Hellfrost: Splinters of Nordmark (Inactive)

Game Master Kagehiro

Wartorn Nordmark seems to be on the verge of recovering, though the bickering of resentful Jarls and a King determined to maintain his throne threaten to plunge the region back into chaos.


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Male Human (Saxa) Wounds: 0 | Pace: 6 | Parry: 5 (6) | Toughness: 5 (8) | Charisma: +2 | Bennies: 3

A witch? Skoldir forced himself to re-evaluate the strange old woman across the table. Perhaps Frodnar meant it merely as an insult or to amplify his thinly veiled threat, but it was hard to ignore the fact that she looked and acted much like the witches portrayed in all the old songs and stories. Skoldir spent a moment rummaging his memory for wards or prayers to fend off a witch’s curse, but came up with nothing before Frodnar continued speaking.

Clearly, Skoldir had misjudged him as well. I took him at first for nothing but a brute, but he clearly has deadly cunning. He executes his duty while keeping his lord distanced from the dirty work. A man to watch out for. The trick now is to avoid being used while still using this to my own advantage.

Well said,” he declared, slapping his palm on the tabletop. “I, for one, have faith that Hothar will see justice worked against this rogue thegn in due time. And perhaps, with proper inducements to the clergy - and others who serve the ends of justice - ” He paused and met Frodnar’s ugly gaze. “ - that time will come all the more quickly.

Don’t know if a Persuasion check would be called for here. I’d like to get him to either offer concrete, monetary inducements or a more firm commitment of “alliance.” Lemme know if you want a roll.


Wounds: 0 | Pace: 6" | Parry: 6 (8) | Toughness: 7 (10) | Concentration: -3 | Bennies: 3

Witch. A word the humans tossed around all to frequently to explain practitioners of magic they did not understand. Which, sadly, for much of humanity covered a lot of schools of magic. However, it was possible this old crone was a practitioner of dark, forbidden arts. It would remain to be seen which was the case in her regard.

However, Stormreaver's attention to the conversation at hand waned beneath the oppressive heat that these humans seemed to relish in. He knew he was out of his element here in the south, but it was becoming all the more evident now that he was confined in close quarters with a dozen or so men and a fire roaring all too close for comfort.

He did not let it show outwardly, however. He knew that these nobles would put much stock in decorum and having their ego's fluffed. As such, he maintained proper posture and refrained from wiping sweat away from his brow as much as possible, but otherwise remained silent.


"Hothar's name rests upon your lips, though I wonder if it is not Var whose cracking whip drives one's purpose?" Frödnar considers the words for a moment—both his and Skoldir's—before allowing his left hand to come to rest upon the table's surface. He begins rolling a gold scield between his fingers with practiced ease.

"I suppose it matters little what the truth might be. Whether driven by justice, devotion, glory, or greed, the heroes of the saga are lifted up in celebration all the same." Another pause. You get the impression the grim lendmann is still weighing the options in his mind. "I can only speculate, of course, on what drove our dashing heroes forward to seek justice against the depredations of huscarls that roam as bandits. Perhaps they sought the assistance of the jarl whose lands they now occupy, only to be confronted with a disappointing confession of justice paralyzed. And so, they found only fetters and manacles born of political games instead of an avenue towards their rightful vengeance. But our heroes would not be deterred, for great was the carnage wrought by those who had inflicted wrongs. Standing in the shadow of a jarl's caged wrath, the heroes find themselves not so confined. For they were not of Nordmark, and not beholden to the impotence of a cyning."

Frödnar grasps his horn and drains the remainder of its contents. He meets everyone's gaze in turn, even that of Bo'asha. "A wise man makes no promises in the name of his betters, but heroes of the people are seldom turned away by men of such station. Jarl Leiknir Lodviksunu is a man that favors the bold. And for one that doubts his generosity, consider that one of my bearing sits before you named by such a man."

In a nutshell, he's saying Yes you will be rewarded, but No I can't specify how (as the man doing the rewarding isn't present, naturally). No rolls necessary so far, as you two are mostly speaking at a common purpose. If you want to press for more than he's offering, of course, feel free to do so.


Female Human (Finnar) Wounds: 0 | Fatigue: -1 | Pace: 5 | Parry: 4 (5 w/staff) | Toughness: 10 (Icy Skin)(11 w/armor) | Concentration: 1 | Bennies: 3 | Hrimwisard, Beast Master

"So much prattling from you men. Fah! I grow tired of this tongue waggling. An evil man needs dealing with and if this old lady needs to sidle up and shove a dagger between his ribs so that the countryside might have some peace a quiet at last, then that's all I need to know." The woman gathered her shawl about her as if making preparations to leave, the wet slush and mud from her initial trudge into the inn still slicking the floor. "I've got precious few moments left in this accursed lifetime, and fewer still I care to spend sitting here talking about doing something instead of doing it." She drains her beer as well, and stares deep back at Frödnar, bitter resignation in the stare. "So point me where the bad deed needs done so I can get on with dying in peace."


Wounds: 0 | Pace: 6" | Parry: 6 (8) | Toughness: 7 (10) | Concentration: -3 | Bennies: 3

Stormreaver silently weighs the veiled offer presented to him.

