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Lord Landry

Baron

0 · 234 views · located in Winchester

a character in “On Icy Shores”, as played by DuBois_Scarlett

Description

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Full Name: Lord Landry
Pronunciation of their name(first, middle/middle names and last):
Title(Mr./Mrs./Lord/Lady/Sir/): Baron
Nickname(s):

Sex: Male

Age(and how old they look): 29
Orientation/Sexual preference: Heterosexual

Height: 6'0
Weight: 15 st
Age: 35


Eye color(s): Aquamarine


Body build(slim, muscular, etc.): Lean
Body abnormalities(Cleft lip etc.): N/A


Hair color(s): Dark Brown
Hair length: Short
Hair style: -


Complexion: Fair
Patterns/designs(on skin/fur and where they are, such as a zebra stripe pattern): N/A
Scars: Abundant on his body but none to be seen on his face
Birthmarks(and what they are/were): N/A
Tattoos(what they are and where): N/A
Piercings(what they are and where): N/A

Mental state: Stable
Personality snapshot: The only words to describe the Baron would be cunning, charismatic and ambitious. He is a man who knows how to use everything at his disposal to get what he wants. Hot tempered but one does not see his strike until the Iron is cool. Cousin to the late Earl of Northymbre, it seems he is finally close to achieving his greatest desire; to inherit the Earldom. But nothing is ever that easy but Landry is willing to stoop to any level to get what he wants. If that means the demise of his own brother who also wants the title then so be it. And of course, there is also the question of the Countess.
Most prominent personality trait: Uncompromising
Best traits of their personality: Open minded
Worst traits of their personality: Ruthless

Current faith(religion): Christianity
Current superstitions/quirks: Everything to the point it serves him

Alignment(good, evil, etc.): Pretty damn bad

Marital status(Single, married, dating, etc.): Engaged

Occupation: Baron

Good habits:
Bad habits:

Special skills(Not meaning powers): Spears and knowing all the things to do with running of the kingdom and politics.
Hobbies: Hunting wild boar, rowing

So begins...

Lord Landry's Story

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Brynjar Witch-Breaker Character Portrait: Vilhjalma Litsdottir Character Portrait: Lady Arlette Character Portrait: Lord Landry Character Portrait: Ekkhart Dumont Character Portrait: Gunnar Eriksson Character Portrait: Kotah Character Portrait: Aethelstan of Lincoln
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Stormy seas and frozen fields greet the start of our story. It is February, not long since the death of Charles the Great, and Europe lies in turmoil. The sons of the dead emperor tear at the spoils left behind, leaving the back door to their kingdoms unguarded. Saxon England, reeling from another summer of raids by the Vikings, turns upon itself, the rising power of Wessex challenging the older kingdoms of Mercia and Northumbria. Across the North Sea the Norsemen of Scandinavia winter their longships in triumph. Yet another successful year. However, power struggles at home leave the Vikings in need of yet more wealth.

It is in this time of chaos and violence that out story begins in two very different places; Winchester, the capital of the kingdom of Wessex, and Uppsala, the principal holy site of the Norse faith in Svithjod. Our characters are as of yet unawares of the great task they will be called upon to achieve. They will face danger, death, and the fickle nature of gods and creatures old and forgotten. What is their task? Who can say, but that whoever completes it first will change the course of history forever.

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Two moons have passed since the Yule festival, but the land still cowers in the grip of winter. Snow lies heavy on the ground, and icy winds whistle through the dense forests around Uppsala. A place where no man rules. A place where the gods alone reign. The skies are heavy with rolling clouds, threatening another heavy snowfall, even as the winter light fades quickly. Wolves prowl these forests, their howls echoing across the hills and hidden valleys. Only the strong survive here. This is a land of warriors, chosen by the gods for glory and conquest.

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A small settlement lies along the river Mälaren, smoke rising from a few crouching huts. The only sounds as the long dark approaches are the occasional bark of a dog, and the crunching snow as some of the people move about the buildings. The huts themselves are simple wooden affairs, aged and insulated with sod. One structure stands taller than the rest, a small hall, from which the sounds of singing can be heard. Though not as grand as some other halls, this one appears homely. Going down to the shoreline, a small dock pushes out into the icy waters of the Mälaren. A few fishing boats have been dragged up onto the bank, and two longships sit tied to the dock, their dragon-headed prows silent and imposing in the gathering dark. Just outside the main village, there is a ring of standing stones. Some of these stones are carved with intricate runes, telling tales of warriors long dead, and gods long distant from the realms of men. More stones lead away from the circle, and along a well-beaten track into the forest.

