DISCLAIMER: I do not own the franchises that I based my writing on.
It was the middle of the day, the sun shining down from a sparsely clouded sky, when the fleet neared the coast. Though the sight of stone, a sparse amount of, more stone and steep cliffs dampened some spirits, the missing Hawkship spotted beached on the shallows was a pleasant surprise for many. The lateen sail was furled but the Northstar flag proudly snaps to and fro' in the ocean breeze. Spots in the hull visible to the fleet looked to have been recently repaired and on the deck the crew of the Hawkship were cheering at their good fortune, one elf waving a banner with exhuberant swings, clear to be seen from afar.
The sight drew chuckles from Othel and Aethenor, Harrond allowing himself a small smile at the sailors' fortune. And they beat them to land, a bit too literally as well. "What do you think, Fleet-master?" He turned to Aethenor, "Should the fleet rest here for now, get our bearings so to speak?" The Fleet-master let out the last of his amusement, then a thougthful mien took over his features, a slight downturn of his brow showing as he ruminated on the prince's query. A moment passed until Aethenor gave his answer.
"With our journey being mostly riddled by storms as it were, I believe a few days of rest won't go amiss. Not all of our people are experienced seafarers after all, and we still need to address what damages the ships have taken." Harrond almost gave him his thanks, before he remembered he was supposed to be acting as a proper Dragon Prince, so he only nodded minutely at his answer. He briefly thought over the Fleet-master's words, turning his gaze behind him and towards the rest of the fleet. The colony ships drew his gaze the most, thinking of the possible number of elves who probably got seasick. The cries of the gulls flying overhead then had turn his gaze skywards, bringing to mind his slumbering dragon Naemirinir. 'She would need the exercise anyway.' He thought, 'New lands, new sights. Standing on a boat is getting rather... stale. I'm sure she'll appreciate the opportunity to stretch her wings. I'd rather not get wacked by a tail if she finds out she missed this.'
Decision made, he ordered the fleet to drop anchor and rest up for some time. The two nodded at him, and he left them to it as he went back down into the ship, shouted commands and snapping signal flags joining the background sound of sailors moving around and doing their work.
Groowl hissss..
Harrond stepped foot into the chamber, his personal riches and treasures gathered up in piles on the floor before him. Atop the glittering gold and gleaming gemstones lies Naemirinir, his mount and companion. A magnificent example of her kind, the Moon Dragon's scales shined a bright yellow hue, almost like gold when the dim lighting hits right. She has yet to awaken still, for the enchantments carved into the very walls of the chamber keeps the willing dragon asleep, the mighty creatures finding long voyages monotonous. The dragon was not alone though.
"Hail, Dragon Prince." A Loremaster was standing to the side by Naemirinir's armour, yet to turn towards him for he was busy examining the glowing script on a particular armour piece. His name is Falandris Querlion, a master of the high magical arts and mystic lore, having spent more than two thousand years in the White Tower of Hoeth and travelling around the known world, studying various magical phenomena and fantastical creatures. He is also the oldest elf in the fleet, his skills and experience landing him the duty of leading the three others more junior Loremasters and the various mages accompanying the fleet. He is also one of the few who knows that, compared to his peers Harrond is incredibly personable and actually doesn't look down on other elves in general. The prince appreciates this, so he doesn't mind Falandris not turning to face him as he doffed his helmet then let out an explosive sigh, able to relax at last. "Greetings Master Falandris." Harrond said, sitting down heavily on an antique cushion created by his great-great-great grandmother, long before the reign of Aenarion.
The sinfully soft yet firm furniture was large, shaped like a bun turning inward in one section and somewhere along its existence someone wove in enchantments to provide greater comfort whatever the occupant be wearing, like the armour Harrond had yet to remove. He groaned as the chair adjusted to him, in his mind giving praises to his great-great-great-grandmother and whoever enchanted it. It was indeed a great decision to sneak it away from the heirloom vaults when he left. His happy place reached; he turned back to Falandris.
"Anything new?" He asked. Falandris looks absorbed by his current work, comparing the scripts on the armour to something on that book he always carried around. He still replied to his question.
