Off the Coast of Ulaidh (Celtic Prologue RP)

[Dirty Chai]

The coming of the 1100 year mark was soon; the Norwegian King Magnus Barefoot, to the unexpected woe of the people of the isles, came across the Northern Sea, and asserted dominance in the Norse-Gael lands, pillaging, burning, and capturing islands that he laid claim to.
Off the coast of Ulaidh now lies the Norwegian fleet, presumably sailing towards Manau.

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A few of the war ships, drekar and skei longships alike, had turned to gather some supplies and respite for the journey.

Somhairle mac Fergusa was on one of these vessels, rowing with the Norse warriors around him, and plopping off onto the Irish beach, staggering towards the grass above the sand.

[Ganbarenippon]

Fergal Mac Maelduin had been awake all night. His Uncles and cousin's around him. They had been watching for Norse ships, for rumours said Magnus Barefoot was abroad once more and the lands of Ulaidh were always amongst the first to feel the Norseman's sting. His own people, the Cruthin, were a subject nation to the real Ulaidh who dwelled farther South. Famed warriors the Cruthin were but they had never really been a fecund people and gradually, over the course of the centuries they had been assimilated into the larger Kingdom of Ulaidh, though the Northern coasts were always their own. The Ulaidh still made use of the Cruthin as warriors though, even as resentment between the two peoples grew. The Ulaidh were concerned that the Cruthin were seeking to throw off the Southern yoke, the Cruthin were concerned that they bled too much for the Ulaidh.

Fergal snapped out of his reverie as he noticed several longships turn toward the coast. He taps Connal, his youngest cousin on his mother's side, to alertness. "Tell Uncle Domnall to set up his ambush on the Eastern side of those rocks over there." He gestures towards an outcrop of rocks shaped like a kneeling man. "We'll wait here and see how Domnall does after he has bloodied their noses a bit." 'More like Domnall and the older men will kill us if we attack first.' He thinks to himself wryly as Connal jumps to do his bidding. Fergal was well respected by the men of his clan, old and young alike, as a fierce warrior. He was a prolific enough fighter that he had earned himself the name Blackaxe, owing to the colour of his great steel axehead when it was soaked in enemy blood. Fergal had emerged as the war leader of the younger men in the clan, the older men respected him to be sure, and probably could not best him in combat, but they would not follow him into battle.

Fergal focused on the beach, where he saw a group of men land, mostly Norse by the looks of things set foot onto the shingle. 'Any moment now...' He thinks waiting for Domnall to make himself known. Just then he hears his Uncles ululating war cry and Domnall breaks cover with thirty other men charging the small group of Norse already ashore.

[Dirty Chai]

Many of the men had actually gotten themselves up onto the beach and were out in the open, vulnerable to the attack. Somhairle had just reached the shore to hear the cry, and waded back through the waves towards the ship as fast as he could.
He had his sword, but he wanted a spear, something he could throw.

He heard men dying behind him, axes cracking through shields and clashing with swords.
Other ships that had been coming into rest were turning around in the estuary and abandoning the men who had landed.

Somhairle pulled himself up into the boat where the few who had stayed on the deck were watching incredulously, one of them throwing spears.
He did the same, picking up a shaft that was sitting next the rowing bench in front of his, and threw it headlong towards a fellow with a large axe, but it hit the man in front of him.
He looked for another spear.

[Ganbarenippon]

Once Domnall had begun to engage the enemy Fergal immediately began to ready his men for the second attack. "Ready boys? Remember, try not to piss yourselves!" He laughs as he pushes his shield to his back and draws the throwing axe on his right hip. "Now!" He bellows and bursts from his cover on the reverse side of a sand dune. He charges the melee currently taking place, Connor by his side. "CRUTHIN!" He shouts as he whips his throwing axe in an underhand throw. It takes a Norseman in the small of his back, he arches in pain hands instinctively reaching for the object before he falls bonelessly. A mace blow from one of Domnall's men ending his agony. His throwing axe now spent, Fergal unlimbers his great, two-handed Daneaxe and looks for an enemy to fight.

The flash of red across his vision takes him completely by surprise.

Wiping his eyes he see Connor down, a spear in his throat his eyes already going glassy. It was his cousins blood that had obscured Fergal's vision. Looking around he notices the handful of men throwing spears from the Norse longships. Not enough to turn the tide of the battle, but enough to be a nuisance. 'More than a nuisance to Connor really.' He thinks to himself. There is no sorrow, Connor had never been his favourite cousin, but still he was family. Looking once more he gauges the distance. 'That was still some throw though!' He wonders before finally snapping back to his surroundings. Things were going well for the Cruthin, but the Norse, more heavily armoured, had managed to weather the initial assault and were beginning to reorganise themselves around a large brown-bearded man wearing a conical helm. The man fought well and had dropped two of Domnall's men already, and several of the surprised Norse were attempting to fight their way back to his position.