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High above the river and the settlement, sits the ancient temple of Uppsala. In all the world, no other place can bring someone closer to the gods. The forest around the temple is eerily quiet, and approaching the temple is in itself a task, as you always feel as if you are being watched by unseen eyes. Tokens, and offerings to the gods litter the trees, some as simple as wicker symbols, some forming small piles of bones. Even as the more grisly offerings are covered in a layer of snow, the empty sockets of skulls still bear an oppressive quality to any prospective worshiper. The temple itself is a tall, wooden structure, its eaves decorated with images of the gods. Small braziers flicker outside the doors, the flames flickering in the cold wind. Inside the temple the light is dim, the interior lit only with a multitude of candles. Statues of the gods loom out of the shadows, in places with solitary worshippers knelt in front of them. A woman, her flaxen hair in two long braids, kneels in front of a statue of Freyja, her belly showing the early signs of pregnancy even through her cloak and furs. An old man stands before a statue of Odin, his once strong hands shaking as he holds them raised to the heavens.

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High above the waters of the English channel, sits a great, stone-walled town. Above the wall can be seen the tower of a cathedral, and myriad rooftops made of everything from thatch to tiles. The ruins of some ancient Roman buildings are evident outside the wall, and the great stone roads leading to and from the gates are obviously from the same time. The guards on the walls huddle round braziers, as cruel winter winds whip along the ramparts. As night closes in the gates are sealed, great wooden cross-beams laid in place to hold them shut. But despite this the town is still lively. Many people go about the streets, and light spills onto the muddy streets from houses and taverns. The sounds of a busy town fill the air, but louder than most is the sound of blacksmiths’ hammers. Working hard into the night, the smiths labour to produce hundreds of swords, and the heads of spears. Wessex is preparing for war.

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Close to the center of town is the palace, home to the kings of Wessex. Once a Roman villa, the palace has been expended by generations of Saxon kings, though the hypocaust remains intact. The halls are richly decked out with tapestries and oak furniture, carpets and furs covering the stone floors. In the main hall, a throne sits on a raised dais, looking down across two long tables leading to the main door. A group of housecarls sits drinking at one of the tables, their conversation often interrupted with raucous laughter. Fires burn brightly in the fireplaces dotted around the palace, and servants scurry along the corridors. In a chapel, attached to the royal chambers, a richly dressed man kneels before an ornate altar. King Egbert prays for guidance. His recent wars against the Welsh have seen Wessex soar in prominence and wealth, but now he faces opposition from the king of Mercia, the largest landholder in England.

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The setting changes from dark-age-europe to Winchester

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Lord Landry
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Had he beaten them down to this God forsaken place?! Surely they should have been here by now! Or had that stupid, insufferable woman run them all off the road. It was with little love in his heart that Landry paced besides the trestles in the main hall of the Palace worrying. The fire blazed in the hearth, the warmth it emitted doing little to heat his cool skin. The Baron had spent a fitful night, getting little sleep waiting for his man to come inform him as soon as the Countess's party arrived. Except they never arrived. And they still hadn't.

"My Lord." Malcolm, his right hand man called to him. "The horses are ready for the hunt."

"About damn time!" Landry replied hotly, sweeping past Malcolm who took it not to heart being far too familiar with the Baron's temperament to be perturbed in anyway. "Come!"

Malcolm followed close behind as they departed the palace walls into the yard with waiting horses and men. Snow crunched beneath heavy boots. The fresh, crisp air filled Landry's lungs, calming him enough to focus on the task ahead. The wild hunt, a savage lust for the blood of an innocent creature for mere sport could be the only thing to tied over his rising frustration. Mounting his Irish Hobby, Landry rounded his men to the front to lead. Myleen barked at his heel, separate from the other hounds of the hunting being kept at bay.

"Good girl." Landry cooed, leaning over the hobby's neck to pet his bitch. "Are you ready? You ready to sink your teeth into a big fat juicy boar? Yes? Good girl. Good girl." Straightening himself in his saddle, the Baron called out, "Are we set?"

