The skies over the Sea of Claws churned with fury, a tempest that had raged for a week, its black clouds clawing at the heavens like the wrath of Manann himself. Daunted and perhaps confident none can pass the great storm, Nordland recalls most of its navy to shore. Its manpower has been diverted to guard their cities since the first surge of daemonic incursion a few weeks ago and the sudden another incursion a few days ago made it that the manpower stays on shore longer. The Nordland navy, already stretched thin, entrusted the patrol near the storm to just a few vessels. One of such ships is Wulfrik’s Bane, a sturdy wolfship (a bigger longship but with a forecastle and rearcastle like a carrack. Imagine a longer but shorter carrack), its hull reinforced with ironoak and blessed by priests of Manann to brave the god’s ire. Her captain, Jorgen Stahl, stood at the prow, salt-crusted beard whipping in the gale. Her crew, a mix of grizzled veterans and fervent devotees, trusted her thick timbers and reinforced sails to withstand the storm’s edge. The ship was built for war, not speed—broad-beamed, with a low draft to navigate Nordland’s treacherous shallows and waves, and armed with a dozen cannons at her fore and rearcastle. She was no sleek cutter, but her weight gave her stability where lighter vessels would founder. The crew, clad in oilskins and clutching talismans of Manann, kept a wary eye on the horizon. The storm’s heart loomed to the north, a wall of lightning and shadow, and none relished sailing closer. In fact, many of her sailors would rather not sail the sea in such a storm, though none dare voiced this opinion as it will bring bad luck. There is also the repeated daemonic incursion which might not be coincidences and perhaps another raiding or invasion fleet is on its way.

Then, through the haze of spray and thunder, a lookout’s cry cut the wind: “Sails! Hundreds, bearing south!” Jorgen’s heart sank as he raised his spyglass. Emerging from the storm’s maw was a Norscan fleet, dragon and daemonic-prowed longships, their sails tattered yet defiant, stretching across the horizon like a plague of locusts. Hundreds of vessels, from sleek raiders to hulking war-barges, their decks bristling with fur-clad warriors, axes glinting in the storm’s flicker. But what is more worrying is the amount of heavily armored Norscans Jorgen saw on the longships. Devoted warriors of Chaos and aspiring Champions. This is not just another raiding fleet. Jorgen’s mind raced. Wulfrik’s Bane was alone, outmatched, and too far from Nordland’s shores to summon aid and for the signal flare to be noticed. The crew’s faces paled, but none broke, fear of Manann’s wrath was matched by their hatred of the Norscan scourge. Jorgen bellowed orders: “Full sail! Turn starboard, keep the wind at our backs!” The crew scrambled, hauling ropes and readying cannons. There is no plan other than directly sailing south and alerting the beacons, not with only just one ship against hundreds, and praying Manann favored Nordland’s faithful over Chaos’s dogs. As the first longships surged closer, their warhorns howling, a grim resolve settled over the crew. Wulfrik’s Bane would not fall easily, not while Manann’s storm roared and her cannons sang.

The Wulfrik’s Bane surged southward, her sails taut with the storm’s fierce wind, the Sea of Claws a frothing maelstrom beneath her hull. Captain Jorgen Stahl gripped the helm, his eyes fixed on the distant blur of Nordland’s coast. The southward gale that came as soon as the ship pointed south was a blessing, driving the wolfship faster than her bulk should allow, but it was a double edged sword. Behind her, the Norscan fleet loomed, and the sleekest of their longships were gaining. Their tattered sails snapped in the wind, and their oars churned the sea, slowly but surely gaining the gap. “Load the cannons! Chainshot to their sails!” Jorgen roared. The Bane was a fortress afloat, but against a swarm of such numbers, she was a lone bear harried by wolves. The cannons at the rear roared, cutting through the masts and tearing through the hulls of the longships. The longship veered, oars tangling as its crew fought to recover.

Yet more raiders pressed in by the time the cannons were reloaded, four more longships still slicing through the waves, their oarsmen tireless. One drew alongside, grappling hooks arcing toward the Bane’s rail. “Repel boarders!” Jorgen bellowed, drawing his cutlass. The crew met the Norscans with pikes and swords, hacking at hands and ropes. A cannon fired point-blank, blasting a hole in the raider’s side, and it fell back, swamped by waves. But still more of the Norscan longships chased after the Bane. Jorgen’s mind turned to the coast. The Bane

carried signal flares but their range was short, and the storm’s haze might obscure them. The nearest beacon tower, at Hargendorf, was still miles off. Jorgen’s plan hinged on reaching visual range of the tower while keeping the Bane afloat. “Flares ready!” he ordered. “Fire them high when I give the word!” The crew prepared the flares, their alchemical glow a faint hope against the storm’s wrath. The Bane’s cannons fired again, tearing into a raider’s oars, leaving it adrift. But the remaining ships closed tighter, their warriors readying for another boarding attempt. Jorgen glanced south, the faint outline of Hargendorf’s cliffs emerging through the spray. “Flares, now!” he roared. The crew ignited the signals, crimson and green flames arcing skyward, their light cutting through the storm. Jorgen prayed the tower’s sentries were watching, that the beacons would blaze, and that Nordland’s militia would muster before the Norscan tide struck.

The Wulfrik’s Bane shuddered as the storm’s fury pursued her south, the gale snuffing out the flares before their light could pierce the roiling clouds. Crimson and green sparks fizzled into the sea, swallowed by Manann’s wrath as the storm had catched up them. Captain Jorgen Stahl cursed under his breath, his knuckles white on the helm. The Norscan raiders, emboldened by the storm pressed closer. Grappling hooks clawed the Bane’s rails, and fur-clad warriors swarmed aboard, their axes flashing in the lightning’s glare. The crew met them with pikes and cutlasses, blood mixing with spray on the deck, but the tide of boarders was relentless.