So, this one claims that his liege would likely reward those who put an end to this bandit-lord's existence. Not necessarily a truth, but regardless, removing a man such as this from the world could be a start in helping restoring order and balance to this realm. Then if his liege truly does intend to reward those who perform the task, perhaps I could gain further aid in my mission from one actually in power in the man-made borders of this "nation."

As the old crone gathers her things and makes claim that she is about to go do the deed herself, Stormreaver's heart skips a beat with the potential of escaping the furnace that is this inn, but his brief elation is brought to rest quickly enough as he realizes this is only the senile acts of an old woman, and not in fact a real intent of action. Skoldir had yet to make a move. As he was the most accustomed to the ways of the Saxa and the limits of human physiology, it would be on his call when they departed, if he even chose to do so.

Should he plan to confront this thegn, then I suppose I am bound to lend him aid, if for nothing else than to secure my own goodwill among the humans of this land.


Male Human (Saxa) Wounds: 0 | Pace: 6 | Parry: 5 (6) | Toughness: 5 (8) | Charisma: +2 | Bennies: 3

Skoldir stifled a self-satisfied grin. While the situation seemed perfect for his needs, he knew better than to congratulate himself on a feat yet undone. He was confident he could arrange Edwin’s downfall, through force of arms or otherwise, but dared not risk foolhardy confidence, for the gods loved to lay low a fool. And the Norns, of course, had already written his fate. No, better to maintain a quiet air of contentment than to throw around boastful words with no force behind them. Actions spoke more clearly, anyway.

He called for a round of drinks for all those at the table, excluding Stennwulf but including the witch (he swore to himself that he did not fear offending her, but still could not bring his gaze to include her). When they arrived, Skoldir held aloft his mug and proclaimed, “To heroes old and heroes new. May the truly valorous always find their just reward.

So saying, he downed nearly half the ale in one swallow. Best to enjoy it now, he thought, for I doubt the Freelands will be half so accommodating as this place.

Bidding thanks and farewell to Frodnar, Skoldir rose and turned to Stormreaver. “Now, friend elf, I think it likely that we have more matters to discuss. Perhaps we should adjourn to the other table?” He gestured to the small table in the drafty corner at which they had first talked.


Their conversation at an end, the scarred Lendmann opts to return to his original table after topping off his drink once again. As the contents begin to drain once more, and hurriedly, he soon makes to excuse himself to apparently retire for the evening.

Will try to manage a worthwhile update tomorrow. Not being able to post at work has nixed a lot of my activity on here, sadly. If any one wants to intervene before Frödnar exits stage, feel free to. Barring that, go ahead and wrap up the tavern scene and we'll shift to the following morning thereafter.


Wounds: 0 | Pace: 6" | Parry: 6 (8) | Toughness: 7 (10) | Concentration: -3 | Bennies: 3

Stormreaver nods eagerly at Skoldir's suggestion, anxious to return to what little reprieve the draft provided. He bids a wave of farewell to the crone and reclaims his seat by the crack, sliding his seat close to it.

"What other business would you like to discuss?"


Male Human (Saxa) Wounds: 0 | Pace: 6 | Parry: 5 (6) | Toughness: 5 (8) | Charisma: +2 | Bennies: 3

Skoldir resumed his seat across from the elf, setting his half-empty tankard on the table. He took a deep breath and pretended to gather his thoughts; in truth, he wanted to give Stormreaver a moment to cool off in the chilling breeze that reached in through the window. More comfortable, he might be more amenable.

It seems to me, friend elf, that as strangers in these lands we both stand to gain much by currying favor with those in power. We will both have much greater latitude in where we go and what we get up to if we have allies amongst the nobility of Nordmark. As your new guide amongst the Saxa, it is my recommendation that we travel to the lands of this Thegn Edwin and see what we can do about putting a stop to these raids.

He leaned back, awaiting a response. Though I’ve seen his skill in battle, I doubt this elf is the bloodthirsty sort. Hopefully, he won’t realize that an endeavor like this is more or less guaranteed to end in death. I’d rather settle this politically - if Edwin has rivals I can turn to my side, I might simply depose the man - but I can’t imagine the Norns plan on going easy on me now.


Wounds: 0 | Pace: 6" | Parry: 6 (8) | Toughness: 7 (10) | Concentration: -3 | Bennies: 3

Without turning to face the human, as he is occupied with trying to maximize the effect of the breeze by positioning himself optimally, Stormreaver replies, "Yes, I had thought so as well. What of the crone? The other man seemed to show her more respect than I would expect, and she seemed keen on acting as well..."


Female Human (Finnar) Wounds: 0 | Fatigue: -1 | Pace: 5 | Parry: 4 (5 w/staff) | Toughness: 10 (Icy Skin)(11 w/armor) | Concentration: 1 | Bennies: 3 | Hrimwisard, Beast Master

As the human and elf rise to leave Bo'Asha's table, the hag sulks with a grimace that could peel paint. Well done, mama. You really put your foot in the shot this time. Nothing to be done but get busy. she finished the rest of her beer and with a grunt and the aid of her walking staff, rose to her feet. She moved with purpose to Frodnar's table and leaned close.

"I don't know you or how you know me. I don't know your angle or your games. But you've got me by the ol' teats now, don't cha? Very well. You want a corpse, Baba'll bring you a corpse." Without waiting for a response from Frodnar she sauntered to the innkeeper, demanded a room where quiet and a soft place to rest her old bones. Once offered, she is off to sleep, making sure to let Vosk into her room and out of the cold and snow.


