FourtyTwo

"We Shall Fight On The Landing Grounds"

I want Myles to be shot in the head at a vague point in time by one of our guys, you did the character well then :D

But yeah, I do wish to have the campaign see the Resistance sort of part of it- Dimitri and Alexios could fit this really well, and even the other characters could see themselves adapt to a new line of fighting- a guerrilla war, later coming back to join friendly Allied forces. This somehow reminds me of Arma 3....Survive, Adapt, Win echoes in my mind...

"We Shall Fight On The Landing Grounds"

(OOC- is it okay if Maxwell , your character due to their ANZAC origins is with Scott's section? Could also have Poly too, if you want your character to tag in. Also, Dimitri is in Alexios's section I believe.)

Sturmgeschutz said Leaving Bailey to bark his orders at his more impressive collection of soldiers, Myles turned to his own. "Sergeant Harris, take a section of men, and man the southern-most point of the line," he said with slurred but loud speech,."

Scott clutched his STEN tightly, looking up to Myles, the British officer somehow still not accepted in Scott's mind. This was a man he had heard a lot about. The fighting on Crete had begun recently, and had heard bad things about him. Scott was of course, afraid to die. Like every man was, he was fearful that his life would be extinguished, and a letter would be sent home to his mother and father, telling them of how brave a soldier he was. But his CO was somehow driving him fucking insane. He looked like the kind of man that would put others to die for him, and never fight himself. He didn't know if he'd entirely survive this ordeal. But if he did, he would make sure that that fucker was

The lorry had been a piece of shit all the way, but that wouldn't stop him. He had a few men under his command, including Private Maxwell, and four others of the section including himself, one Bren, one PIAT and two Lee-Enfield armed soldiers. It would do, and they needed to stop flankers, which was exactly Scott knew they oculd pull off.
"Lads, on me! There's a set of sandbags we can entrench behind, at the bottom end of the Bofors batteries- post up and shoot fucking any German you see!" He yelled at the top of his voice, knowing his four would understand perfectly well what that meant.

The New Zealander was almost accustomed to the Cretan heat, but it was kicking today bad, and even in his rolled up sleeves and Boonie hat, it was still killer when push came to shove and they were moving quickly to the end of the battery. Quickly running behind a sandbag, the sight of paratroopers ahead and above was a sight to see, albeit one that did put some fear into Scott's heart. These men had serious fucking nerve.
"Contacts, straight ahead! Lay down fire!" Scott yelled, aiming down the Sten's sights at a set of paras that were coming down, noticing that they didn't have their weapons. They'd been dropped separately, under differently colored parachutes, and this wave was now right in the open, unarmed. They didn't carry their weapons on their parachute harnesses- they were either attached separately on bags under their legs, where many paratroops would suffer broken ankles if not conducting the correct PLF, or the weapons come separately. Two came down almost immediately on landing, like a sack of potatoes dead with 9mm rounds, as .303 fire, automatic and bolt action fired, went down range towards the falling men, Scott's section opening up all weapons.

--

Being with the old man was not something that pleased Dimitri entirely, but he knew that he perhaps was a little better versed in war. Looking back, he shook his head, but looked to the Fez-wearing Greek, then looking to the gun.
"Can't be that hard, we need a healthy supply of 40mm shells and to man the cranks." Dimitri said, then looking up, the sight of planes and paratroops coming down, as he stepped into the small battery, looking at it.
"Fucking hell." He simply said, looking to Alexios, then back up at the sky, as he put his Bren down at the front.
"Borrow this if you need to, fire on anything that pisses us off sufficiently. Let's fire this thing up." He said, grabbing the cranks, quickly moving them into position, about 60 degrees the sky, towards the landing area's direction.
"Load shell...fire!" He yelled, aware that they had to fire off a lot of these, the flak attuned to go off at about 500m or so- a close by shower that would kick off any low flying transports.

