We have arrived

[Tyrun the Norseman]

The sun was just peeking up over the horizon when Tyrun's fleet approached the last headland before Windstorm harbor. Here, they paused, so that Wyngarde's giant galleon could catch up with the rest. By now, the Norseman was very familiar with the winds of this coast, and he knew that in a short while, they'd have a good stiff breeze to drive them right into the harbor, giving them the upwind advantage over the Franks. Also, it would make a fine display as his ships barrelled into port with sails billowing and the dawn sun gleaming off them.

Tyrun stood tall and straight on his quarterdeck, his arm outstretched, as his hand rested on the blade of his heavy axe. He had gotten no sleep the previous night, and had even given the ship one last inspection...secretly, of course, as his men slept...so as not to arouse the ire of Harl Grimface. He felt no fatigue, however, and by now he had pushed away his doubts and misgivings. Their course was set, and brooding about it would help nobody...he had been through this dozens of times in the past, and was determined to keep a clear head. He had to, for the sake of his crew.

And there he stood. He seemed to be sniffing at the air, as much as he was watching the skies. The breeze waned for a moment, and the air was still...then...a slight stirring in the air...NOW!

He nodded once to the Dwarf Oxted, who then blew into a large signal-horn. The deep roar seemed to shake the very rocks of the coast. Immediately, the crewmen of all ships burst into a frenzy of activity. Ropes were hauled, booms were swung, and the fleet lurched into action.

Tyrun could feel The Zephyr's deck shudder slightly as her masts creaked under the powerful wind...as if she was eager to confront these invaders, who threatened their friends here (Tyrun was undecided as to whether ships had souls, but he knew that if they did, The Zephyr would love this harbor, and cherish its residents as well).

The fleet sliced around the last cape of land, all of them tilting as they made the turn. The men up in the rigging held on tightly, and Tyrun leaned expertly on the deck, flashing a grin over to his helmsman, Hildi Longshanks. "By God, there is no better life than to sail the oceans, is there?"

She merely grinned back as she wrestled with the tiller.

Oxted's horn could be heard for miles, and so Tyrun was assured of an audience when they entered the harbor mouth. He had taken the lead, and so his ship was the first visible to those in the harbor...

((For those who don't know what Tyrun's ship looks like...it is a hybrid of several design elements he has seen in his travels.))

The fleet trailed behind in a perfectly-maintained line, until they were in the mouth of the harbor. Then, they arced off from behind The Zephyr, one after another, in alternating directions, and at exact intervals. All were in top shape...perfectly-scrubbed and freshly painted (with stormie's "good luck artwork"). All of them flew the gold-and-black banner of Tyrun, and they made a grand sight. Tyrun leaned on the taffrail, and couldn't help but smile as he watched this fine example of precision sailing...and he knew that the meaning of this display would not be lost on the Franks. As far as Tyrun was concerned, he owned the sea, and took great umbrage at any who were foolish enough to use it as a venue to threaten him and his friends.

The fleet hove-to, once they had spanned the harbor, and there they sat...still and silent, except for the bobbing of the waves. The crews said nothing, as Tyrun had forbade any jeers and cat-calling, saying it would be unbecoming of such a noble gang. Besides, he figured that there may yet be a chance to prevent a violent bloodbath. Nevertheless, any ship who tried to run the blockade would be subjected by a massive barrage from both sides, as they moved between the vessels. The SLOB had been positioned between the most heavily-armed ships (The Warthog and The Falcon), so that those who sought the advantage of passing by her unarmed flank would face a particularly heavy broadside on one of their own flanks, at least.

Tyrun strode to the prow of his vessel, and climbed up to the base of the bowsprit. One arm draped around a thick rope, he stood motionless, watching for activity along the docks. Torla Bloodaxe walked over to stand beside him, his arsenal of weaponry clanking as he moved.

"Well, Captain...now what?"

Tyrun continued to stare out across the harbor. "Well, Mister Bloodaxe, that is up to them. Let's give 'em a half-hour or so, to let their absolute awe wear off. Then, if they haven't rushed us by then, I'm gonna go over there in a pinnace, and we'll have us a little parley. Maybe talk some sense into them bloody zealots."

Torla sighed a bit, and joined his captain's vigil.

