Hjalmar Godefroy - Berserk

[Crusader]

He stood on the bow of the ship, watching the rising tides carry them forth to their destination. The sky had only recently cleared, as though the gods had endeavoured to part the clouds for their voyage, allowing the morning sun to guide them ashore. A strange sense of serenity washed over the young raider as he beheld the endless ocean in front of him, whilst he silently sang along to the soft tune of waves clashing against the wooden hull. He found himself clutching the high prow of the ship, which had been carved into the likeness of a great and menacing dragon. Small wonder that the Ruathen are feared, he thought. To a simple farmer, there could surely be no more terrible sight than a horde of dragons emerging from the sea to swallow him whole.

"Godefroy!" The shout rang in his ears and made him jolt. Only now did he seem to notice the raucous clangour that filled the busy deck.

"Are you daydreamin', boy?" Einar's voice was calm and soothing, but also stern when it needed to be. He had not forgotten how this short and wispy man had once commanded the greatest fleet in the Trackless Sea. The one-eyed sailor ambled to his side and laid a heavy hand upon his shoulder. They were both watching the waves now.

"I know you're nervous, boy, but you shouldn't be. You're your father's son."

"I ain't nervous, captain. It's only... I don't know what to expect."

"Expect to find your inner strength, Hjalmar. We're Ruathen, fearless raiders of the seas. You were born for this purpose." He gave the young man's shoulder an encouraging squeeze. "Your father'd be proud to see how far you've come, and Umberlee take me if I'd let a son of Styrbjorn the Stormsinger die on his first raid!" The old raider wore a broad smile on his face, and it made for a gut-wrenching sight. Under a grey and bushy moustache, Einar kept a set of wooden teeth that had long since rotted away. They were so old and weathered that they nearly resembled driftwood, which somehow struck Hjalmar as a fitting look for the aged sailor.

"I'll try to honour his memory. I swear it."

"Good lad. Wouldn't want to have you fleein' from the battlefield. Were that the case, I'd have to raise poor Styr from the dead just so he could write a ballad about his own son's cowardice." That made Hjalmar smile as well, and they both stood like age-old comrades reminiscing on the bow of a ship.

"Land in sight!" he heard Fengur screaming from atop the crow's nest.

"You know what that means," said Einar, running a brisk hand through Hjalmar's tousled hair before turning to bark orders at the crew. "Get your lazy arses to work! We've a village to raid, and no shortage of lusty lads eager to get their axes bloodied... and their cocks wet!" The announcement was met with exulted cries and cheers from the crew, who slowly began to outfit themselves in scraps of fur and armour. Most took to wearing animal pelts over their shoulders, ones that they had either slain themselves, or had passed down from an ancestor. Hjalmar wore the wolf's skin that had belonged to his father, having fought tooth and nail for the esteemed honour amongst his brothers and sisters back on Ruathym. Today, however, he had to prove himself worthy of it.

[Crusader]

"RAIDERS! THEY'RE COMING!" The villagers woke to the cacophony of a lone fisherman shouting at the top of his lungs. "TYR SAVE US! THEY'RE COMING!"

By the time that the village was alerted, Hjalmar and his warband had already descended upon the stony beach. They had chosen a small fishing village as the target of their first raid, nestled in a cove that lay a few leagues south of Thornhold. It was not the first time that the village had been graced with uninvited guests from the isles, Hjalmar knew, as their dragonships were wont to roam along the Sword Coast before winter had taken root; routinely raiding settlements that were too far out of law's reach to muster any noteworthy defence against their baleful landings. Today shall be no different, he thought to himself.

Under the raucous clamour of twoscore sea raiders screaming and banging their weapons against their shields, Hjalmar charged up the snow-covered beach to join the vanguard in their initial assault. Only the seasoned raiders had stayed behind to watch over the ships, whereas the younger and more eager warriors had surged forth frantically to claim a taste of glory for themselves. When they reached the village proper, they were met by a paltry militia force that consisted of only a dozen young farmhands and wizened old men, who had been outfitted in rusted mail and armed with scythes, staves and hoes sharpened to cruel points. Their fear was so ripe that Hjalmar could taste it. Shambled together in loose ranks, the militiamen braced themselves nervously for the impact, legs trembling and crude weapons shaking in their grasps, with a few of the younger boys routing mere moments before the collision, hoping to escape what they knew would almost be certain defeat.

"They send us cockless milksops and greybeards! We're in for a joyride, boys!" Fengur cackled as they closed in on the defenders, who were sorely outnumbered and outclassed.

