Kassarock

The Age of Iron

The Skrælingjar Isles

To know of the Skrælingjar is to know of the Two Great Gods that made the world and how it was the land and sea came to be.

First there was nothing, only dark. Then they came, the Twin Gods, Sara and Sil. They burst from the womb of the dark and in its opening, light came forth. This light illuminated the faces of Sara and Sil, and when they saw the other’s face, they became lovers and did wed.

Then Sara did make the lands, and did make the plants, and did make the animals, and last did make the people - who were her children and she did love them.

Sil became wroth for Sara’s love, so he did make the seas, and did make the storms, and did make the predators, and last stole a child from the breast of Sara – who he took unto the sea and did punish cruelly and remade them in his nature.

Thus the Skrælingjar were made.

- Skrælingjar Creation Myth

Overview

Overview

The Skrælingjar are a people of seven clans spread over ten isles. They are a fierce people, driven to raid the green lands by the nature of the rocky isles they call home and by the command of their vengeful and wroth Father-God, Sil. They believe they are his chosen people, and will only escape his wrath through the promise of even greater blood in exchange. Thus for centuries they have pillaged the coastal lands in order to protect their own homes and ships from disaster.

In accordance with the nature of Twin-Gods, the men are of the sea and the women are of the land. All the land belonging to a family or a clan is therefore owned by and passed down unto the female children. Conversely, all ships belonging to a family or clan are owned by and captained by the men. This duality appears and again and again in Skrælingjar culture. The domain of women is fertile and productive, therefore all children born of women belongs to her clan. The domain of men is destructive and takes, therefore all thralls taken by a man belongs to his clan. During the coldest and stormiest moths, the men winter at the houses of the clans or their wives, and then leave come the spring to sail and raid until autumn forces their return. In times gone past this would be only to war, but as the Skrælingjar learnt to eek riches out of Sil’s domain and even the harshest of Sara’s land, they have become voyages of trade as well.

The isles are poor for agriculture and mining, but Sil begrudgingly provides fish and the great grey ones to his children. With thralls to work the fields and the mines, some isles yield iron and grains, but many are still are dependent upon temperamental Sil for their sustenance, either by force or by choice.

Clans and the Tinvaal

Clans and the Tinvaal

The clan culture of the Skrælingjar is based on matrilineal descent, children are primarily raised by their mothers and their uncles, not necessarily by their fathers. Each of the clans have a dual nature and this is reflected in their two chieftans. The island the clan is based on and all it produces is overseen by the Heimóðir, or the Mother of the Hearth, or the Mother of the House. The title is generally passed down to the first born daughter, but it is not unheard of for it to be passed to a younger daughter, a sibling or even a cousin if the heir apparent is deemed unworthy. They rule from strong houses, small defensible stone keeps that stand in the middle of their primary settlements. The clan fleet and all it produces is overseen by the Gunnarr Jarl, the Chief Warrior or the War Chief. This title is almost always selected through merit. From spring to autumn they rule the seas from their ships, during the winter they return to either their Hearth Mother's strong house or a specific Warriors Hall on a different island (normally the one their spouse is on) - these exist due to proscriptions about allowing warriors from other clans to sleep in the strong houses of the clan mothers.

However, these figures do not exercise complete authority over the clan. Independent farmsteads and ship captains have a great degree of autonomy. Obedience is only required in calls to war and not breaking explicitly formed alliances. There is also the Seiðr to compete with, an independent structure of mystics, prophets and priests that interpret the will of Sil for the clans.

Recently, however, the isles have become more unified than ever with the founding of the Tinvaal, a gathering of Gunnar Jarls of all the clans. It came about when the legendary war-chief Ragnar Blood-Reign of the Clan Baldauri married the Heimóðir of the Clan Namestdir. They then entered into alliance with Ragnar’s half-brother, the war-chief of the Soiti Clan. With three of the most powerful clans united in alliance, the others were forced to follow suit or face obliteration. Thus the Tinvaal was created. The Tinvaal votes on the matters of war and trade that the Skrælingjar take as one. However, once again the clans have great autonomy and its rule is not secure, even in its third generation of existence.

