themselves decide your fate. Bind them, gag them, and bring them to the village square. Return before the moon is up, we break camp tommorow.”
