We have arrived

[Tyrun the Norseman]

The Zephyr held her position, even when The Forrel had interspersed herself between them and The Goélette. This caused Elsana Firelock to curse and fume, as her view was now blocked. So, she climbed the shrouds to the top of the mainmast, grumbling all the way.

"Ey, filthy garbitch scow, I'll send y' t'bottom soon enow'...and yer crew o' dogs well feed th' crabs and gulls! If I only haed Salix 'ere, I'd sind 'im over to drill a hole in ye, and let the lot a' ye's sink beneath the waves!"

She now perched atop the crow's nest with Yurchak, squinting out toward The Goélette. The Mongol crouched sullenly, his great bow half-drawn, a barbed arrow nocked and ready to fire.

Yurchak used the traditional weapon of his people...a hefty, re-curved composite bow, made from laminated layers of wood, horn, and sinew, with a draw of well over a hundred pounds. In all his travels, he had seen nothing that could rival his own weapon, except the great yew longbows of the English...and he didn't see any longbows amongst the Frankish crews today.

"I can kill some of them...there." He nodded toward The Forrel.

Elsana stared intently at the deck of the second ship...she could see her captain bound to the mast of The Goélette, and she ground her teeth, waving offhandedly, brushing a lock of her wind-tossed mane from her eyes. "Aye, shoot a brace of 'em, mayhap skeer 'em off."

The Mongol drew, his heavy shoulder bulging, and let fly. Then, with a slight pivot of his waist, he launched another. Two of The Forrel's crewmen dropped to the decks...one at the prow, and one on the quarterdeck. Yurchak reached for another arrow, but Elsana put a hand on his shoulder.

"Hold...save yer arrows, thill be better-spent upon the crew of yon devil-ship." And then, a movement across the harbor caught her eye. The Warthog had broken formation, and was now bearing down upon Tyrun's captors, as Johannsen was roaring across to De Vannes. Elsana blinked, and looked toward Yurchak, who had also been watching, and was now looking at her, awaiting her reaction.

"Ai, the crazed bastich, 'e's defied a direct order!" She sucked a breath between her teeth. "Cap'm might ha' something to say about that!"

Yurchak nodded, then spoke flatly. "I would do the same. As would you." Elsana laughed, and gave his shoulder a sharp punch. "Aye and like, Mongol...y' speak truth. Now...hold yer arrows, fer now." She watched as The Warthog barrelled towards the Frankish ship, a fine wake frothing at her bow. Then, a flash of steel caught her eye. Her eyes widened when she looked back to Goélette.

"The cap'm is free!" Immediately, she began calling out orders, her voice fine and clear as it rang down to her crewmen. "GUNNNERRRSSS! Wai' til the donward roll, then launch broadside! Aim fer the waterline, aye!" Then, the took a moment to guage the wind, before continuing. "Seamen! Full sail for'ard! Hook 'em at th' front, and swing about!"

The Zephyr's gunners had been waiting, and they launched their missiles within a heartbeat. The heavy steel bolts of the ballistae howled through the air, to smash into the Forrel's hull. The missiles didn't pierce through the thick planks, but they were still deadly, their impacts sending oaken shards flying like shrapnel into the unfortunate crewmen aboard.

A moment afterward, The Zephyr's sails snapped open like the wings of an eagle, and she lunged forward, moving fast toward The Forrel's prow. Elsana knew that the larger ship was sturdy, but still, The Zephyr could out-sail her with no problem. Soon, they had passed the other ship, and heeled hard toward the shore, cutting her off across the bow.

By this time, the starboard guns had been readied again, and they each fired as they passed. This time, they had a different effect...instead of slamming into oak, the bolts flew the entire length of The Forrel's deck, tearing through flesh and rope with deadly effect.

And now, The Zephyr swung back again, making a tight "u-turn." Her starboard gunners were frantically resetting their ballistae...but, her port batteries were freshly-loaded, and now she was right in between The Forrel and The Goélette, in point-blank range for a full broadside.

Yurchak began launching arrow after arrow, down into De Vannes' crew. Not pausing to aim, he merely sent his missiles into the most densely-packed parts of the deck. Elsana watched the chaos on Goélette's deck, wishing she had brought a crossbow.

Meanwhile, the mighty Warthog made its way over...her artillery ready, and her crew eager.