Currently the Clans represented in the Tinvaal are:

Clan Baldauri - the greatest traders of the Skrælingjar, their chief port, Thirsk, is the largest town in the islands. They inhabit the archipelago's central isle. Many consider them arrogant and resent their previous dominance in the Tinvaal. Their sigil is the Boar.

Clan Freynir - fiercely reputed warriors of the northern most isle, they raid even in winter. They cling most to the old ways of raiding and war of all the Clans. Their sigil is the Wolf.

Clan Soiti - Inhabits the isle to the east of the Baldauri, they largest fishing fleet in the isles. They have a large population relative to the size of the island and their number of warriors. Their sigil is the Leaping Fish.

Clan Sheska - The small northeastern isle is their home. Few in number, they are well renowned mystics and the best hunters of the Great Grey Ones. The Sheska are considered mysterious and strange by those on other isles, their culture and dialect is the most distinct. Their sigil is the Narwhal.

Clan Gromdis - The northernmost of the three southern isles. This island yields iron from it, the largest source in the isles. Even on this island though, armour is still rare, ring mail is reserved for captains and cheiftans, most warriors will not even have helmets. Their sigil is the Bear.

Clan Namestdir - The middle of the three southern isles, the most agriculturally rich and fertile. Traditionally one of the most powerful of the Clans, their importance seems to wane in the increase of imported food goods and trading. Their sigil is the Ram.

Clan Oddel - The southernmost isle. Voyagers who travel further than all others. They have the most links with the lands far to the south and often the most exotic goods in the isles land there first. Their sigil is the Eagle.

Age of Iron

I could be game for this

The Soft Winds (Small Town Sci Fi Mystery RP, Looking for Players)

@AdobeFlash What's IC level of knowledge for this Feddie's then?

The Soft Winds (Small Town Sci Fi Mystery RP, Looking for Players)

Do we have any lore approved eateries or diners for the town?

Somewhere you could get a "damn fine" cup of coffee and slice of cherry pie?

The Soft Winds (Small Town Sci Fi Mystery RP, Looking for Players)

Jack turned off the radio and sighed. It was morning, and he'd barely slept a darn wink. He wiped the engine oil from his calloused hands with an old rag that might have once been part of a bed sheet and took another sip of his lukewarm coffee. Something had woken him up a little before 3 am and he had gone outside to check it out, took his gun with him too, what with all the queer things that been happening around here last couple'a months. Not that kept stock in any of that, but it doesn't hurt to be careful. It had been nothing, but still, Jack hadn't been able to get back to sleep after that.

At first he had gone back inside, turned the T.V. on low and tried to doze on the sofa, but that hadn't done any good. In the end he had found himself back outside in his workshop, working under the Buick's rear axle. After 5am he had admitted that he had been defeated in the sleep department and stuck a pot of coffee on. While he had been heading back into the barn he thought he had heard... no more... felt... something then again. But when he stopped and tried to pinpoint it, it was gone, so he had shrugged it off and gone back to work.

And now it really was morning. The radio had just switched from that pre-dawn monotonous blur of insomniac friendly tired ballads and smooth tones to the bright and perky yapping of the breakfast programming. The good folks of Boca Diablo would be waking up to beautiful day, a little bit of low hanging mist but that would burn off as it heated up. Right about now they'd be putting on their percolators and pouring milk onto their cornflakes. He snorted in derision at the image.

He stepped out of his oil-stained overalls and pulled a dark grey T-shirt over his head, it snagged slightly on his well muscled arms. He would leave the Buick sit for the rest of the day, he had promised Don Hathaway that he'd go out and take a look at those fences he been talking about mending this morning. Wasn't the sort of the work that Jack liked, but it would pay something. However, before that he needed to eat something.