[AkuraWelsana]

*His sharp eyes and sielnt feet had served him well over his 300 years. This was another time which proved as such. The small unit of archers had moved into their assigned position over the harbor view. Scion Lucien had chosen him to man this contingent, and so he would. He would not dissappoint his liege. Taknig an arrow, he wrapped the prepared note about it, letting it fly towards the the ship which held the Mighty man known as Tyrun. It easily thunked into the mast of the ship, almsot gracefully. The attached note read simply and plainly.
"Archers awaiting your signal"
With that, he signalled for others to be ready to let fly the cloud of death upon the boats. Seeing them turn and begin to gather arrows of flame, he grinned as he and others pulled the bottles of salve which would allow their arrows to carry the weight of flame as well. Nae, he would nae disapponit his liege. No harm would come to the friends of the Elves this day.*

[Captain Thoraux]

(Please disregard my previous post.... if possible, please delete)


The Wild Boar, the Morning Star and the lay close to one another in front of the harbour of Sommersville and Windstorm. Once they had delivered their partial load of soldiers to the north of Windstorm, they had rejoined the Hippocampe having left the harbour to wait right at its mouth for the protection of the lead ship laying within the harbour. Their captains' orders had been clear - render assistance and immobilize any Viking raider who might become a threat to the Goélette and the Forell.

The three Viking raiders within the harbour had remained calm and still and neither captain saw any need to intervene. But what now came their way… a whole armada of ships, heading for the harbour, bearing the sails typical of the northern barbarians.

"We must act… do something! These bastards are about to close us in. By God, they shall not do so that easily. Raymond, signal to the Wild Boar and the Morning Star, we shall stand against them. The Goélette will need free passage and by God we shall keep her passage free. Tell the archers to get ready, light the fires, prepare to set these bastards ablaze. They will not go in and take us or the councillor's ship hostage!"

Soon the three Frankian war ships, with a total compliment of 230 men, faced the oncoming front of Vikings - their arrows of fire ready!

[Tyrun the Norseman]

It seemed that the Franks were not willing to make an assault on the harbor-mouth just yet, and so Tyrun made preparations to launch the swiftest pinnace they had. His intent was to meet with the Frankish leader, and try to resolve this situation in a non-destructive manner, which would be profitable to all.

Flying a large flag of parley, the pinnace swept across the harbor toward The Goélette, which Tyrun had surmised was the flagship of the visiting force. He himself sat at the stern of the boat, leaning back on his bench, taking the opportunity to enjoy a pipe of Hobbit-leaf. In his hand he held a small leather-bound book. Aside from the three men sailing the vessel (who were to remain aboard), Tyrun had included three others to serve as his boarding entourage...

Salix Razorback was a tall, sinewy African, who specialized in speed and stealth. His swiftness at drawing blades was legendary, and his agility made him a very slippery target. At the moment, he was clad in a full hooded robe, looking much like a monk as he sat with his arms crossed, hands tucked into his sleeves. His onyx eyes moved constantly, taking in every detail of his surroundings.

Wulfgang Armageddon (his unlikely surname was chosen after he'd heard a Christian priest speak of the Revelations and the Apocalypse) stood at the prow of the pinnace, blond hair whipping in the wind, his eyes eager as he softly chanted an ancient Norse battle-hymn. He stood little taller than five feet, but he was like a badger when it came to fighting...tough, mean, and stubborn. Also, he could enter a state of berserker rage, making him nearly unstoppable in combat.

Helgi Erikson leaned on the mast, his lanky frame relaxed, as he jested and made small-talk with the sailors. He was as tall as his captain, but three-stone less in weight. Nevertheless, he was a skilled brawler, as well as being a quick-thinker when things got chaotic.

...Tyrun had chosen this group carefully. He wanted a party which was skilled at getting out of a sticky situation, but he also didn't want to bring along any of those (such as Torla or Elsana) whose absence could disrupt the operation of a ship. All these men (both sailors and boarding party) were strong swimmers, and all were armed to the teeth.

They had been given very specific orders, as spoken by Tyrun in a stern voice. "First of all," He had said, "I expect every one of you to keep your mouths shut, no matter what is said. That goes double for you, Wulfgang! Follow my lead in all things. We are here talk reason, and no blades are to be drawn, unless I or the Franks do so first. Secondly...if trouble happens, then your first concern is to get the hell away, quick as you can, helping each other as much as possible...even if it means diving overboard. Once you get to shore, you can do whatever is suitable for the situation.

"And third..." Here he looked at each of them in turn. "If anything happens to me, I want you to leave me. I can look after myself, by god. The worst that'll happen, is that they'll chain me up...and you know what'll happen then." Tyrun ground his teeth at the very thought of being bound...and the consequences of such a scenario.

Then, he turned to the sailors. "Your duty, if the shite starts to fly, is to give reasonable time for us to get back in the pinnace, and then to make haste back to The Zephyr. If the boat is threatened, then go on without us, for we are all skilled swimmers.

