


Men have always roamed these lands, spear in hand, sword by their side, selling their skills as warriors to those who not only need the extra sword arms but can afford the fee. The men of these bands come from all manner of life and land, whether wealthy or poor, armed and armoured with whatever they have. The best of these are the blooded warriors, those who have fought in the shield wall and survived and who, for whatever reason, now roam abroad in search of any master who will pay them well.
The Hæringar is a group of Dane, Englisc and Gaelic warriors, each different from the other, their tales and pasts as varied as the trees that grow within the forests. The Hæringar roams Northern Europe during the middle of the 11th century, bondsmen who, though just a blink of the eye away from crossing words and swords, follow their 'leader' into battle and fight alongside each other like the closest of brothers, as though of one blood, one sword and one shield.
Their badge is of a wolf, an image intended to portray their ferocity, killing skill and their wild nature in battle. Their name, Hæringar, is derived from an occasion where they descended upon an Englisc village during a thick early morning fog - as they killed the village priest he kept muttering the same word again and again; Háringas - grey-coated.
Entry into the Hæringar is by invitation only, the warriors only accepting those who they deem to meet their high standards.
The Hæringar is a group of Dane, Englisc and Gaelic warriors, each different from the other, their tales and pasts as varied as the trees that grow within the forests. The Hæringar roams Northern Europe during the middle of the 11th century, bondsmen who, though just a blink of the eye away from crossing words and swords, follow their 'leader' into battle and fight alongside each other like the closest of brothers, as though of one blood, one sword and one shield.
Their badge is of a wolf, an image intended to portray their ferocity, killing skill and their wild nature in battle. Their name, Hæringar, is derived from an occasion where they descended upon an Englisc village during a thick early morning fog - as they killed the village priest he kept muttering the same word again and again; Háringas - grey-coated.
Entry into the Hæringar is by invitation only, the warriors only accepting those who they deem to meet their high standards.

The Hæringar is comprised of 'veteran' players of Mount&Blade & Mount&Blade: Warband. We have a particular preference for two modifications; The Deluge, where we have a clan called 'Bande of Pike & Shotte - The Lucky Dogs', and Vikingr, of which our members are either veteran community members or former developers of the modification.
As with our sister clan, The Lucky Dogs, we are rather free-form in our approach to running the clan. It purposefully has as little structuring as possible. There are no ranks, no training sessions, no trial periods - none of the usual flummery you would find within a clan. The 'leader' of the Hæringar merely handles the administration for the clan as well as organising participation in events. In essence we are a group of friends who love playing the mod together and wish to do so as an organised group, fighting together in both a cohesive and effective manner.
On the subject of recruitment; because the members of the Hæringar know each other so well outside of playing Vikingr, we keep our recruitment very strict. We do not accept applications and if we do recruit someone, we do it solely on the basis of their personality.
As with our sister clan, The Lucky Dogs, we are rather free-form in our approach to running the clan. It purposefully has as little structuring as possible. There are no ranks, no training sessions, no trial periods - none of the usual flummery you would find within a clan. The 'leader' of the Hæringar merely handles the administration for the clan as well as organising participation in events. In essence we are a group of friends who love playing the mod together and wish to do so as an organised group, fighting together in both a cohesive and effective manner.
On the subject of recruitment; because the members of the Hæringar know each other so well outside of playing Vikingr, we keep our recruitment very strict. We do not accept applications and if we do recruit someone, we do it solely on the basis of their personality.

Current members of the Hæringar & their backgrounds;
Name: Hrútr Njalsson
Byname(s): gylðir (howler), járnsíða (iron-side)
Hrútr is the eldest son of Njal farmaðr, a famed warrior who raided the coast of Europa with his crew for many years. Hrútr joined his fathers crew for several years as a young man and enjoyed the taste of life as a vikingr. When his father died Hrútr drifted sailing in crews, joining armies as a mercenary, traveling across a lot of Europa. He eventually found himself amongst the Hæringar, whom he would eventually come to lead.
Hrútr is known as gylðir, the howler, due to how easily small things can frustrate him, leading to his 'howling' over anything and everything. In the past he has also been referred to as Hrútr járnsíða - when he was younger he was rarely seen out of his maille haubergeon. Hrútr isn't the best warrior among the Hæringar. He's not the most skilled nor the most ruthless but he is capable enough. He has some skill with the sword and is a good spearman, yet it is his capabilities as a leader that he excels - his ability to read the flow of battle makes him invaluable on the field and his cheerful outlook makes him popular amongst the men who follow him.
Eiríkr Rauðskegg is the son of Magr-Ráðúlfr and an Irish waif of a woman, sold out to spare the land of her blood-kin. He spent his youth in Bolungarvík, north-west Iceland, leaving with his father's trading boats upon the coming of age. Unfortunately for Ráðúlfr, the relative tame occupation of trade and commerce was not long upon Eiríkr's mind. Small disputes over gold, goods and mead would often turn to fisticuffs, brawling and bouts of bickering.
Currently fighting with the Hæringar, Eiríkr is known to be a bit of a bastard. He suffers for no fools upon the field, gladly bringing forth the axe, spear and shield to end their tongue-wagging.
Name: Sigtryggr Hrodgasson
Byname(s): Hunda


