Beginnings - Campaign Affairs

Ljotr Eysteinnson was born into a family of Norse raiders on the Isle of Man 30 winters ago. His father a jarl but his mother an Irish slave, he was not particularly favored in the line of succession. Nevertheless, growing up amidst the rugged beauty of his homeland, Ljotr learned to fight and sail at an early age — but mainly took a liking to learning strategy and tactics under the tutelage of his graying grandfather.

From the age of 16, Ljotr joined in on every slave and livestock raid into Strathclyde and Ulster. Over the next decade and a half, men he led won many skirmishes -- sometimes against cruel odds. Seeing his cunningness, many men started to look on him as an equal to his brothers despite not being as formidable a warrior.

Rumors reached Man that the once-mighty kingdom of Ælla had fractured under the weight of the great host led by Ivar the Boneless. Seeing this as an opportunity to gain immortal fame and glory, something he'd never see in his home, Ljotr led his comrades and set sail to the western coast of burning Northumbria.

King of Northumbria, they say.

They said she had been beautiful, and they still chanted that. A prized young spouse, hauling from mystical Bretagne. So much for her beauty. They said she was like a fey, like one of those mystical women from the woods. They said many things of her. They had composed songs about her beauty, and they continued to chant about her icy blue eyes wrapped by her platinum blonde hair. They had cried for her first husband too, beloved Bearach Yorke, while secretly conspiring to marry such a beautiful (and now, rich!) widow.

Meadhbh Llewellynw had been a great administrator, turning her late husband feud into a prosperous community. She had become rich, and money made her even more coveted. A beatiful woman, who bore armor and weapons, who commanded her army, and who had more richness than all of her neighbors combined. What a woman, truly. They chanted about her beauty. Never about her keen mind, she thought.

And Meadhbh Llewellynw waited.

Eventually, she had married again. Three daughters, and no sons. The other earls felt she had grown tired of the squabbling of so many pretenders. She needed an heir, they said.

The truth was another. There was another county near her home of Strathclyde, one she had coveted much. Huge, but poor. There had been many gnawing of teeth, when she had chosen Muireach O'Keefe as her new husband. A noble known for squishing his own people underneath taxes and fees. What an idiot.

Meadhbh Llewellynw wondered what they would have been thinking now as she murdered her pig of an husband in his sleep.

King Ælla of Northumbria had died, and in the following chaos, another death was nothing but a footnote. She had waited, and now this was her chance.

King of Northumbria, they say. What about a queen?

"Ye stole our lands! Ye stole our gods! There will be no peace between Saxon and Viking!"

Ljotr comes ashore somewhere on the wild western coast of Northumbria, quickly taking control of the area. He hears tales of a noble Celtic woman just to his north and her massive pile of silver...

There was much scheming to be done. Battles to be fought. Wars to be won. And most importantly, the administration of her land.

After all, there are nothing but three engines to war: silver, silver, and silver. This, she knew better than anyone else. How many petty lords of England could field horsemen? How many could field as many as her stallions? How many warriors actually rode in battle like her?

But first, the would be queen Meadhbh Llewellynw had to sort out the little issues of a warband of Vikings who didn't have the grace to drown at sea.

The Vikings saw first her armored horsemen clear the top of the hill that dominated the shores.

Egil mounts a campaign against the Welsh Christians of Maelgwyn aep Cunedda.

One day, Maelgwn ap Cunedda, Dux of Gwynedd receives a letter from a mounted courier. The exquisite writing reveals an invitation from the fabled Meadhbh Llewellynw, who is seemingly writing him to spend the next week togheter in her dominion, hunting togheter, and visiting the beatiful nature. How could a man refuse?

News comes to Dux Maelgwyn - the heathen have declared a feud against the remnant of Christian Rome. "Let them come. We'll slake their rage on our spikes and spears".

"There is one other matter, my Lord. A scroll from Alt Clut, specifically the lady Meadhbh Llewellynw!"

Maelgwyn all but snatches the scroll from his seneschal. A moment of silence follows. And then:

"Owain?"

"Yes, sire?"

"We travel for Dùn Breatainn as the guests of she whom, some say, is of the fey"

The Letter was penned in fine script using rare metal inks from Asia, the vellum was of fine quality sheep skin. Obviously the author went to great length to make it look good.

To the Heretic Maelgwyn,

Not only are you guilty of the sin of being a Saxon, but you have disgraced your ancestors and adopted the faith of your conquerors. Erasing your Dukedom from the annals of history will be a favor to the species. Never forget, your god was nailed to a tree, my god carries a hammer. Let the rivers run red with Saxon blood. Oden owns you all.

Egil,

My God was nailed to a wooden cross on Golgotha! And I sir, am a Briton, and we are the last of the Romans in the west. The Saxon is my enemy every bit as much as any heathen. You will come to Christ, or we will despatch you to hell in his name.

I will pray for you

Dux Maelgwyn