I, King Johaan Thorbrandr, rightful ruler of the petty kingdom of Jorvik, had just established a Norse Pagan holding in the Northumbrian region of northern England. We descended upon the Pomeranian coast from our longships, thirsting for Slavic blood and gold; a thousand Viking raiders strong. Accompanying our cleverly-installed Germanic brothers-in-arms from Pomerania itself, twin armies crossed the river Elbe to strike at the weak heart of local Slavic holdings. Though bastard Feudal lords in spirit, nearly a thousand men strong, we thought them an easy adversary. We were mistaken!
Our pincer movement successfully wedged their 980 men as we began firing our volleys. Two Germanic Kings rode the front lines, boosting morale for the battle ahead. A skilled flanker struck the left, while a battlefield terrain master charged the right - victory seemed assured! Our men screamed and cursed as the lines crashed together, shield-for-shield; fighting an uphill battle in the rough Slavic highlands. For every man we lost, the fools lost two! 1,600 zealous Norsemen hammered at the bastards, and for a moment the odds churned in our favor... Without warning, my right-flank commander, a true master of all terrain, was pierced through by fated arrow. Staggered, he could not have seen the Slavic King's approach from his rear. Two masters of narrow flank tactics collided, and the weakened Norseman fell with ease. Our right flank lay severed as the front lines were cleaved by charging horsemen and a maelstrom of arrows! Our infantry outnumbered theirs two-to-one, but charging uphill against horsemen and archers depleted our numbers to match theirs. Then, in a final stroke of misfortune, the Slavic King shattered the remaining left flank - bringing his full might to bear against the remaining central lines. Three Slavic commanders struck simultaneously at the last 500 Norsemen, worn down to a few archers and a cluster of mixed infantry. I watched my countrymen fall, one-by-one, the enemy lines surrounding us as our shield-wall slowly returned to coast. Our ranks battered and bloodied in a battle clearly lost, Two wounded Norse Kings staggered back to their longships that day, as a petty Slavic lordling laughed in triumph...
...But the insult would not stand! Though divine fate denied us a clear victory, his holdings would soon burn; his relatives slaughtered in the rituals of the Great Blot! Two years hence, his lands now lie in Norse hands, his titles' claimants executed all but for his youngest daughter and living heir... A fine Slavic lass, quick of mind, who shall make a grand concubine upon coming-of-age... As for the foolish Slavic lordling? Upon the day his wounded body is discovered rotting in the depths of my dungeon's Oubliette, his severed, eyeless, head shall adorn a Norseman's spear at the forefront of those conquered lands - where his bloated, necrotic tongue shall speak the unspoken words of Viking warfare: "Never taunt an angered Norseman!"
Ehndras & PyroDesu of B12 Forums - CK II multiplayer with the extremely-entertaining Old Gods expansion. We may have lost the first battle, F**k-knows how, but we ended his reign soon after.
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Topic: How did you last die? (Read 2411405 times)