"Yes me Lord!" Replied the Game Keeper. "A great large sow has been spotted at the north edge of the woodlands."

Sights set on the prize, the baron was off like a shot; his men following close behind. A group of no more than five. Just because the Countess had not arrived did not mean he could not set his plan in motion. Thundering hooves raced through the flurried snow through the town hastening towards the edge.

The Baron reminded himself, HE held the advantage . . .

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Lord Landry Character Portrait: Aethelstan of Lincoln
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His cloak and his horse-hair tassel flying out behind him, Aethelstan barreled down the main street of Winchester, sending people flying to either side with little care. His men followed in a thunder of hooves, sparks flying from the shoes of the horses as they struck the stone paving. The icy wind struck Aethelstan's face and caused him to grimace as he and his men flew round a corner.

With a scream of horses Aethelstan collided with another horseman coming round the corner, his horse rearing as he struggled to keep his seat. The street was suddenly full of armed horsemen, his own men drawing weapons as he calmed his horse. After a few moments, he turned an icy gaze of contempt and rage at the man he had collided with, his hand going to his own sword. "Watch where you're fucking going you idiot." Aethelstan seethed, his horse nickering nervously at his shout.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Lady Arlette Character Portrait: Lord Landry
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The cart rumbled unsteadily down the uneven road. They were finally, at long last coming to the end of their treacherous journey. It had been down right dangerous! From the long travel by wherries to cart. It seemed as if she had been holding her breath since they had set off; Arlette let it out in one large exhalations as the carriage rolled into Winchester.

The security of her recent life seemed a bitter memory now. The Countess knew that they lived on borrowed time and shaky grounds. Since her husbands death at the hands of Viking raiders while trying to protect his lands, no more than three months ago, the Lady knew there would be snakes vying for her late husbands title and his lands. Though he had left some of it to Arlette in her own right; neither of them had ever thought he'd die so young and without a male heir . . . Arlette's hand came to rest protectively over her growing belly. The sting of tears threatening to escape the corner of her almond shaped eyes were held back by sheer will of force.

The wedding of her sisters daughter had been a blessing with which she could disguise her true reasons for travel down to Winchester in such a position as she was. Arlette gazed at the three somber faces, snoozing around her. They looked so much like their father. With their golden hair, fair skin and light eyes. Not one looked like her. Tucking the blankets tighter around the girls; she had to protect them all now.

The flash of clamoring horse flesh, caught the Lady's attention. Arlette spied the party soaring past her. Her gaze locked with the aforesaid rider, even if only for a second or two but the blatant smirk scrutinizing her with almost a gleeful glance over the shoulder, caused Arlette's jaw to clamp. Her difficult task had become excruciatingly more impossible.

"Son of a whore!"

Setting

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Character Portrait: Lord Landry Character Portrait: Aethelstan of Lincoln
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Landry could not keep the smirk off his smug face. Just the pure contempt in Arlette's eyes was enough satisfaction in itself. This hunt had quickly gone from being something to keep his mind off the safety of the hinges of his scheme to the celebration of one step from completion.

He rode harder through the streets. Adrenaline pumping, the lust for blood on the tip of his tongue. Was the day cold and bitter? The Baron could not tell. The sun seemed to shine that little bit brighter and the cool icy whip of the wind did little but sooth his animating flesh.

So lost was he in his personal celebrations; the roaring of hooves headed the way of his group was lost on the Baron that the corner they turned, landed them running straight into another party of riders. The impact was so violent, it twisted Landry off his seat. Only the reigns clasped tight in his gloved hands, kept him from his death under his own horse's feet. Everything stopped, yet moved. The horses on both sides being reigned in with noisy naying before the creatures could be calmed.

The Baron breathed deeply, freeing his hand from the twists on his reigns. It was a miracle that he was unscathed. Ignoring the seething words from the man before him; Landry swung himself back into his saddle. The unsheathing of swords perturbing him little as he righted his gloves and called the viciously barking Myleen.

"Leash her!" He commanded to the hound keeper; finally acknowledging the man. "Come now Aethelstan," Landry's implacable smirk back on his lips. "You can't blame me for that. Did you ever stop to consider it might be that unduly large helm on that abnormally small head of yours that might have been blocking your view?"