Hjalmar was one of the first to reach them. He laid into their ranks with sword and shield brandished, shoving a spear aside with his shield to impale its wielder with a swordthrust through the belly. A gasp escaped the man's parted lips, and Hjalmar saw a stream of blood run down the corner of his mouth. Protesting his untimely execution, the militiaman groped at Hjalmar's wrist in an attempt to wrestle himself free, but when his eyes glazed over, his struggle ended limply. Hjalmar wrenched his sword from the man's body and watched it drop like a sack of potatoes. A pitchfork-wielding stripling made to flank him, but as Hjalmar turned to face him, a throwing axe buried itself in his helmless skull, sending a spatter of blood against Hjalmar's face to paint it crimson. Fengur moved forward to retrieve his handaxe, flashing a wicked grin at Hjalmar as he shoved past the decimated ranks of militia, leaving a trail of blood-smeared footprints in the snow.

When Hjalmar reached the village centre, chaos had already ensued. A couple of thatched roofs had caught fire, sending dark tendrils of smoke skyward in the predawn gloom. Fisherfolk were brought out of their hovels in droves, strung by their necks if they were men, and pulled by the hair if they were women. Wailing children were herded into the square as well, and were treated with no more gentleness or dignity than their parents. The few villagers who were brazen enough to attempt an escape were met with either cruel axe-blows or arrows in their backs before they could contrive to reach any horses. Eventually, Einar's voice filled the square, keen and commanding.

"Bring the kneelers out and sack their homes for plunder! Someone find their larder! I want our stores restocked before winter's upon us!"

Hjalmar walked between the destitute villagers and watched their frightened faces, each more afraid than the last. Everywhere around him his shield-brothers busied themselves with reaving and raping, cries of desperation filling the air. He saw a fishwife stagger to the village centre with tears streaming down her face, her roughspun tunic covered in crimson handprints around her breasts. The sight of her made Hjalmar frown, but whether or not he approved of the practice, he knew and understood that it was their way. The life of a sea raider. Is this the extent of our victory? he pondered. They promised us glorious combat and treasure troves, yet all we got was an easy slaughter and barrels of rancid fish. As he made off to find what meagre plunder the fishing village could possibly have yielded, he found Ollo the Oarsman kneeling over the corpse of an elderly man dressed in modest fineries, hacking off a finger with his axe to claim an amethyst ring. When Hjalmar strode past him, he looked up from his grisly project and chuckled sadistically. "Caught myself a fat trout!"

He pressed on and turned the corner when he heard a panicked whimpering that was nearly drowned out by the grunting and cursing of a deeper, more gravelly voice. Holed up in a detached hut a few yards away from the village centre, Hjalmar discerned Hrodulf Hardstones hovering over a petite woman garbed in a healer's robe, struggling to keep the thing between her legs from being despoiled. Knowing the mainlander traditions of worship, she likely belonged to one of the triadic faiths. Hjalmar made a fist. It was one thing to have your way with a common slattern, another to force yourself upon an ordained priestess, even if she worshipped a different god. By all accounts, it was sacrilege; an inaction Tempus was sure to damn him for if he did nothing to stop it.

"Hrodulf! Stand down!" Hjalmar bellowed at his shield-brother, hoping for easy compliance, but it never came. The hulking raider glowered at Hjalmar with a strident glare, his pale eyes fraught with wild lust and a hunger for violence.

"Piss off, Godefroy, or I'll be havin' you next!" The insolent dismissal made Hjalmar draw his sword. When Hrodulf saw it, he ground his teeth together and flung the sobbing priestess aside. A maddened grimace played across his features as he left the hut and lurched toward Hjalmar.

"You wish to take me on, boy? I've been spreadin' my seed across half a hundred villages since before you left Styrbjorn's balls. Not a single knight's been able to stop me from takin' what's mine by right o' conquest. Think you're the man to finish the job?" His towering height made even Hjalmar look small by comparison, and the fiery tufts of red hair that stuck out from under his studded halfhelm, fading into a wild and scraggly beard, made him look every inch the devilspawn he claimed to be. Hjalmar mustered his courage and looked him square in the face, resolved to see his challenge through, even if it would cost him his life.

He unslung his shield and bashed his sword against it, goading the fellow islander into an impulsive duel. Hardstones snorted and drew his two-handed greataxe, wringing his hands on the leather grip. The two warriors charged at each other with their steel bared, bracing themselves for a bloody clash. Before they ever reached one another, the duelling combatans halted in their tracks at the sudden sound of a Ruathen warhorn being blown twice in quick succession. They looked at each other and exclaimed the exact same response.

"RIDERS!"