"We Shall Fight On The Landing Grounds"

I have no idea actually, I don't think so. But could Maxwell and your character Poly attach to Scott's section?

"We Shall Fight On The Landing Grounds"

Also, I feel like there's an awesome sort of set of characters. I was thinking of making a Canuck as well, because I suffer from Roleplaying multiple character disorder, but eh, I think I'll leave that for someone else.

"We Shall Fight On The Landing Grounds"

(I don't like Stalin, BTW. Study him and you begin to understand why...)

"We Shall Fight On The Landing Grounds"

Name: Scott Patrick Harris
Gender: Male
Nationality: New Zealander (ANZAC)
Age: 22
Physical Appearance: Scott is a fairly well built lad, being slightly tanned yet mostly pale in skin color, with brown eyes and brown, short hair, standing around 6"3. He can usually be seen wearing a green boonie, or British nicknamed "Giggle" hat, and a standard British khaki green uniform, and usually can be wearing a shirt, shorts and a primitive load bearing harness, for ammunition and grenades, like many of his counterparts. He has a fairly tactile pair of boots, perhaps in far better nick than most soldiers', and a few cuts and bruises. In particular, due to general clumsiness on the way out of Corinth, he received a shallow cut in his left arm, and hence has a bandage still left on, leaving it for the moment being.

Rank: Sergeant
Weapon and Ammunition:
-Sten MkI
-8x 30 Round Magazines, 9x19mm Parabellum

-Webley Mk IV Revolver
-2x 6 Round Magazines, .38-200 British

2x Mills Bomb "Pineapple" Grenades

Brief Background:
Dictatorship naturally arises out of democracy, and the most aggravated form of tyranny and slavery out of the most extreme liberty.
Plato
"And you could say right there, Plato understood Hitler." Scott

Born in Auckland, New Zealand, Scott was born into an already militaristic family, though his mother was a primary school teacher. It was his father being a soldier in the ANZAC Expeditionary Forces who fought in the Battle of Gallipoli that Scott always looked up to, and wished to follow at some point, his study of Ancient Greek first to mind however and something that he wished to undergo as a degree, from his mother's tales of Socrates and Plato's theories. The experience of the Med was something Scott never saw he'd see if that was his path, but following his own recruitment into the New Zealand Army at the outbreak of war, he did just that. Before this time, he had done well in school, and was going to go to university- but the war saw different to that. The Japanese threat was something that did scare him, but he wasn't deployed to fight them. His division was off to fight the Germans, and like his father, he was off to the Aegean, as a part of the New Zealand Expeditionary Forces- which was again, like his father's unit before him, to become a part of the ANZAC.

He was deployed to the Battle of Greece, or Unternehmen Marita as it was known to the German invaders. He was a part of the larger 2nd New Zealand Division, particularly in the 5th Infantry Brigade, 21st Infantry Battalion that reinforced the Greek Army- though the German spearhead punctured any defensive that the Allies put up. Following a botched evacuation from Corinth to Crete, Scott was promoted to Corporal, following the loss of a handful of section leaders on the way out. The situation, even Scott can see, has gone to shit. He has accepted that on Crete, the war may take a very different path- there is no more running on a golden isle, where the local populace themselves are even armed, to stop the German thorn from pushing this last island into enemy hands. If Scott knows anything, it's that there are no more islands to retreat towards after this battle- and that there is either evacuation to Africa, or resistance. Like the Greek plays that Scott has studied, it's a setting for some drama.

