(122-07-15) Bear vs. Sea Wolves
Bear vs. Sea Wolves
Summary: A Westerosi fleet battles the raider fleet in the Narrow Sea.
Date: Date of play (15/07/122) Events take place in early June.
Related: http://gobmush.wikidot.com/plot:something-is-rotten-at-winterfell

It is the end of the first week of June. The Rose army has marched to the sea and has been fighting a fierce battle against the landing parties in a large village on a wide bay. Lord Cregan's forces arrived and the two stark armies cracked the Raider army like a walnut. The survivors are fleeing back to their ships.

Most of the raider fleet is in one place. They had been doing smaller raids up and down the coast, herding survivors into the larger settlements, which they are now hitting one by one with the massed fleet on the way back North. What fleet the Starks could muster is here, waiting in ambush around the northern spur out of sight for the raiders to leave the bay. It is a motley mix of a few Northern ships, mostly out of White Harbour, boats sent by the Vale and the Stormlands on the assumption they will be next, and a rag tag fleet of privateers and other independent captains, whatever could be scraped up, really. The Northern forces include one long boat, the Seal Prince, out of the Lonely Light in the far north West, Captained by Killian Farwynd.

The Raider fleet sails out and around the black rocks of the spur. It is rather motley itself, being a mix of Northern style whaling boats refitted for raiding, smaller craft, and a mix of iron islands style long boats, all fitted with black sails for when they do night raids. It is mid morning now. The breeze blows a brisk Westerly and it's every ship for themselves.

The Dubhar, a low-sitting ship somewhere between a cog and a true longship, sails under the auspices of Ser Raibert Mormont, its hull blackened and its sails as green as the sea in deepest night. The crew divide their duties between rowing and readying shortbows, whilst its captain calls out, "Right, lads! They've broke cover! ROW YOU BASTARDS, LETS TAKE THEM IN THE SIDE!"
And the Drummer beats his rhythm and the ship charges forth.

Killian shouts, "Row men! Head for the Longship to Port!" He himself looks hungry for the fight, axe sharp and at the ready and bright curls tied back for the fight. His ship is an older style of longboat, not as fancy as the few scattered in the raider fleet, but sturdy enough for far north winters with a wicked looking ram.

The Dubhar plunges on, breaking waves and making for one of the raider ships, its crew deadly silent but for the drumming of the great drum at its stern.
Its captain draws his greatsword, holding it aloft as they near the raiders and bringing it down in a great sweep as they draw close enough for bows.

The Starks are an inland house, and the North is not known for a large fleet. The Sea ambush, like the one on land is rather a surprise. The smaller, nimbler craft attempt to turn and scatter, leaving the larger, more battle worthy ships to face the onslaught. Still, the raiders have their own bowmen, and the fire is returned.

On the seal Prince, instead of drums or a man calling cadence, there is an oral formulaic poet, the chanted beat of the sung poem giving rhythm to the strokes of the oarsmen. Large shields give some protection from the arrows. They reach speed and oars go up as they prepare to ram.

"INTAE THEM!" howls Raibert of House Mormont as arrows are exchanged to no great effect. "Hit them HARD!" he snarls, signalling for the rudder to turn the Dubhars comparatively sleek form against the raider boat they've closed on. The drumbeat speeds, bows are swapped for shields and gaffs and re-purposed farm tools with wicked edges as battle and prow meet.

Killian bellows, "Brace to ram!" Oars go up and the ram thuds clean and hard enough to crack the boards on the other long ship, "Hooks!" The men fling grapnels. "Board 'em lads!" Killian himself leap the gap swinging his axe.

"A purse for the one that downs their chief!" Raibert calls to his own crew, who throw hooks and tie off with an ease born of practice, "A MORMONT!" he roars, leaping across to the other ship, greatsword whirling.
"A MORMONT!" echos his crew!

Killian meets the captain of the longship axe to axe. The enemy captain can just barely block the flurry of blows, while never even coming close to touching the slipperly Far Islander with his own weapon. With a deft flick of the axe, he sends the other man's flying. His men flow over the sides and into a vicious battle with the enemy crew. Killian shouts, "Yield or die!"

