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Post by Eadwig, the Bastard on Mar 23, 2016 15:11:45 GMT
'Can say one thing for those Remans, they knew how to build roads.' Tengist announced as Eadwig and his men made their way northward. 'We should be able to reach Portsmouth in around four days I reckon.' He continued.
'Aye, we can take a leisurely pace. Stop for training in the afternoons, make sure the men are well fed.' Eadwig replied. 'How do you feel about the lads?'
'Fine, fine. Friedlander warriors won't need much in the way of training. The greenboys will need some work, but they're keen. If any survive their first fight they'll make fine warriors. Fancy stone you have there?' Tengist nodded towards the marker that Eadwig had been given.
'Hmm... what do you know of this Falka?'
'Not much, never met him myself. He thinks himself a Lord. Supposed to be a pretty good warrior. You never can trust rumour though, every fucker around oversells his own abilities.'
OoC: Eadwig makes his way to Portsmouth steadily, regularly holding training sessions for his men. Could admin advise on whether the fight will be at Portsmouth, or if it's simply a place to rendezvous with Falka?
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Post by Admin on Mar 23, 2016 21:48:12 GMT
The road takes Eadwig through relatively developed lands, filled with farmsteads, big and small, villages, and the occasional town. Their journey, leisurely, with plenty of time aside for training, takes them a week, and Eadwig arrives in Portsmouth... The largest city in Bretain, with over twenty-thousand souls resident or living in the immediate environs, Portsmouth presents an imposing vista as Eadwig crests the last of the rolling downs and looks West upon the vast Wye estuary, and the sheltered harbours of Portsmouth, Regis-super-Mare, and Southerley. The country beyond bustling with the activity of ant-like people. The warfs and docks of Portsmouth are packed with boats and ships of every shape and size imaginable, tiny round fishermen, Bordish hulks with two masts and no oars, Nordling Knarrs with their deep draughts, every type of longship known to man, even the Birlinns of the far northern tribesmen. The main gate into the city is clogged with traffic, and Eadwig has a chance to observe the city's walls. A four foot high stone base supporting a further twenty feet of thick timber, topped by ramparts and towers manned with soldiers. After a quarter of an hour's wait, Eadwig passes through the huge ironclad gates, and into the city...  |
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Post by Eadwig, the Bastard on Mar 24, 2016 0:29:22 GMT
It was an impressive sight, never before had Eadwig seen such defenses. Nor a port this size. He grew up in the relatively modest bastion of Canny Hill in Freidland. He entered the gates with apprehension warranted by such an awe-inspiring locale. 'Here goes nothing...' Eadwig muttered to himself, drawing a grunt of agreement from Tengist.
He approached a clearing in the centre of town with his men, and stood atop a small embankment. 'I seek an audience with Falka, Jarl of Falkasland!' Eadwig raised the small stone as he spoke, feeling slightly foolish, though he had no other way to identify himself to those he wished to accompany.
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Post by Admin on Mar 26, 2016 2:41:28 GMT
"Ye'll want the 'Whore and Strumpet', down by the Fisher's Wharf", calls a local as he bustles on by, muttering under his breath, "damn immigrants, straight off the boat from the old country and lording it about like no one's business"...
The muddy street down to the Fisher's Wharf was filled with the congealing cess of the tight packed houses, this whole quarter of the city was home to the poorest inhabitants, many Bretains moving our from the raiding lands in Bernicia, the Wye Valley, and Regis. As the houses finally part, giving way to boatyards and a view of the tight packed boats of the harbour, Eadwig gets his first look at his meeting place. A tall building of mouldy thatch and stained wood between a warehouse and a chandler. The 'Horse and Trumpet' was a filthy, smelly, establishment, selling weak beer (often diluted with sea water), and was the lodging of Eadwig's contact, Eldric.
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Post by Eadwig, the Bastard on Mar 26, 2016 12:28:35 GMT
This doesn't look like a place for a warlord, Eadwig thought to himself as he entered the tavern. He got himself an ale, which he duly put to the side after one taste. 'Barkeep. I'm looking for a lodger named Eldric. Is he here?
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Post by Admin on Mar 26, 2016 16:28:41 GMT
The overall journey from Earlshill to Portsmouth takes 8 days, costing Eadwig a fair bob... hopefully employment will come soon for his rather formidable warband...