((I am such a geek about all this sialing strategy, that I have drawn a crude image, to show what happened!

The Zephyr held her position, even when The Forrel had interspersed herself between them and The Goélette. This caused Elsana Firelock to curse and fume, as her view was now blocked. So, she climbed the shrouds to the top of the mainmast, grumbling all the way.

"Ey, filthy garbitch scow, I'll send y' t'bottom soon enow'...and yer crew o' dogs well feed th' crabs and gulls! If I only haed Salix 'ere, I'd sind 'im over to drill a hole in ye, and let the lot a' ye's sink beneath the waves!"

She now perched atop the crow's nest with Yurchak, squinting out toward The Goélette. The Mongol crouched sullenly, his great bow half-drawn, a barbed arrow nocked and ready to fire.

Yurchak used the traditional weapon of his people...a hefty, re-curved composite bow, made from laminated layers of wood, horn, and sinew, with a draw of well over a hundred pounds In all his travels, he had seen nothing that could rival his own weapon, except the great yew longbows of the English...and he didn't see any longbows amongst the Frankish crews today.

"I can kill some of them...there." He nodded toward The Forrel.

Elsana stared intently at the deck of the second ship...she could see her captain bound to the mast of The Goélette, and she ground her teeth, waving offhandedly, brushing a lock of her wind-tossed mane from her eyes. "Aye, shoot a brace of 'em, mayhap skeer 'em off."

The Mongol drew, his heavy shoulder bulging, and let fly. Then, with a slight pivot of his waist, he launched another. Two of The Forrel's crewmen dropped to the decks...one at the prow, and one on the quarterdeck. Yurchak reached for another arrow, but Elsana put a hand on his shoulder.

"Hold...save yer arrows, thill be better-spent upon the crew of yon devil-ship." And then, a movement across the harbor caught her eye. The Warthog had broken formation, and was now bearing down upon Tyrun's captors, as Johannsen was roaring across to De Vannes. Elsana blinked, and looked toward Yurchak, who had also been watching, and was now looking at her, awaiting her reaction.

"Ai, the crazed bastich, 'e's defied a direct order!" She sucked a breath between her teeth. "Cap'm might ha' something to say about that!"

Yurchak nodded, then spoke flatly. "I would do the same. As would you." Elsana laughed, and gave his shoulder a sharp punch. "Aye and like, Mongol...y' speak truth. Now...hold yer arrows, fer now." She watched as The Warthog barrelled towards the Frankish ship, a fine wake frothing at her bow. Then, a flash of steel caught her eye. Her eyes widened when she looked back to Goélette.

"The cap'm is free!" Immediately, she began calling out orders, her voice fine and clear as it rang down to her crewmen. "GUNNNERRRSSS! Wai' til the donward roll, then launch broadside! Aim fer the waterline, aye!" Then, the took a moment to guage the wind, before continuing. "Seamen! Full sail for'ard! Hook 'em at th' front, and swing about!"

The Zephyr's gunners had been waiting, and they launched their missiles within a heartbeat. The heavy steel bolts of the ballistae howled through the air, to smash into the Forrel's hull. The missiles didn't pierce through the thick planks, but they were still deadly, their impacts sending oaken shards flying like shrapnel into the unfortunate crewmen aboard.

A moment afterward, The Zephyr's sails snapped open like the wings of an eagle, and she lunged forward, moving fast toward The Forrel's prow. Elsana knew that the larger ship was sturdy, but still, The Zephyr could out-sail her with no problem. Soon, they had passed the other ship, and heeled hard toward the shore, cutting her off across the bow.

By this time, the starboard guns had been readied again, and they each fired as they passed. This time, they had a different effect...instead of slamming into oak, the bolts flew the entire length of the ship, tearing through flesh and rope with deadly effect.

And now, The Zephyr swung back again, making a tight "u-turn." Her starboard gunners were frantically resetting their ballistae...but, her port batteries were freshly-loaded, and now she was right in between The Forrel and The Goélette, in point-blank range for a full broadside.

Yurchak began launching arrow after arrow, down into De Vannes' crew. Not pausing to aim, he merely sent his missiles into the most densely-packed parts of the deck. Elsana watched the chaos on Goélette's deck, wishing she had brought a crossbow.

