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You sleep and you dream. In your dreams you see a huge forest burning, legions of orcs advancing, dragons pouring acid and fire from the sky. You see dark tunnels beneath the mountains filled with rotting corpses with hunger in their eyes, searching for food - any food. You see darkness covering the land and suffocating all that lives. Except... a tiny spark of light shines from somewhere beyond the great forest. A huge tree stands unbowed. A tall man with long chestnut braided hair and neatly trimmed beard watches the legates of the Shadow with a anticipating smile on his lips. A huge dworg followed by even more enormous bear tears into a band of orcs, killing them savagely with two hatchets.
Your dream takes you to a crumbled fort somewhere in the Kaladrun Mountains. Deep underneath it is a large circular chamber and inside it a man dresses all in white looks straight at you. You can not see his eyes, but somehow you know that his eyes are all white and shining like fresh snows.
Beside you are several more persons standing in a half circle. You can not see them clearly, but you feel somehow connected to them. Some bond exists between you all - you are sure of that.
Somehow, you are drawn to that place and those people. You are drawn to that spark of light.
You wake up and you decide to go look for the spark. And to look for a dream.
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After days and months of traveling and hiding from the forces of Shadow, you finally reach the old crumbled tower from your dreams. The sun is setting and the ruined fort looks like a huge broken fang sticking out of earth, but somehow you feel relived that your journey is at end. Weary from your travels, you approach the west side of the tower, looking for the entrance, when you notice glimmers of banked fire. Two huge Dorns are sitting beside it, surrounded by a pack of wolves. Who are they? - you ask yourself. Perhaps legates? You are tired from the journey and in no shape to fight. Could it be a trap? Did Shadow send those dreams to you, luring you to your death or enslavement? You do not know... It's time to find out.
A weary, hulking figure with shoulders hunched, shuffles out of the darkness. It is hard to make out his appearance at first, only that he has a massive girth, appearing overweight. As he approaches the light, he pauses, just as his face is reveals the wild eyed, robust features of the unfortunate race dubbed the dworgs. His clothes are dirty. His boots are muddy; it appears he has travelled a long ways. he appears to be unarmed. His black eyes are smiling, even though his open mouth, filled with large fangs looks like it is grimacing.
" Is there room at this fire, kind sirs?" he speaks in the Trader's Tongue.
Craft Dots
Sky notices the light from some distance away. And what was that...the smell of wolves in the night...but stronger the scent of men. He has traveled so far. An arduous journey, but no harder than life was in general.
He gets closer, then finds a tree nearby to climb, and wait for a while. He'd come this far, no reason to get hasty since his goal was now close at hand.
He settles back against the bole of the tree, and sips a bit of cold tea from his flask...and watches, huddled in his cloak, and resting a bit. He was tired.
Climb - Take 10 for a result of 20
The halfling scrambles forward, edging cautiously towards the firelight. His feral instincts have brought him many miles from his lair. Staying in the shadows, he maneuvers downwind from the camp and snuffles the air like a bloodhound.
The hair on the back of his neck raises alarmingly as all of his wits scream: "ORC!" But no...there's a trace of something different. It's a strange not-orc creature like the one he saw in his dream. He suppresses his desire to tear the monster's throat out and watches for a while.
Stealth:
Perception:
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Sky notices the light from some distance away. And what was that...the smell of wolves in the night...but stronger the scent of men. He has traveled so far. An arduous journey, but no harder than life was in general.
He gets closer, then finds a tree nearby to climb, and wait for a while. He'd come this far, no reason to get hasty since his goal was now close at hand.
He settles back against the bole of the tree, and sips a bit of cold tea from his flask...and watches, huddled in his cloak, and resting a bit. He was tired.
Climb - Take 10 for a result of 20
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The halfling scrambles forward, edging cautiously towards the firelight. His feral instincts have brought him many miles from his lair. Staying in the shadows, he maneuvers downwind from the camp and snuffles the air like a bloodhound.
The hair on the back of his neck raises alarmingly as all of his wits scream: "ORC!" But no...there's a trace of something different. It's a strange not-orc creature like the one he saw in his dream. He suppresses his desire to tear the monster's throat out and watches for a while.
Stealth: 1d20+12
Perception: 1d20+10
Here to worship, the almighty dot!
Here I come to save the day!