"As it is," He continued, "The longships of Thorgrimm Halfdane are our allies...and, there is a force of elven archers covering us at all times. I think we'll do alright." With that, he smiled, and turned to look at The Goélette.

His voice carried clearly over to the Frankish ship. "I am Tyrun, captain of the junk-rigged barque Zephyr. I seek to meet with the leader of your expedition, to discuss a mutually beneficial solution to this situation!"

He tapped the ash out of his pipe, and awaited a response.

[Bertrand de Vannes]

They could see the small boat with seven people on board approaching steadily. The Vikings were flying a flag of parley, making a few of the soldiers on board the Goélette spit into the water below, others snort derisively and still others unsheathe their swords as if on instinct.

Bertrand de Vannes, Captian of the Goélette, rested his good hand on the railing, his left arm hanging still by his side. Ever since an attack of Norse upon the town of Groyere where he had been one of its defenders, his left arm had been rendered numb and useless from a sword strike by a Viking. He still had feeling in his arm but couldn't move it much. He had fought teeth and nails to keep the arm which some healers had wanted to cut off, but Bertrand had argued that it would serve him better still being on him. As a constant reminder and fuel for his hatred of the Norse.

"Careful now…. Francis, get the men ready and armed, *quietly*! We don't want to alarm our guest, since they make the effort to come and visit. Right?" Sarcasm dripped off Bertrand's tongue, if the boat with the Vikings wasn't so close already he would have spit into the water like some of the soldiers around him. "Have Herni, Jaques, Maurel and Hardér wait in my cabin, tell them to hide themselves well. I'll see if we cannot get us a nice piece of Viking rat for dinner! You leave the men come on board, don't threaten them. Let me do the talking!"

Hearing the man in the boat holler up towards them, the Frankian Captain leaned over the railing, waving with his good arm.

"Captain Tyrun, you have come to the right man then. I am Captain Bertrand de Vannes, Captain of the Goélette and leader of captains of the Frankish fleet. I have authority to speak for my leader, Lord de Sennis. Come onboard, you and two of your men will be welcomed!"

He motioned for one of the soldiers to lower the rope ladder over board, holding out his hand to the Viking captain to help him up. He would be charming and curteous… until it was time to secure his prize!

[Tyrun the Norseman]

Tyrun had never been a zealously religious fellow. And, in general, he didn't associate much with those who were. Consequently, he was prone to misjudge the motivations of such people.

There had been some haggling about the number of men Tyrun was allowed to bring aboard. He had no intention of leaving any of his warriors down in the pinnace, and he had said as much. "Surely, you don't mistrust my intentions?" He had called out. "My three men here ain't gonna threaten your entire ship, anyhow!" Finally, Captain De Vannes relented, eager to spring his trap.

And the four warriors climbed up the side ladder of The Goélette. ((Most large ships had side ladders built into their hulls)) As soon as they all stood upon the deck, Tyrun, for the first time, realized the immensity of his misjudgement. While none of the Franks were brandishing arms, their faces were burning with hatred. Their captain smiled politely at the visiting delegation, but his eyes shone with murder. Tyrun clenched his teeth and inwardly cursed himself...he had walked right into a trap.

Overhead, a sea-gull's call broke the silence. Helgi Erikson murmured, "I have a very bad feeling about this..."

The four of them had instinctively put their backs to the railing, as soon as they were aware of the Franks' mood. Tyrun's mind raced. They don't intend for any of us to leave this ship alive. Fool! Think, Tyrun, think! If we jump overboard now, they'll fill us all with arrows. What would you be planning, if you were De Vannis? Bah...if you were in his place, you would never back-stab anybody that you invited aboard for a parley!

He looked around at the The Goélette's crew, taking a silent inventory of their numbers and placement. He will invite me into his cabin, (for that is where captains discussed business) and he'll attempt to kill me there...hmmm...he seems to be lame in one arm. Good. I bet I can put a shiv in his guts, before he knows what's happening. And if he calls in some of his men, I will grab him for a hostage, or just hack my way out. Tyrun hefted his shoulder, feeling the weight of his battle-axe, as he envisioned the cabin-layout on a ship of this class.

The sea-gull shrieked again, and veered off toward the shore. A mere instant had passed.

Tyrun stalled for a bit, making a show of adjusting his equipment, as he muttered to his men in a low, urgent voice...his words were unintelligible to the Franks, as he spoke hastily in a pirate's cant of “pidgin English”...primarily Norse, but incorporating words from a dozen languages.