Meanwhile, the mighty Warthog made its way over...her artillery ready, and her crew eager.

((I am such a geek about all this sailing stuff, that I have drawn a crude image of the action))

[Tyrun the Norseman]

((errr...oops. I don't think my post was so important, that I had to say it twice...))

[Tyrun the Norseman]

De Vannes had obviously tangled with a berserker before...

The instant Tyrun hit the deck, he swung out with his axe, burying the spike-peen into the deck, and using the axe-handle as a lever to launch himself back to his feet. With a wrench of the haft (causing a small spray of of wooden shards to fly), the Norseman was standing once again...he stood there, his breath hissing through clenched teeth, as he stared at the captain with animal hatred. Then, he lunged. De Vannes was far quicker, and cooler, than any of his men, and he didn't seek to meet the attack with force or panic. He merely sidestepped, and his deft upper slash caught Tyrun full across the left wrist.

The Norseman let out a bestial roar, as his left hand went numb. His immediate response was to swing his wounded arm violently, like a great club. Captain Bertrand was smart enough to duck, but the swipe caught a charging crewmember in the chest, and he fell with broken ribs.

Tyrun snarled when his wounded hand wouldn't clasp onto the axe, and he re-adjusted his grip, holding the heavy weapon with his hand a third of the way up the haft. He stood back and glared at De Vannes...

His mind wasn't operating on a human level, but he possessed a certain animal cunning...his stare narrowed as he eyed the Frank, who stood coolly, the sword moving lightly in his hand. Tyrun's instincts told him that this man...he was the leader of his wolf-pack...the one in charge of protecting his group, and his home...his home...the ship.

Tyrun's eyes gleamed as he rolled his shoulders...then, he wound up for a ferocious assault. But De Vannes was not the target. The Norseman's heavy axe instead lashed out to hew the chest of a nearby mariner...on the recoil, he slammed his other elbow into the throat of another...while his axe-blade sliced through a bundle of rigging-ropes, with the twang of released tension.

The berserk Norseman glared at the Frank, as if in challenge...sidestepping slowly along the edge of the deck...his axe whirled out again, and another bunch of rigging-ropes were sliced. The foremast groaned a bit, as some of its supports were taken away...Tyrun bared his teeth...almost as if grinning...

[Captain Bertrand]

„You stinking swine! You will not sink or damage my ship any further… IS THAT CLEAR?!“

Bertrand lunged forward, his sword pointing straight at the berserking Norse, his own safety forgotten, but nobody, especially no stinking Norse was treating his ship like dirt!

His sword impacted with Tyrun, but not at the location he had hoped it would. Instead of piercing Tyrun’s chest, the tip slipped and instead only graced the Viking’s hips.

They now stood nose to nose, face to face, Bertrand could smell the stinking breath of the Norse, his free hand fumbled for his dagger, to thrust it into his enemy’s chest.

“I hope you tell your Odin when you see him, that you were killed by my hand. I should let you die like the dog you are …”

They struggled some more, until one of them gained the upper hand and was able to deliver the decisive blow.

[Tyrun the Norseman]

((Stinking breath?? Hm...*exhales into my cupped hand and sniffs*))

He had been sprinting about the deck, hacking away at both structure and crewmen, all the while glaring at De Vannes, as if to taunt him. But his wounds had drained him greatly, and when the Frank finally lunged in rage, Tyrun had slowed a bit, and so the broadsword nicked his flank. The point of the blade lodged itself firmly in the wooden railing, so great was De Vannes' rage.

Letting out a grunt, the viking grabbed at Bertrand's tunic...but his left hand was now useless, so he wrapped his arm around the Frank's back in a crushing embrace. De Vannes could no longer use his sword, confined like this, but...he wasn't unarmed yet. Drawing his dagger, he shoved it up into Tyrun's ribs.

The Norseman's berserker rage had been lessening with each wound he sustained, as well as the immense fatigue his exertions had caused...and he indeed felt this wound. His eyes clenching with pain, he let out a sharp hiss of breath...a spray of blood welling from his mouth.

His grip around the Frank tightened, and De Vannes was finding it hard to breathe. Then, Tyrun's good hand reached up to clasp onto Bertrand's face...his forearm bulged as he exerted a bone-crushing force, while pushing his head back slowly.

