One-Eye's Story

The Wolf Pack had never traversed such a vast ocean before. Many a path they took was always on solid land, with the occasional crossing of from riverbank. When they found themselves afloat a ship with fifty other beings, in such tight corners, a hand was forced to be open by each ally.

It is true that the mercenary company known as the Wolf Pack has the oddest folk, common and offspring alike. The wrinkled, short form of the goblins makes them feel deformed, an abortion of humankind. Perhaps people that think like this are closer to the truth than they might’ve hoped. Nervous eyes fidget in the penumbra, all of them laid on the little fellows. But like any state of worry and hesitation, it only requires a stressful event to bloom and be resolved into order or chaos. Would the vikings accept the goblins and the revelation of the imposing ogres? Time would only tell, and it would only be when the rowing was the hardest and the sails sprung free from their masts. The first storm summoned lightning and waves that rocked the foundations of the ship, but those who watch would see a body of warmth roused by resolve and perseverance, a shield of sheer will. Flesh bound itself to wood and the curtains that the Wolf Pack was holding were lifted. Figures limited to the dark corners began to slip from the shadows. Just like the goblins before them, their forms were met with worry, added fear. What in the hell was this company the vikings were going to fight side by side with?

Men that tower over the norse. Two meters of muscle, and if that wasn’t enough, four upper limbs. Ogres are crude experimentations of humankind with magic. The knowledge of the Fire was soon perverted by those who walked the path of war, of greed, of death. The ogres were a… successful experiment, as what they provided in brawn, they seriously lacked in brain. That was good for any general, as long as they’re bright enough to follow simple orders. But these ogres were not the children harvested from dark dungeons. The complex of freedom soon struck the ogres and many died trying to flee into the wild. Even decades after their escape, the pale giants were fated to be hunted. Some tribes managed to survive, and those part of the Wolf Pack were younglings eager to see the world.

Bullridge spearheads into one of the rowing lines. He shouts over the thunders and the heavy rain. “Weak! All of you! Bullridge will show you how to ROW!”

The barbarian is no ogre, but one must give credit to a human capable of forcing an ogre to submit. That is the essence of Bullridge: brute force, overwhelming power and a staggering presence. His cry draws the attention of every norse who deems himself a man of worth. They feel offended in their first look, but Bullridge’s form under the instant light of lightning and the rolling roar of thunder shames them. His physique is imposing, wrapped in scars, burn and acid marks, old puncture wounds. It’s a miracle that he is still alive. Yet, Bullridge and the ogres take over the rowing lines.

“You have watched for long enough! Can you row?!” The barbarian barked at the ogres. They nodded diligently, the long, powerful rows began, hurling the ship through the waves like the cutting edge of a finely crafted spear.

Brennan smirked. That was the first display of the Wolf Pack’s prowess. What they lacked in numbers, they certainly made it up in quality. But their might was long from being justified by a single deed.

The sails had been lost, with their rope torn, leaving them hanging at the mercy of the crazed, violent wind. Attila looked up at the mess and one or two men trying to climb the mast without any hint of success. He shrugged his shoulders and turned around, raising a brow at the inert goblins.

“Tsk. One-Eye leaves you for a moment and you can’t pick yourselves up.” He said with a rough, taunting tone.

One of the goblins erupted, propelling his form forward. His right limb was extended as its skin stretched out along with it. The length of the thin arm grew twofold as the goblin pointed menacingly at the human warrior. “Leave us be, human! We follow Gob’s shaman! Not you!” His jutted, wide-eyes revealed frustration and anger.

“You look scared, goblin.” Attila mused, leaning his head closer to the other creature’s, past its shivering finger and trembling arm. “Do you really want to go down that path?” He grinned. His was a grin of defiance, haughty and completely disrespectful towards whatever feelings the goblin could have. What did it matter to Attila?