---

Name: Dimitri Costas
Gender: Male
Nationality: Greek (Cretan)
Age: 20
Physical Appearance:
Dimtiri stands at about 5"11, with a fairly olive skin and black hair as you would find on many Greeks in this part of the world. He has a fairly stocky build, and seems healthier than most, perhaps due to the fish-based diet and intensive work he had as a fisherman before he joined in fighting. He seems to have a few cuts and bruises, like most, and can usually be seen wearing a British-donated basic uniform with Greek insignia, comprising of a green shirt and shorts, with a small pack and a load bearing vest to boot. He wears a simple Steel helmet, with a netting attached, if at any point any shrubbery is required to be added as a camouflage. One distinguishing feature of Dimitri is the anchor that is tattooed onto his back- something he received just before the outbreak of war, by a visiting tattoo artist in Heraklion- something that many people did not opt for. While some would consider it perhaps a tattoo associated with the navy, for him it is his relation to the sea, a person who fishes, that it reminds him of, and sets him apart.

Rank: Private First Class (Future Resistance Cell Leader?)
Weapon and Ammunition:
-Bren MkII
-7x 30 Round Magazines, .303 British

Brief Background:

"We will fight them on the landing grounds? Shit, they're fucking falling out the sky! Last time I checked, that wasn't a landing ground!" Dimitri

Dimitri was born in Myrina, Lemnos- an island at the time that was recently made a Greek entity following decades of occupation and rule by the Ottoman Empire, and truly brought itself into the Hellenic world. He was brought up stoically Greek Orthodox, and his father was a fisherman, originally hailing from Crete- while his mother was a housewoman, and took care of Dimitri and his siblings. They moved to Crete when his grandparerents fell ill, to help care for them, and hence, Dimitri would really consider himself a Cretean in this respect, though he always did appreciate the mountains of Lemnos. He joined his father as a fisherman at 14, ditching any further education, and was always quite courageous, or somewhat able to lend a hand when needed in the worst of the Aegean storms. Dimitri didn't enlist when the war broke out- he was too young, and his parents relied on him to help keep the family's trade in fish going.

The Invasion brought his two older brothers to fight for the Greek Army, and the news reached them of their deaths when the British and Commonwealth, as well as any Greek forces managed to evacuate themselves to Crete. He felt angered, and joined up in the local militia as a result, particularly into the 1st Greek Regiment, of which was swiftly attached to the 5th New Zealand Infantry Brigade that Scott was also in. The regiment, despite usually being armed poorly with anything that came to hand prior to their arrival on Crete, was now relatively well provided for due to British donations of equipment, and Dimitri found himself a good leader of a small number of Cretean men within a fireteam. He was adept at carrying around the heavy Bren Gun, and while not being standard Greek equipment, on Crete, it was a weapon he'd put to good use. Dimitri's promotion was for the same reason that Scott's unit had seen in Corinth- a poor evacuation of officers had left a gap in NCOs, and his role as a Lance Corporal. Dimitri wishes that this isn't a fight that will ultimately be lost. But the sheer number of paratroops and the state of the defenders, already makes him think about the aftermath of such an invasion. And that he will fight to keep his homeland clear, even if there is a sea of German soldiers rather than cod in the Aegean around Crete, even if the rest of the Allied forces leave.

Second World War RP?

(Spot the references in character history. I couldn't help myself.)
(They are both NCOs as I plan to have maybe a handful of NPCs under their command, if that is okay- though this can very easily be edited to whatever you have in mind.)
(Also, if you say that Boonie/Giggle Hat isn't allowed for Scott, I know it doesn't fit the theater as well as the Pacific but still, he's a fucking Down Under person :D)

Name: Scott Patrick Harris
Gender: Male
Nationality: New Zealander (ANZAC)
Age: 22
Physical Appearance: Scott is a fairly well built lad, being slightly tanned yet mostly pale in skin color, with brown eyes and brown, short hair, standing around 6"3. He can usually be seen wearing a green boonie, or British nicknamed "Giggle" hat, and a standard British khaki green uniform, and usually can be wearing a shirt, shorts and a primitive load bearing harness, for ammunition and grenades, like many of his counterparts. He has a fairly tactile pair of boots, perhaps in far better nick than most soldiers', and a few cuts and bruises. In particular, due to general clumsiness on the way out of Corinth, he received a shallow cut in his left arm, and hence has a bandage still left on, leaving it for the moment being.