Female Human (Finnar) Wounds: 0 | Fatigue: -1 | Pace: 5 | Parry: 4 (5 w/staff) | Toughness: 10 (Icy Skin)(11 w/armor) | Concentration: 1 | Bennies: 3 | Hrimwisard, Beast Master

call me impatient but is this how long PbP normally takes?


Wounds: 0 | Pace: 6" | Parry: 6 (8) | Toughness: 7 (10) | Concentration: -3 | Bennies: 3

Mark is a bit slow paced. Not all PbP is this slow, but it is handy to be a bit patient.


I've been swamped in general and sick most of this week. Should be better soon.


Female Human (Finnar) Wounds: 0 | Fatigue: -1 | Pace: 5 | Parry: 4 (5 w/staff) | Toughness: 10 (Icy Skin)(11 w/armor) | Concentration: 1 | Bennies: 3 | Hrimwisard, Beast Master

no worries homeslice


Male Human (Saxa) Wounds: 0 | Pace: 6 | Parry: 5 (6) | Toughness: 5 (8) | Charisma: +2 | Bennies: 3

I'm sure it doesn't help either when one of the players forgets to check the forum for like three days. Ahem. Not sure who I could possibly be referring to.


Male Human (Saxa) Wounds: 0 | Pace: 6 | Parry: 5 (6) | Toughness: 5 (8) | Charisma: +2 | Bennies: 3

Skoldir leaned away from the elf, hoping the other was too distracted with trying to cool himself to notice the slight hint of fear passing over the Saxa’s features. A tradition-bound upbringing in Royalmark left certain indelible imprints; no matter how worldly one might become, a childhood spent speaking Auld Saxa and attending to centuries-old tales, substantively unchanged in all that time, could not simply be erased with effort.

Rationally, he knew the woman likely had little in the way of real power. Perhaps she wielded elemental powers or, like Stormreaver, was imbued with divine might by one of the gods. But no wielder of true magic would live like that: he watched her shuffle away, moving upstairs to one of the private rooms, limping in tattered rags. Why live like that if she were truly a mage of any note?

Even so, reputation and semblance were enough to leave Skoldir wary. And who knew what curses or hexes a forest-dwelling hermitess might be capable of laying upon one who offended her. The best course would simply to be rid of her, but she had expressed an almost too-eager interest in helping to deal with Edwin. Perhaps, then, so long as Stormreaver handles her, letting her accompany us would be best. If she has actual magical ablities, then she may prove useful, and if not, then she at least knows the area.

Skoldir cleared his throat and made certain to keep his voice calm. “Yes, so long as she doesn’t slow us down, I suppose her knowledge of these lands could aid us. It seems, however, that she has retired for the evening, so perhaps you should try speaking to her in the morning. If we are to leave together, then I hope to be on the road by sunrise. And if there are no other matters, then I should be away to bed.

And, assuming there are no other matters, it’s Skoldir’s bedtime.


Female Human (Finnar) Wounds: 0 | Fatigue: -1 | Pace: 5 | Parry: 4 (5 w/staff) | Toughness: 10 (Icy Skin)(11 w/armor) | Concentration: 1 | Bennies: 3 | Hrimwisard, Beast Master

:-(


As all settle for the night, finding what comfort they can given the ordeals and travails the road offered mercilessly the evening prior, Thunor's banter seems less inclined to yield to rest. The worst of the rain subsides, relinquishing its unwelcome percussion against the thatched roof and wooden walls of the Anari inn. Thunder, lightning, and wind continue to boom, flash, and wail on through the night and into the morning, however. It proves a stubborn obstacle to gaining any true measure of rest, and all find themselves rising far later in the morning than any would have preferred, bleary eyed and grumpy. Outside, the distant rumbles of thunder and the howl of wind persists even now.

The common room beneath is a welcome sight, as is the pleasant smell wafting its way through the interior of the inn. Kendric is busy at work, humming and whistling an annoying tune to himself merrily as he tends to breakfast. Such a feast is prepared not on an open hearth, but in an actual kitchen adjoining the common room by way of a squat door behind a bar. Each person that arrives has a plate and tankard thrust in front of them, the former containing a generous helping of smoked pork, beans, and a small bowl of slop masquerading as barley soup while the latter is filled nearly to the brim with goat's milk.

Of Frödnar the Serpent there is no sign. In fact, many of the patrons who had graced the place the night before seem to have moved on at some point between night and late morning. What few remain seem to consist mainly of those who belonged to the caravan train that delivered Skoldir and Stormreaver here.


Wounds: 0 | Pace: 6" | Parry: 6 (8) | Toughness: 7 (10) | Concentration: -3 | Bennies: 3

Stormreaver's rest was fitful at best. His whole body was drenched with sweat when he finally awoke, feeling less rested than he had the night prior. He made his way out of the "inn," taking the pork from the offered meal in hand and drinking down the tankard to try to moisten his parched throat.

Once outside, he makes his way to first check on the horses and make sure that they had weathered the storm adequately. Assured that all was in order and that they hadn't been mistreated, he makes his way to a small clearing and sits down on both knees to pray to the Animalmother for her blessings.