The goblin’s life was worth more to him than trying to prove a point, whatever that could be. He took a step back, but a hand stopped him. One-Eye shook his head as he stood at the side of his kin, then he looked at Attila. “You know my brothers to be emotional. When will you stop fooling around with them?” His question was serious, yet given in a light fashion. It soon became rhetorical when the shaman gave himself purpose, to instruct his kin on taking the lead and helping the norsemen. Attila was a man who didn’t want to fall behind, so he too paid attention to the task and sprung to action as soon as he was able.

The scene would unfold in a frenzy of rapid movement. The goblins’ limbs grew twofold and their faces jutted out and forward over their chin, revealing an even more grotesque form in the stretched, rough skin that shelled their thin, but sturdy muscles. This form granted them a naturality to crawling that was inhuman and, quite certainly, most unique. Where others failed, the goblins conquered and went further, securing the sails and riding the mast as the ship cut through wind and wave.

Soon, the storm would recede and the veil of grey would be pierced by sunlight. On the horizon, their first waypoint was visible. Together with a massive fleet of norsemen, the Wolf Pack travelled through the treacherous Empyrean High Seas, besting the foul region’s traps with the aid of the norse seafarers.

To celebrate, Attila would scream off the top of his lungs, merging ship with ship to have the men share booze and food. He went as far as throwing a rope and having Bullridge and himself pull a ship closer to theirs. Luckily, everything went well enough.

(And now, political news, with Úlfric.)

The Slender, auburn haired Argosian Legata moved slowly, with purpose towards Hürgor. Her spatha was drawn, and in the early morning light, the sun that had just peaked through the parting clouds glinted off the freshly cleaned sword.

The sounds of her armor made a jingling noise with her footsteps, the lightweight metal plates moving across each-other was like music to Livia's ears.

She had a long brutal history of showing no mercy to those who challenged her, cutting them down to their last, final breaths. This strange brute was bleeding, broken and clearly dying. Her blue eyes briefly moved to the wound in his arm, and then down to his leg, yet he still held his hatchet high.

"I will not fight a cripple." Livia said calmly, her voice thick with confidence, authority. "Lay down your weapon, and I will spare your life."

She came to a stop, roughly five feet in front of Hürgor, her sword held out to her side.

A soft breeze picked up, and her cape, made from synthetic fabric, and colored a vivid red and white fluttered in the wind, her legs were shoulder width apart, in a slightly bladed stance, standing off with the norseman barbarian. It could be described as an odd scene, Livia was by no means a large woman, standing at a five foot, and five inches, and weighing a measly one-hundred and fourty pounds of solid muscle. She lived a life of luxury, with the modern conveniences of Taiyou technology, clean running water, sewage, sanitation, plentiful food, and even electricity.

She was Hürgor's opposite in many ways.

If he tried to swing his weapon, Livia would move quickly, first to catch the swinging hatchet-arm and knock it away with the Spatha, and given the sharpness of the nanosteel blade, it was extremely likely that the edge of the sword would dig into the wood, or even the metal of the hatchet, chipping it away in thin metal shavings.

If successful in knocking the hatchet away, she would spin close, placing her feet wide and bringing the pommel of the spatha in hard into Hürgor's abdomen, and then quickly backing up hoping he would lurch forward from the pain of the blow.

If this is the reaction, she moved to bring the pommel of the sword in a swift follow-up strike to the back of his head, with the goal to knock him unconscious, so he could be taken prisoner.

Livia had taken great care not to kill the norseman, with the carefully precise moves she executed against him, the fleeting hope that he wouldn't die crossed her mind, while the Taiyou diplomat looked on with an approving nod.

---

Benjamin would find a young Argosian Decanus to take his baubles as Livia was currently busy trying to subdue the Norseman. The Decanus nodded slowly, handing Benjamin a small sack of Argosian coins, with an assortment of gold, and silver coins inside a burlap bag.

"Payment, for your assistance." The Decanus said calmly.

Inside the Arran, the Tree was displaying a large star chart, and slowly several Argosians, with the aid of a few Taiyou navigators were checking their records, while one technician frowned, while looking over the database contained within the tree.

