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 Photo credit: "Capo Caccia coastline in Sardinia, Italy" by Gabriele Maltinti The Things We Carry - Let's Play Crusader Kings 3 Hello and welcome to yet another So what's the pitch this time around?  We will start as the Norse in Gotland, and move to Sardinia. Afterwards, we'll mix with the locals, and play it by ear, with your votes! Wait, hang on, that guy is stacked to the gills with traits, what gives? This guy is indeed dangerously full of traits, with both max level genetic advantages and the strategic acumen of Genghis Khan. This is because I need him to live long enough and fight well enough to actually get to Sardinia (~2,500 km away). Don't worry, he's incapable of setting up institutions, and his kids will piss everything away. Why Sardinia? The island west of Italy is no stranger to naval invasions: the Phoenicians, Carthagenians, Romans, Vandals, and Byzantines have all at one point or another took over Sardinia and left a mark on its culture. This is due to two factors: its great strategic location (in the middle of the Mediterranean, with easy access to everything from eastern Spain to North Africa), and the mines. The south of the island is full of lead and silver, to such an extent that by the end of the Middle Ages, Sardinian silver mines accounted for 10% of Europe's silver.  The way this works gameplay-wise is the mining building chain in the barony of Iglesias, which will become our capital. This will let us make enough money to give us a chance to survive the Mediterranean Thunderdome. What Thunderdome? In the 867 start date, the Mediterranean is a shitshow.  Italy is rich, but fractured between the Karlings holding the north and the petty lords ruling over the Byz remnants in the south.  While Al-Andalus controls most of Iberia, the tensions between the various Christian and Muslim sects throughout the peninsula have turned it into an endless knife fight of all against all.  North African Muslim kings have rather tenuous loyalty to the Caliph out east, who is busy with Persia rapidly disintegrating anyway.  Plus, because Sardinia is so close to Rome, there's a non-zero chance that us capturing it will awaken the Pope and start the Crusades (ideally towards Jerusalem, and not us). All of these players want that pretty little +3 gold/month mine, and with a terrible heathen holding it (us), all of them have casus belli on us. As you can see, taking Sardinia is going to be easy. Holding it is going to be a nightmare. It's gonna be fun. So this is gonna be some sort of Sagas going forward? Well, not really. Just like my other LPs, the narrative will not be told from the perspective of the people in charge of this shitshow, instead dealing with the lives of those directly affected by it. Specifically, we will be following an object (a comb to start with) as it gets traded, stolen, embellished, broken down for parts, and re-constituted as something else. Updates Einarr of Visby (851-???) --1.1 - The Boy from Nyhamn --1.2 - The Terror from Visby --1.3 - The Pilgrim from Gotland Kayten fucked around with this message at 03:13 on Apr 3, 2024 |
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Mar 28, 2024 04:31
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1.1 - The Boy from Nyhamn A small island stood at the crossroads of the Baltic Sea. Thousands of ships crossed the sea each year: fishermen and raiders, merchants and messengers, Norse and Balts, Pomeranians and Finns. Not many of them stopped at Gotland, but enough did to keep the island connected to the rest of Scandinavia.  In a small clearing in the woods not far from Visby, a young hunter watched the camp and waited for the rest of his party. No older than 20, Snorri already had a scar on his face from a raid into the east two years prior. His cousin wasn't supposed to show up until noon and so, to keep himself busy, he was carving a small deer antler. His old comb, a small wooden thing made by his father ages ago, finally broke into pieces earlier that week. If Freyja would be kind and grant him a son, this one would stay with his boy longer than his own father's heirloom lasted. The antler was hard to work with, and Snorri had already nicked himself with his carving knife twice. Runa gave him an earful for not selling it along with the skins, but he kept at it anyway. If his father could carve when he was alive, why couldn't he? Besides, he knew his wife wasn't thinking clearly, not with the boy growing in her belly.  "Cousin! Cousin, I bring news!", came a shout from the road to Visby. Snorri winced. Helgi's booming voice was going to scare the game for miles around. "Helgi, please. Think of the hunt." "Forget your hunt! Some boy from Nyhamn challenged Chief Arn to holmgang!" Snorri scratched his beard. A holmgang was a rare thing, and much more interesting than the hunt. However it turned out, Visby would be talking about it for weeks, if not months. Nodding, he put out the fire and followed Helgi back to town.  