Rank: Sergeant
Weapon and Ammunition:
-Sten MkI
-8x 30 Round Magazines, 9x19mm Parabellum

-Webley Mk IV Revolver
-2x 6 Round Magazines, .38-200 British

2x Mills Bomb "Pineapple" Grenades

Brief Background:
Dictatorship naturally arises out of democracy, and the most aggravated form of tyranny and slavery out of the most extreme liberty.
Plato
"And you could say right there, Plato understood Hitler." Scott

Born in Auckland, New Zealand, Scott was born into an already militaristic family, though his mother was a primary school teacher. It was his father being a soldier in the ANZAC Expeditionary Forces who fought in the Battle of Gallipoli that Scott always looked up to, and wished to follow at some point, his study of Ancient Greek first to mind however and something that he wished to undergo as a degree, from his mother's tales of Socrates and Plato's theories. The experience of the Med was something Scott never saw he'd see if that was his path, but following his own recruitment into the New Zealand Army at the outbreak of war, he did just that. Before this time, he had done well in school, and was going to go to university- but the war saw different to that. The Japanese threat was something that did scare him, but he wasn't deployed to fight them. His division was off to fight the Germans, and like his father, he was off to the Aegean, as a part of the New Zealand Expeditionary Forces- which was again, like his father's unit before him, to become a part of the ANZAC.

He was deployed to the Battle of Greece, or Unternehmen Marita as it was known to the German invaders. He was a part of the larger 2nd New Zealand Division, particularly in the 5th Infantry Brigade, 21st Infantry Battalion that reinforced the Greek Army- though the German spearhead punctured any defensive that the Allies put up. Following a botched evacuation from Corinth to Crete, Scott was promoted to Corporal, following the loss of a handful of section leaders on the way out. The situation, even Scott can see, has gone to shit. He has accepted that on Crete, the war may take a very different path- there is no more running on a golden isle, where the local populace themselves are even armed, to stop the German thorn from pushing this last island into enemy hands. If Scott knows anything, it's that there are no more islands to retreat towards after this battle- and that there is either evacuation to Africa, or resistance. Like the Greek plays that Scott has studied, it's a setting for some drama.

---

Name: Dimitri Costas
Gender: Male
Nationality: Greek (Cretan)
Age: 20
Physical Appearance:
Dimtiri stands at about 5"11, with a fairly olive skin and black hair as you would find on many Greeks in this part of the world. He has a fairly stocky build, and seems healthier than most, perhaps due to the fish-based diet and intensive work he had as a fisherman before he joined in fighting. He seems to have a few cuts and bruises, like most, and can usually be seen wearing a British-donated basic uniform with Greek insignia, comprising of a green shirt and shorts, with a small pack and a load bearing vest to boot. He wears a simple Steel helmet, with a netting attached, if at any point any shrubbery is required to be added as a camouflage. One distinguishing feature of Dimitri is the anchor that is tattooed onto his back- something he received just before the outbreak of war, by a visiting tattoo artist in Heraklion- something that many people did not opt for. While some would consider it perhaps a tattoo associated with the navy, for him it is his relation to the sea, a person who fishes, that it reminds him of, and sets him apart.

Rank: Lance Corporal (Future Resistance Cell Leader?)
Weapon and Ammunition:
-Bren MkII
-7x 30 Round Magazines, .303 British

Brief Background:

"We will fight them on the landing grounds? Shit, they're fucking falling out the sky! Last time I checked, that wasn't a landing ground!" Dimitri

Dimitri was born in Myrina, Lemnos- an island at the time that was recently made a Greek entity following decades of occupation and rule by the Ottoman Empire, and truly brought itself into the Hellenic world. He was brought up stoically Greek Orthodox, and his father was a fisherman, originally hailing from Crete- while his mother was a housewoman, and took care of Dimitri and his siblings. They moved to Crete when his grandparerents fell ill, to help care for them, and hence, Dimitri would really consider himself a Cretean in this respect, though he always did appreciate the mountains of Lemnos. He joined his father as a fisherman at 14, ditching any further education, and was always quite courageous, or somewhat able to lend a hand when needed in the worst of the Aegean storms. Dimitri didn't enlist when the war broke out- he was too young, and his parents relied on him to help keep the family's trade in fish going.

