| The Great Raid - A Good Day |
| Summary: | The leader of a mighty White Hall Warband muses over the raid to come. |
| Date: | Septembre 09, 1865 IE |
| Related: | All the logs to come concerning The Great Raid |
| NPCs: | {$npc} |
| Players: |
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Rolf Ragnarsson, Chieftain of the Red Hand Corsairs |
Rolf Ragnarsson stood on the deck of his longboat, his eyes cast towards the horizon. The information they'd been given was all-too-true…the cordon of Privateers that ordinarily patrolled these waters so heavily were largely set to task elsewhere. A few that had remained were easily overtaken before they could reach Four Corners and give warning.
He had taken a risk, gathering so many to follow him, but it would pay off, now. Prayers and offerings had been made to Magnus and Tor, to Njor and Frer, to Tir and Magnar. The Berserkers were nearly ready, having spent the day stoking the fires of their righteous battle-fury. He only had a few, but each was worth dozens of these pampered Mainland fools. Now only a short expanse of sea waited between Rolf and his prize.
Four Corners.
The finest as-yet-unplucked jewel of the West. A lamb fattened for slaughter. No Raider Chieftain had ever made a serious push for the city, for its' naval defenses were normally so thick that they would never make the shore. But here was Rolf's armada, untouched by defenders…dozens of ships, hundreds upon hundreds of men.
He would be the first. He would sack this city in the name of the Gods of the Tuskanuld, and when he returned home, he would walk into the Hall of Chieftains and demand recognition for his deeds. His father would look to him with pride, and his name and his tale would be chiseled into Stones of Remembrance, to be chanted by the Skalds for generations to come.
Or he would die in glorious battle, carried off to the Golden Hall to feast with the warriors of old. It mattered not. Either way, the fattened lamb now crested that horizon before him. By the time the horns and bells of alarm sounded, Rolf could swear he heard the fear and desperation in those tones. He imagined he could see the ashen-faced shock on those that frequented the docks as his fleet came into view.
Maybe he'd find some plump, pretty noblewoman to carry off to warm his bed until he tired of her, or to bear him sons. Maybe he'd hew a few of those steel-clad peacocks they called "Knights" limb-from-limb. Maybe he'd cart off chests of gold and casks of the finest wines and ales, because Tor knew these Mainlander fops wouldn't know how to make a proper mead if their lives depended on it.
But whatever happened, Rolf Ragnarsson knew that it was going to be a very good day….