The crowd had already formed around the small circle on the edge of Visby. Enough people had gathered that Arn's gang had to start pushing the more eager onlookers out of the circle. Chief Arn had been chief for a month now. After Chief Hakon died in his sleep, the ting-meet pronounced Arn the new chief mere days later. Helgi swore that he knew a man who knew a man who saw Arn himself poison Hakon in his bed, but Snorri put no stock in Helgi's rumours. The chief was getting ready for the duel, with his godi, a strange man named Kettil, whispering prayers over him as he stretched. Arn was in his thirties, and had seen a dozen raids over the years. So why did the warrior look so worried?  As soon as Snorri saw the challenger, he knew why. Helgi was right, the other duelist was a boy - no more than sixteen, without so much as a a hair on his chin. He had a boyish face, with rosy cheeks, a picture of youth. He was also eight feet tall. As he took his shirt off, Snorri saw a mountain of muscles, some he didn't even know men could have. The cheap lumber axe in his hand looked a toy, and seemed to be about as dull.  Kettil calmed the crowd down for the main event. Chief Arn spoke first. "People of Visby! Did I not fight for you when the men of Uppland came for our women? Did I not bring you gold and amber from the east, taken from the weaklings in the woods? After Hakon died with no heirs, did I not steer you in such a dangerous time? I am the rightful chief of Visby, no matter what a boy from a fishing hamlet says. May the gods show you the truth!" A few cheers came from the crowd. Arn was generous with his spoils, especially after Chief Hakon died. The boy spoke next. "I am Einarr Hakonsson, the only son of Chief Hakon". He pointed the dull axe at Arn. "Arn the Betrayer, Arn the Poisoner, Arn the Coward may need the help of the gods, but I do not! I will kill you, traitor, take my father's place, and lead all of Gotland to glory!" Whispers spread throughout the crowd. "I told you, I loving told you!" said Helgi, slapping Snorri's back.  The two men moved in a circle, sizing each other up. Arn was very light on his feet, ready to pounce at moment's notice, while the boy barely moved at all. Arn saw an opening, and closed the gap faster than Snorri could see. His axe came down on the boy's shoulder, at the spot that would be unprotected by mail in a real fight. But the boy was faster still. His left hand grabbed Arn's axe, stopping it mid-swing. The boy's axe cut- no, it broke clean through the chief's arm. The chief screamed in pain, but only for a second: the boy swung his axe a second time, caving his skull in with the blunt axe, and almost tearing Arn's head off his shoulders. The mangled body collapsed to the ground like a sack of turnips. All that remained was the old chief's hand, still holding onto his axe. Godi Kettil stared at the boy in awe. Whispering a quick prayer, he rushed next to him, and raised his arm. "Visby! The gods have spoken! Einarr Hakonsson is your rightful chief!" --  In a small house on the edge of Visby, Runa was helping her husband pack. "They say the chief's new wife came all the way from Norge. Must be exciting to finally see some warm seas, it's very cold out there." "How would you know, Snorri, you've never been that far west." "I hear things."  Runa scoffs. "You hear what your cousin hears, and he believes everything he's told. It's plenty cold here." "Well, what have you heard?"  "I didn't need to hear anything. I spoke to the woman. She's been taking her time in Visby, making herself known to the townsfolk." "And what have you learned, woman?" "Plenty! She learns quickly, and takes a real interest in how the town works. After all, she will rule while you lot are off on your raid."  "Since when does a foreign princess rule us? What's the rest of the council for?" "Foreign? She speaks our tongue and knows our ways, she's no more foreign than my aunt Gerda from Seilanger."  "Oh, don't get me started on aunt Gerda, those northeners have no manners! She's worse than a foreigner, she's rude!"  "Rude? Aunt Gerda gave us two chickens for our wedding, she can be a little uncouth if she'd like!" Snorri raised his hands.  "I don't want to fight, my gosling." Runa sighed. "I know. I'm sorry." She took her husband's hand and put it in hers. "You will be safe, my shield. The Allfather will watch over you as you take what's yours. Bring us something nice from Uppland."  Snorri smiled, and kissed his wife's belly. "I can't wait to meet you, my son." She laughed and ran her fingers through his hair. "Our son, Snorri." --  The sail of Chief Einarr's longship flapped in the storm winds, but held on, carrying them raiding party forward. Godi Kettil was never far from his chief, as always. Many whispered prayers left his lips: to Aegir, to Freyr, and to Odin, just in case. You never know who's listening. It wasn't the first raid Snorri has gone on, but it was the most dangerous one. The chief's father never raided the other Norse, after all, what if they fought back? Even Arn wanted to raid in the east, undefended and poor.  But the boy was no coward. Soon after his victory at the holmgang, he stood in front of the ting-meet and announced they would raid the north. Gods, this was bold. With the Great Army invading England, Uppland stood undefended. And still, this was Bjorn Ironside's domain. Bjorn Ragnarrsson's domain.  