Jack lit a cigarette and stalked out of the barn. The scrubby lot of dirt and rusted metal cast long shadows in the dawn light and he found his eyes involuntarily wandering over to the empty kennel that sat at the foot of his porch. It had been about a month he guessed since he had seen Al. The dog had wandered off for a night or two before, but never anything like this. At first he had thought he might come back, but as the days went on that possibility looked slimmer and slimmer. He would have seen something driving around if Al had been hit by a truck or a car, but there were still gators out the swamps, big ones too if you believed the stories. They said one had got a ten year old a few years back a couple of townships over, so it was possible. Still, he couldn't bring himself to think about getting a new one yet.

The house was in a sorry state. It had never been much, but at one point it had been a tidy little cabin. Jack had never been any good with house keeping. The step up to the porch were sagging and the whole place needed a new coat of white wash. The garden was all weeds and junk, roof could do with few new shingles to top it off. Maybe in the summer he thought as he exhales another puff of smoke. Inside was much the same story, half the living room was taken up by a motor bike engine he had been tinkering with last winter and the kitchen was a swirl of old pans and empty bottles. He opened the fridge.

"Damn." He sighed as he looked inside.

He had forgotten to pick up any worthwhile groceries. There was half a pint of off milk and a few take-away containers that weren't particularly fresh either. Looks like he was stopping off at one of the diners in town before he went to see Donald. Oh well, he could do with a slice of pie.

The Strumpet Inn (Open)

Yeah I'm sorry but I think I'm going to drop out, I don't really think this is really going to work for me and you also seem to be a more active and energetic lot than my schedule will be able to keep to. So best of luck, but I'm out.

Darkness Visible

I messaged him yesterday, no reply, he hasn't been on for couple of days.

The Strumpet Inn (Open)

Lem Arronson

Name: Lem’ Arronson

Age: 53 or 54

Gender: Male

Race: Human

Occupation: Knight/Mercenary

Personality: Lem Arronson is a hard man. He’s lived a hard life, and a long one at that considering his profession. He’s tough and reliable, diligent, someone that you can depend upon. But Lem’s fortitude does not come free of cost, to get onto his right side he will require you to work equally hard and do your fair share – there are no free rides. He’s somewhat taciturn, with a patient and quiet nature and this leads him to be a cautious (yet highly skilled) fighter on the battlefield.

Despite his gruffness and unyielding nature, Lem ultimately has a good heart. If one has the patience to listen to him then he imparts advice freely, and pretty much always speaks honestly. He has dry sense of humour, although it tends towards the more grim and macabre end of the spectrum – another side effect of spending a life killing people for money.

Biography

Lem’s story is a common one. He is not an orphan, his young life was not filled with hardship or tragedy or formative suffering. He was the son of peasants, and he lived in a small village in the north of these lands where his father herded flocks of sheep for the local feudal lord and his mother worked all day in their vegetable garden. The eldest of four children that made it past infancy, he worked in the fields and pastures from a young age. Lem did not live a miserable or particularly hard life, sometimes the winters and springs were lean, and sometimes they were not. Ultimately they scraped a decent living for folks such as themselves and his family were content. Lem however, was not.

He was adventurous boy, always dreaming beyond the valleys of his childhood to the world that was outside. He wanted to see it, he wanted to be more than just another peasant, more than his father; he wanted to live. His father was not a bad man, but they clashed a lot, and sometimes he beat Lem, and sometimes Lem deserved it. One day after feeling particular discontent, his arm particularly sore from a slap of his father’s crook, Lem decided to leave his family and the life he faced ahead of him as another peasant farmer- for good.

He ran away south before is fourteenth name day, taking little with him except the clothes on his back. He had little idea of where he was going, stealing and working as a day labourer to get by. For a couple of months he lived like vagabond until one night, while sleeping in a haystack he was seized by a group of recruiters for some King’s armies, the shilling forced upon him and was pressed ganged into the service of the crown.

Now while this might seem as a set back from most people, it was really the best thing that could have happened to Lem. He was fed and clothed, given tasks to set his mind and energy to, and most of all he was given a life beyond working a plough or crook or scythe. He saw the world, fought in a fair number of skirmishes, he became a fair fighter and then a good one. After his ten years were up and he was given the choice between going back to the life of a civilian or continuing as a solider, Lem chose the latter. Although this time, he was not in service to any King, instead he joined one of the free companies of – mercenaries who do not fight for crown or glory, but for gold.