"We'll go to his cabin...if I ain't back in half an hour, holler for me. If I don't answer, then you will kill as many of these lunatic zealots as you can, as you escape. Get back to The Zephyr, and tell Harl the whole situation...he can plan things from there. Don’t die senselessly here!"

And thus, Tyrun again failed gravely in his judgement.

He stepped forward, smiling and greeting De Vannes. "Good day to you, Captain! I am glad you have allowed me aboard, to discuss matters. I aim to show you how profitable it can be...for both you and your king, if we were to conduct commerce, instead of war." He held up the book he had carried. "I will show you the records of my accounts, from this harbor alone, and I think-”

At that moment, the Goélette's quartermaster, a large, burly fellow, overwhelmed by hatred for all Norse, shouldered Wulfgang aside, and smashed Tyrun across the back of the skull with a heavy oaken cudgel. Immediately, the mob surged forward, drawing weapons as they sought to slaughter these heathen demons.

In a corner of his mind, Tyrun laughed as he reflected that somebody else had misjudged, for a change. Years of toil and trouble had toughened the Norseman to an incredible degree, and he was not immedietely felled by the blow, as many men might have been. He whirled, his right hand thrusting forward to grab the Frank by the neck, the veins on his forearm bulging as he crushed down on the man’s windpipe. His other hand grabbed the attacker’s wrist, bending it backward until he felt the bones snap. The cudgel flew from the quartermaster’s now-useless hand...

...Wulfgang Armageddon lunged at Tyrun’s assailant, but he was grabbed from behind by one of the Franks, as another drew a long knife and thrust at him. With a throaty growl, he reached back over his shoulder, grabbing the first man by the hair, and bending slightly as he flipped the man over onto his comrade. They both landed in a heap on the deck. Another rushed at him, swinging a heavy sword over his head, but Wulfgang had already loosed his hand-axe, and landed a vicious swipe across the bridge of the man’s nose. The Frank dropped immediately, clutching at his face. If he lived, he would be blind for the rest of his life...

...Salix Razorback had been standing like a monk, arms tucked into his sleeves, but as soon as he saw the quartermaster’s lunge in his peripheral vision, his long arms whipped out, launching daggers through the air. The two nearest Franks dropped like stones, impaled through their necks. His arms continued their swing, reaching up behind his back, where he drew two more wicked-looking knives. Each arm snaked out in different directions, and Salix moved like a serpent, delivering nasty wounds to all who came too close...

...Helgi Erikson was almost overwhelmed with surprise when The Goélette's quartermaster attacked. As a Norseman, he held the rules of hospitality sacred, and it took a moment for him to accept the fact that these rules had been violated. But still, he was a seasoned veteran, and the first man that lunged for him was greeted with a deft punch to the jaw, and was shoved headfirst over the railing, to splash into the water. By the time the second assailant reached him, Helgi had drawn his broadsword, and this man soon joined his crewmate...reddening the water as he plunged limply into the sea...

...The quartermaster’s cudgel completed its arc through the air, and dropped with a bounce on the planks of the deck. But the sound of its fall was lost amidst the growing din.

Helgi fought desperately to reach his captain, but it soon became obvious that they were seriously overmatched. And so, he prayed to Thor to forgive his cowardice, and placed one hand on the railing, vaulting himself over...he nearly capsized the pinnace when he landed in it. Immediately, he took up the rigging, to help the three sailors.

Wulfgang now had both of his axes in hand, and was busy hacking his way into the throng of Franks. He had already been slashed a few times, but he seemed not to feel any pain. His eyes gleamed madly, and his breathing was growing ragged as it quickened. By now, the Franks had stationed archers in the rigging, and soon, arrows were raining down upon him. He seemed to feel nothing as two of them stuck him in the abdomen.

Salix didn’t have the strength of his comrades, but he was wily and quick. He had made sure to use the structures of The Goélette, as well as her crewmen, to shelter himself from the archers’ arrows. But now he saw that their plight was hopeless, and so he slashed his way to Wulfgang’s side. “Time to be going! As the captain has ordered!” Wulfgang merely growled, and swung at another Frank...the blood-lust was growing in him. Salix used Wulfgang’s own leverage, grabbing him and tossing him over the side, before taking hold of a handy rope, and swinging gracefully over the side.

They struggled to get the pinnace away, but the Franks leaned out over the rails, launching a deadly hail of arrows. Two of the pinnace’s sailors died immediately. The third tried desperately to fulfill his orders, but soon Helgi wrapped his arm around the poor fellow’s shoulders. “Time for a swim!” And he dove into the harbor waters, hauling the sailor with him.