The Earl held little place of fear in Landry's heart. Of course, the man was uncouth and far less diplomatic than Landry himself. In fact, he was little more than a bear. Half civilized and half tamed. Everything - Landry was well aware - the Earl had obtained, he had obtained by sheer force. And sheer force could only get you so far. The Earl was of little consequence. However, even a dunce could have his uses.

"Call off your hounds Aethelstan." Landry trotted his hobby next to the Earl. "Come! Join us for the hunt. The game keeper promises an exceptionally succulent sow at the far north corner of the woods." Grinning, he couldn't help but add, "Come, you can practice your wooing skills, I've heard you've a taste for swines."

Setting

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Character Portrait: Lord Landry Character Portrait: Aethelstan of Lincoln
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Landry. That smug bastard. Aethelstan frowned, his grip tightening on the hilt of his sword. His men glowered too, eyeing Landry's men with heated glances. "I can blame you for not watching where you were bloody going. You fucking northerners are all the same." Tearing at his chin strap he tore off his helmet and tossed it to one of his men, his long hair lifting a little in the breeze. "If you want to fight me Landry just say the damn word. I've killed Welshmen who are more worthwhile opponents."

Noblemen were all the same. Born into wealth and security they never achieved anything more than conniving for their own gains. Aethelstan, though ambitious, had a healthy hatred of those who slipped with ease into the noble mould he struggled to fill. Carving his way to the top was the only way he knew, and those who got in his way would simply be trampled under his hooves. Landry was no exception, a smarmy northern lord who skulked around darkened corners and insulted anything close to the noble ideal, not that Aethelstan was any different on that regard.

"Why do you pride yourself with killing defenceless animals Landry? Afraid of real challenges?" Smirking, Aethelstan patted his horse's neck. "That Pictish raiding party send you running quickly enough last summer didn't it?" Hoping to strike a nerve he revealed a little of what he knew. Landry underestimated him, they all did. They would see when their castles and cities burned, and he sat victorious.

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Character Portrait: Lord Landry Character Portrait: Aethelstan of Lincoln
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"Are we? All the same?" Landry smiled with blatant disregard for Aethelstan's belittling and threats. "Speaks the paragon of knowledge. And such a way with language."

He watched the Earl's show of masculinity with a jaundice gaze; supposing they all had a right to their biases. The Baron did not feel the need to portray his power in a show of boldness or aggression like the Earl. It was quite amusing to be quite honest; with a ting of irony. Wasn't it Northerners like himself who were known to be roguish outspoken oafs? So much for stereotypes.

"Holy Christ on a cross Aethelstan! Calm down." Landry rolled his eyes. "If I wanted to fight you, your face would be in your horses shit right now but I don't. And I can't speak for the Welshmen but if you claim a bunch of sheep shaggers are more worthwhile opponents," he sighed dramatically, the snickers from his men and some passers by watching the exchange aiding his performance, "well who am I to argue with you?"

"Why do you pride yourself on the death of a bunch of dirty peasants?" Landry returned the Earl's question. "We all love the wild hunt; whether it's a bunch of nobodies you murder in cold blood or a tasty sow I kill brutally so I can feast happy tonight. Don't tell me you've become so pious Aethelstan that you live on alms." Landry smirked.

The jab at last summers event was an unexpected low blow. Landry's gaze sharped but the smile did not budge from his lips. So the Earl was far more well informed than his simple, unkempt appearance would have one believe. That had been a grave miscalculation on the Earl's part. He gave away his cards far too easily.

"We're similar creatures, you and I Aethelstan. Far too similar than you'd like to believe." Landry philosophized, mincing the thought for a moment, this was getting far too serious for his liking. The Earl's problem was his shortsightedness. He was like a child who did not get his way or a child another child had insulted so he'd push the other child into a puddle, just so he'd feel better. Such trivial drabness. The Earl's short temper and fits of rage would be the man's own downfall but that was neither here or there for Landry. He felt slighted little by the Earl and even if it was grievous, he had bigger plans a foot and unlike the Earl, a view minor insults would not insight the Baron to foolishness.

"Now that you mention it Aethelstan!" Landry returned to more animated terms. "Challenges are rather time consuming and well . . . effort. Maybe I'll never be quite man enough like you to take on the likes of such. I think I'll continue whiling away my days hunting and sowing . . . my wild oats. How is your Lady Aethelstan? I believe we met once in Lichfield. She was very . . . welcoming." Landry commented with an air of amusement.