Bertrand De Vannes was a seasoned warrior, and he knew he was in trouble. His ribs were creaking, he couldn't seem to draw a breath...and his head was being pushed back at a dangerous angle, while his face throbbed beneath Tyrun's vice-like grip.

The Norseman was now breathing raggedly...blood streamed from his mouth and nose, and his face was showing signs of terrible pain by now. He was reverting back to his conscious self...but his strength and endurance were still enormous. His good eye locked on that of De Vannes, visible between his crushing fingers. He had found his voice again, and he snarled hoarsely. "Bloody zealot." And then, another wave of pain washed over him, and his eyes closed as he clenched his teeth and used all his strength, to crush the life out of this hate-filled Frank.

The Goélette's crew rushed forward, to slaughter this demon Norseman. But the gunwale, weakened by axe-blows, gave way, and the two captains toppled and plunged into the harbor waters...still locked in their deadly embrace. The water reddened as it swallowed them up

......................................................................................................

As soon as they dropped into the sea, Elsana Firelock hollered the order, and all the ballistae of The Zephyr fired at once, while archers and crossbowmen let fly with a terrible barrage. On the other side, the gunners sent a few missiles hurling into The Forrel, but most of the men were concentrating on the larger vessel. Yurchak sat atop the crow's nest, launching arrows here and there, almost at leisure.

As soon as Tyrun hit the water, Torla Bloodaxe was ungirding his own weapons, intent on diving in after his captain. Elsana called out to him, "Don' be daft, Bloodaxe...ye swim like a pregnant oliphaunt! Ye know Cap'm can swim like a otter...now get over there, whir yer needed, and lead yer men!"

Torla reluctantly tore his eyes from the roiling water, and went back to his station...but even the coolheaded Elsana Firelock looked down into the sea, and called out quietly, "Thor's Stren'th to ye, Cap'm."

The short-range battle intensified...missiles flew...ships maneuvered...and men died.

[Captain Johannsen]

As they had speed toward the Goelette and prepared to pass alongside the ship, on the opposite side to the Zephyr, Johannsen could see the activity on board the Goelette and watched with horror as his commander grappled with the Frankish leader in a deadly struggle realising that he should have disobeyed his orders much sooner than he had done, for he would much preferr to have faced Tyruns anger than nae have faced Tyrun again...

As the Warthog came into position, almost at the same time as Tyrun dissapeared from the deck with the Frank, a feeling of anger welled up in him, his face reddened and he gave the order. "Fire"

The ship lurched sideways slightly as 26 steel bolts left their resting place simultaniously ...racing towards the Goelette's side just below the waterline.

Then as the stern of the Warthog passed the bow of the Goelette , he had them come hard about and as the gunners reloaded he guided the Warthog around for another pass along the same side of the Goelette yelling at the port gunners to aim for any weak spots that they could see ,from the first volley of bolts .

As the next volley of 26 bolts spewed forth from his ship, he could not help but wonder of Tyruns fate , and weather or not the man had survived.

[Onboard the Frank ships]

Their captain was gone, their ship under a barrage from the Viking vessels – the situation was hopeless. They had not managed to keep control over the Goélette, and the Forell didn’t seem to fare any better.

Jean Danché, second in command of the Goélette, had directed the archers to fire upon the firing Viking vessel, but of course that had been of little use. And now, with Captain Bertrand gone, all they could do to safe their skins was to surrender, and die honourable men since it was known those Vikings never made prisoners when it came to enemy warriors.

Stepping onto the railing of the Goélette, Danché lifted his arms and yelled “STOP FIRING!” This to his men as much as to their attackers, then he tossed his sword into the blood-colored waters of the harbour but remained standing on the railing, his arms raised to show he had no weapons, his eyes filled with tears of sadness and anger.

*****************

“Oh no! Those bastards may try to sink this ship, but they will go down as well. Helmsman, bring the Forell about, and tell the men to take to the oars. We will ram those bastards, let#s see if those rats can swim as well as they can fire arrows!”

Remard de Sennis shouted his commands, and his men followed suit. It was difficult to manoeuvre the by now damaged ship, but it was manoeuvrable enough so the Forell could be turned around, its nose towards the assailant, the mighty ship picking up speed and heading straight for the Zephyr.