Salix and Wulfgang dove also...swimming deep, beneath the keel of The Goélette, and on toward the beach. Eventually, they crawled ashore...exhausted, but alive. However, Wulfgang’s wounds were too severe, and when he came to the surface, he was still and dead...his blue eyes staring blindly up at the summer sky.

And on the Frankish vessel, Tyrun had released the quartermaster, who dropped lifelessly to the deck. Turning to face the throng of ambushers, he bared his teeth when he spied De Vannis, standing there arrogantly...he hadn’t even drawn his sword. The Norseman rolled his shoulders and reached for his axe as he stalked toward the treacherous captain. But...what was this warm wetness trailing down the back of his neck? He touched the back of his head, and gazed abstractedly at his fingers, red with blood. Blinking slowly, he adjusted his grip on the axe, and took two more steps toward De Vannis...but, the deck seemed to reel so badly, and he stumbled to his knees. Glaring up at the captain, he fumbled for his throwing-knife. But his vision had grown hazy, and the blade clattered to the deck from his numb hand.

De Vannis stepped forward, spat in his face, and snarled an insult. But Tyrun couldn’t hear it...his ears seemed to be filled with wasps. The buzzing grew louder and louder, and his vision was obscured by a million sparks. He tried to reach out and grapple the Frank, but his arm failed him...and then he slumped to the deck, and darkness claimed him.

[Captain Bertrand]

Bertrand rubbed his hands, kicking one of his own dead men out of the way with his boot, then grabbing the Norse captain by his neck, lifting him off the ground partially.

“Parley you wanted? Trading, eh? Well, trade you we will… rest assured of that!” Letting Tyrun drop to the dock hard again, Bertrand moved to the railing, holding up his hand to signal the archers to stop their barrage. “Tell your fellow rats that your Captain will stay with us for a while, enjoying the fabled Frank hospitality. One false move against one of our ships and your man dies! And by god, he will die slowly!”

Having said his peace, Bertrand again picked up Tyrun and now dragged him over to the entrance to a cargo hold, tossing him downstairs. “Look after him, make sure he is bound, and look after his wound. I need him alive, dead he is of no use to me!”

His look went over to his quartermaster, now dead. Bertrand had known the man for many years, had always insisted that he be on the ships he commanded. Kneeling down next to his fallen comrade, he pushed back his matted, bloodied hair from his face, closing his now lifeless green eyes, then cradling his head in his arms for a moment.

“The one who did this will die, Lorent, he will die and horrible death at that. Damn you, why couldn’t you wait!?”

After a long moment Captain Bertrand stood up and motioned to two of the soldiers. “Dress him, clean him up properly. He will get a proper sea burial. And don’t you dare take any of his possessions while I am your captain! And keep an eye on those Norse should they come back!”

He strode back to his cabin, a grim smile forming on his face. Oh yes, he would have fun with the Norse captain.

[Tyrun the Norseman]

Half the crew of The Zephyr stood at the prow, straining to view events aboard The Goélette. They were supposed to be at their posts, and normally Harl Grimface would have roared at them for this lapse. But, they were all worried about the captain, and he couldn't blame them.

I always said that your trusting nature would be your death, Cap. Damn it, why did you insist on a parley?

Harl was older than most vikings...his hair grey, and his eyes not as keen as they used to be. He had ordered Yurchak to ascend to the top of the mainmast, for his vision was sharp as an Eagle's. He called down to the crew, describing the events as they unfolded, his voice flat and heavily accented.

"They climb aboard. Surrounded...but not else, just talking. Captain..." His voice took on a tone of outrage. "Betrayed! An attack!" Yurchak went silent as he scowled out across the distance. A low rumble of rage traversed the waves, as the other members of the fleet became aware of what was transpiring. Yurchak then clambered down the rigging, and shouldered his way to Harl's side, his voice low and urgent. "Two dead (Yurchak was unaware that Wulfgang had perished in the escape attempt)...the sailors. All others escape...but Captain is captured, beaten senseless..taken below, into the hold."

Harl took a deep breath, then released a barrage of curses, loud enough to startle the sea-birds which had settled in the rigging. Then, he strode aft to the quarterdeck, and gave the signal...all fleet captains were to come aboard immediately for an emergency conference. He ordered Torla to drill the men thoroughly, in order to keep their minds off this terrible turn of events.

The giant cook delegated this task to his lieutenant, the bard Helfdann, and made his way to the quarterdeck. He seemed baffled, almost stunned by what happened. Taking a place by Harl, they both watched the other captains' skiffs, as they hastened toward The Zephyr.