"These star patterns closely match those submitted by the Aschen..." One technician stated. "P76-342, described as a world where technology doesn't work..."

He pulled up the relevant data submitted by Commander Costas, a prowler pilot who had crashed on the planet some time ago.
However at this point, the tree had also figured the relevant data, and had plotted a course back to Argos, while monitoring a fleet of ships approaching from the sea.

The Ship's Trierarch watched the displays calmly, as the fleet of ships slowly began to approach.

With a swift hand gesture, a high pitched whistle sounded.

"All hands, to battle-stations!"

By now, the cannons had been reloaded, but the Matokey had placed safeguards on the tree's abilities. The decision was made to avoid the battle altogether.

"Recall the marines, and the Legata! We must push off and get out of here!" The Trierarch bellowed. "Set course for the Great Neptunian Sea!"

The eyes of a seasoned hawk mirrored the scope of a thousand leagues in the wake of the waves. Brennan gazed at his company's destination after many a perilous stir of the great viking ship. Now, there was the matter of the landing, but even that seemed like a step too late for the plans of the young Jarl and his campaign of rescue and revenge. The arms of each sailor were weary, a meager price to pay for the eager spirits of the other men. Bullridge and his following of ogres seemed unaffected by time and labour. Instead, the barbarian's eyes focused on the one man above him in the mercenary company, the Alpha of the Wolf Pack: Brennan. The Master-at-Arms felt the uproar of the vikings as they neared the island's coast. An anchored ship donned a portion of the landscape, coupled with the presence of creatures on the beach. The howls and screams of the norsemen foretold that the Jarl's brother was there.

"Bullridge!!! Show me your might!!!" Brennan's howl struck deeper than any warcry. Echoes of his command disturbed the air with a subtle ring. Between that moment and Bullridge's acknowledgement, a dreadful silence swept the courage away from the norse ships. One second was enough to enlighten the vikings to the presence of a voice born from the fires of war to lead man and monster alike. How? One did not have time to dabble in such thoughts.

Bullridge's rough features crooked into a display of gritting teeth and twitching eyebrows. His arms tensed and his grip grew twofold only for his rowing to increase. "You will keep up with me or die!!" He demanded. "Keep up with me or let your own kin die!!" He barked louder, inspiring in every man a state of urgency. Momentum propelled the great ship forward at speeds unfathomable by the common man. Brennan found his body being pulled by the force created by the mighty rowing of the Wolf Pack's ogres and their unwavering leader, the thick-skulled Bullridge.

Meanwhile, One-Eye observed, tapping his right foot on the wooden floor. "Not good." A worried frown was on his wrinkled face.

"If we act now..."

Attila appeared behind One-Eye, placing his right hand on the smaller being's left shoulder. They nodded at each other and gazed up the main mast of the viking ship. It was not long before they were seen climbing to the very top.

"Are you ready, Attila?"

Attila's lips began to crack. He held on tightly to the wooden beam, his fingers ever the most intrusive on the solid frame, taking bit after bit as the pressure increased. The eyes of the warrior grew wider with each fleeting second, they jutted out as the fire under the skin seared thought away, welcoming only one state of heightened presence. The embrace of rage culminated in a perverted howl. Fenrir himself would bow before the awakening of the berserker. Veins outlined the bursting development of muscles, the negligence of most rationality into the control of a sphere in the core, the solar plexus. Forget not the fumes with which One-Eye enticed Attila, throwing him into a deeper abyss in the increase of his bloodlust. And yet, all of this was done in fluid motions, a chain of rapidly successful actions to grant One-Eye the power to control and shape an overflowing tap of energy.

The goblin's feet journeyed up to plant each on a separate shoulder of the berserker. His legs rotated to opposite sides and arms were held forward with palms facing down, the shaman squinted his eyes. He turned his palms to face the ship and the beach. The shaman would catch them before they could evacuate.