Before he can begin, he is greeted with the happy nuzzling of Winterfang. He smiles and hands him the smoked pork from the inn. "Here you go, friend. The Nurturer would not want it going to waste."

He then says a brief prayer, and the ground around him begins to writhe and change as various small bushes of berries quickly take shape around him. "Thank you, Bountiful One," he says before eating enough of the berries to prevent any hunger pains, and stowing away enough to provide him sustenance for the remainder of the day.

He then kneels to the ground, head bowed, one knee to the ground and leaned forward on his fists to conclude his morning prayers.

"Green Goddess, grant me the strength of arm to defend your children in all their forms. Grant me the vision to hand out rightful justice to those who would ravage your wilds,"

He thinks back to the humans he had allied himself with the night before.

"And help me to be wise enough to find faithful allies in these lands. Allies true of heart and deed, and honest in their words and promises."

He remains knelt down, and slowly feels the power of the earth flow up through his arms and into his core, fortifying his body and spirit. He then returns to the caravan and checks on all his supplies, and await the man he had made allegiances with to exit the building, all the while keeping an eye out for the strange crone.

I believe we had agreed to divide up the horses among the caravan and people in the group who needed them. Stormreaver would prefer to keep them in his company, so he will first allow any of Skoldir's entourage who are without horses to use them. Any left over after those we will use as mounts he will allow to be given to people in the caravan who appear to treat their animals with respect.


Female Human (Finnar) Wounds: 0 | Fatigue: -1 | Pace: 5 | Parry: 4 (5 w/staff) | Toughness: 10 (Icy Skin)(11 w/armor) | Concentration: 1 | Bennies: 3 | Hrimwisard, Beast Master

"Damn, still alive."
Bo'Asha's eyelids, crusted with sleep-sand fell open, her dark grey eyes stared up at the rafters in her little room. The blankets were pleasantly stifling. The pillowy down of Vosk's breast puffed in and out slightly, the only sign that the creature was not a stuffed ornament.
"Well old girl, if you're not dead, better get to work making sure someone else is," mumbled the crone to coax herself to a sitting position. She took up her walking staff from against the wall, slid her gnarled feet into their boots, and laced up.

As she descended to the landing, CLOMP-thud, CLOMP-thud, the witch's eyes moved around the significantly emptier common room, her lungs breathing deep the smell of broth. She took up her table from the previous day, the one commandeered for her by Frodnar, and sat about the task of breaking her fast.

"Where'd those damn men off to?" she wondered to herself...


Male Human (Saxa) Wounds: 0 | Pace: 6 | Parry: 5 (6) | Toughness: 5 (8) | Charisma: +2 | Bennies: 3

Despite - or, perhaps, because of - the foul weather, Skoldir woke late feeling refreshed. Nothing like a fight for one’s life to bring on a thorough rest, he thought, stifling annoyance: he had hoped to set out earlier. He guessed the elf was not the sort to sleep late and would probably be waiting for him. He rose and dressed, resolving to be on the road as quickly as possible. The ominous rumblings of thunder in the distance be damned, he would not become some wastrel layabout, nor would he tolerate being viewed as one by his new companions. I’ll fetch a light breakfast of some kind, something I can carry with me, and be on the road in moments, he thought, heading for the door.

As he reached it, Stennwulf opened it from the other side. His huscarl, already dressed for the road, carried a small wrapped bundle, probably containing cheese, bread, and a small amount of meat from the previous night. “Good man,” Skoldir said with forced cheer, trying not to show irritation at lagging behind his own servant. He clapped the older man on the shoulder and together they descended to the inn’s main room. There, he hastened past the innkeeper’s grating whistling and the wild-eyed stare of the old woman (I hope the elf has reconsidered allowing her to join us, he thought, ducking his head to avoid her gaze) and out to the courtyard, where he found Stormreaver waiting with horses readied.

As I expected, the elf is waiting on me. I must have more self-discipline. It should be me setting the pace for the rest, not the other way ‘round.

Despite these chastising thoughts, he greeted the elf with a smile. “Greetings to you, Stormreaver! I hope you found some rest.” He cast his eyes upward at the black-cloaked sky. “Tell me, do you think the weather will hold, or should we expect another gale like yesterday? If it’s like to storm, it may be best to tarry a few moments and ask the locals if there be any place in the area to seek shelter should Thunor attempt to drown us again.


Wounds: 0 | Pace: 6" | Parry: 6 (8) | Toughness: 7 (10) | Concentration: -3 | Bennies: 3

Stormreaver looks to the sky at Skoldir's question. While he knew it would be unwise to risk a large number of people unaccustomed to dealing with surviving in the wilds during a storm, he couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt. Part of him wanted to disregard the potential danger altogether in favor of sleeping in the cool outdoor air rather than suffer another intolerable night in the fiery prison that the human dwelling seemed to be.

"It is hard to predict what the Turbulent One plans. However, I am certain that I could locate us suitable shelter should Thunor decide to show his wrath."

He smirks slightly as he turns his gaze back to the nobleman. "Though, if he is watching our actions closely, he will not take kindly to our having avoided his gift last night. Perhaps you should offer him a prayer for forgiveness."