"D'you think the Franks didn't see the parley-flag?" Torla asked.

Harl was staring out at nothing in particular. When he answered, his voice was as calm and solemn as ever. "No, they saw it."

Torla shook his head. "Then why...HOW...could they betray the truce? I can't...fathom it."

The quartermaster turned to stare at his lieutenant. "Because they're fanatics, Torla. To them, we are rats. Not even human. I assume they've suffered at the hands of vikings in the past, which is enough to cause hatred. But who hasn't suffered from war, in these times? Yet they don't hate the English...or the Germans...or, hell, even the rival baron across the river. No...all those others at least share the same religion. But us...we ain't Christian. And that makes all the difference.

"But enough talk. The captains are arriving. Stay here, to join the discussion on our plans."

((At this point, I realize I am well on my way to another epic long-winded post, but I am too brain-dead to continue. Therefore, I shall wrap this up in another paragraph or two.))

After much heated debate, it was settled...the rest of the captains would hold their positions in the harbor mouth, while The Zephyr was to sail slowly toward The Goélette. Of course, they had all wanted to charge immediately, but it was assumed that Tyrun was being kept alive, and so they wanted to avoid any overtly belligerent moves, lest they provoked the Franks into killing the captain out-of-hand. Elsana Firelock was to leave The SLOB, and take command of The Zephyr (for Harl acknowledged that she was a better leader then he).

Their course was to be leisurely, and they were to stop well away from the Franks (although still within ballista range)...and then they would decide what to do from that point. Tyrun would be proud, as he was notorious for making up plans as he went.

((I was also going to write the post in which Tyrun awakes, to find himself imprisoned aboard the enemy ship. I shall have to attempt it tomorrow, because I just KNOW it'll run-on forever...Tyrun gets a bit squirrelly, when he's chained-up...heh heh.))

[Captain Bertrand]

“Here they come, Captain!”


One of the soldiers on the Goelette called out to Bertrand who had stood on the railing of his ship facing the harbour mouth and the enemy ships. He just nodded, his eyes never leaving the slowly approaching Viking raider.

“I can see that, my eyes are still good, Henri. Bring that Captain upstairs and bind him to the mast! Be sure to bind him well, and have three men guard him. Maybe they will need a little demonstration of what we will be doing to their precious Captain should they move any further! Then send someone over and tell Captain Remard to move his ship in front of the Goelette… send some archers over as well. I have seen these barbarians use trebuchets, if a ship has to be sacrificed it will e the Forell. Oh and tell Captain Remard that if he will not move his ship into the possible line of fire, he will bear the consequences, and this time no uncle of his will be able to safe his sorry hide.

As he had ordered, a group of three soldiers brought Tyrun upstairs again and bound him tightly to the mast of the Goelette, their sword drawn and ready to strike down anyone who’d dare to come close in a rescue attempt.

After another half hour the Forell had moved in front of the Goelette, having send back word to Captain Bertrand that he would hang if any harm would befall the Forell. Captain Bertrand simply laughed at that empty thread and continued watching the Viking raider which was calling for trouble.

[Tyrun the Norseman]

When Tyrun finally regained consciousness, his first assumption was that he had been in one whale of a tavern brawl, judging by the way his head ached. He moved slightly, then groaned as a wave of pain and nausea passed over him. He moved a hand to cradle the back of his throbbing skull...and his eye opened wide when he heard the clink of a chain as his arm was stopped dead in its motion.

Fighting to calm himself, he looked about, to see that he was slumped against the main mast of The Goélette. Both his hands were shackled, and joined by a chain which ran around the back of the mast.

"No." His breathing quickened a bit, and the pain in his skull was forgotten, as he lunged forward, with a primal instinct to free himself. The chains gave out a metallic cry as they were rattled.

This only attracted the attention of Captain De Vannes. With a great effort of will, Tyrun forced his panic to subside when the tall Frank stepped over slowly, shouldering his guards aside to stand before the kneeling Norseman. Tyrun stared up at him, his jaw set.

Without a word, De Vanness swung a sharp blow, which landed squarely across the Norseman's chin. His head snapped to the side, and Tyrun reeled. Fighting off another bout of unconsciousness, he blinked and gave his head a quick shake before spitting out a mouthful of blood. "Jesus!" He muttered. This fellow had made the best use of his one good arm!

De Vannes' face darkened with rage. How dare this pagan rat blaspheme the Lord's name in such a manner? He subdued the urge to slit the Norseman's throat immediately, and instead grabbed Tyrun by the hair, yanking his head back to speak to him.