[Tyrun the Norseman]

The order was given, and The Zephyr's crew stopped firing as soon as Jean Danché's sword plunged into the water. The signal was also sent, for The Warthog to cease fire. Elsana stalked over to lean on the gunwale, not quite believing it. Surrender? For what they had already done, the Franks had abandoned any hope of fair treatment. Elsana would be quite right, she felt, to kill every man aboard The Goélette. Surely they must realize this...why wouldn't they go down fighting? Perhaps this was more foul trickery.

Her eyes narrowing, she strode along the deck, to place herself closer to Danché's position. When she saw his face, she knew he was sincere. Elsana had seen that look many times, and she allowed herself a moment of sympathy for her counterpart. He had fought bravely, and it tore at his heart, to finally give in.

She smirked slightly, realizing that The Goélette's new acting-captain could not have played a better hand. Tyrun would never allow the slaughter of any crew that had surrendered. Could Jean Danché have known this somehow? For his capitulation had ensured their survival, for now.

Harl Grimface now stood at her side, his arm bound with a blood-soaked bandage. He passed a stony stare at the tattered Frankish ship, before speaking quietly to his temporary captain. "I think his intentions are honest. Maybe he can be trusted."

Firelock nodded, her eyes still locked on Danché's face. "Aye, tis likely." Then, she nodded toward The Warthog, which loomed menacingly on The Goélette's other flank. "An' if 'e gets any funny ideas, we'll sink 'er, and sure enow."

Then, taking a deep breath, she hailed the other ship's commander. She was fairly proficient in French...in fact, her French was far better than her English, with a defined aristocratic accent.

"Thou wilt come to us in a boat, sieur, to discuss terms. Thou may bring any twenty men of thine choosing...and make haste. Thou hast a half-hour to comply! If thy efforts are-"

The sound of her crewmen yelling distracted her, and she felt The Zephyr's deck rock beneath her feet, as the sailors made some frantic adjustments to her sails. She whirled, just in time to realize that The Forrel was on a collision course.

The bowsprit of the Frankish merchantman tore through rigging and sails as it swooped over the deck...and then, with the terrible sound of cracking oak, her hull slammed squarely into The Zephyr. The impact caused a handful of mariners to lose their grips in the rigging, and they fell to their deaths on the planks of the deck. Elsana was knocked to one knee, and her teeth bared with rage when she stood, whipping her sabre out of its scabbard. Another trick? Perhaps, but she would worry about it later.

Whirling about to face Danché again, she pointed her blade at him, her voice cold and hard as she called out. "Thou wilt come to us in a boat, as ordered! In one half-hour...and if thou fail to do so...thee and thine shall all be slaughtered!" Then, she turned to deal with this new problem.

Torla Bloodaxe had already organized a boarding-party, and this troop of hardened warriors was soon storming aboard The Forrel. Finally, he was going to repay these bastiches for all their treachery...with an enormity of interest.

[Jean Danche acting Captan]

He could barely make out the words shouted to him by the Vking woman… a woman as captain? Only those barbarians could misuse their females in such an outrageous fashion, but for now Danché and the crew of the Goélette were in the hands of the Norse.

“I’ll come over, with trhee men. The rest will stay on the Goélette… we will NOT abandon our ship! NEVER!”

Danché then stepped off the railing, facing his men who simply stared at him in disbelieve.

“We surrender, jean? Surrender to those … beasts? You know what they’ll do! Have you no brain left? Captain de Vannes would NEVER have given up so…”

“BUT I’M NOT VANNES. VANNES IS DEAD AND I AM NOW CAPTAIN OF THE GOÉLETTE! IS THAT CLEAR?”

Eventually, all men nodded and Jean Danché selected three of those he knew he could trust most to accompany him to the Viking ship.

Just as they watered the small skiff, they saw what Captain de Sennis on the Forell had in mind. Angrily Danchè looked over as the Forell rammed the Zephyre, shaking men out of the riggings, splintering boards and wood. That fool would get himself killed, and he was endangering the crew of the Goélette! Danchè had to do something.

They rowed over the short distance to the Viking boat, and Danchè and his men climbed aboard it.

“let me talk to the captain of the Forell. There is no need to kill his crew… he is desperate… let me talk to him, Viking!”