Stormreaver then looks about as the caravan begins to prepare for departure. "Do you plan to travel alongside the caravan, or set out immediately for this wayward human? And what of the crone?"
__________
Should it come up with the next update, here is a Survival roll for finding shelter.
Survival: 1d4 ⇒ 1
Wild Die: 1d6 ⇒ 5


Feel free to continue the exchange; I'm just covering some general bases with some horse handwaving.

Stormreaver spends much of the afternoon seeing that the horses are distributed according to his own designs. While there are no shortage of those willing to take on a free horse, many wear plainly their desire for mere profit, likely intending to sell the horses off at their earliest convenience. A small handful of farmers prove to be the best fit for the animals. Even here where Thunor reigns, the commonfolk know to whom they owe the harvests. A single horse is a boon of immeasurable worth to those who work the fields, and it is an assurance that the beasts will be well tended to. A healthy horse yields a healthy crop, after all.

Stennwulf's lumbering form towers behind Skoldir as ever when he greets the elf. Surprisingly (to Stormreaver, at least) he finds the grizzled huscarl agreeing with his assessment. "The elf does not spit falsehoods, my lord. We should appease Thunor, that his lightning smite our enemies and not our heads."

A couple of years ago such a notion might have seemed foolish, but given the travails that delivered Skoldir and Stennwulf to this place, that the Gods might actively oppose their path seems less a jest than it should. Indeed, there is no mirth in Stennwulf's words. The deep gravel of his speech betrays a hint of urgency, as if the man fears a bolt will smite them even now.

 

---
 
 
Inside the inn, Bo'asha is able to enjoy her breakfast in relative peace. Kendric's grating melodies thankfully subside, and he only makes an obligatory greeting in the crone's general direction: "[b]G'morning amma."

There is no sign of the taiga elf she had spoken to the night prior. Even those few lagging behind in the common room seem to be hurriedly finishing their meal so they can be on their way as soon as possible. Beyond the window that flanks her table, Bo'asha notes that the caravan is preparing to continue onward and out of Kendric' Trading Post. Judging from the orientation of horses and wagons, their destination is further east. Even outside she does not see any sign of Skoldir or the northern elf. A consideration that they decided to leave her behind settles on her, though the thought is soon dispelled when Bo'asha notes the Royalmark Hauld descending the stairs in a rush, followed closely by the immense form of his rugged huscarl, Stennwulf. He does not seem intent on stopping for breakfast, however, and the pair exit the inn as quickly as they appeared.

And somewhere in the world, a frost dwarf fire elementalist might be materializing into existence. Or flickering into nothingness. Only the future will tell!


Female Human (Finnar) Wounds: 0 | Fatigue: -1 | Pace: 5 | Parry: 4 (5 w/staff) | Toughness: 10 (Icy Skin)(11 w/armor) | Concentration: 1 | Bennies: 3 | Hrimwisard, Beast Master

Hmph, snorts the old witch, who stands, fishes out some coins to leave upon the table, and makes her way out to the yard.

"Well alright, now that our knives are all sharpened and our armor gleaming perhaps one of you fine gentlemen with better lay of the land than grandma care to lead us towards our quarry?" asks Bo'asha as she hoists herself onto the back of a dappled pony beside Stormreaver. Once she is settled, the great snowy owl Vosk lands upon her bent shoulder, silent save the drafts of his wingbeats, and stares out ominously.


Male Human (Saxa) Wounds: 0 | Pace: 6 | Parry: 5 (6) | Toughness: 5 (8) | Charisma: +2 | Bennies: 3

Point of clarification for me: were we planning on staying with the caravan, or splitting off to go deal with Edwin? I thought it was the latter, but maybe I misunderstood.


Wounds: 0 | Pace: 6" | Parry: 6 (8) | Toughness: 7 (10) | Concentration: -3 | Bennies: 3

I thought the latter as well. But didn't know if it was in a similar direction or not.


Female Human (Finnar) Wounds: 0 | Fatigue: -1 | Pace: 5 | Parry: 4 (5 w/staff) | Toughness: 10 (Icy Skin)(11 w/armor) | Concentration: 1 | Bennies: 3 | Hrimwisard, Beast Master

yup. Onward! To kill the bad dude!


Correct. The caravan is continuing eastward, while Thegn Edwin dwells just across the border in The Freelands to the west.


Male Human (Saxa) Wounds: 0 | Pace: 6 | Parry: 5 (6) | Toughness: 5 (8) | Charisma: +2 | Bennies: 3

Seeing that Stormreaver’s handling of the horses would likely take a while (and seeing the approach of the witch), Skoldir decided to heed the advice given by both the elf and his huscarl. Stepping beyond the inn’s palisade, he searched for a likely-looking spot to pay obeisance to the Storm God. Before long, Stennwulf spotted a small, flat rise, uncluttered with trees or other obstructions. Skoldir ascended alone and, once at the top, endeavored to gain Thunor’s favor.

I don’t think I’ve ever prayed to you, but I’m sure you know my cause is a just one. This may be only a minor step in my journey, but failure now could doom me. I have so little left. If this does not work out, I’m at a loss as to how to proceed. I know you have no control over the minds of men, so what happens in Edwin’s lands is up to me. I know that and accept it, but I ask only that you give me the chance: do not hinder our passage westward. That is all I ask.