Below, a new horror erupted. Screams echoed from the lower decks, followed by an unearthly metallic roar, a sound that chilled even the hardest Nordland veteran. A lone Khornate warrior, a towering brute wreathed in nothing but blood and wielding a chainsword that screamed with daemonic hunger, had carved through the Bane’s ironoak hull beneath the waterline. Slowing the ship even further. The legendary blade, its teeth grinding with unnatural fury, tore through bulkheads and crew alike. The Khornate’s eyes blazed with Khorne’s blessing, his roars promising slaughter as he rampaged through the hold, severing limbs and splintering wood. Water began to seep through the breached hull, the Bane listing slightly under the strain.

On deck, Jorgen fought back-to-back with his crew, parrying an axe blow and gutting a Norscan with his cutlass. The raiders were too many, their longships now lashed to the Bane

’s sides, more warriors spilling aboard. Cannons still boomed, blasting holes in nearby raiders, but the forecastle now lay silent. The crew was overwhelmed by the raiders. Jorgen’s mind raced, the coast was close, Hargendorf’s cliffs now visible through the storm’s haze, but without a signal, Nordland would fall unaware. The flares had failed, but Jorgen seized on a desperate plan. The Bane carried a store of alchemical pitch in its hold, used to seal leaks or fire flaming shot. If ignited, it could burn bright enough to be seen for miles, even through the storm. The cost would be catastrophic, the Bane would become a floating pyre, and the Khornate’s rampage below made retrieving the pitch a suicide mission. But Jorgen saw no other way. “To the hold!” he bellowed to his first mate, Sven, and a handful of loyal crew. “We light the pitch and set the ship ablaze!”

Sven, bloodied but unbowed, nodded grimly. “And the shore?” he asked, dodging a Norscan’s spear. “The fire will be our beacon.” Jorgen growled. The crew fought their way below, hacking through Norscans who’d breached the lower decks. The Khornate warrior loomed ahead, his chainsword a whirlwind of death, bodies strewn in his wake. Jorgen led the charge, his cutlass no match for the daemon-weapon but his resolve unshaken. “For Manann!” he roared, drawing the Khornate’s attention. The warrior lunged, his blade screaming, swinging in unnatural speed. Cutting through the ship’s bulk and cutting Jorgen in two. Sven drove a pike into the brute’s side. The Khornate barely flinched, backhanding Sven into a bulkhead, but the distraction gave two crewmen time to reach the munition hold and hurl a lantern. Massive explosions tear through the back of the Wulfrik’s Bane. Pieces wreathed in alchemical fires spread to the nearest longships, more fuel for the pyre. Sven shook his head, his ears ringing from the thunderous explosion. Blood flowing from his ears. The khornate beside him stood faster, half of his body burning.

“It’s done. Now all of Nordland will know you’re here.” Sven said defiantly as the Khornate grips his head. Pulling him up to see him and the chainsword.

“This is what you will see.” The chainsword roars to life and the Khornate pushes Sven’s head to the blade. From the edge to the hilt. Laughing maniacally, rising the decapitated head upwards and roars to Khorne before falling backward. The flame consumes him and the ship alike.

—

Atop Hargendorf’s beacon tower, the lookout, a fat balding man sits languidly in his chair. Chewing Weirdroot and doing nothing all day. A boring job. Which is precisely why he is here. Then he saw something bright on the horizon on the sea. He raised his eyebrows, thinking it's one of the Weirdroot’s hallucinations. But then he stood, picking up a small bucket near the table. He spat the chewed Weirdroot, pouring some milk and alcohol to the bucket before drinking it all. He coughs after, feeling the nausea in his stomach before puking it all out along with his stomach’s content. The sensation of puking sobering him a little. Then he looks towards the sea again and sees that the bright thing is in fact a burning ship. Immediately he lit up the beacon on the tower, fumbling through the stairs down before holding the tower’s horn, taking in a huge breath, and blowing the horn. The lit beacon to notify the other beacon tower along the shore of Nordland and the horn to alert Hagendorf and its surrounding settlements. Alerting that the Norscan raiding fleet have arrived.

—

“The beacon at Hargendorf is lit.” Marissith notifies me through the communication artifact that I have also made for her. I look away from the Book of Hoeth trying to remember where Hargendorf is. Marissith did tell me of some important places near Laurelorn and the name sounds familiar.

“Is that the human settlement nearest to Laurelorn?” Directly north of Laurelorn in fact, just east of the river that flows from Laurelorn to the sea. Which means the first wave of the invasion is here. I stood and left Valariel, Lak, and Mal in my tent to look North. The Norscan pass the storm that has been going off the coast?

“Yes, Laurelorn once had a treaty with Nordland for cases like this. Should we still uphold them?” Marissith asks for my confirmation.

“Hold on for a while.” I said to her before ending the link. Then calling Kal. “Kal, prepare the warherd. There will be an invasion from the sea. Make sure to send more beastmen to guard the black ark. Send scouts to monitor the beaches north of Laurelorn and to scout the nearest human settlement that has a beacon tower. Inform me for any news. Other than attacking the human settlement, you are free to act on your discretion.” After Kal's response, I end the link and call Marissith again.

“Remind me about this treaty with Nordland. Also prepare some of your soldiers. I might need them to smooth things over with the Nordlander if my beastmen are to support them.”