Such an attack was bound to bring retaliation. After all, what kind of jarl would let his treasure be taken, his women and children be slaughtered, and not strike back? Snorri's thoughts were with Runa and the boy. May Freyja protect them. --  Snorri tossed another torch on the roof. The rain was not helping, and the damned thing refused to burn. Looking over to the temple itself, he saw a few of the raiders drag out the priests in front of the chief.  The godi in charge was rambling. "By the gods, what are you doing? This is a holy place, guarded by Thor himself!" Chief Einarr loomed over the priest. "I do not see your Thor, old man. Where is he?"  A swing of his axe cut the godi in half. "WHERE IS HE?!" The axe swung again and again, until the godi no longer resembled a man, becoming a slurry of shattered bone and viscera. The giant took a deep breath to center himself before barking out orders. "Take what you can carry. Leave the godi to the ravens." --  It had been a long few months. After sacking Uppland, Jarl Bjorn's men caught up to them along the coast. They had more men, better troops, and were camping out in familiar territory. But Chief Einarr saw what Snorri could not. He saw that the Upplanders hid from the winds under a cliff, and sent his vigmen to take position there. When the raiding party charged the camp, the Upplander shieldwall faced them, letting the vigmen hit their unprotected back. Snorri's group broke through the weakened lines and routed the locals.  Einarr had proven himself. He brought them against the greatest Jarl in Scandinavia, brought them to his home, and gave them victory. Bountiful plunder, treasures stolen by Ragnarr Lothbrok himself. For his part, Snorri took a sack of small gems from the treasury. Helgi's friend was a jeweler, and he would add a few to his antler-comb. The rest would go to rings for Runa. --  "All hail Einnar, Jarl of Visby!" The cheers rocked the longhouse. Hundreds of fighters raised their horns and mugs and goblets, drinking to their hero, their jarl.  This was the greatest feast Visby has ever seen. For once, Snorri was the one telling stories. Helgi and his sisters gathered around, drinking in the stories of the Jarl's bravery in battle. "On Thor's beard I swear, Helgi! His axe tore the man's iron plate like paper!" Runa laughed along with the rest of her family. The little bundle in her arms babbled and tried to reach his father's axe. Freyja was kind. It was a boy.  The Jarl stood up, and raised his hand, silencing the rowdy host. "I thank you all for your kind words. I would like to say a few myself." "Speech, speech, speech!", cried the warriors. "First, I would like to honour the lady of Visby, my beacon in the dark seas, and the reason I will always come home." He bowed deeply to his wife. "To Yr!" "To Yr!" roared the crowd.  "And I thank the gods she is here in my stead. There is no one I would rather rule while we take what is ours!" Kettil jumped to his feet and led the crowd in a chant. "What you take!" "Is yours!" "What you take!" "Is yours!"  Jarl Einarr smiled and calmed the crowd again. "Now, I would like to honour you, my warriors. Each man here is a brother to me, each shieldmaiden a sister. I would go to Hel and back for you. To you!" "To us!", the crowd roared.  "So drink, and eat freely! Take what you can from the hoard! See your wives and children, and rest well, my heroes, because you! Are! Not! Done!"  "Because once you've rested. Once your new comrades join us. Then we will do what the Ragnarrssons did, and we will go west. To England!" "To England!" The roar was loud enough to be heard by the fishermen out at sea. By England itself, perhaps. Kayten fucked around with this message at 07:10 on Mar 28, 2024 |
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Mar 28, 2024 04:32
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Well this looks great. 
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Mar 28, 2024 05:48
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8 feet seems awful tall!
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Mar 28, 2024 05:56
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Off to a good start!
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Mar 28, 2024 06:59
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Volmarias posted:8 feet seems awful tall! It's how you know he's unde-feet-ed 
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Mar 28, 2024 07:07
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Me like this already! As far as CK3 goes, it's at the level where I'd be glad to play it- but I have no money for the DLCs.
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Mar 28, 2024 09:21
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This is one of my favorite strategies. I love playing as Baleo-Thyrrenia for some reason, it's just fun and can go several different ways depending on your actions!
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Mar 28, 2024 10:34
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NewMars posted:Me like this already! As far as CK3 goes, it's at the level where I'd be glad to play it- but I have no money for the DLCs. CK is one of those games where it's a lot more fun for me to watch other people play it than to do it myself.