Uncertain what sacrifice would be appropriate, Skoldir chose to sacrifice something important to himself: a gold coin. He thought at first to bury it, but reconsidered when he noticed a small flat rock nearby. He set the coin there, face up. If the clouds would part, it would no doubt glint brightly, but the heavy cloud cover, by concealing the sun, revealed the coin’s true nature: a simple piece of metal, worthless and meaningless.

But he could think of no better sacrifice. So, after a moment, he returned to the inn.


Before long, all arrangements have been seen to. The horses have all been distributed completely and those belonging to the remnants of the caravan, bolstered further by what locals and merchants have elected to join in the thrust eastward, set out through the eastern egress of the trading post's palisade. Overhead, the weather remains dreary with no signs of relenting, but the people press on nevertheless. The fortunate ones depart atop wagons or horses, while the less fortunate are forced to make the trip on foot, the now muddy trail sucking each step stubbornly.

It is not until late afternoon that the unlikely group of strangers manage to effect their own exit from Kendric's demesne. Vosk remains settled upon Bo'asha's shoulder, a permanent and eerie fixture adding to the crone's already spooky countenance. As the four make their way through the palisade's western gate, a strong wind kicks up from across the plains. The violent swaying of overgrown, emerald shoots of grass announces its arrival, a vast and invisible tide washing over the lands without care. Positioned as they are within the narrow breezeway that runs along the gatehouse, the impact of the wind is of gale force. Vosk draws his wings up about himself and buries his head in the crease of Bo'asha's neck, while the others simply press forward into the gust.

When they have cleared the gateway, grass slowly stops dancing and the wind dies down to a pleasant breeze once again. Whether it was a blessing or a curse from Thunor, none present know.

I'm going to need a general marching/riding order going forward.

1d10 ⇒ 5
1d8 ⇒ 5
1d6 ⇒ 4


Wounds: 0 | Pace: 6" | Parry: 6 (8) | Toughness: 7 (10) | Concentration: -3 | Bennies: 3

Winterfang and I will take point.


Female Human (Finnar) Wounds: 0 | Fatigue: -1 | Pace: 5 | Parry: 4 (5 w/staff) | Toughness: 10 (Icy Skin)(11 w/armor) | Concentration: 1 | Bennies: 3 | Hrimwisard, Beast Master

I'm old, I'll take the middle. Do you need a rising roll?
Riding: 1d4 ⇒ 21d6 ⇒ 1
bugger all.


Male Frost Dwarf Novice Elementalist - Wounds: 0 | Pace: 4 | Parry: 3=5-2(WA) | Toughness: 8 | Concentration: 0 | Bennies: 3

I'm ready to join whenever I can be worked in.


Wounds: 0 | Pace: 6" | Parry: 6 (8) | Toughness: 7 (10) | Concentration: -3 | Bennies: 3

HOLY HELL! *falls out of chair*


All continue their westward ride without excitement or surprise. Skoldir is at least reassured that perhaps his offering was well received, for as night begins to fall about the land the overcast clouds finally relent and disperse. A heavy wind remains about the plains and the numerous abandoned farms the four pass on the way. Stormreaver finds the wind a pleasant relief, and the gentle rattling of the overgrown grass is equally welcome to the elf's ears.

Though unmolested, the descending darkness does facilitate the need to consider accommodations for the night. Predictably, it is Stennwulf who speaks first of the subject, saying, "We should seek shelter soon, Hauld Skoldir. If bandits prowl the roads by day, there's no telling what manner of beast lurks in wait in the night." They are welcome words to Bo'asha. Even though her legs are offered reprieve by the horse she currently rides, it is not travel she is accustomed to. Her back and thighs ache from riding so long, and the prospect of being able to stretch her old bones is an attractive one.
  
Even as the burly Saxa speaks, Stormreaver spots something glimmering in the distance. A large copse of thick trees—birch, by Stormreaver's reckoning—stands less than a mile to the south. A small flicker of orange is barely visible to the taiga elf. At first the possibility of a campfire seems likely, though there is no trail of smoke above the treeline.

Notice (Stennwulf): 1d6 ⇒ 4
Notice (Bo'asha): 1d6 ⇒ 5
> Wild Die: 1d6 ⇒ 2
Notice (Skoldir): 1d4 ⇒ 2
> Wild Die: 1d6 ⇒ 3
Notice (Stormreaver): 2d6 ⇒ (6, 3) = 9
> Wild Die: 1d6 ⇒ 2


Wounds: 0 | Pace: 6" | Parry: 6 (8) | Toughness: 7 (10) | Concentration: -3 | Bennies: 3

After pointing out the small grove of birch and the light within, Stormreaver says, "Once we get closer, I'll move ahead and see what it is."

When they are a few hundred yards away, Stormreaver dismounts and hands the reigns of his horse to Skoldir. "One whistle means trouble and to come quick. Three whistles means all clear and safe to come over." He looks at Winterfang and says, "Stay."

He checks his gear and slips off into the darkness. He quietly moves forward until he can get a good look at who, or what, is the source of the light.

Stealth: 1d4 ⇒ 2
Wild Die: 2d6 ⇒ (6, 1) = 7


Male Frost Dwarf Novice Elementalist - Wounds: 0 | Pace: 4 | Parry: 3=5-2(WA) | Toughness: 8 | Concentration: 0 | Bennies: 3

In case he's sneaking against me. If not, ignore this.

