The Reavers of the Red Song

Larus

When Larus plunges into the cold waters of the Sea of Claws, he feels the chill shoot up his bones and into his head causing his muscles to tingle in anticipation. As he wades towards the shore, behind him, he can hear the splashes of more reavers following him out of the boat and up the surf.

Larus catches sight of Hrodgar making his way alongside him, the thick-armed man with the braided mousey brown beard holding a round wooden shield and thick-bladed sword above the water. Quicker still, and wrapped in dark leathers is Ulf. The black-haired Norscan holding a horn bow in hand, black-fletched arrow knocked.

They came from the black water silently, and slipped up into Grenhoff from behind a cluster of fisherman's huts on the west of town. There was only twenty or thirty meters between them and the roar of the townsfolk, but in the fevered clutch of mob violence they went unseen.

Just ahead they could see the looming shape of the guard tower swiftly approaching, and Ulf whistled to get Larus' attention before pointing up towards the narrow rampart at the top. Silhouetted agains the fading light of the sun, Larus could see three men with muskets braced on their shoulders. They were leaning on the rampart, eyes turned down to the spectacle being put on before them.

Had they been perhaps a bit more perceptive, they may have noticed the Red Song grind to a stop upon the shallow, sandy beach.

Or the other longboats following suit moments later.


Otto, Egil, Hygd, Groktur and Morgul

Wearing a scowl beneath the thick and shaggy mustache that framed his mouth and ran up along the lines of his jaw, Gunnar hefted a pair of heavy iron maces and leaned against the railing of the aft-castle at Otto's instruction. Herger snatched a satchel of javelins from its resting place by the foremast and slung it over his shoulder.
"Aye." Herger said, before pointing the tip of a javelin at the southern smuggler. "But I better still get my share of the plunder."

Egil's boast was met with a resounding whoop from the reavers who still remained on the Red Song, not having followed Larus into the shoal. The whoops of anticipated battle were cut through by the braying of the dark-furred Bray-Shaman that had accompanied them. The inhuman sound rendered the inexperienced Norscans silent enough for Morgul to shout his demands across the deck.

Only moments before the Red Song lurched and it ran aground, Groktur had plodded through the shallows and onto the beach. Before him, dozens of soft townsfolk were huddled in a large group as they jeered and cursed a man who was being led atop a small pile of corded wood where a stake awaited him.

The Caprigor saw the men with coloured jackets and carrying halberds moving through the crowds at erratic intervals. The manlings had let their guard become very lax. Hearing the dark tongue shouted by the Bray-Shaman that served the Jarl cut through the battle thrill that was rising in Groktur.

When the caravel bottomed out on the sand and shifted with a groan of wood, the reavers followed Egil and Groktur over the railing and onto the beach. Their own jeers and howls of excitement drowned out by the mob, masking their approach.

Morgul felt the Amber winds of Ghur twisted with the Dhar that seeped from his body like oily smoke as they surrounded him, and pulled his mortal form into a furious flurry of oily black feathers. As he caught the wind and rose high above the small fishing town, he spotted the man being led up to the stake.

The Bray recognized the hue of his skin and slant of his features. This was one of the Gospoda manlings from Kislev far to the east, and bordering on the ancestral lands of the Braven-Tooth and he wore the corruption of Dhar and Ghryan like a mantle.

Groktur, Egil and the other reavers from the Red Song were nearly within charging distance when a mournful cry rose from the shores - a half-dozen twisted horns blaring the arrival of the other longships.

As screaming death began to rush ashore behind them, the villagers began to turn one by one to see what the commotion was.

A single halberdier stepped forward, eyes wide as he saw the shapes of Groktur hurtling towards him. "Attack! Attack!" He shouted in a panic. "We're under attack!"





Grenhoff

Nicoli Oleg

Words that seemed like the ranting of a madman - a lunatic doomsayer - spilled across the crowds and seemed to incense them further. The line of halberdiers that formed a ring around the pyre had to hold the crowd back as they surged forward, trying to vent their fear onto Nicoli with violence. But the Imperial halberdiers held.

The sergeant spat at Nicoli's feet, and began to rant at him again about Sigmar's justice, but the Kislevite's attention was suddenly drawn by a flicker of shadows passing swift as a snake between the houses to the west. He caught the glint of bared steel, and suddenly realized that out beyond the raging mob and down the sandy lane to the beach several black and scarlet-sailed ships were slipping quietly into town.

Dark figures were spilling over the railing of the first ship to land, and moments later he heard the eerie howling cry of the warhorns.

Norscans.