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Mar 28, 2024 13:34
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Burn and pillage, OP. 
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Mar 28, 2024 14:50
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why, yes, i will bookmark the new paradox grand strategy lp, thank you for asking
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Mar 28, 2024 15:13
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Invading a path from Visby to Sardinia, via England.
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Mar 28, 2024 15:41
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AJ_Impy posted:Invading a path from Visby to Sardinia, via England. England seemed to be a pretty common layover for Vikings at the time
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Mar 28, 2024 15:43
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Volmarias posted:England seemed to be a pretty common layover for Vikings at the time Still is, given the current folks on the throne can trace back to the Normans, who were Vikings with a brief stopover on the other side of the channel coast.
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Mar 28, 2024 16:05
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Hell yeah
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Mar 28, 2024 23:31
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1.2 - The Terror from Visby Jarl Einnar's camp outside Exeter was lively with celebration. The town itself was almost completely undefended, and home to a temple to the Roman god, Kristus, with enough gold and silks for every man in the raiding party. Snorri and his new battle-brother, Hrani, were trading loot: Snorri managed to grab a silver goblet from the temple, and wanted three whole necklaces for it. Hrani found a handful of necklaces in the ealdorman's house, once he disposed of the locals. The green stones on them caught the light of the fire, making him think of Runa.  He was asking for three, but they would settle on two in about fifteen minutes. "How can you ask for three, Snorri? Your cup is drenched in blood, and has no shine to it. I am doing you a favour by giving you just one necklace!" Hrani was an older man, wisened by his years in Miklagard. Jarl Einarr's triumph in Uppland brought many Varangians like him to Visby. He was right, though, the blood and brains of the monk Snorri took the goblet from dulled the silver's shine. "Bah, that'll come out in a second."  Snorri waved one of the new thralls over. This one still had his monk robes on. Snorri tossed him a rag and the goblet, and made a wiping motion. The monk didn't understand. Frustrated, Snorri grabbed him by the hands, and started wiping the goblet with them. "Freyja's tits, these Saxons are stupid." As Snorri sat down, he heard the monk speak in Norse.  "I am Cornish. Not Saxon. We're Brythonic." The battle-brothers were on him in less than a second, knives at his throat. "You know our tongue? How, spy?" "I spoke for men in Wessex to Norse warriors. Ten years ago." Hrani kept the knife on the monk, and nodded to Snorri. The old Varangian was right, the Jarl had to know about this. --  Jarl Einarr made his way towards the thralls, Ketill shadowing his every step. The rest of the raiding party crowded them at a polite distance. One of the raiders brought forth an elegant chair ripped from the temple, and the Jarl sat in comfort. Even sitting down he was as tall as any of the men. Ketill silenced the crowd and spoke to the monk. "God-botherer! You stand in the greatness of Jarl Einarr of Gotland, Allfather's Chosen, the Slayer of Priests! Kneel or die!" "Kneel or die!" roared the crowd. The monk didn't need to know the Norse he did to get the message. Slowly, awkwardly, he prostrated himself before the Jarl. Jarl Einarr bid him rise with a practiced wave of the hand. "Tell me, priest, where did you learn our speech?" "In Dorset, my Jarl. The Danes have been raiding it for almost a century. Many priests there know your tongue."  Ketill leaned over to the Jarl and whispered. "The King of Wessex now holds Dorset as his capital, my Jarl." "Does he now? Priest! What do I call you?" "Branok, my Jarl. It's a Cornish name." "Branok the Cornish it is, then. Have you any news of Wessex of late?" "The Danes in the north have been sacking cities, so the king rode out with his host to meet them." Jarl Einarr looked over to his godi. The priest's eyes were practically glowing. "It seems I was wrong about your visions, Ketill." "The gods speak through me, my Jarl. And they speak of you." Jarl Einarr stood up and turned to the crowd. "Warriors! Count your spoils, eat your fill, and rest. For tomorrow we march east, and raid Wessex!"  The crowd cheers, and the vikings return to their treasures. "Branok, you will speak for me to the Saxons. For this, you will eat and sleep with the men, away from the thralls. Now, I hear that your people are close to the Bretons?"  "Distant cousins, my Jarl. One of your people has settled there of late." "Oh?" "Haesteinn, a dread viking and friend to Bjorn, Halfdan's brother." --  The forests of Samogitia were cold and unwelcoming. This past week cost Snorri's group three men to the snow and the traps. He had a vigman whipped for running his mouth about a "petty family squabble" - they were the Jarl's men, and he wasn't going to tolerate this.  The raiding party that sailed to burn Brittany to the ground returned with its holds empty and swords unbloodied. Snorri was right, and Lady Yr's family hated the winters enough to leave - her father called on Jarl Einarr for the invasion of Samogitia, a small strip of land on the southern Baltic.  