Notice: 1d8 ⇒ 2 (Heat penalty?)
> Wild Die: 1d6 ⇒ 3


Had to work all week, I'll have an update coming at some point tomorrowszes.


It takes Stormreaver some time to pick across the wind wracked plain, moving through the tall, swaying grass with the grace of a predator. Winterfang mirrors the taiga elf's approach, the pair disappearing into the foliage as they approach the thick copse of birch trees. So far away as it is, Skoldir and Bo'asha are unable to maintain a line of sight on Stormreaver for long. That night is fast approaching does little to improve such efforts.

Within the line of trees, Stormreaver continues low to the ground with eyes narrowed as he attempts to locate the source of the light he had gleaned from a distance.

Vort'l:

__________
A small cluster of birch trees have served as your home for the better part of a week—your punishment and service for your very public blunder (The nature of which I leave entirely up to you, Chip) in the presence of Jarl Leiknir Lodviksunu.

Rather than being publicly humiliated or punished in some form (which would serve little purpose in your case, being a total foreigner in the Jarl's lands) you were pressed into the service of one of the Jarl's trusted advisors, Lendmann Frödnar the Serpent. In this capacity you have been tasked with watching the roads and reporting the comings and goings (especially unusual activity) of those traveling into Nordmark from the Freelands. This boring assignment was only interrupted recently—this very morning.

Approached by Frödnar, you were informed of a party of travelers headed west from Kendric's Trading Post. Among their number is a taiga elf, a pair of Saxa, and an old crone. He pressed a folded bit of parchment (sealed with wax) into your hands and instructed you to meet them as they passed your way.

Your current "home" is a large swath of partially moss covered rocks—basically a granite tor—located within a sizable copse of birch trees. From the east, your chosen abode is well concealed, while to the west it affords you a commanding view of the plains beneath, including the worn trail that winds its way around the birch trees before continuing west into the Freelands. There is a large cleft within the granite, including a three foot overhang, that you have chosen as shelter from the weather.

__________

Picking his way through the trees as silent as a stalking cat, Stormreaver finally happens upon what he seeks. A plump frost dwarf sits perched atop a mass of granite, mumbling malformed words and conversations to no one in particular around a wooden pipe. The pipeweed occasionally glows hot orange as the dwarf inhales, and the air surrounding him is filled with a stale aroma.


Wounds: 0 | Pace: 6" | Parry: 6 (8) | Toughness: 7 (10) | Concentration: -3 | Bennies: 3

Ugh. Dwarf. It had to be a dwarf.

Stormreaver watches the dwarf for a few minutes, quietly trying to assess his nature and disposition, as well as to make sure he is alone. Though he sees no signs of anyone else at this camp.

He appears to be alone, and not much of a threat at that. I won't know for sure, though, unless I speak with him.

"Greetings, friend," Stormreaver says before stepping into the light.


Male Frost Dwarf Novice Elementalist - Wounds: 0 | Pace: 4 | Parry: 3=5-2(WA) | Toughness: 8 | Concentration: 0 | Bennies: 3

"..reful nushing nosh befol.. AHH! Who goes..!? OOF!" Vort'l's instinct to stand and spin to face this stranger was far stronger than his ability to control his rotund frame at the speed and level of finesse required to do so. Spinning on one heel, the other foot in the air making feeble attempts to regain some sense of balance, Vort'l fell backward onto his duff, facing the elf.

Vort'l's clumsy pirouette gave Stormreaver a very good look at him. Vort'l is a sphere of flesh, his torso as wide as it is tall, with awkwardly thin legs and arms, all wrapped in leather. His wide, flame-red mustache and bushy eyebrows hide much of his unevenly stained face, a light pink in some places, a ruddy rust color in others, an obviously unskilled attempt to dye his own hair, a common custom among frost dwarves.

Vort'l, clearly in a panic, grabs blindly at the dirt around him, perhaps searching for his staff, several feet away. "..mur buh.. Don't come any.. meshd burbu.."

Vort'l is like Mega Man's Dr. Robotnik, blended with a bit of Danny DeVito's The Penguin.


Male Frost Dwarf Novice Elementalist - Wounds: 0 | Pace: 4 | Parry: 3=5-2(WA) | Toughness: 8 | Concentration: 0 | Bennies: 3

Oops, I meant Sonic the Hedgehog.


Wounds: 0 | Pace: 6" | Parry: 6 (8) | Toughness: 7 (10) | Concentration: -3 | Bennies: 3

Stormreaver rolls his eyes in disgust at the rotund dwarf. Clearly this was one that cared little for only using what they need. He looked like a bear that had prepared for a twenty year hibernation in two weeks time.

Fearing the dwarf's heart might give out from exertion, Stormreaver raised his hands in a show of peace, and says, "Easy, dwarf. I do not come seeking violence. I was looking for a place to make camp and noted your fire in the distance, so I came to investigate. If you are willing to have an evening with peaceful company and the protection of numbers, then I will stay. If you would rather remain in solitude and risk the night alone, then say so and I will depart."