At that moment if was irrelevant whether the Norse facing him was a woman or a man – Danchè’s concern was with the crew of the Forell, and how to stop any more bloodshed.

[Tyrun the Norseman]

I am sorry...RT got its claws into me. I should have no trouble posting tomorrow, though! (before Tyrun drowns, hopefully)

[Tyrun the Norseman]

I am very short of time at the moment...and rather frazzled in the brain. So, I will forgo a proper post, and reply (or, at least try) to all the events, in point form. I only hope I haven't forgotten anything...

While Valkyrie, Warthog, Forrel, Goelette, and Zephyr mix it up near the docks, Elsana Firelock will politely welcome Danche aboard, for the exact purpose of talking sense into the crew of The Forrel. As soon as the Franks cease hostilities, she will instantly order her men to stop fighting. If this happens, she will afford all hospitalities and courtesies to Danche, while demanding immediate surrender from the Forrel. She will also promise not to engage in any wholesale slaughter of the crewmen. If they don't give up the battle, then I guess the chaos will continue!

Tyrun's other three ships (Red Thunder, SLOB, and Falcon) will rush to assist Thorgrimm's fleet in the harbor mouth. If need be, The SLOB's crew can move to other vessels, so that the ship can be used as a fire-ship, ignited and let adrift among the enemy. Looking back, I realize that I had forgotten to mention the Dwarven explosives which would be stocked for battle (just ask Edie about Oxted's "Christmas decorating"...hee hee!). So, instead of just saying "Ta daa! Dwarven explosives!" (I should have properly foreshadowed it), perhaps Thorgrimm's men can use some of their Greek Fire fuel for that purpose. (A reminder: The Falcon is a heavy, slow warship...The Red Thunder is lightly-armed and swift...and The SLOB is unarmed, and incredibly sturdy.)

Helgi Erikson, Salix Razorback, and the anonymous sailor have made it to the docks, hoping to find somebody's plans to throw a wrench into.

Meanwhile, Tyrun is in the sea, saying hello to the little fishies.

Forgive me if I have passed over any important points. Also, forgive me for being such a slacker today!

[Lady Edfeil]

((*L* Perhaps some of our brave sailors can fish Tyrun out of the sea? Edie would be most displeased if he dared to drown or something! ))

[Henri Forells ship boy]

Swimming in the reddish water, Henri, ship’s boy on the Forell, was grabbing after planks that drifted by him, to keep himself over the water line. At 15 he was a bit ld for a ship’s boy, but he had only recently been drafted to served upon one of the Frank trading vessels. He had never bargained with anything like he had seen here in Windstorm – what in the name of God had gone into his Captain?

As he drifted in the harbour, trying desperately to evade the crashing ballista slamming into the waters around the ships, he saw another sailor drifting by. From the dress and hair of the man, he was Norse, but Henri decided that this was not his war. Carefully he paddles closer, then managed to lift the burly Norse onto the plank he was using to stay afloat. The man had only one eye left, but that was clearly an old wound. Nonetheless, he was riddled with arrows and nasty gnashes…. Henri doubted he would make it alive to the shore.

Yet he tried, paddling with all his might, hoping no ballista or arrow would be send their way.

[Henri the ships boy]

(OOC: Oh, just so nobody is in doubt - the man Henri has now on the plank with him is Tyrun! *hugz Edfeil*)

[Tyrun the Norseman]

((Awww, Edie...thank you! *hugs* And thank you as well, player-of-Henri! *L* I was just gonna have Tyrun wake up someplace, where he'd washed-up on the beach. But, this is one of the great things about RP...plot twists!))

Tyrun's eyes had been open for a while, glancing about vaguely, before he truly regained consciousness. When he was finally aware of himself, he blinked twice, and stared. Clouds. A fine day. The wind was blowing, and his body rocked with the familiar rhythm of the sea. His feet dangled in water, and he instinctively knew that he had been cast overboard somehow. It had happened before, and he had woken-up just like this. A frown creased his face as he struggled to recall the immediate past. But he was so tired...he couldn't seem to concentrate.

The Norseman dragged a hand down his face, and let out a slight grunt when he saw it come away covered in blood. He tried to sit up, but it only rocked the plank, and he plunged into the sea. His left hand lunged out, to grab the edge of the oaken board...but he couldn't manage to grasp on. A fleeting moment of panic...then his good hand took hold of the plank, and he pulled himself up. The salty water stung at his wounds, and he grimaced, but somebody had told him once that salt can help prevent a wound from festering, and so he endured the pain.