The setting changes from winchester to Dark Age Europe

Setting

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Character Portrait: Lord Landry Character Portrait: Aethelstan of Lincoln
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The setting changes from dark-age-europe to Winchester

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Lord Landry Character Portrait: Aethelstan of Lincoln
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Aethelstan growled. "Yes, the same. Any why bandy about with honied words? Speak your damn point or writhe around with the other conniving scum that call themselves politicians."

Everything about Landry made Aethelstan reel with pure hatred. The way he carried himself as a dignified noble, whilst the hand behind his back clasped a dagger went against any remaining sense of honour Aethelstan had. At least he gave his enemies a chance rather that pouring poison in their ear. Still scowling, Aethelstan gripped the handle of his sword harder, his knuckles going white under his leather gloves.

"You overestimate your own abilities Landry. When was the last time you fought? When you were a teenager trying to win the respect of that pathetic worm you called a cousin? How weak can one be to be killed by Northmen?" He let out a bark of laughter, echoed by his men, smirks plastered across their faces. "Besides, sheep shaggers though the Welsh may be, they have more balls than any Northumbrian. I'll send you some from my next campaign, maybe eating them will make you more manly."

Aethelstan well remembered the Pictish raid, as well as many other incursions into Northumbrian land. He remembered because he had personally led a couple, burning and killing his way north into Pictland then south again. His cavalry had moved too fast to be caught, and they left no survivors behind to tell the tale. It had been fun, but not as profitable as he had hoped. Maybe his future plans would bear more fruit in that weakened kingdom.

Stiffening at the mention of his wife Aethelstan moved with a deadly swiftness. In a flash of steel he swung his sword across, slashing the front of Landry's tunic, drawing a little blood. Moving quickly his men surged past and forced themselves between Landry's men and the fight as Aethelstan swung again. Their horses collided again, Aethelstan's rearing and aiming a nasty kick at Landry's head on the way down.

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Character Portrait: Lord Landry Character Portrait: Aethelstan of Lincoln
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"Delicious!" Landry replied. "I never refuse a gift." Is the Earl thought of unnerving him, the man was sorely mistaken.

The Baron did not feel the need to regale Aethelstan and his men with his exploits of battle. He was still alive, that was proof enough. As far as his cousin was concerned if that was supposed to be a jab, Landry could not care less. Yes, he had enjoyed his cousins company, but then so had most many men. The man was far too likable. Yet, Landry felt little bereaved of his cousin, the Earl's death. It was little but the wheel of fortune and it seemed to be turning in the Baron's favour.

The sharp kiss of metal against his flesh, was unexpected. For a moment the Baron simply stared at the line of blood running down the centre of his chest. He never expected Aethelstan to be foolhardy enough to attack him out in the open. Landry quickly regained his sense as he felt the jolt to his hobby and managed to course him out of the way just in time, before the Earl's steed could crush his head.

Unsheathing his own sword, Landry swung it, but not at the Earl. The horse nayed a painful cry as the Baron's sword cut his skin deep; cutting off the stir ups steadying the Earl on his seat. The pain he did not register earlier stinging his chest. However the Baron ignored it. He'd had worse. His men being kept at bay, struggling with Earl's men meant little. He did not need them. Aethelstan underestimated his skills or his inclination to fight dirty for he felt no shame in it.

Kicking Aethelstan's steed on his wounded neck; Landry readied his sword to parry. The Earl did not realise the danger of this. Being sinister. The Baron did everything with his left hand, eat, write . . . parry. The graveness of this situation being that all men from birth were taught to swing the sword with their right hand and block with shield on their left. Now when fighting head on, it became far to dangerous, leaving both parties open to the smarting of the blades. Of course, the Baron was far too well aware of this and used the element of surprise to his advantage.

"Aethelstan!" Landry laughed, the smirk ready in it's place. "Come now! Is not a man even allowed to speak with your charming wife? Poor woman. No wonder she seeks such company! With you being a fountain of learned conversation." How much easier to goad a man into foolishness.

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Character Portrait: Lord Landry Character Portrait: Aethelstan of Lincoln
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Wincing at the cry of pain from his horse, Aethelstan glowered and attacked again, fighting the balance as his saddle shifted. No one spoke to him like that and walked away unscathed, not even upstart northern barons. Especially not upstart northern barons. He was vaguely aware of his men grappling with the baron's as he slashed again with his sword, putting all of his might into a powerful blow.