"I'm burning!" Attila growled. "I'm burning!!!" He howled, releasing a massive surge of energy from his berserker rage into the air in front of him. Gusts of wind ravaged the sea and charged against the sand, upholding chaos. Were that not enough, the residues remaining began to latch onto one another and form a thick, cold mist. It felt sudden, yet so harmless. As harmless as the voices. Cries from a plane so present, yet fading ever so effortlessly. Cries that pierce into the soul, tormented and fearful. A barrage of dreaded sound invades with the mist, it disturbs the senses. A scream is ever vigilant, infinity in the mist. It quickly becomes unbearable to the enemies in front of the spearheading ships of the vikings. Shapes of a faded world and blurred faces claw at the warm bodies, as if trying to dig in and find a home. Frigid winds try to claim fragments, testing mettle into an undying scope of the ether.

"Now, Attila!"

One-Eye's prompt had Attila's eyes turn white and jaws part to unleash a lunatic, supernatural howl. The form of his haughty, sharp lines was carved into the atmosphere. It traversed the mist so fluidly and swiftly, yet it was when it stopped that its horror gazed upon the beach and presented its form, showering enemy soldiers with visions of hellfire and torture. Not visions, memories. Memories of the soul, but what soul? Could it be their own?

Finally, the demonic face fell. It rained on the sand like wild fire, feeding off of itself until there was no more, until it faded to ash as fast as it had burned into a raging inferno. But perhaps those moments were enough. Perhaps the revelation of another world through glimpses on the windows and the doors stalled the retreat.

The spiritual mist was as much a hindrance to the enemy as it was a cloak to the landing fleet. As Attila's projection of terror was no more, it was time for the arms of norsemen to use the time acquired.

As for Hurgor and Livia... What would they do within the mist, haunted by visions of beings ethereal? Threatened.

The exchanged blows played out rather swiftly, as the sun slowly began to crest over the horizon, bathing the sky in a fiery glow. Livia charged fourth, with her spatha in her right hand, reaching high to swing vertically in a diagonal pattern from right, to left. This was a standard practice taught in Argosian combat schools, bringing the superior metal blade down to cleave through a shield, an attempt at blocking, a wooden spear, or any manner of defensive tool the opponent chose to use. In doing so the sword would cleave through her opponent as well.

This was however, not how the attack played out.

Hürgor had a badly broken leg, and only one good arm with which to swing his weapon; As he swung for Livia's throat, the weight of the weapon was likely more than enough to throw him off balance. With no good leg to catch himself with, the only direction for the battered Norseman to go was down.

The horizontal hatchet swing found Livia, but with Hürgor's sudden movement, and Livia's commitment to her own sword swing, the hatchet's razor edge missed it's mark as Livia shrugged her shoulder just enough to protect her neck, but the blade of the hatchet dragged across her cheek, cutting deeply before striking her armored spaulder with a loud metallic grinding sound.

As Hürgor sailed down face first into the sand, Livia stumbled forward, before turning abruptly around to face her opponent once more. She touched the wound on her cheek briefly, glancing down at the blood that coated her fingertips, while quelling the rage that boiled up inside her, she wanted to kill him, drive her blade into his back, let his head decorate the bow of her ship. She stared down at him, with her sword clenched in her right hand. A crucial decision was made at this moment, the decision to show him mercy. It was the way of the future, it was the way the Mt'kee had taught, it was the way the Taiyou had taught, it was obvious Hürgor was defeated.

Livia brought her sword up, and with one swift motion she sheathed the metal blade into her scabbard, there was a metallic grinding sound, followed by the weapon seating with a click.

"I will not fight a cripple." Livia said, gesturing for two of her men to grab a stretcher and approach.

Four legionaries approached, the first moved quickly to kick the hatchet away from Hürgor, while two more moved to set a stretcher besides the downed norseman, the fourth keeping his musket pointed at the man incase he chose to continue to fight.

"Take him to the ship and have someone tend to his wounds." Livia instructed, as she leveled her gaze far onto the horizon, the clanging of weapons on shields echoing through the waters and landmass. She also noted that there was some sort of mist that was gathering beyond the force-field erected by the Tree-ship, and the shimmering leaves. Something unnatural was attacking them it seemed.