The Invasion brought his two older brothers to fight for the Greek Army, and the news reached them of their deaths when the British and Commonwealth, as well as any Greek forces managed to evacuate themselves to Crete. He felt angered, and joined up in the local militia as a result, particularly into the 1st Greek Regiment, of which was swiftly attached to the 5th New Zealand Infantry Brigade that Scott was also in. The regiment, despite usually being armed poorly with anything that came to hand prior to their arrival on Crete, was now relatively well provided for due to British donations of equipment, and Dimitri found himself a good leader of a small number of Cretean men within a fireteam. He was adept at carrying around the heavy Bren Gun, and while not being standard Greek equipment, on Crete, it was a weapon he'd put to good use. Dimitri's promotion was for the same reason that Scott's unit had seen in Corinth- a poor evacuation of officers had left a gap in NCOs, and his role as a Lance Corporal. Dimitri wishes that this isn't a fight that will ultimately be lost. But the sheer number of paratroops and the state of the defenders, already makes him think about the aftermath of such an invasion. And that he will fight to keep his homeland clear, even if there is a sea of German soldiers rather than cod in the Aegean around Crete, even if the rest of the Allied forces leave.

Second World War RP?

Hmm, interesting. I'd love to do something that isn't D-Day however- and there are more than enough interesting stories that arose from the Invasion of Crete, such as the following resistance that basically occurred on the island, so I push for that RP the most. Alternatively, as a second vote, I guess the assault on Caen will do just fine.

Oh, and believe me, there used to be an interest like hell before for these RPs, myself included, but it's died out of late. Good to see you running something.

Juggernauts (BigPapaBelial and kingkonrad) IC

The sight of AOR2 camoflage was somehow sickening to Ross, even now, as he followed up behind, moving into the compound that he was in, Mk48 high as Ross just felt sick. Through the visor, the sight of a fellow operator like this was enough of a reason to find out what the fuck was going on. Somehow, he didn't like this. It felt fucked up, and the small village had been mostly cleared out now, the alleys and corners of this small village now swept dry. It was done and dusted, and yet Ross knew that there had to be more. There was only one, the gibbet of the SEAL's partly disembodied body being perhaps something as a momento, as sick as it was to these bastards. The rest of the team had to be somewhere, and somehow, Ross knew he had to call it out.
"Shite. Fuck....okay, Carl, keep on sweeping. Merlin, this is Knight Actual, we've got one SEAL, KIA, they fucking strung him up, over. What's the current sit rep in the area?" He asked, looking around with the Mk48, the barrel warm as he saw his fellow Juggernaut move up, heading to the smaller complexes of huts that were in this village.
"Affermative, Knight. We've got new intel on the team we're hunting, we're going to send a helicopter to your location ASAP, we need you rapidly redeployed. The Wildcat is off station, so we're sending our best alternative. Stand by." Merlin responded, as Ross moved up, following behind Carl as he then headed through to the roof of a hut, seeing a squad disembark from a small truck.
"Bollocks." He simply said, then standing on the roof as he aimed, and then fired, hearing a response from Merlin as he opened up, quickly sending 7.62 through the canvas into the men getting out, and any others getting torn apart, bullets whizzing by back at him as whoever was left behind cover sent shots back at the armored target.
"We're sending an AH-64 to your location, it'll be two minutes out- light your position up with white smoke, over." Merlin said, as Ross laid down fire, feeling his suit take hits as he quickly finished the last man off, the reinforcement team now completely quelled and giving Carl time to continue onwards with clearance as he then stopped firing.
"Say again, over?" He asked, as Merlin repeated it.
"You have an Apache coming to your village, they're requesting you pop white smoke, over. ETA is two mikes." Merlin added, as Ross checked that his headset wasn't playing about. He heard that right, that was for sure, as he moved down, off the roof, barely being able to clamber down the steps on the side, breathing hard as he checked his corners.
"Copy that, we've got a courtyard coming up, we'll ping it." Ross said in response, moving up through an alley, sweeping his sectors as he spoke through to Carl.
"I swear to God, if we're improvising transport, this is going to be fun again." He simply said, chuckling as he heard a slight creak come up, and even in his suit, the heavy helmet and lumbering gear that he carried, could be one that any operator would have been able to respond to.