Mercenary life suited Lem even better than an enlisted man, he earned more and saw even more of the world. For six years he warred his way through the eastern lands, fighting alongside the nomads and barbarians in their never ending conflicts. He made a fortune and returned west to more settled lands, there was a woman for a while, talk of settling down and having a good, respectable life, but something went wrong and within a year Lem had drank his fortune away and returned to a life on the road. He fought wherever there was fighting needed to be done and in the process made a fair reputation and name for himself amongst the circles in which soldiers of fortune tend to move.

All of this continued uninterrupted until three years ago, when Lem’s horse was slain beneath him during a border skirmish not so far from the village of Norr. Some boy with a spear, barely a man, stepped out from behind a tree as Lem thundered past and skewered the horse in its chest. The beast fell, and Lem wasn’t quick enough to leap clear of the saddle. It landed on his right leg, crushing his knee in to bloody, broken mess. Lem survived the battle, but he would never be the graceful and truly formidable fighter he had once been.

He served on as a mercenary though, he was experienced and was still a good enough sword – especially when in the saddle. But he wasn’t quite up to the task of serving alongside his former comrades. He left the business of fighting wars and travelled working protection of merchant caravans and such. But even this more sedate travelling was hard on the leg, so one day, over a year ago he found The Strumpet and has somewhat settled down since, using his skills to keep himself in a bed, ale and hot meals.

Inventory:
-Arming sword, steel with leather handle wraps, plain and nicked but in relatively good condition.
-Rondel dagger, steel, used to stab between armoured plates.
-Wooden kite shield, faded and chipped paint, serviceable.
-Woollen tunic, leggings and cloak – natural and undyed
-Leather jerkin, boots and sword belt.
-Padded arming jacket and cap
-Mail hauberk, steel,extends to cover arms to wrist.
-Mail coif, covers head, neck and shoulders.
-Coat of plates, steel and leather, extends to cover thighs and shoulders, contains built on pauldrons, steel.
-Iron ‘guttering’ style vambraces and greeves
-Steel sallet helmet
-Whetstone
-Wine skin

Extra: Lem has a horse stabled out behind the inn, a 6 year mare coloured in pale grey. Her name is Smokey.

Appearance

Lem is roughly 6'1" tall and fairly lean in build.

Armour images

The Strumpet Inn (Open)

Apologies for my absence, busy weekend

The Soft Winds (Small Town Sci Fi Mystery RP, Looking for Players)

Johnathon ‘Jack’ Walker

Nicknames: Jack to his friends, Walker to most of the respectable citizens of Boca Diablo

Gender: Male

Age: 34

Sexuality: Heterosexual

Likes:
- Cars, motorbikes, anything that involves mechanics and going fast really.
- Whiskey, especially bourbon.
- NASCAR, demolition derbies, Monster truck racing
- Hard Rock music, think Led Zeppelin, The Who, Deep Purple, Aerosmith, AC/DC, Van Halen etc
- Dogs, Jack used to have a German Sheppard named Al
- Time to himself

Dislikes:
- Agricultural work, or any form of work that isn’t on mechanics
- Law Enforcement, the Sherriff’s department continually suspicions rub Jack the wrong way
- Polite society and small talk
- People who think they’re better than him
- People prying into his business

Appearance

Appearance: Jack is tall man, standing over 6’1” when he’s not in boots. He’s quite rangy in his build, but his well enough muscled not seem insubstantial, hard work has kept him fit and he is yet to begin softening into middle age. His dirty blonde hair is normally pushed back off of his somewhat angular face. Around its lower half he is normally wearing several days’ worth of stumble and a cigarette can often be found dangling from the corner of his mouth. He has distinctive tattoo on his right forearm of a snake circling its away around a dagger.

Clothing wise Jack prefers muted tones, leather and denim make up a large part of his wardrobe both in and out of work. Underneath or when it is too hot he favours faded plaid shirts and vest tops. On his left hand he is large ornate silver ring with a garnet set into the centre.

