Not just yet.

So ends the reign of King Edward of Itheria. Barely more than a year into his rule, he was lost beneath the foam after an unforeseen and really quite brilliant raider attack.

Beatha fell, taken and ruled by its Deanian superiors. All of the young king's allies soon met a similar fate to him. Well, save the redhead princess, as it was well known Einar had a fondness for them.

With Beatha conquered, the raiders, men of nobility and fierce valour all, a credit to their ancestors, swarmed quickly across the continent, taking everything in their path...

“Well, something like that.” the tall figure standing over you lowers his voice, as the men around him cheer. “I haven't finessed every detail of the telling just yet.”

You gasp for breath, the **** struggle for air quickly turning into a hacking cough that leaves you slumped over, against the strong, unyielding wood of the longship.

Attempting to make sense of what just happened to you, you cast your mind back.

You had been submerged, drowning, dying, in the crippled remnants of the camp. Just as your vision had been beginning to darken, you'd seen the shadows of the raider ships, passing overhead.

Tendrils of a strange and unfamiliar magic had penetrated the water, seizing around you and pulling you up, depositing you on the deck of a vast raider ship.

Others, lost to the waves, had been raised in a similar manner. All but a few of them had met their end soon after.

Madeleine was one of the lucky ones. The princess had been there since before you'd been dragged aboard, slumped opposite you, and guarded, just as you were.

Her make-up ruined, her fancy silks in tatters, she looked quite different from the usual vision of pampered decadence she presented herself as. You tried to catch her eye, to offer some sort of reassurance that everything would be alright, but Madeleine wasn't quite present. In fact, she seemed almost catatonic with fear, as if the brutal nature of the attack had swept away her usual bravado.

She stared down into the hull of the longship, mouth ever so slightly agape, the horror of the situation, of how near she had come to ****, taking it's toll.

“It's a pleasure to meet you Edward, it really is.” the tall, cloaked figure says, offering you his hand. In the other is held a spear, taller than the man himself, a curious blend of black stone and gleaming silver tip.

“I'm Einar. But I suppose in a way, we've already met, yes?” the bearded raider says, still holding out his hand. You reach up and shake it wordlessly, lest you anger your captor.

“Hell of a way to meet in the flesh, but I think we're going to be fast friends, Edward. Fast friends.” the mage smiles, before turning his attention back to the raid at hand.

He pilots the fleet through the wreckage of the camp, the wind seeming to change direction with a flick of his spear.

Eventually, his curiosity sated, the Serpent King sends the fleet westward.

“My lord!” one of the raiders on the prow calls out. “Survivors!”

As the fleet crawls forward at a leisurely pace, you make out a cluster of five Beathan men, clinging to some dislodged piece of wood for dear life, as the Deanian's magical manipulation of sea and wind sends them drifting towards the open sea.

Einar hops onto the side of the ship with alacrity, spear still in hand.

“What say you, men?” he calls out, to the hundreds of raiders on his flagship. “They're weak, lost. Unlikely to make it regardless of our actions. Shall we spare them?”

A chorus of boos, jeers and negatives ring out. From Einar's playful smile, you expect this isn't the first time he's offered his crew a choice like this.

“Kill the bastards!” One voice says

“Honourless dogs!” Comes another.

“Well, who am I to deny the will of my people?” Einar laughs. With a brief gesture of his hand, the mage-king channels some form of magical energy into his spear, then aims it at the drowning men.

A bolt of lightning, swifter than fire from a cannon, erupts, striking the driftwood. The men cry out, convulsing in pain and horror, before one by one, releasing the wood and drifting to their doom.

A ripple of laughter passes through the ship, several of the men clap, treating the magical aggression as if it's some sort of festival amusement.

“Should we not attack the town itself, my lord? Or head after the Beathan fleet?” A voice calls out in genuine concern, as the raider ships move away from the town, propelled by the magical wave towards the natural sea, and beyond.

The man's accent, different, higher and more lilting than any of the Deanians, and the stripe of blue warpaint across his face, mark him out as a Gaelican.

“We'll leave them, Mical. ” Einar decides. “I've more important things to be doing. And besides, I'd say we've already taken quite the haul.”

The Serpent reaches down, playfully patting your shoulder, as the wind, manipulated by his hand, takes you far from the ship-building town, from the security of your armies and allies, and out into the open sea.