Costs:
22 crowns in salaries
11 crowns in warband vittles
1 crown in personal vittles
34 crowns total
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Post by Admin on Mar 26, 2016 16:38:44 GMT
You are invited up a flight of rickety stairs where Edric has the entire floor. He is sat next to a small fire with his back to you, dictating in a tired voice to young man hunched over a desk. "Osric: Anglian, 20 fighters, supplied for four weeks,. Payment of 30 crowns a week, entitled to land. Wynefryhth, 5 boys, not vittled. Payment of 6 crowns a week, no land. All aboard the Grey Wolf left on today's tide. Don't write today, idiot boy, put the date in. Tot up the total when you're done".
He turns in his chair, a man of at least 40 winters, grey flecks in his reddish beard, and long auburn hair. His grey eyes look Eadwig up and down, shrewd and penetrating. "Well, well. What can I do for you, bastard? I've got enough green boys looking to die for Falka, if that's why you're here...", he says with slighty, wry, smile curling his lip, "Or are you one of those ambitious boys from the old country... yes that looks about right, HAH!"
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Post by Eadwig, the Bastard on Mar 26, 2016 17:21:22 GMT
Eadwig remained silent for a moment, steely eyed and frowning. He hated the word Bastard, he was still his father's son, likely better trained in fighting than half the 'warriors' in the employ of Falka and Eldric. He pondered reaching for his knife, Eldric could do with being taught how to talk with his betters. He smiled wryly at the the thought.
'Perhaps I have made a mistake,' Eadwig began. 'I was under the impression that you were after fighting men, not the half-starved specimens you call a crew. I can bring 23 well-drilled and disciplined to the cause. If you take us on, you'll recognise our worth. If not, well, we might just take Falkasland for ourselves when you get your unworthy hides kicked back into the sea.'
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Post by Admin on Mar 26, 2016 18:20:30 GMT
Edric was not smiling now, his eyes took on a steely quality as he assessed Eadwig again before speaking, "You'd better watch yourself, boy. If you think these Bretains are a joke, go on, head off into Bernicia why don't you. You wouldn't last two days on the other side of the Wye. Do you think Regis fell of it's own accord? Do you think Mererydd, or whatever his name is, holds Ychrhyd by accident? I was there... and so was Falka damn it. You think your little border skirmishes and family feuds count for shit out here? The peasants may talk about the Bretains like they're a bunch of layabouts and imbeciles, but I know better damn it!"
He stood up and walked over to the window, looking over the harbour. The silence dragged, and when he turned around again, his voice was more measured. "Falka has over a thousand warriors at his disposal, with a further two hundred sailing in the past month. His war with Arianwlad, the Bretain Principality, has taken a turn for the worse, and he needs more men to secure the Pale he has constructed around his fort. If we didn't need them men, I'd send a hothead like you away. As it stands, if your spear can match your mouth, you're in. I will want to inspect your men, determine what they're worth. Have them ready on the quay in half an hour. Go."
And with that, he turned back to his scribe...
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Post by Eadwig, the Bastard on Mar 26, 2016 20:13:57 GMT
Eadwig did as he was bade.
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Post by Admin on Mar 26, 2016 23:27:16 GMT
Edric assesses Eadwigs men looking somewhat put out. After appearing to chew on something for several seconds he turns his cold eyes upon Eadwig. "Twenty-three men. Well equipped. Most have seen action. Very well, very well. I wanted to fault you... what was your name? Eadwig. I wanted to fault you Eadwig, because you're cocky. You're cocky, and you're rude, and those things get people killed. We'll give you 35 crowns a week and victuals. You will be eligible for land, according to service. You need to deal with their equipment, however, we have enough problems as is for the moment. You put your mark here and I'll enter into you into the books. Falka might not care for bookkeeping, but we'd have frozen and starved long ago if someone hadn't. We have a boat leaving on tomorrow's tide that should fit your lot."
With that Edric turns on the spot, and sweeps back into the inn.
His scribe gives you a token for the ship, which he says is berthed at the West End of the Fisher's Wharf, and advises he get his business finished in Portsmouth quickly, as there will be few such comforts once he crosses the water...
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Post by Eadwig, the Bastard on Mar 26, 2016 23:45:00 GMT
Eadwig was contented. He had faith in his men, noticing significant improvement in training. He did not have much business to see to in Portsmouth, the lads were well enough equipped and his purse was noticeably lighter than once it had been. There was an opportunity to drill the boys once more, and with their pay for the last week he would give them the night off to travel the taverns and whorehouses. Morale would need to be high before they left for war.
The next morning Eadwig, Tengist and his men met outside their ship. The bastard was unaccustomed to the sea, having traversed the waters just once to reach Bretain after his exile. Nonetheless, he was committed. The pay was enough to cover that of the men. Food and water would be in welcome supply and the rewards should the venture be successful would help refill Eadwig's purse.
Checking everyone had gathered, he turned to the ship's captain and offered up the token.
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