Tyrun was not especially proficient in French, but he could feel the hatred seething from De Vannes. He understood the gist of the tirade...something about losing his quartermaster...and how he (the pagan slime) would soon join him in death. Tyrun's reaction was to deliver a nasty right-hook to the Frank's face...the kind of punch that would leave a man unconscious and toothless.

But, like a lunging dog on a short leash, his fist was caught short by the chain. Tyrun grunted as the steel manacle bit into his flesh.

Bertrand de Vannes allowed himself a smug smile, and gave the Norseman a stinging slap on the cheek. Somehow, this was worse...more insulting...than a proper punch. And then, Bertrand turned away, with a promise of future agonies, to watch the approaching Zephyr.

Tyrun, meanwhile, was struggling to maintain his composure. But he could not abide being bound in any way, and he thrashed against his chains, letting out a frustrated growl...his breath rasped between clenched teeth.

The three guards turned to watch him, grinning as they savored his plight. They laughed as they berated him with insults...but Tyrun didn't notice. Like a trapped animal, he was overwhelmed only with the obsession to unleash himself.

He raised himself to a crouching position. His jaw was starting to ache, from clenching his teeth so hard...the world, through his eye, seemed to be taking on a tinge of red. But still, he could think, "I won't face Fate on my knees."

The steel manacles burned at his wrists like acid, and he jerked forward again. And again. His breath was now rasping out of him desperately. Through his fog of hatred and terror, he managed to focus on his guards. His voice was ragged as he spoke. "Unchain me!" He thrashed again. "RELEASE ME!" Struggling to maintain his sanity, he almost pleaded. "Laissez-moi libre!" His speech degenerated into a bestial growl, and the Franks' laughing replies didn't register in his mind anymore...for his mind was not human anymore.

Again he lunged. The veins on his body stood out, and his eye gleamed with madness. Another lunge, and one of the sailors grinned and spat in his face. His reply was a bestial roar, as he thrashed wildly at his bonds. The guards turned their backs contemptously on him, to watch the approach of this bastard-ship of heathens.

With a loud inhuman bellow, Tyrun lunged forth again and again. By now, he was in the full throes of the fabled "berserkergang," the berserker rage, and his strength had multiplied to an incredible degree. And then, he lurched forward one last time. The sound was indescribable, as his chain tore apart, while at the same time, the main mast cracked. The Goélette's crew paused in their actions, peering about with foreboding.

The instant he was free, Tyrun was upon the nearest guard. Wrapping a steel arm about the man's shoulders, the berserk Norseman clasped his chin, twisting and pushing hard. A loud snap, and the Frank went limp, sinking lifelessly to the deck. Before his prey had even settled into death, Tyrun had grabbed a belaying-pin (a sturdy wooden dowel, around which ropes were wrapped), and swung it in a vicious arc. The second guard had not even turned, before his skull was crushed beneath the mighty blow.

Blood sprayed over his face, and the taste seemed to feed Tyrun's rage. He grabbed the second dead man by the tunic, and hurled him against a group of approaching soldiers, sending them all sprawling. The momentum sent Tyrun toward the gunwale, and he instinctively backed-up against its protection. He was hunched over like an enraged wolf, and he glared about at the crewmen who were now racing toward him. Then, something deep in his mind recognized the familiar shape of his war-axe, leaning against the rail, where one of his captors had left it.

Taking up the weapon, he waded into the crowd of men, swinging the heavy weapon like a scythe, reaping a terrible bloody harvest. Men fell dead before his fury, and blood sprayed through the air. The Franks were skilled soldiers, and they landed many telling blows. As well, The Goélette's archers managed to send a few arrows thudding hideously into his flesh. But Tyrun could not feel pain anymore, and each wound only fed his rage. Soon, the archers had to hold up, as the Norsemen was surrounded by Franks, and they did not want to hit their comrades.

After burying his axe-blade in the face of one soldier, Tyrun took a step back, snarling peevishly as he shook his head slightly. Pausing to tear his annoying eye-patch off, he hefted his weapon and charged at his enemies. Covered with blood, his uncovered eye a ghastly milky orb, the sight of him was enough to un-nerve the Franks. But they fought on, and died, fearing the wrath of their cruel captain.

Captain Bertrand De Vannes was Tyrun's prey, as he mowed his way through The Goélette's crew. The deck was red with blood,and the air stank of death. And Tyrun continued to swing his axe as a man might swing a willow-switch. The berserkergang sang death-songs in his mind, and the iron bite of the Franks' blades only spurred him into a greater rage.