Male Frost Dwarf Novice Elementalist - Wounds: 0 | Pace: 4 | Parry: 3=5-2(WA) | Toughness: 8 | Concentration: 0 | Bennies: 3

Vort'l's hand finally found what it was seeking. He put his pipe back in his mouth and squinted at Stormreaver, looking him over carefully. He began to take a long, ponderous drag when he noticed something was terribly wrong. "Baaaarg," he growled, peering into his empty pipe. He looked down to see his pipeweed scattered on the rocks around him.

Vort'l grunted his way back onto his feet and made his way to his belongings under a rocky outcrop. For Vort'l, there were clearly more important things than a swift answer to Stormreaver's offer. He filled his pipe, relit it and wobbled his way back toward the elf.

Well, this elf is patient, that's a good sign. Though he does seem like a bit of a peacenik. Probably worships the tree mothers or something like that. I'll have to make sure I don't step on too much moss. Haha! I wonder how many there are in his party. If things go sour, I may have to make a hasty retreat. I'll keep my belongings mostly packed just in case. Of course, I could always just kill them all. Haha!

"..murf dal good shy. Shun dur malur too much moss. HAHA! Rur how many nin sharty. Nih mark a bref. Ruv cul just kill them all. HAHA! Yes, that sounds like a fine offer. Bring your friends! I don't have much to offer in the way of food or drink, but you seem like the self sufficient sort. At the very least, I could use the company. It gets a bit lonely out here. Vort'l Highfist is the name."

Vort'l stops his approach 10 feet from Stormreaver, raises his fist over his head in a sort of salute and then places it over his heart and bows.


Wounds: 0 | Pace: 6" | Parry: 6 (8) | Toughness: 7 (10) | Concentration: -3 | Bennies: 3

Stormreaver turns his head slightly and lets out three sharp whistles to signal the others.

"Thank you for your hospitality. I am Stormreaver, and this here is Winterfang," he says as the canine walks up to his side.


Watching from the rough trail, the others can only wait for the elf's call. Several moments pass before three sharp whistles carry across the field from the direction of the thicket of birch trees.

Stennwulf straightens up atop his horse and says, "Three whistles—no trouble. Best that I lead the way, all the same." His eyes flash to Skoldir, awaiting the Hauld's permission before urging his horse forward towards their destination.

The approach is lazy, but the grizzled huscarl maintains his usual vigil in the growing dim of twilight. Rustling waves of grass that had seemed soothing in the day now take on a foreboding quality, each jostle offering a pang of paranoia at what might be stalking closer as the Sigel's Hearth retreats over the horizon. Fortunately, all make it into the copse of trees without incident, trepidation replaced with relief. What they find within the small sanctuary of trees, however, is unexpected.

Ahead of the approaching trio and their horses stands Stormreaver and a red mustached dwarf. The frost dwarf is a sphere of flesh, his torso as wide as it is tall, with awkwardly thin legs and arms, all wrapped in leather. His wide, flame-red mustache and bushy eyebrows hide much of his unevenly stained face, a light pink in some places, a ruddy rust color in others, an obviously unskilled attempt to dye his own hair, a common custom among frost dwarves.

As the rest of the ensemble step into view, Vort'l himself is surprised to see (And not contrived at all!) the very same people Frödnar instructed the dwarf to watch for and deliver a message to. His explanations did little justice as description: they are quite the unlikely gathering.

Riding (Bo'Asha): 1d4 ⇒ 1
> Wild Die: 2d6 ⇒ (6, 4) = 10

Riding (Skoldir): 1d4 ⇒ 2
> Wild Die: 1d6 ⇒ 4

Riding (Stennwulf): 1d6 ⇒ 1

Riding (Stormreaver): 1d4 - 2 ⇒ (3) - 2 = 1
> Wild Die: 1d6 - 2 ⇒ (3) - 2 = 1

On Riding: I'm not going to have you guys make spontaneous checks except in unusual cases like leaping an obstacle, riding faster than a trot, taking a hit, riding over difficult terrain, etc. In the case of the above, people not accustomed to riding in a saddle all day might face some problems (general soreness, back problems, saddle sores, and so on), thus the rolls. Failure results in one level of Fatigue.

Stennwulf and Stormreaver are Fatigued for the moment. But you are all about to rest, so I'm sure it own't be a problem.


Male Frost Dwarf Novice Elementalist - Wounds: 0 | Pace: 4 | Parry: 3=5-2(WA) | Toughness: 8 | Concentration: 0 | Bennies: 3

"Huh.. well would you look at that," Vort'l mused. "Well I guess we can solve this mystery.. ..bor intrigue..secret messages wif murshmuh.."

Vort'l retrieved the letter from his backpack, which he had been attempting to inconspicuously put all of his belongings into with the exception of his bedroll.

Vort'l had been agonizing about what might be in that letter since he received it. His curiosity had become so great that, rather than handing it over to someone in the group and risk them reading it to themselves and then throwing it on the fire, he decided to break the seal himself and read it aloud to them.

"Ahem.. Ok, lets see here. Frödnar's note begins.."


The letter is extremely informal. It reads more like a brief note than some sort of flowery speech:

    Take the dwarf with you. He can be an eccentric, but he's good to have in a pinch. Should your trip to the Freelands meet with success, the dwarf will be released from his debt to Jarl Lodviksunu—inform him as much.

    —Frödnar


poke poke

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