The door suddenly opened up , as Ross was just able to keep his weapon high, the man that burst out almost falling over with his AK, as Ross then sent a sharp kick into the man's abdomen, as he fired rapidly. Shots pinged off his suit's armor, a sharp kick across Ross's chest and helmet as he felt the bullets richochet and make a dent, at this point blank range. 7.62 tracers, and they did fucking make a feel in Ross, though the man was on the floor and unable to get back up. Ross was fast enough to know what to do, and he already shot twice with the LMG, though he didn't know entirely why he'd done what he did in the way he did. The shots landed in the man's legs, particularly in the thighs, and Ross had only understood that he was still truly feeling the shock even in this adrenaline. He didn't want to kill this guy outright. He wanted to make him suffer. The man yelled, his AK on the floor as he looked down at him, like Damocles sword being thrust across his neck.
"You fucking savages." He said, shaking his helmeted head, grabbing a smoke grenade from his chest rig. Pulling the pin and lobbing it far forward, into the clearing, he looked back down at the man, who was wailing in pain.
"Fuck you." He simply said, kicking him once more, just feeling anger and unchannelled rage come back out. You had to control it, direct it towards your enemy. That was what he was good at. But sometimes, no matter what psychological training you had, it had to come out one way or another. This was his way of directing it, and he knew the man would bleed from here. The bullets had gone through the bone, and they were embedded. He'd bleed out in fifteen minutes, and since medical attention out here would be shitty, it was no doubt that if blood poisoning didn't get him, he'd most likely bleed out anyway. Moving past, with the fastest pace he could muster without tiring himself out, he saw Carl come into view, as he looked back, blood on his uparmored Kevlar shinpads.
"We might get some noise soon, no doubt. Get a perimeter set up, once that Apache's in, I suggest we hook up on it's wingtips. Fuck me, I've heard stories of people doing this, but if the intel is good, we'll be rapidly redeployed, and with air support. Fucking hell." He said, just hoping that this would somehow work, checking his own Mk48 as he heard the distant noise of the AH-64D Longbow echo over the mountain valleys, and begin it's approach in, like an Angel of Death. But if it was death from above, then Ross knew that himself and Carl were death on the ground, and no doubt, would be able to put more than just fear into the enemy's hearts. Moving up, Ross found a position behind a small wall, and could already pick out hostiles in the distance noticing the smoke, and sending vague rounds in their direction. They had no idea how many times they outnumbered the two Juggernauts- their squad alone did two and a half times over, but that wasn't the point, and Ross knew that this was why they kicked so much ass out here, when they operated like this. Unlike an airstrike or a gunrun, it was something that perhaps was manifested more appropriately, and provide a force multiplier. The enemy knew to hide when there were airstrikes. They thought that they held the advantage when they had numbers. Right now, armed with a 7.62 caliber Mk48 MOD 0 LMG and a suit of armor, it would take more than being outnumbered to really put the strain down, as Ross opened up, quickly sending three of the men down, and any responding fire temporarily to a halt, as he viewed the world through his quad-NVG optical set.

The Matter of Britain

(This is confusing- you said Gunnar's armies were camped up between Powys/Gwynedd, but they're now at the River Severn? I assume this is in the higher levels, towards the current-day Brecon Beacons.)