"Magic remains lower than it should be where we are. The winds blow weakly, great amounts of it seemingly drawn further east. Determining exactly where won't be happening soon, until more proper laboratories are built, and instruments assembled, and our colony established and stabilized before an expedition can be sent out." His words said, he nodded in satisfaction as he closed his book and turned to face Harrond. "Your companion's armour harbours an interesting enchantment script pattern, unique from the last one I have inspected. Again, I thank you for allowing me this chance. Your peers in Caledor would not have permitted me to do this, much less laying a single finger on their mounts. Your people hold yourselves so highly..." He ended with a slow shake of his head.
His face took on a grimmer countenance then. "In addition..." The Loremaster hesitated then. Harron urged him on with a sigh, "Out with it then. If it's anything bad, I must hear it."
"Though faint and fading, a dark miasma taints the land ahead. My colleagues and the mages under us had yet to perform an in-depth investigation but what hints we have gleaned revealed the desecration of the dead, fell powers from the depths, and the maddened signs of a tainted being of nature." The pair were silent then, the bad omens already foretelling a future fraught with troubles. Sensing his plummeting mood, Falandris bowed his head and strode out, leaving the prince to ruminate on their future course.
Some hours passed in silence, broken only by the guttural snores of the still sleeping dragon. The Loremaster's words, that the magic levels remain low, and signs of taint being found in the first land the fleet had found did no good favour to the Dragon Prince's mood. A long look at the Naemirinir later, and Harrond decided on a distraction. 'A better idea may come to me when ill thoughts are forgotten.' He thinks as he stood up, unwilling to spend any more time unmoving. Striding towards his mount, his closest friend since he was but a boy, he sent out a mental command to the magics maintaining the stasis and bade his dragon to awaken.
"Arise now, Naemirinir. Tis' another day, another land and new sights await us!"
The snoring quickly ended, and reptilian eyes akin to emeralds opened, turning to gaze at him.
Steel sabaton met rotting corpse; the dead man's eyes open wide as if he didn't expect the arrow lodged on his forehead. The owner of the sabaton, a spear-elf hailing from Chrace gave it a look of disgust before he kicked it into the pit they dug in the sand. The body fell with a muffled thud, stripped of what arms and armour it brought in the attack, joining its fellows as the last of the corpses were gathered.
"What terrible luck." One of his fellows said beside him. "First we ran afoul of a storm for days. Then, when we finally got free and found land, its filled with savage humans who are more aggressive than usual, and with actual iron on a stick instead of rocks." A mage threw in a fireball from the other side of the pit. The magical flame quickly spread amongst the bodies, creating a large bonfire brightening the beach, the encroaching dark from the setting sun pushed back by the light.
Earlier in the day elven work crews have been ferried ashore by Hawkships, preceded by two cohorts of spear-elves in gleaming steel plate, scale and tall shields followed by one of archers in their lighter panoply, longbows held at the ready. The professional soldiers secured the landing zone, leaving the workers to build up a proper landing area undisturbed. Using materials they brought with them they had built several wooden platforms to form slipways and docks for ships to come and go, unloading more materials that they used to put up long sturdy walls, coated in fire-resistant white paint and reinforced with the plentiful stone they quickly mined from a short cliff north of their landing site. The beached Hawkship was raised properly from the sands and is was quickly and efficiently repaired, having long sinced joined its sister ships in doing light patrols. If one would look at the beach now, they would hardly be at wrong when thinking the elves' camp looks like the beginnings of a burgeoning port town, neatly ordered rows of large tents separated by straight paths, wide and clearly marked with an lantern every few yards or so. Sections of the camp were divided in their intended function, like the marine's tents being right next to the docks and the workshops and blacksmiths neighboring them. To the uninformed observer, the Asur looked to not be having any plans on leaving.
That's what an Ironborn scout saw, lying down on top of a particularly tall hill, the sight of a large camp that wasn't there that morning, adding to it the rest of the fleet of unknown ships floating out in the distance unnerving him greatly. He must warn the lord Goodbrother, of the invaders landing on the shores!
He quickly raced downhill, jumping atop his garron and raced away. Unknown to him, he had narrowly avoided a party of rangers patrolling the surrounding land, leaving only fresh tracks and irate elves when they found them.