[Dasid]

*They would not let him go. The moment he saw that the Captain did not come back he knew what had happened. He had felt something was wrong all day and now one less man confirmed it*

Let me go! let me go! Tyrun!

*he tried to wrangle himself free but strong arms held him helpless. He wanted to cry but he could not. He wanted to go to Tyrun and save him like all those dreams yet words similar to what Tyrun said last they saw each other made him obey the men before him. Dasid lowered his eyes and wore a mighty frown on those cupid bow lips of his. He began to shake*

you shoulda saved him!

*he shouted before running off.
Much later he was fore with the astrolabe in his hands, he had cried out of sight and now sat in the cornor of the Captains cabin. Dasid felt so helpless. He could not help his hero in the time of his woe. All that was left to him was prayer*

Jesu.....Thor....and all you men and women Gods up there. Tyruns in trouble and iffn ye got some time could you make the Franks look away so he can escape. If you do this I will make an altar and leave you a bag of big apples for you all to eat.

*he was about to finish when*

oh, and this is Dasid by the way, I know you don't really know me but I know you and iffn I'm ta knows ye's better I need Tyrun ta teach me! Ok!

*the issue was settled now*

...ok...

*nodding soberly he laid the astrolabe on the table and turned to help out on the ship.*

[Admin]

~ steps down to me personal armory, and shuts the door behind me. I walk to the locked closet.. withdrawing the brass key from me pocket, I unlock the door and open it on creaking leather hinges. Sighs softly as once again.. circumstances require me to don this armor and weapons.

Slowly, I remove the custom black layered armor. First the helmet.. so tight fitting that it almost becomes skin tight, next the breast plate/body armor.. thin, yet layered four layers deep to defect most slashes and arrows. next comes the black tunic and leggings, with strips of leather sewn onto it in various places to protect the body. Finally, the boots. black as night.. soft soled with a very plyable leather to reduce noise when walking. As I remove each piece of the armor from me past.. I lay it down onto a table, following it all with the black weapons belt and matching twin black blades that reside within this darkened closet.
" so...my friends..it is time thee both are to be used again" I talk to meself as I lay them down onto the table as well. Unlike most weapons, i do nae remove them from their scabbars..for these blades are nae drawn unless they shall taste blood...

As everything is out and laying on the table, I settle down into a stool and being to rub saddle soap into the leather.. working it into all creases adn cracks untill it disapears. As a final touch..to take away any shine that may show up under firelight... I begin to rub black ash from me smithery into the saddle soap to dull any shine.

i stay there for a few moments, tending to a few details of the plan for Dorian and I to rescue Tyrun from teh French ship.......

[Captain Bertrand]

Bertrand saw the Norse coming, his axe swinging and felling his soldiers left and right. The Captian of the Goélette drew his sword and stood his ground, waiting for the berserker to come to him. He smiled… he had seen scum like that before, it didn’t frighten him. The thought of how Lord de Sennis would react if he saw his flag ship demolished as was, was a much more frightening thought.

Deftly dodging the flying axe, Bertrand began to attack Tyrun when he was in range of his sword. The Norse was strong, despite the arrows sticking from his body, arrows still rained down onto the Viking.

With a skilled kick into the gut Bertrand floored the approaching Norse, sending him sprawling onto the decks. That man would pay for all the death he had brought here to this ship… to his home and land. Bertarnd stepped aside as Tyrun swung his axe against his body again, passing him on his left side, spying the chance to inflict serious damage. His blade came down over Tyrun’s left wrist, ready to sever the Norse’ hand off in one clean stroke.

[Tyrun the Norseman]

Okay, I am having some problems here...I have a new computer now, and my new browser isn't allowing me to view all the little icons on this page (signifying if a topic is new...or, where to click to reply to a message, etc.)

Does anybody have any ideas as to how I can overcome this hassle?

As for Email and ICQ, it looks like I will have to re-install everything. Jeeze...and here I thought getting a new computer would all be fun and games!

[The Warthog]

*Slides easily past the Forrell and brandishes it's amoury as it tacks and makes it's way toward the Frankish Flagship.

Captain Johannsen , pacing the deck impatiently as they draw nearer, barking orders to the gunners and crew. He could see what was happenning aboard the Frankish vesell , and wanted no more than to hole the opposing ship with his guns and board her to save Tyrun from what seemed to him, certain death!!

"Ahoy there ye!!...stand fast and let my Commander free , or join the beds of the ocean, the choice be your's!!"

The hatch's of the 26 guns down the side of his ship lifted and the points of the Ballitae bristled forth ... each crew member highly proficient at firing and reloading quickly and with deadly precision.