If there was no further fighting from Hürgor, the two Legionaries would place him upon the stretcher with care not to disturb the broken leg. In tandem, they would lift the stretcher, and start back towards the ship, which was beginning to raise anchor. The Argosians opted to leave the wounded norsemen on the beach, with the arrival of reinforcements, they chose to remain in their formations rather than finish off the wounded. It would only be at the sound of clanging weapons that they would begin to file back aboard the ship, moving in disciplined lock step, despite the show from the savages on the ocean.

----

The Triarchus was making his preparations, running along the length of the trireme, shouting in Argosian to prepare for their departure.

"Move quickly! Move Quickly!" He bellowed, placing his hands on the backs of the legionaries boarding the ship.

"Cannons at the ready!" The Triarchus bellowed once more, and the low steady drumming of the war drums followed suit, carrying it's medium tempo through the skies, until a surge of energy belched fourth from the viking formation.

A barrier of sorts erupted from the Eye of Arran, as the royal tree began to channel the vast reserves of a plane beyond anything in the mortal realm. Energies from the Chosin Tsunami coarsed through the branches, through the trunk of this mighty tree as it's leaves began to shimmer in response to the cold mist. The Voices, or whatever were contained within would find it impossible to penetrate the barrier that was projected by the tree, the energies acting as a buffer to the magical essences put fourth by the shaman.

Their cries echoed beyond the mist, which was pressed against a soft shimmering light, the leaves of the tree continued to shimmer, as energy was being channeled, a proverbial tap slowly being cranked open from a vast reserve of cosmic hyper-dimensional energies that were beyond even the mightiest of magicks.

Even the lines found themselves unable to cross the threshold of cosmic energies onto the beach, it's inferno playing out harmlessly beyond the shield wall of the Tree-ship, this only served to hurry the Argosians along, urging them to make haste and flee this wretched land.

The Inferno, and the voices continued for however long the Daemons on the water made them, and only briefly stalled Livia, before she finally boarded the ship, swiftly approaching the Triarchus.

"Push off and get us out of here." Livia ordered, while the Optio called out.

"Cannons make ready!"

There was a steady drumming, the Anchor of the Eye of Arran was finally reeled in, as the oarsmen pushed the vessel off and away from the beach with a steady motion. The Vikings had them blocked in, and they would have to break through their lines to reach the point to where they could portal out and back to Argos.

Gritting his teeth, the Triarchus looked up at a display, a dozen more contacts could be detected, but these ones were high in orbit...



The Second Fleet of the Taiyou Empire, one by one began to exit their jumps from hyperspace over the planet. It was roughly a month or so since the Eye of Aarran went missing, and fortunately by tracing it's trajectory, they were able to locate it on this uncharted world.

Emperor Shimizu Takayama stood in silence as he stared at the planet below through the bridge viewport of his personal flagship, the Sōja. This vessel was a massive testament to Taiyou design and engineering. It bore the appearance of a coiled serpent, two hooded cobra statues staring over the ship's deck. Alongside the Sōja was a handful of cruisers, frigates, and two Shogun class battleships.

"The fleet is in position, we've detected the Eye of Aarran on the planet's surface, as well as about a hundred bluewater vessels closing in on it's location, classification is unknown, but based on Aschen files it's safe to assume they're natives." Lieutenant Kobayashi reported with a curt nod to the Emperor.

"All ships are present and accounted for, and have assumed position in orbit. All communications from the Argosian vessel are down, they're not responding to our hails."

"There's a spatial distortion surrounding the planet, likely connected to the magical energies that reportedly interfered with technology." Shipmaster 'Taanz reported, as his image flickered in on Shimizu's display. "I've taken the liberty to synchronize our timeline with theirs to facilitate a rescue; I'm also working on isolating the magics so we can inhibit it... however I don't think I will be able to keep the magical energies at bay, so time will be of the essence."