The scout had also missed a the large shape launching from the largest ship he saw, great leathery wings beating hard against the wind as the dragon raced for the sky.
"What?"
The word uttered with sheer disbelief shattered the stunned silence that permeated the tent. Around an oaken table six men clad in chain, scale and plate armour wore varying expressions of shock, one even collapsing back onto a nearby stool and put his head on his hands. The one at the head, wearing a finer set of armour fingered his ear a bit, thinking that he heard the scout wrong.
"Say again?" He asked, hoping that he misheard but it was soon dashed. The man standing at the other end of the table remained grim, face slightly pale as he recounted what he had seen. At his story's end, he was quitely sent away and everyone else sat down heavily bar the one at the head. Garold's earlier bravado had left when the scout told him of his findings, now his mind raced as he stared down at the map of his lands, more specifically the drawed on portion where the invader camp was found. 'How did it come to this?' He thought, 'From one beached ship easily slaughtering my reavers, to a whole entire foreign fleet showing up. Now they've landed on my shores, built up an entire camp within hourse, and from what he said more still are coming ashore!' It was bad but easily manageable before, but now its all gone to the shitter. How is he supposed to fight an entire fleet with what he's got in hand?What should he do? He looked around at his vassals and subordinate captains, and decided to sound them out first. "You've heard him, what do you lot think? Can we take em'?"
His question broke them out of their individual sulking, though the one who collapsed first remained as he was with head still on his hands. 'That one looks like he's lost his nerves. Bah, I'll find something for him to do later.' He thought before the man to his right, one Qarlton Pyke spoke up first. "We should send out a warning to the others," he pointed out, "this kind of thing we can't kill ourselves."
His words made sense. Everyone else nodded in agreement, even the man who looked to be scared shitless jerking out a quick nod before he straightened out, pretending he hadn't made himself look more of a craven earlier. "You are right," Garold gave him an approving nod, "we'll send someone out, but who..." When he trailed off, one of his vassals, a lesser lord of a forgettable house slapped the craven's shoulder hard. "Send him!" He spoke aloud, getting everyone else to look over. "He looked fit to shit down his pants at the sound of an arrow earlier, I wouldn't trust to guard my back." He gave a mocking smile at the man, Garold's recently sworn in ship captain Euron of Kenningtown. The others joined in, jeering at the man who now looked fit to burst with his face getting all red in anger.
"Enough!" Garold shouted, pounding at the table. "I'll not have a fight now!" As the men subsided in their rowdiness, he pointed at Euron. "You however, will be ferrying a message to the others." The man who looked to have cheered up quickly soured at his order. Nonetheless, he nodded as Garold gave him a scroll carrying the hastily written message. "In here will be the news of the fleet invading the isles in force. Make haste man, understand me?"
Euron grudgingly acknowledged his command, quickly striding out the tent afterwards. After he left the others quickly started throwing out suggestions, one saying that they should wait for the other lords to bring with them reinforcements. Another said they should board their ships and attack byt sea, but the fool was quickly shouted down, Garold being the loudest.
"You an actual leader of ships or just daft? Even a lad who's balls haven't dropped yet knows what'll happen when you charge at a foe with more ships than you've got. Imbecile!"
The one who sat to the right of the idiot was suspiciously quite after that. Then another thought of building wooden barricades and defensive points around the enemy camp, prevent them from expanding further while they wait. That one the others like and sparked an idea in Garold's head. It seems hasty and foolish, but if they could do it before the enemy could land more troops...
An eager grin took shape in the reaver lord's face, one soon taken up by the others when he explained his plan. 'Those reports of gold on the ship itself... ohhh, the iron price I'd be glad to pay for.'
"Tomorrow night, remember." Garold said, for that is when they'll strike. He raised a silver goblet, stolen from some Reacherlord some years ago. "For now, rest and be merry, for soon we'll teach them to fear us, one corpse at a time!"
"AYE!" "DROWNED GOD!" "WE'LL SHOW THEM!"
Author's Note: That guest bot and its extremely long comments were... an unpleasant surprise. Anyway, I thank you all for reading my story, and I write on with the hope you all will continue to enjoy my work.
And yes Arya, Harrond is a suitably elvish name, fit for princely son of Caledor. I've checked.