This had been hard for the Jarl - he had never gone to war before. He raided, and he fought great armies in England and Uppland, but it wasn't the same. A raider can take his treasure and leave at any moment - that is his strength. But a warrior must take land and hold it, and strike at the enemy's strongest holds. Besides, there was nothing *to* raid - the Lithuanians did not have the silver goblets and green jewels the Saxons had.  And so they were camped out in a village with an unpronounceable name, having killed another thousand woodsmen. War was so much more boring than raiding to Snorri, but the Jarl had a family, and obligations from it. To kill time, he had borrowed Branok from the Jarl, and had him etch a Christian blessing into his deer-comb. The Roman god-runes were elaborate and beautiful, but were so much harder to carve. A rider wearing Visby colours came to the village around mid-day, his horse at full gallop. He ran straight for the Jarl, and dropped to his knees before him.  "I bring news, my Jarl, from Visby. Great and terrible news." The Jarl leaned over, and gave the man a hand, helping him up. "My warriors do not kneel, brave messenger. Not even to me. Now come, out with it."  "Your wife, lady Yr, she gave birth to a son. I have seen him myself, and I swear on Allfather's Eye that he is the strongest child I have ever laid eyes on. A true son of his father." For the first time since the raid was delayed, Snorri saw his Jarl smile. Slowly, he walked away from the messenger, took a deep breath, and shouted so loud that the trees shook. "I have a son! Long live Ivar Einarrsson!" His warriors rushed him, hugging the Jarl, shaking his hands. "Ivar! A hundred years to Ivar!", they called. But the messenger did not smile with them. Slowly, all too slowly, the Jarl saw that he wasn't finished. There was more news. Hofgodi Ketill moved to quiet the men. "What else, man!", he called.  The messenger could not look Einarr in the eyes. "I'm sorry, my Jarl. Your son is strong and full of life. But your wife... The gods have cursed Lady Yr. Leprosy now consumes her." All colour was gone from Einarr's face. The mighty Jarl dropped to his knees, his eyes looking past the crods, past the village, and into the endless seas. "My love..." --  The next few days were a blur. The Lithuanians sent out another force to take back the village, but the Jarl's fighters prevailed. Soon, the former High Chief of Samogitia came to surrender to Alfgeir, escorted by Jarl Einarr and his men. Every night, Snorri heard Ketill and the Jarl argue. Shouting loud enough for the men to hear, they fought over the gods, and curses, and prices, and rulership, and legacy.  The other Lithuanian Chiefs came to offer coin for their captured daughters and wives. The gold wasn't much, but it was all they could afford after the war. The High Chief of the Lithuanians himself came to beg for his wife back. But Hofgodi Ketill stood over the Jarl, and he whispered into his ear. He whispered of heirs, and the great destiny that awaits the Allfather's Chosen. The Jarl would need many sons for his bloodline, and Lady Yr, Freyja preserve her, could no longer grant him any.  The Jarl snarled at the priest, but he was right - the throne needed children. And so the High Chief of the Lithuanians was told to rejoice, for he would keep his gold. His wife, Zhemyna, would become the Jarl's concubine. Three men had to hold back the High Chief, who cursed the Jarl in his woodsman speech, and spit on the viking. But there was no violence. The woodsmen lost and knew it. --  Visby has grown since Snorri set out to raid. Many more varangians and huscarls flocked to the town. Enough came that the Jarl ordered the older varangians train the new ones, and cleared a training grounds for them.  The Jarl did not stay at in Visby long. He introduced his wife to his concubine, met his son, and gathered his raiders. The detour was over, and Britanny would burn.  Snorri saw the toll Lady Yr's fate took on the Jarl. Even raiding no longer thrilled him. He spent more and more time with Ketill, listening to the hofgodi ramble about the gods and their works. His share of the treasure grew, but he had little lust for gold now.  The only thing that gave him joy was talking about his son. Little Ivar was always on his mind. The nicest silks, the heaviest treasure, all went into a pile for the boy.  Glorious combat against a worthy opponent, even that no longer had sway over him. Haesteinn, who sailed with Bjorn Ragnarrsson to Iberia, and Rome, and Africa, and raided them all, was the Jarl's greatest challenge. A glorious warrior, a talented strategist, backed by the fiercest varangians, and the strongest champions.  The Jarl's men won against Haesteinn, if only barely. A great feast for ravens, and a thousand brave men headed to Valhalla.  The battle with the old viking taught the Jarl a great many things. He taught him patience, and strategy. He taught him when to strike, and when to retreat, conserving your men. And he taught him that the Franks were swimming in gold, and that the rivers in their lands stretched all the way to Paris. And the Jarl listened.  Snorri has followed the Jarl to England and Brittany, to Lithuania and Sweden. And in all those places, he took what he wanted, and he killed all those who stopped him. Soon, the word of his deeds spread throughout the Baltic Sea. Einarr the Vikingr, Einarr the Reaver, Einarr the Life-Taker.  Everything he took, he brought to Visby.  He threw feasts for his men.  Every varangian from Jorvik to Miklagard had heard of him, and wanted to pledge to his army and eat at his table.  And the table was always full, no matter what course his life took.  His youthful indiscretion had cost him his loving wife. He spat at the gods, and they spat back.  And so he grew closer to the hofgodi with the visions, and the Kristus priest, and many more besides. Holy men, lunatics and prophets, would crowd him forever more, whispering of perdition and redemption, of glory and power.  All he had to do was take it.