Fergal had seen battles won by men like him, men who gave heart to those around them, who stiffened their fellow's courage through their valour and skill. 'We can't let them organise, if we do, their armour will tell against us.' He thinks quickly taking in the skirmish. "Ware the ships!" He calls in warning to his men before moving determinedly towards the helmeted man. One sure way to win this kind of fight was to end resistance quickly.

"Come on then big man!" He calls in challenge, unsure if the man understands. but Fergal's posture says enough and the man moves to engage him in combat.

[Dirty Chai]

Somhairle hurled his second spear at a lanky Gael who was shrieking as he took down two Norsemen, and the others facing him cried victory as his blood spilled, the shaft run through his skinny gut.

The young man who hurled it, however, was watching the fight that was about to unfold between the ship's captain, Hrami, and a Gael with a Danish axe.

Somhairle squinted at the back of the large man's armored head, realizing something. He looked around at the others on the ship, all blonde and blue eyed, bellowing in Norse. There had been one other odd Hebridean aboard, Amhlaidh (or Olaf, depending on who you were), but he was now nowhere to be seen.

He frowned. Hrami himself was the one who cut down the man who taught Somhairle to fight, and raped the three girls from the village south of his home in the Cuillins.
He squinted, beginning to scowl.

This was his chance to redeem himself. He had put up with the profane and drunken lot because it would propel him from Skye, but now it seemed he no longer had to do so.

His third spear: he hefted it, and aimed at the back of the man they called Hrami.
Hrami raised his shield towards the axe-man, advancing slowly, others watching the single-combat now.
No one saw it coming.

Somhairle hurled the shaft, aiming at the old murderer's neck, between the helmet and the shirt of chain, at the aventail, roaring as it flew.
He turned and drew his sword from its sheath, not stopping to watch, and swung the engraved ancestor blade at those with him on the boat, spilling a man's neck open.

[Ganbarenippon]

The big man suddenly gurgled as a spear shaft exited from his neck. Fergal took a step back in surprise before reflexes take over and he smashes his axe blade into the man's face, making sure he stays down. 'Maybe the one that hit Connor was just a lucky throw?' He thinks. None of the Gaels were armed with spears so the big man had just been cut down by one of his own. That was as much as Fergal could think before two men, crying out in anger charged him.

He whirled to his right, much faster than either man expected and, using the horns of his axe, hauled one of the men off balance before twisting his hip to the right putting his shield in position to catch the blade of the other man. Having done this he rammed the butt of his axe into the other man's nose, feeling it shatter. The man fell to the floor clutching his nose. The off-balance man had recovered in the meantime and brought his shield up to parry Fergal's downward cut. The Gael pivoted off his left leg, quick as a striking snake, and buried his axe in the back of the Norseman's unprotected head. Bellowing in triumph he pulled his axe free and charged the man with the shattered nose who had risen back to his feet with tears streaming from his eyes. Fergal launched himself into a leap past the man and his axe took the other man in the shoulder, severing his entire arm. Not breaking momentum, Fergal charged into the melee hamstringing, bludgeoning and kicking his way through the Norse.

[Dirty Chai]

The other three men on the ship whirled around and faced Somhairle in shock, another's neck spilling open before he could respond.

Somhairle turned to face the other two, one with a small axe and another with a spear.
They charged him at the same time, the axemen hefting his shield and swinging horizontally while the spearmen plunged the sharp tip overhead at Somhairle.

He kicked at the short man with the axed, his foot knocking him on his ass by hitting his shield, but the spear stabbed into his thigh.
Somhairle buckled back, hefting his sword in front of him.

The axemen came again, this time leaping at him, and the Hebridean responded with a slash at his weapon arm, severing his hand and axe from his body.

The axemen buckled away, bawling and clutching at his open wrist, fallen on his ass.
The spearmen came again though, plunging the shaft at Somhairle yet again.

He never really had discovered the best way to deal with an enemy with a long spear.
Closing the distance had never been easy for Somhairle.

He stood up, limping with the thigh injury, but standing nonetheless, and deflected the spear with his sword.