Name: Hrútr Njalsson
Byname(s): gylðir (howler), járnsíða (iron-side)
Hrútr is the eldest son of Njal farmaðr, a famed warrior who raided the coast of Europa with his crew for many years. Hrútr joined his fathers crew for several years as a young man and enjoyed the taste of life as a vikingr. When his father died Hrútr drifted sailing in crews, joining armies as a mercenary, traveling across a lot of Europa. He eventually found himself amongst the Hæringar, whom he would eventually come to lead.
Hrútr is known as gylðir, the howler, due to how easily small things can frustrate him, leading to his 'howling' over anything and everything. In the past he has also been referred to as Hrútr járnsíða - when he was younger he was rarely seen out of his maille haubergeon. Hrútr isn't the best warrior among the Hæringar. He's not the most skilled nor the most ruthless but he is capable enough. He has some skill with the sword and is a good spearman, yet it is his capabilities as a leader that he excels - his ability to read the flow of battle makes him invaluable on the field and his cheerful outlook makes him popular amongst the men who follow him.

Eiríkr Rauðskegg is the son of Magr-Ráðúlfr and an Irish waif of a woman, sold out to spare the land of her blood-kin. He spent his youth in Bolungarvík, north-west Iceland, leaving with his father's trading boats upon the coming of age. Unfortunately for Ráðúlfr, the relative tame occupation of trade and commerce was not long upon Eiríkr's mind. Small disputes over gold, goods and mead would often turn to fisticuffs, brawling and bouts of bickering.
Currently fighting with the Hæringar, Eiríkr is known to be a bit of a bastard. He suffers for no fools upon the field, gladly bringing forth the axe, spear and shield to end their tongue-wagging.