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Mar 29, 2024 09:19
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I like your writing style, I'm digging this LP so far.
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Mar 30, 2024 11:14
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1.3 - The Pilgrim from Gotland  After hours of rowing along with the current, the wind finally picked up. Knutl, one of the Jarl's group leaders, shouted the order to raise sails, and Snorri breathed a sign of relief. Barking a few orders of his own, he watched his group unfurl their sail, adorned with the Einarring crest: a red ship on a white field. They could rest as the Seine carried them into the sea.  Sitting back down, Snorri eyed the Jarl's longship. Jarl Einarr, may Odin watch over him, continued with his strange habit of collecting priests and wisemen. The latest one, Hlodowig, was a Frank they picked up outside Paris. A very pushy man, he quickly wormed his way into the Jarl's inner circle. He knew the lay of the land, and spoke for the Jarl to the Franks in temples and towns all along the Seine.  Snorri didn't like the Frank. He spoke too much: in godspeech to Bradok, in Frankish to the thralls, and in Norse to the Jarl. Even now, Snorri could see him ramble about kingship, or purgatory, or the ancient Frankish king Chlodovechus, or whatever else he could think of. Hrani nudged the former hunter. "Afraid the Frank is going to steal your jarl away?" "He's your Jarl too, Hrani." "He's my raid leader, not my jarl. I'm a Sjaellander, I don't even know who my jarl is. Some Ragnarsson or another, I wager."  Snorri shook his head. Hrani was a key part of his shieldwall, and saved him from Saxon arrows time and again, but his mouth was a greater danger than any Frank. "You can't let the priests hear you talk like that." "Why not? Let any of them challenge me and meet their god". He thinks for a moment. "And if not, I go to Valhalla. What more could anyone ask for?" Snorri waved the conversation away. As fun as it would be to see Hrani cleave the Roman priests in two, the Jarl would never allow it. Their sweet words grew on him as rot grows in a wound. Even Kettil, the Jarl's hofgodi, would side with the Kristus worshippers. He pulled out his deer-comb, adorned with jewels, with the Kristus blessing carved into it, and absent-mindedly brushed his beard. Perhaps he was overthinking it. After all, their hold was full of treasure from Paris, and the Jarl promised an even greater raid after they've rested. What could a few foreigners do? --  With the longships dragged onto the beach, and the camp set up for the winter, the raiders threw themselves into celebration. The Great Southern Raid has been a success unlike any other. No viking dared to do what they did, not even Bjorn Ironside and Haesteinn. The Eternal City provided them with so much gold and silks that they had to leave plenty of it behind or else risk the longships sinking.  Ivar Einarring, the next Jarl of Gotland, danced around the fire, waving his dagger around. Lady Yr protested against taking the boy on a raid, given his young age, but Jarl Einarr promised he would stay on the ships. He held true to his word: the young viking worked as a scout, keeping watch for the Pave's soldiers. One day he would pick up a sword and charge into glorious battle, but for now, he could watch and learn.  The Jarl took the boy by the hand, and sat him down for one such lesson. His many foreign retainers followed, keeping their distance. To quell concerns, the Jarl ordered that only those who follow the gods can stand next to him. Kristus worshippers could come no closer than three steps away. The boy was curious, asking endless questions of the Jarl, and of the priests when he had exhausted his father. "Father, why are we here?"  "In Hredimarar? To raid the king of the Christians." "No, on this island." "We will wait out the winter here. We don't want to sail through the cold winds." The boy was deep in thought. "And what is this place?" "The locals call it 'Sardigna'. There is nothing here but sheep and sheepfuckers."  Hlodowig bowed deeply to Einarr. "Your Highness, if I may interject." "Speak, Frank." "The Romans, pagan as they were, knew the value of Sardinia". He pointed to a series of hills in the distance. "Those hills have more silver in them than all the courts of all the Karlings. These mines fed the coffers of Rome, and Carthago before that. The Roman silver you took from the Vaticano most likely came from here." It was the jarl's turn to be in thought. "And who rules over these mines?" "A local judge. No great power holds them."  "And how many men does this judge have?" "I do not know, Your Highness. No more than a few thousand. No judge holds the entire island." "Why does no one simply take it, then? The Jarl of Italy, or the Franks?" Hlodowig smiled. "His Royal Majesty, Charles of the house of Karling, Third of His Name, is no mere Jarl, Your Highness. He is a King." "Am I not a King, then?"  The laugh came from an unexpected source. Hrani stood up from his place, his laughter booming across the hills. Snorri tried to pull on his sleeve, to get him to settle, but it was too late. Hrani's path was clear, and he wandered over to the Jarl's entourage. "You are a great Vikingr, Einarr the Raven-Feeder. Greater than any I have ever seen. But I have seen Miklagard, and I have seen your Visby. You rule over a fishing village in a frozen sea- No, you claim to rule it, but you don't even do that! Your leper-wife does it for you! You are the king of nothing, Einarr of Nyhamn!" He drew his sword, and pointed it at the Jarl. Despite the wine, his swordhand did not shake. It slew a hundred men, and wine alone could not claim it. "You are a bandit with a boat. A child with a knife, like your boy. No better than any of us." All eyes were on the Jarl. An insult like that called for blood. And the Jarl would give it freely! Hlodowig tried to get between the men, to calm the tensions. "Your Highness, surely this doesn't-" The hofgodi grabbed him, tossing him on the ground. "Be silent, Kristus priest. You know nothing of our ways". He raised his hands to skies. "Odin calls! A holmgang!" Within minutes, the circle was made. Einarr with his axe, Hrani with his sword. Ketilmundr, another raid group leader, held the jarl's shield. Snorri held Hrani's. Ketil spoke the prayers, whispering his words to Odin and Thor. Ivar Einarrsson, unsure of what comes next, watched his father weigh the axe in his hand. The prayers concluded, the Jarl spoke first. "You fought well for me, Hrani the Varangian. You have earned a warrior's funeral. I give you my word as Jarl." Hrani shook his head. There would be no speech. "To Odin's hall!" Their shields in hand, the raiders began to circle each other. Hrani fought in Greece and Sicily, on the shores of the Danube and the Tiber. He had raided across half the continent. He was an excellent soldier. But he fought in a shieldwall, protecting his men, and protected by them. Einarr the Giant had fought duel after duel. He fought Chief Arn, and Bjorn Ironside, and Charles of Francia. Hrani lasted longer than any of them. But not by much. The Jarl's giant arm swung the axe, sending splinters flying, as he cut through Hrani's shield, leathers, skin, and bone. There was no scream this time. Hrani's sword went for the throat, but it was too late. Swatting his hand aside like a toy, Einarr put his axe through the Varangian's chest. Snorri looked to the skies as his friend hit the ground. The embers from the campfires rose into the night, and he swore he saw three shieldmaidens, dressed in white, walk through the darkness between them. One of the maidens knelt beside the dying viking, cradling his head in her hands. Her sisters leaned on the Jarl, one at each shoulder, waiting. Hrani's rasping voice could hardly be heard above the waves crashing ashore. "Sword in hand... I go to Valhalla." His eyes closed for the last time as the shieldmaiden kissed them. Her sisters kissed Einarr on the cheeks in turn. Snorri blinked, and they were gone. Only his Jarl remained, blessed by Odin's maids themselves. "Einarr the Valkyrja-Touched!" he called. The crowd roared with him. --  King Halfdan's longhouse was full of warriors and pilgrims from across all of Scandinavia. Of all the Ragnarssons, his realm stood the strongest. Half of England was his to rule as a true king, with a thousand thousands Saxons and Norse toiling in his name.  The king himself was away in Sudreyjar on business, so his Queen managed his affairs, including hosting the noble pigrims. Ever since the conquest of Jorvik, thousands of warriors made pilgrimage to this place to feel closer to Odin.  After the Great Southern Raid, Snorri has gotten close to the hofgodi. It was a shame that it took Snorri so long to see what Kettil had seen - the Hredimarar drowned in blood, and Einarr standing over it.  So when he said he wanted to see Jorvik, the center of Norse England, the site of the great Ragnarsson victory over the Kristus worshippers, Kettil was ecstatic. It turned out the Jarl himself had wanted to visit England, not as a raider, but as a pilgrim.  Though, watching his Jarl speak with the Queen of the Danelaw now, he had his doubts. There was little talk of Odin and Freyja, of Valhalla and Hel. The Jarl instead focused on the minutia of running a kingdom - taxes, roads, and markets. The queen was well-versed in such matters, to be sure, but is that really what they came here for? --  The Tour of England covered the breadth of the island, from Alba in the north, to Kent in the south. The Jarl's retinue grew as they traveled, and his habit of collecting priests has now expanded: Kristus champions joined the entourage as easily as mystics.  