The Arrival

The sea was a cauldron, further out into the Mare Interterra, the very late evening bringing only very little light through the cloud and fog. The longboat rocked, the spray willowing in as Halvar looked out, sitting on the front of the boat. He wore his whole armor, helm to his chain-mail suit, the two-handed axe sitting on his back- and it something he knew would come in useful when they were coming in closer. The ship already was travelling at around 10 knots- the favourable wind behind the ship being of a great assistance, though the crew knew that while the ship could go faster, it was not worth the risk at this time of night- with only a few of the crew rowing as a result. At the front itself, it was a bad place to be if you were seasick, but he was observing, with good reason. The chalk could be seen to be reflected in the very distant remnant moonlight, out of this stormy patch, that of a small island. Lundy. It sat in the middle of the Mare Interterra, between the realm of Dyfed and Dummonia, and currently, was in the possession of the latter. A small monastery and a few farmers were all the authority of the island, but Halvar knew his men needed to find food, and perhaps something economical in the process. Halvar knew that they Kingdom of Dummonia would not respond, not to an island like this, which was fairly isolated and cut off. Slaves, wheat, whatever Halvar knew there was on this island, they'd strip it dry, and allow themselves to at least intern themselves out of this storm. There were four other longboats to the right of Halvar's, their red and blue sails distinctively different to that of a regular raiding party. This seemed more organized. Halvar looked out, as he was tapped on the back, by the ship's rigger- Jens, of whom Halvar trusted enough to be his second-in-command aboard this vessel.
"Halvar, we have sightings on the island. What are your orders?"
"Full sail, we aim for the southern corner. There are cliffs and shallows, be very careful steering us through. The helmsman can read these shores like a manuscript, I hear, but I do not want to ground this ship here. Relay to the other ships, we will lead them to the shore." He added, looking back, wiping his water covered face as he looked back, at the crew, who were bringing themselves to bear with weapons and their padded armor, as well as dealing with the sail and masting of the ship.
"You want to eat!? You take the women, kill all the Monks you see, and any peasants, we put to work in the galleys of Harald's Longship. I promise you, you will find blood this evening, and we will make good our killing!" He said, with a respondent hurrah coming from most of the crew, even some of the other longboats, though it was more scattered.

---

The boats landed at the quay, to the sight of several scared peasants. It was still a sight to see, the flaming lamps aboard the longboats illuminating the crew, who were indeed, coming in with a purpose. Even the slave rowers looked like they meant business, as Halvar looked to the rest. The small beach was probably the only landing site, but it wasn't going to be defended well. He followed the crew, as they made the drop out off of the front of the longboat, already walking up. A few of the farmers yelled back, holding pitchforks- these people mainly being mixed, either Celtic or Romano-British. They were all going to have to be put to the sword or made to kneel. And today, Halvar felt like doing more of the former. The other longboats had already followed, as he looked back, his two-handed axe sternly in both hands, the flaming torches held by some at the back illuminating the fear that was the Viking force.
"To arms!" He yelled in Norse, as the rest of his men yelled, already charging up the beach, as the peasants quickly found out what a Viking charge looked like. Most were cut down in seconds, the sand running with blood as they rapidly subjugated the fishermen and farmers that had offered a first wave of resistance. Even Halvar had himself, managed to cleanly almost cut open one of the fishermen, armed with a mere pitchfork, from ribcage to shoulder with the blood-stained Norse axe, something that left the man bleeding and dead within moments. Adjusting his helm, he moved up, the hill to the rest of the men, the tiring action something that Halvar didn't give a fuck about. Now, they'd ruin any man that dared oppose them, and while perhaps they'd be slower at the top of the hill, he knew he commanded a significant set of power. Already, Halvar's archers were picking off any runners that dared not surrender with their hunting bows, many wearing lighter chainmail vests and red hoods, over leather and iron protection. Whilst not the most numerous, they were accurate, and held their own very well in a melee, something that Halvar always ensured his archers could do- fight alongside the rest of his warriors, whom were armed with far larger axes and swords. The 70 man force had lost one or two, but that was nothing. Tens of peasants were now dead, and that was a good thing.

