Heavy rain lashed the bleak gray cliffs ahead as the six ships reached the narrow bay. The lurching black hulks were buffeted by the chaos of the storm, briefly revealed in the darkness by flashes of lightning. All of the vessels relied on exhausted rowers, their once fine sails shredded and burned. The black sea churned and thrashed mercilessly as the ships struggled toward the rocky beach. Scores of battered and bloody soldiers sat crammed like common livestock in their holds and on their decks, evacuated from the war torn lands to the west.
The commander in the lead ship stood at the bow, one hand gripping the splintered port rail tightly, the other shielding his icy blue eyes from the driving downpour as the heaving vessel neared the beach. Like all of his people, he was tall and muscular, with pale skin and hair the colour of bleached bone. His eyes still blazed with the memory of defeat and he ground his teeth in silent fury. What was left of his ornate, rune carved armor was scratched and dented, the battered steel streaked with soot and blood, only partially washed away by the freezing rain and ocean spray.
Struggling to keep his balance as the waves hammered the ship, the commander squinted toward the looming cliffs. Darkness, spray and driving rain meant he caught only intermittent glimpses of the cliffs and rock strewn sand ahead as lightning flashed, but he knew they were close. He braced himself as the ship ran aground a moment later, the timbers of the keel and hull moaning in protest. The ship listed wildly to starboard before coming to a shuddering halt, armored men cursing and clattering into one another across the slippery deck.
The commander looked through the murk to see the second ship beach nearby, the remaining four close behind. Two of the warships collided as the breaking waves surged wildly. He heard the cracking of timber carry on the howling wind as oars splintered and hulls crashed together.
Snarling, the commander turned back toward the deck as the ship’s captain shouted orders. Bone weary sailors began throwing thick rope ladders and boarding planks over the shattered and scorched remnants of the starboard rails and the survivors began to disembark from the crippled vessel, taking whatever meager supplies they could easily carry.
The survivors from the ships assembled on the rocky shore at the base of the cliffs in ordered lines, still capable of discipline despite their terrible defeat and arduous sea journey. Less than twelve hundred of the pale folk now stood on the slate gray beach, rows of drenched, ragged ghosts with their dead white hair and skin. Some eight hundred were foot soldiers, while the rest were either warlocks, sorcerer-knights, archers, or crew from the warships. There were fewer than two score women and only a few healers, which boded ill for their long term future.
The stranded survivors watched as the sea pounded the beached vessels relentlessly. There was nowhere else for them to go and no chance of rescue. They had risked everything, and lost it all. The wind moaned along the beach, driving the freezing rain into their faces, but it could not extinguish the flames of hatred burning in their hearts for those who had forced them here. This moment would never be forgotten, and would fuel a thirst for vengeance for generations to come.