[Ganbarenippon]

A flash of movement caught Fergal's eye as he charged, like a demon through the melee. He turned more directly to face it and to his shock he saw a man on the ships fighting alone. Quickly he saw the figure dispatch two of his attackers, but he was not unscathed and was hobbling towards the final spearman. 'Brave bastard whoever he is.' Fergal thought, turning to go back to his own fight. He jogged towards his own people, victory now almost assured, but something (he could not say what) stopped him in his tracks. Before he knew what he was doing he was sprinting towards the ships, stopping only to pick up his throwing axe.

He splashed into the surf and letting loose a bellow, hurled his axe with all his might at the spearman.

[Dirty Chai]

The spear had been curling back around, and was heading into Somhairle's hip...

But it hadn't. Somhairle fell onto his ass, watching an axe fly through the man's head, splitting it and pinning it to the mast of the ship.

He stared aghast at it, his mouth wide open, aware someone just saved his life.

[Ganbarenippon]

Fergal was aware of nothing but the pounding of the blood in his ears as he watched the axe fly. He did not know why it was so important to him that he save the brave man on the ship; but it was. He felt his breath return after the axe landed flush in the back of the spearman's head. It was the finest throw he had ever made.

"Stay there man!" He calls to the man on the ship, not knowing if he understood Gael or not. He turns to his men to see the battle won, his men cheering him after the throw he had just made. Fergal raises his axe in salute and wades into the shallows for the ship.

[Dirty Chai]

Since his leggings and waist were soaked, the blood spread from his thigh faster than it would normally, spilling onto the boat into a widening puddle, seeping through the boards into the small crawl space below full of plunder.

Somhairle moved over to the man with the axe through his head and used his knife to cut linen from his shirt.
He then wrapped it tight around the wound, hoping it wasn't deep.

He acknowledged the Gaelic being addressed to him, and although it was similar to his own native tongue, he ignored it in favor of addressing his wound.

[Ganbarenippon]

Fergal reaches the boat and hisses at the sight of so much blood. "For the love of God, take off that dressing!" He says, hauling himself over the gunwale. He reaches into his pouch and pulls out some moss. "Stay still." He begins to pack the moss into the man's wound.

[Dirty Chai]

Somhairle recognized words and roots from the man's words, and spoke with his own language, assuming the man would be familiar with his in the same way.

"Salt and herbs.... er.." He paused, looking around; he wasn't sure of what to call that specific herb, or if it even grew in Ulaidh..

"Are there monks nearby?"

[Ganbarenippon]

Fergal blinks as he recognises parts of the man's tongue. "You are not Norse." He states. "That explains some things." He binds the moss into the wound with the rag the man was tying around his leg before. "That'll do for now. I'll get you to a monastery soon. Gather your strength first friend, it's a fair walk and further still when you are wounded." That said, Fergal slips out of the boat and begins to tow the boat towards the shore.

[Dirty Chai]

Somhairle looks around for something to walk with, pulls the dead man's spear to him, and hacks off the point with his sword, snapping the end into splintery mess.

He stands slowly and shakily, but plops off onto the shore with the broken spear as a walking stick when the ship met the beach.

[Ganbarenippon]

The other Cruthin on the beach begin to raise their weapons at the sight of the man coming off the ship. "Weapons down boys." booms Domnall's voice. "He's wounded."
"Aye. Brave bastard took three of 'em down on the ship." Fergal says, much to the approval of the fighters on the beach.
"Did he now?" Says Domnall, eyeing the stranger's leg. "Well he didn't exactly emerge unscathed, eh? Your name stranger?"

[Dirty Chai]

"Somhairle" he limps up the beach, following the man with the axe. "I come from the island of Sgitheanach."

[Ganbarenippon]

"Aye? Welcome to Ireland!" The Irishmen begin to laugh. "I'm Domnall Mac Maelduin, of the Cruthin. The big lug with the axe is my nephew, Fergal. Some call him the Blackaxe, I just call him a pain in the arse!" The other laugh again. "Fergal, you'll be wanting to take the lad to the monastery I expect? Well, don't expect us all to go with you. Drop him there and we'll see you back at the village." He looks at the wounded Hebridean. "Good luck with that wound, the cure might be worse than what you have now!" He chuckles to himself as the men move away, leaving Domnal standing with the Hebridean.

[Dirty Chai]

Somhairle stops cold as he spots something, and then limps over to a man lying on the beach wounded.

"Amhlaidh!"

[Ganbarenippon]

Fergal stops and watches as Somhairle limps across the beach to the motionless man. 'Now isn't that a thing?' He thinks to himself before hurrying afterwards. "Friend of yours?"