Name: Sigtryggr Hrodgasson
Byname(s): Hunda











Háringas or Hæringar?
The Priest stared at the vikingr, his body shaking. “Háringas, háringas, háringas” he muttered again and again. Eiríkr kicked the Priest in the stomach and, as the man doubled up, he lashed out with his foot again, the leather boot slamming into the priests chest. As the old man lay sprawled on the muddy ground, Hrútr stepped forward and lowered his long bladed spear until the tip brushed against the priests pale neck. The priest managed to utter the word once more before Hrútr rammed the blade forward, blood spilling against the bright steel and the thin pale neck.
“What did he say?” Eiríkr raised an eyebrow at Hrútr, moisture running from the red beard that gave him the name rauðskegg. “Háringas, as in hæringar.” Hrútr shrugged as he jerked the spear blade free. Eiríkr carefully hung his ax by its leather loop, the haft of the weapon hanging the length of his thigh. “Grey-coated. Why'd he say that?”
“He meant the fog, it covered us like a grey cloak, hiding us from sight.” Sigtryggr, lazily leaning against his Dane ax, offered the explanation. Hrútr nodded slowly. “Háringas. Or, rather, hæringar. I like it. It's a better name than Hoar's folk, especially as Hoar isn't with us anymore.”
“Only because you jammed your seax in his back.” Egill hausakljúfr offered, the haft of his throwing spear resting against his shoulder. “Of course we all know you like to take your opponents from behind.” The warrior held two fingers in front of his groin to imitate a penis and thrust his pelvis forward, grunting.
“Piss off ersling, we all know you only like young girls because they have bodies like boys.” A cough interrupted them. Sigtryggr was looking pointedly at the village where the women were being herded by the well. “Instead of talking about them...” the veteran left the sentence unfinished.
“Quite.” Hrútr gave the priests body a final kick before stalking off towards the village.
Bleddyn the Bloody
Bleddyn dwrn growled at the trembling villager. The man, scarcely out of boyhood, clutched the fork in his shaking hands, the tines roughly level with Bleddyn's chest. Bleddyn rolled his eyes in frustration, “Come on, fight me!”
The villager thrust the pitchfork forward half-heartedly, an attack which Bleddyn disdainfully knocked to one side with his ax. He threw down his shield and stared at the man. When the villager didn't move, Bleddyn tossed his ax down at the villagers feet. “Pick that up and fight me.”
The thump of the axe landing on the turf in front of him seemed to awaken the villager from his lethargy and he thrust the pitchfork hard forward. Bleddyn turned neatly on the ball of his left foot, stepped past the pitchfork, slipped his seax from its leather sheath and rammed it deep into the villagers body. “You were too slow. You've got to be quicker than that, fast like me, otherwise this happens.” His hand moved the seax's blade up, pushing the sharp tip up through the diaphram, up through the ribcage and into the villagers heart.
As the gutted body slumped to the ground Bleddyn flicked blood from the seax. He casually examined his blood-soaked arm and frowned. His foot lashed out viciously, kicking the dead mans head. "Bloody Englisc, dirty bastards."
The Priest stared at the vikingr, his body shaking. “Háringas, háringas, háringas” he muttered again and again. Eiríkr kicked the Priest in the stomach and, as the man doubled up, he lashed out with his foot again, the leather boot slamming into the priests chest. As the old man lay sprawled on the muddy ground, Hrútr stepped forward and lowered his long bladed spear until the tip brushed against the priests pale neck. The priest managed to utter the word once more before Hrútr rammed the blade forward, blood spilling against the bright steel and the thin pale neck.
“What did he say?” Eiríkr raised an eyebrow at Hrútr, moisture running from the red beard that gave him the name rauðskegg. “Háringas, as in hæringar.” Hrútr shrugged as he jerked the spear blade free. Eiríkr carefully hung his ax by its leather loop, the haft of the weapon hanging the length of his thigh. “Grey-coated. Why'd he say that?”
“He meant the fog, it covered us like a grey cloak, hiding us from sight.” Sigtryggr, lazily leaning against his Dane ax, offered the explanation. Hrútr nodded slowly. “Háringas. Or, rather, hæringar. I like it. It's a better name than Hoar's folk, especially as Hoar isn't with us anymore.”
“Only because you jammed your seax in his back.” Egill hausakljúfr offered, the haft of his throwing spear resting against his shoulder. “Of course we all know you like to take your opponents from behind.” The warrior held two fingers in front of his groin to imitate a penis and thrust his pelvis forward, grunting.
“Piss off ersling, we all know you only like young girls because they have bodies like boys.” A cough interrupted them. Sigtryggr was looking pointedly at the village where the women were being herded by the well. “Instead of talking about them...” the veteran left the sentence unfinished.
“Quite.” Hrútr gave the priests body a final kick before stalking off towards the village.
Bleddyn the Bloody
Bleddyn dwrn growled at the trembling villager. The man, scarcely out of boyhood, clutched the fork in his shaking hands, the tines roughly level with Bleddyn's chest. Bleddyn rolled his eyes in frustration, “Come on, fight me!”
The villager thrust the pitchfork forward half-heartedly, an attack which Bleddyn disdainfully knocked to one side with his ax. He threw down his shield and stared at the man. When the villager didn't move, Bleddyn tossed his ax down at the villagers feet. “Pick that up and fight me.”
The thump of the axe landing on the turf in front of him seemed to awaken the villager from his lethargy and he thrust the pitchfork hard forward. Bleddyn turned neatly on the ball of his left foot, stepped past the pitchfork, slipped his seax from its leather sheath and rammed it deep into the villagers body. “You were too slow. You've got to be quicker than that, fast like me, otherwise this happens.” His hand moved the seax's blade up, pushing the sharp tip up through the diaphram, up through the ribcage and into the villagers heart.
As the gutted body slumped to the ground Bleddyn flicked blood from the seax. He casually examined his blood-soaked arm and frowned. His foot lashed out viciously, kicking the dead mans head. "Bloody Englisc, dirty bastards."
[br]
This will be updated & worked on
(Eventually)
(Eventually)