A left hander. These were always interesting to fight. Aethelstan had fought a few like him before, and always felt better defeating those with the natural advantage. One had nearly taken his head off in an abmush on some godforsaken road in East Anglia. That fighter had been a tall viking, quite the interesting opponent. He still died the same as the others, one hand pressed to the slice that opened up his abdomen, trying to stop his guts from spilling onto the icy track. In the end, they all died the same.

"Let's see how you laugh with you throat torn out you bastard!" Aethelstan stood in his stirrups and flung leapt from his horse onto Landry, knocking them both to the floor amid stamping hooves and shouts from men of both sides. Aethelstan's hair flew, and taught grimace on his face as he gripped Landry's throat with one hand. His other hand, still gripping his sword, pummeled the baron in the stomach. With just his clothes to block the blows, Aethelstan calculated this fight would be over quickly, smug satisfaction spreading across his face.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Lord Landry Character Portrait: Aethelstan of Lincoln Character Portrait: Kenver Daddow
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#, as written by claw
Trudging through shit and snow was most likely to be the least pleasant part of the entire winter, Gods bollocks was it cold. It probably wouldn't have been so bad, if he were further south, or if he indeed knew exactly where he was actually going. The fact of the matter was Kenver was lost, to make things worse, he was lost in a foreign nation, populated by a race of people who hated his, and who he couldn't stand the smell of, why hadn't he been smart enough to take one of his fathers ships and simply sail north? He paused once more to look up at the sky, which proved fruitless due to the thick grey curtain hanging above, he should of expected that honestly, but then again, the weather this far north was unpredictable and bizarre.

""Pascoe!" He called back, in his native Cornish. "How far do you recon we've come now then?" Pascoe was the only man who had decided to join him when he left his fathers lands, though the man was a bastard, and had no name himself he found him to be a good travelling companion, if a little slow.
"Considerin' we left Exeter ten days ago, no' tha' far I'd imagine." Kenver nodded and rolled his eyes before turning back to the path ahead, though he may have little idea of where they were, Kenver didn't need telling they hadn't come too far, even though he was only just beginning to grasp the sheer size of the Kingdom of Wessex, how could one man bend so many kings to his will to creat such a vast land?

He paused as he heard the sound of metal on metal, and strange screaming noises ahead. He picked up the pace, it seemed that some form of fight was in the works ahead. He picked his way through the trees- again he was surprised at just how many of the blasted things grew this far north. He wasn't really expecting to burst out of them the way he had, almost being knocked down by one of the fighting men, riding what he assumed were horses, though he had seen the trading Franks selling the odd horse here and there, he had never actually seen one being ridden into battle, let alone ridden one himself. He quickly backpedaled, colliding with Pascoe as he was coming up behind him.
"Woah! Watch where you are going, Pascoe!"
"Here! How was I 'possed to know that you would be jus' standin' there?"
"Never mind that, whats going on here?"

Looking into the center of the fight, it seemed to be two men on horseback, dressed in the battle-finery of kings that clashed together, it would seem one king had declared a battle for the lands of the other, pretty par for the course as far as Kenver was concerned. Both he and Pascoe would have been perfectly happy until he realised their talking their native language, as well his own rather well equipped form had drawn the attention of one of the horsemen, who presumably mistook them both for Danes and decided to charge the pair, sword raised.
"Oh for fucks sake." Kenver muttered before drawing his own blade and raising his oval shield high before letting loose a warcry. "Kernow et Fal! Fal et Kernow!"

Though he was a fair fighter, he had never fought a man on horseback before and he didn't expect the man to come at him at such speed, though he did manage to deflect the oncoming blade his own only managed to score a gash on the horsemans leg. Through some kind twist of fate, this was enough to cause the man to flinch and somehow hit his head on one of the low hanging branches, the crack was probably enough to have broken his skull open, or the painful fall the frozen ground has enough, but Pascoes spear made sure that the man wasn't going to get up again.

Looking back across the sprawl of chaos he could see one of the kings had unhorsed the other and was about to land the killing blow, luckily it seemed that nobody else had noticed them, which for most part worked well enough for him, after all he did have his sword drawn and bloody.