Personality

Personality: Jack is a somewhat reserved man. He seems very hostile on the surface things but that’s mainly a front due to his reputation in town. In reality he’s quite a relaxed person with a dry sense of humour coupled with a healthy dose of cynicism. There’s nothing more that he likes then to take time off, have a drink, and shoot the breeze the regulars that prop up the bar out at the Roadhouse. However, he does have a temper on him, one which has cooled over the years, but can be still be woken if the right buttons are pushed.

He doesn’t talk about himself much, or appreciate people trying to pry into his life. When he wants he can be charming in a roguish sort of way, and when he first came back to the town after his self-imposed exile, he was quite a ladies man for a few years. That quietened down when the women around these parts learned more of him and his ways. He likes the chase, but doesn’t do well with commitment. Despite his seeming transition to honest labourer, there’s still something secretive and slightly shady about Jack. But he gives respect if someone’s willing to give it back, and there are a fair few people in town who do appreciate his presence.

Biography

Biography: The Walker families are one of the old families of Boca Diabola, but one of those that never really prospered. There were Walkers in that second wave of settlers that came in 1765 after the first ill-fated lost expedition. But most of branches of the family have either died out or moved away. Used to be they owned a good chunk of land in around the Keep, but bad harvests and personal tragedies have seen the families land has shrunk down to a simple small holding on the very eastern edge of Cooper Keep. Not even a proper farm, it comprises of a few acres of scrubland, woods and swamp with a rundown cabin with a rickety old barn and twenty rusting cars sat on top. Jack Walker is the last custodian of the Walker property.

It was the cabin that Jack grew up in, built by his grandfather, after his great grandfather was forced to sell off their old farm. His upbringing was fairly hard, his father, James Walker, was a man left embittered after seeing his fortunes sunk low. The small holding was a complete and utter failure and his father ended up working as an agricultural worker for other landowners, an utter humiliation for such a proud man.

They had strained relationship, Jack grew up never knowing the better times for his family, he never had the same notions about their respectability or their heritage. He made friends with other kids from the lower echelons of the town’s community. When his father tried to impress on him the impropriety of the company he was keeping, it just drove more a wedge between them and encouraged Jack to act out.

During his youth he quite the town hoodlum, getting into a helluva lot of fights and scuffles, most of which he ended up winning. He used to drink underage in the old roadhouse, and fell in with an even worse crowd than the other farm hand kids. He slung dope for a while and did worse, until he got caught trying to commit burglary on a house on the good side of town. He managed to get off light and escape charges. But none the less, his life changed that year when he was called up in the draft of ‘69 to go to Vietnam. Jack never saw much action while he was out there, the horrors of Tet offensive were already over, and later the peace held mostly until the complete withdrawal of American forces in ’73. But what did see wasn’t pretty, around 15% of G.I.s were on smack around that time, and Jack was one of them. He kicked the habit as part of the Golden Flow program (no ride home until you pass a urine test) but that and the war changed him.

When he came back to the states and was discharged he couldn’t stand go back to Boca Diabola, so he spent the next five years travelling around the west on the back of a motorbike. He lived in San Francisco for a while, just long enough watch the demise of the hippy dream before he headed back south. A few years in Dallas and then onto Atlanta, it was in ’78 that he heard his father was head.

He thought he was coming back for the funeral, but somehow he never left. The property fell to him since his mother hadn’t been around since he was little, and his only sibling (a younger sister) was starting a new life in L.A. last time he heard from her.

Jack’s never been in the same level of trouble that he was as a kid, although in small towns people have long memories, and there are rumours. He works odd jobs most of time, either agricultural work, or as a mechanic, one of the few things he is genuinely considered to be good at. He’s been quiet, but folks are still somewhat wary of him, and he isn’t particularly well liked in the town.

Other:
Jack has a wide array of half junked, half built cars and motorcycles on his property. Right now he is driving or working on:
- 1976 Dodge Warlock truck, dark green, his main day to day vehicle
- Harley Davidson FX Super Glide
- 1953 Buick Roadmaster, his main project car, currently without engine