Killian meets the captain of the longship axe to axe. The enemy captain can just barely block the flurry of blows, while never even coming close to touching the slipperly Far Islander with his own weapon. His men flow over the sides and into a vicious battle with the enemy crew.

The greatsword swings, catching on a raiders shield and glancing aside as Raibert kicks out and pushes into the ship proper, his lads falling on the crew in his wake.
"YOU!" roars the bear, lashing out at the enemy captain, who has the misfortune to be an Iron-born in the path of Raibert Mormont, "Raider filth!"

Killian is not much a one for quips in combat. It is more grunts and the ocational wordless bellow. He swings hard and the axe thunks an arm. This opens him to an enemy axe that slices his chain, blood welling from a wound to his ribs.

The Ironborn captain catches the tip of the Mormont's greatsword across his forehead, opening up a bloody but insignificant wound. His attempt to make things even ends with his sword flying across deck to splash in the water behind, Raibert's blade resting against his neck.
"This is where you piss yourself and yield, you kraken cunt!" he yells, flexing the blade against the poor pirate's throat, "Or I can drown you in your own blood."

The longship Captain yields, like a sensible man, though his face suggests he is plotting later vengeance.

Killian bellows his fury as the enemy Captain and he continue exchanging blows, but get nowhere.

As his men take their captives, Raibert turns to them, "Pledge your service to me and mine and earn your freedom with your sweat!" he offers, grinning broadly, "Otherwise its the noose or the Black or a short swim straight down!" he says to the unfortunate crewmen as the lads of the Dubhar put blades to flesh. "You've three breaths to decide! One!"

The Captain growls, "The black!" Some men chose to die fighting. The others choose the black. None take service.

Fighting continues inconclusive on neighboring vessels, but the Mormont crew soon settles this one way or the other.

"Nice ship this, mine now," Raibert grins at the captain, "Slap the new brothers in irons, gut the rest of them and throw them overboard!" as he leads his men in doing just that. The ship secured, the Mormont orders it be used to ram its neighbor, the ship Killian is fighting on, taking it in the rear and adding a new dimension to the combat as those of the Dubhar not occupied with their booty flow in to reinforce!

The second ramming renders the boat no longer structurally sound and the stern begins to drop as she takes on water. The Far Islanders are fighting hard, slowly pushing the enemy raiders down slope. With a bellow, Killian pays back his foe with blow to the ribs in turn.

"YIELD, RAIDERS!" Raibert calls as he draws his men back from the sinking ship, where they take up bows again and knock arrows, "YOUR FRIENDS WERE OFFERED THE BLACK AND THE SAME OFFER STANDS FOR YOU!" he says, essentially offering the choice between cold servitude and an arse full of feathers.

The Captain, distracted by the sudden threat from the rear is distracted, and Killian strikes again, this time to his axe arm. The crew see the slow battle of attrition suddenly about to become a deadly pincer with the arrival of another hostile crew, and all that are able go over the side in hopes of swimming to shore. The ones to wounded to go, yield. The captain lifts his head and lowers his weapon, leaning into the swing of the axe, glaring at Killian all the while. As the head flies free he says solemnly, in the odd old fashioned accent he has, an archaic mix of the Islands and the North, "May we meet in the Drowned God's Feasting Hall, as fellow Oarsmen." He flashes a grin at the Mormont Captain, "Thou hast my thanks for thy help, but methinks this ship is done for." To his men, he calls, "Grab what thou canst carry Lads, and lets be off!" he himself snatches the chain from the dead captain's neck, and efficiently rifles the corpse for coin or jewels, "Back to the Seal Prince, Lads!"

The tide of the battle is going to the Stark's forces. Ships are taken or sinking all along this bit of the coast. What Raiders can are fleeing as best they can and the wind does not favor them. Soon all that will be left is the counting of captains and spoils.

The ship the The Dubhar is an older long ship, salable, but now in need of repairs. The bulk of the plunder is on the persons of the captain and crew. They have plentiful coin, wealth in the form of chains, rings, and baubles, and good armour and weapons. The ship has plentiful food and fresh water stores, but not much else, beyond some captured northern smallfolk intended as thralls.

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