The Lone Matokey shipmaster was at the helm of a powerful Matokey warship, a first generation royal tree capable of feats of immense power, as if reality itself would bend the knee to the awesome capabilities of this Matokey vessel. Though extremely powerful, the Matokey were first and foremost a peaceful people, preferring to settle conflicts the diplomatic way, rather than resort to violence.

Matokey philosophy always impressed the need for the most precise yet guided applications of force, thus it was very unlikely the Matokey would involve themselves in this skirmish directly, other than to inhibit the magic and synchronize the timelines.

'Taanz's image disappeared from the display as the massive Matokey Omnicruiser adjusted it's position. This left the Taiyou fleet with the opening to select their targets and bombard the planet should the situation warrant it. Shimizu however had something else in mind, as he was completely unaware of what was going on down on the planet below.

The slender Taiyou Emperor reached for a console, and then turned back to his Lieutenant.

"Ready a squadron of Zeroes and a Sudden Transport, send them down to the planet and make contact with the Legate; ascertain the situation and see if they need our help."

Silently, Shimizu stood and clasped his hands behind his back, staring out at the massive bridge before him, and at the hundreds of displays that were feeding information in real time.



"Let us pray they're okay." Shimizu said quietly. "Inform the fleet, to have weapons ready, but not to open fire unless I give the order." He said quietly, while the Taiyou fleet positioned itself beyond the reach of the primitives below.

----

Back down on the Planet...

Back aboard the Eye of Aarran, back in the navigation tower the Optio was going over the tactics, looking down at a large map of the immediate area, his face was stony, grim as the reality of the situation sank down on them. "They have us surrounded, they'll close in any minute now." He said somberly.

"Legata, perhaps if we surrender? We have leverage, surely they would give us pause if they wish to have him returned to them alive." The Triarchus said quietly.

Livia pondered this for a moment, Hürgor was, by now being kept in a small section below deck, an infirmary of sorts, where Argosian doctors were trying to reset his leg, and stop his bleeding until they could take him somewhere to get better medical care. At this point the savage was restrained, and there were guards posted at the door to the infirmary. Antibiotic and analgesic salves had been packed into his wounds, which were cleaned up, but injuries this grave would need modern Taiyou medicine.

"We could barter his life, for ours; or at the very least buy time until the Taiyou land, even in small numbers, they would easily overpower our foes." The Optio added, while Livia considered her next course of action. "Even if we surrender, these are savages, they have no honor; and would sooner kill us all."

She heaved a sigh.

"Fly the white flag, but have everyone armed and ready to repel these savages the moment they turn violent."

The order was given, and carried through messenger to the man at the crow's nest, he made a few hand gestures, and as the Viking ships approached, the Argosian ship raised it's sails, along with a single white flag that started to flutter in the wind.

The Empyrean seas began to toss as something deep below began to shift.

The cataclysmic maelstrom departed and left a quivering and traumatized sea in its wake. Waves calmed, the echoes of thunder subsided, and the rains ceased. While the distant flying mountain fired across the sky, the tides of the Empyrean Sea sighed with relief and settled into their natural patterns.

But something stirred.

Deep, deep, deep into the bottommost reaches of the sea, an ancientness beyond reckoning stirred from its slumber. Down, in the darkest depths where no light has shone for thousands of years, the silt shifted. Plunged into the cold crushing pressure of the deepest crevice, tucked away in the darkest abyss beneath the dead and lifeless undercurrents of the Empyrean Sea, a siren’s song disturbed the silence.

The song arose from the abyss and drifted across the ocean floor. It’s soothing melody swam through the tides, currents, and the hidden places of the deep - and it whispered. It called.

Nameless names and wordless words. The song promised the unfathomable, spoke of the unknowable, and it called for its ancient children. Somewhere, great monstrous tentacles stretched out from dark trenches and gargantuan fish slithered from mucus-filled holes and remembered age-old plots. Swarms of foul creatures with pincers, fins, tendrils, and all manner of horrible appendages and eyes stirred in the forgotten crevices of the sea.

Maelstr’s song echoed through the deep and whispered through the tide, calling to all who would hear her voice.