The effort of flailing at the plank had nearly sent him into unconsciousness again, but he gritted his teeth and forced himself to stay alert. When he looked around, the Norseman was a bit surprised to see he had a neighbor on this scrap of oak. A young fellow, about Tyrun's age when he first took to sea. Dark-haired and comely, the lad stared at the Norseman with wide eyes. Not afraid, but certainly wary.

"Who are you?" His voice was hoarse and weak when he spoke...somehow, this troubled Tyrun more than his wounds.

The lad said nothing, and just stared. Tyrun muttered a bit as he gazed around behind him. His heart was gladdened when saw the odd rigging of The Zephyr...a bit tattered, perhaps...but she was still floating proudly. The whole harbor had become a chaotic battleground. Smoke was rising into the air, but he couldn't focus his vision long enough to concentrate on the scene. But still, enough memories returned to him.

Perhaps this lad was one of Thorgrimm's crew. Speaking in Old Norse, he asked the boy's name. Henri showed no sign of understanding. Perhaps he was deaf? Then...a realization...one of the Franks maybe.

"Qui est tu? Comment-appelle tu?"

When Henri frowned a bit (no doubt at Tyrun's execrable pronunciation), the Norseman realized that the lad was indeed a Frank. He did a quick check, and was relieved to find that his knives were all still in place. Yet...it was obvious that this fellow had fished him from the sea, and that he could have killed Tyrun a long while past, if he wished. No, he was not another hate-blinded zealot...just a fellow sailor.

Tyrun bowed his head in respect. "Thank you. Merci...mon ami."

They drifted with the current, and the Norseman slid into his own world. He was conscious, but exhausted and wracked with pain. His good hand held firm on the plank, but his gaze was unfocused, and his breathing was labored. Occasionally a wave would wash over them, and cleanse the blood off his face and shoulders...but always, it would continue to flow. When he sputtered and coughed, a mist of crimson would spray from his mouth.

Henri did not know what to make of this man...he had been told that all Norse were beasts, who only spoke in animal grunts, and savagely attacked any Christian who came near. As he mused, he kicked and paddled toward the shore...

The sensation of sand raking against his knees roused Tyrun from his daze. They had made it to the beach. He muttered vaguely to Henri as they washed up on the shore, "Good man, good man." The Norseman rose shakily to his feet, and forced his eye to focus as he surveyed his surroundings as he took a few unsteady steps out of the surf.

Then, he spied the towers of Windstorm Castle. Gods...they had drifted so far. His arm trembling, Tyrun pointed toward the proud turrets, before turning to speak to Henri. "We'll go there." He tried to place a hand on the young man's shoulder, but his left hand had been badly wounded, and so it was more of a weak thump, which left a spot of blood on the lad's tunic.

Tyrun began walking...slowly and doggedly...along the shore, turning back to address Henri. "Yes, we shall go to the castle. Come...allonz-y."

The young Frank followed along at a safe distance. However, after only a few yards, the Norseman dropped to his knees, slumping in the sand. Breathing heavily, he bowed his head and closed his eyes. With a force of will, he avoided fainting. "Thor give me strength..."

Tyrun gazed around dully...Henri stood nearby, his face creased with indecision. Waves hissed softly up and down the shore, and gulls whirled and cried overhead. Behind him, he could see the crimson trail he had left in the sand...So much blood...

Beckoning Henri over, the Norseman removed the leather necklace he always wore...it held the three talismans he was never without; a sunstone, a lodestone, and a steel hammer-amulet. Offering it to the young man, he summoned up the strength to speak in a commanding tone. "Take this...here. Take it, and go to the castle. Allez! It'll mark you as a friend...un ami...comprenez-vous? Just remember these words, and say 'em exactly...écoutez et répétez parfait...'By god, I am a friend. Ask Mister Stormblade about the pretty lasses at the Port Thunder tavern.' Now...go!"

Tyrun sent a short prayer to Thor, asking him to make sure the lad remembered properly. Then, he let his mind drift, as he gazed out across the blue sea. The wind played over his face, and he was comforted by that.