---

Within minutes, the men of Halvar's raiding party had cleared the island, or swept up survivors and anyone that had offered any forms of resistance to the Norse raiding party. It had been a place that no Viking or other raiding party had perhaps attempted to claim, but this was't a kingdom. It was a small island with a relatively moderate farming population, if even that. It was just merely an invasion to grab supplies and rest for the night, a simple raid to put . They had been on the waves for a few days, and Halvar could tell from any man that fighting broke that up. Lundy was a stop-off point, before they sailed up the Severn, past the Brythonic Kingdom to where Halvar wished to have an audience with the King of Manx. He had stopped at the King's island already- and been very critical of his methods. This was a pirate, a simpleton that did not see a wider Norse empire as an existence. Halvar knew that he was a key figure, but how long could his forces be united? His home island was indeed, well fortified. The castles and settlements could easily resist any naval incursion by any other rogue Viking force, or the Welsh or Eire peoples, simply because Manx's naval superiority was a Norse one, not a "British" one. Yet Gunnar seemed like a fool, from what he heard. And bringing about an allegiance to the King of Norway, was Halvar's ulterior motive. With either Gunnar bending the knee or with his head at the end of Halvar's axe, to turn the tides in one way or another. All Halvar knew was, that he wanted to be a Jarl of his own part of this country. Lundy was a tiny place, and as Halvar had commanded, the Monks were all slaughtered, decapitated by Halvar's personal crew. The rest of the longship crews swept the rest of the island, bringing all the surrendered men, women and children to the monastery, a small but spiritual place that now stank of blood and dead bodies. He had to go have a look.

Looking around at the steps of the small hermitage, he saw Jens come over, at least a dozen fishermen and farmers behind him, subjugated on their knees and truly conquered indeed. New rowers was all that Halvar thought.
"Well done, Jens. Bring these men to Harold's ship, ever since we lost a few of his rowers, his ship has been slow." He said simply, as Jens commanded another pair of Norsemen, armed with spears, to bring them out of the monastery, then looking to Halvar again as they yelled at the group and then swiftly left.
"And the women and children?"
"Have the children's throats cut. The women, is our pleasure to have. The monks must have some wine and bread, so we shall have ourselves a little feast, before we depart tomorrow morn."
"Yes, sire." He simply said, as he headed out, going to rally a few of the men to do the job, as he stared at them, almost remorseless in the way he looked. They didn't understand him, and he didn't understand their cries, in Celtic. It wasn't like that of the Scots' Celtic that he had heard before, it was a more alien language, perhaps further south in the country.

---

The hours passed, of drunkeness, practically emptying the Granary and Foodstores of anything edible, and generally having fun with the female population, of which even Halvar got involved in. He wasn't a strong drunk, but the hermitige burned, it's dedication to a Catholic God now a burning pyre for all to see. Halvar didn't entirely care for what his crew did, so long as they worked and they fought as hard as he demanded, and that they always held him as the leader of this party. He knew that so long as his men didn't suffer, they would not have any thoughts for rebellion. And that was why the traditional Norse action of pillaging and raping was something that Halvar was determined to keep alive on this island, until tomorrow came and they would depart for the Severn. There were many things to achieve, and he wasn't even very drunk, because he knew foremostly, what they would need to accomplish. The winds and the rain had died down, and while the fog remained, the illuminated darkness, lit up by burning farm houses and the hermitage, the occasional movement of Norsemen with fire torches could be seen to bring some more light in. But they'd be going soon, that was all Halvar knew.

(Bits of this post feel really incomplete- it isn't the best, but I did what I could.)