Though he had to admit, the newcomers were quite good at war. Used to raiding, neither the Jarl, not Snorri himself really knew much about taking castles and fighting entire armies in the field.  The western champions, whose names Snorri gave up on trying to pronounce, gladly taught the Jarl and his commanders the intricacies of siegework.  Even after they taught him everything they knew, he insisted they stayed with him, paying for the Welshman's and the Cumbrian's expenses, and promising them homes in Visby.  The way he phrased it was strange, though. "Home in Visby and beyond" was the phrase. What did he mean by that?  What sort of beyond? The Kristus worshippers couldn't get into Valhalla, and with all respect to the Jarl, he did not control their heaven.  That made no sense to him. Perhaps he was thinking of following Lady Yr's father's example, and settling across the sea? But the Baltic forests were no better than Gotland, and they had no treasures worth taking or ruling over.  When he brought his concerns to Kettil, the old hofgodi laughed. "Why do you think we are here in England, Snorri? You and I see only today, but Einarr Odin-Marked sees across generations. You see only the raids, while he sees a kingdom."  "A kingdom? He means to march on Uppsala?" "The world is much larger than Uppsala, Snorri. Larger than England, even."  The hofgodi shook his head. "It is hard for to say this, but I try to make him see beyond our gods."  "Hofgodi!" "It is true. Our gods are great and powerful, and Valhalla awaits the brave, but if Einarr Pave-Raider is to conquer himself a kingdom, our gods will not be enough. He must learn from the foreign kings and their foreign gods."  "But their gods are weak! If they weren't, why do they not protect their shores from us?" "Not all strength is the same, Snorri. Your axe is strong, and it will cleave a man in half. But it will not build a castle. Nor will it bring water to you when you thirst. You need the right tool for the right task."  "Our gods could conquer them all!" "They could, it is true. But did our gods save Bjorn Ragnarsson? No, he lies dead, while his son Eirikr rules Sweden."  The hofgodi drew a small map on the ground. "Did our gods give Sigurdr Danmark? No, this Ragnarsson bent the knee to his nephew."  He pointed to the western-most island. "Even Ivar Ragnarsson learned of Kristus and his ways, for his subjects in Irland follow the Roman god."  "But King Halfdan holds true to our gods, he even made Jorvik a place of great pilgrimage!"  "It is true. But Halfdan made peace with the King of Wessex, a Kristus follower. And Alfred of Wessex is now the King of England himself. If Halfdan knew nothing of Kristus and his ways, he would not rule all of Danelaw, and he could not make peace with England."  Snorri got up and started to pace. "Are you telling me that our Jarl has abandoned our gods for knowledge of every petty king along the coast?"  "Never, my dear boy. Pay the Kristus priests no mind. They think that if they give the Jarl their secrets, they will worm their god into his soul. But I speak to him every night."  "And what do you see?" "I see our Jarl take their secrets for himself, gathering knowledge like the Allfather himself."  "And where will this knowledge take him?"  "First, to the southern shores. But do not get comfortable. We will not be staying there long."
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Apr 3, 2024 03:12
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In-teresting.
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Apr 3, 2024 03:45
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I love the offset viewpoint.
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Apr 3, 2024 16:52
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I am super invested in this story already.
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Apr 3, 2024 17:29
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Yeah you are an amazing writer and I'm always pumped when I read your stuff.
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Apr 3, 2024 20:17
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This rules thank you for your posts
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Apr 3, 2024 20:18
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A-viking we shall go!
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Apr 6, 2024 23:34
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