Solvistainia looks over at the fire with a cold and calculating look in her eyes, her curiosity for once overwhelming the weariness in her bones. After leaving the safety of the Queen's domain the preternaturally strong winter chilled her straight to the bone. Many times she nearly collapsed and let the coldness of the land steal her warmth, and the pain away. But the dreram, and those startling white eyes beckoned to her, and urged her on. So she continued.
Now it seemed her journey was at an end...almost.
Her first impulse was to run and hide, but soon cold reason took over, she would wait for a while, to learn all she could, she knew she was no match for the Dorn and their wolf allies.
Once she has rested, she will approach the flames her cloak pulled over her face, her hands out in a symbol of truce.
"Is there room for one more at your fire" The Dorn hear spoken in the Traders tongue.
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Solvistainia looks over at the fire with a cold and calculating look in her eyes, her curiosity for once overwhelming the weariness in her bones. After leaving the safety of the Queen's domain the preternaturally strong winter chilled her straight to the bone. Many times she nearly collapsed and let the coldness of the land steal her warmth, and the pain away. But the dreram, and those startling white eyes beckoned to her, and urged her on. So she continued.
Now it seemed her journey was at an end...almost.Her first impulse was to run and hide, but soon cold reason took over, she would wait for a while, to learn all she could, she knew she was no match for the Dorn and their wolf allies.
Once she has rested, she will approach the flames her cloak pulled over her face, her hands out in a symbol of truce.
"Is there room for one more at your fire" The Dorn hear spoken in the Traders tongue.
A weary, hulking figure with shoulders hunched, shuffles out of the darkness. It is hard to make out his appearance at first, only that he has a massive girth, appearing overweight. As he approaches the light, he pauses, just as his face is reveals the wild eyed, robust features of the unfortunate race dubbed the dworgs. His clothes are dirty. His boots are muddy; it appears he has travelled a long ways. he appears to be unarmed. His black eyes are smiling, even though his open mouth, filled with large fangs looks like it is grimacing.
" Is there room at this fire, kind sirs?" he speaks in the Trader's Tongue.
One of the figures seated near the fire shifts into a crouching position, one hand on the pommel of a large sword, the other firmly grasping the worn leather sheath in which the weapon rests. The figure seems more bear than human -- indeed, in the flickering firelight, all you see is a mass of matted brown fur and a grizzly ursine face staring back at you. The bear whispers something quickly in an unfamiliar language, to the other cowled figure sitting by the fire:
"Brother, we have company. An orc asks to share our fire, if you would believe it..."
The bear-man rises to his full height of 6'3 and draws his sword from its sheath. His features remain shrouded in darkness. The flickering flames highlight some ornate carvings on the blade, near the cross guard.
He growls back in the Trader's Tongue:
"What kind of orc are you, that you would ask politely to share a fire with those that your kind would subjugate? Speak quickly, before I sever your head from your shoulders, cur of Shadow..."
Once she has rested, she will approach the flames her cloak pulled over her face, her hands out in a symbol of truce.
"Is there room for one more at your fire" The Dorn hear spoken in the Traders tongue.
Before the "orc" has had a chance to reply, the bear-man takes another step back and speaks again in his guttural native tongue as another stranger steps forth from the shadow:
"Brother, the orc is not alone!"
Then, the bear-man addresses the hooded figure that has emerged from the darkness, in the Trader's Tongue:
"If you travel with an orc, then that can only mean one thing..."
The bear-man grips his sword hilt with both hands, advancing menacingly towards the "orc" and the other that sought to share the fire. Then, suddenly, he hesitates and ceases to advance.
"Brother, I sense something... unusual... about these two... Unless my senses deceive me, I do not believe them to be a threat... Could it be they were among those we dreamed of?"
The bear-man stands his ground, cautiously lowering his sword while turning his broad frame this way and that, as if looking for something...
Solvistania stands her ground and retorts in a cutting whisper, using the same tongue,
The bear-man rises to his full height of 6'3 and draws his sword from its sheath. His features remain shrouded in darkness. The flickering flames highlight some ornate carvings on the blade, near the cross guard.
He growls back in the Trader's Tongue:
"What kind of orc are you, that you would ask politely to share a fire with those that your kind would subjugate? Speak quickly, before I sever your head from your shoulders, cur of Shadow..."
The the "smile" in the weary dworg's eyes fades and his mouth closes into a frown, as if he has been through all this before. He reluctantly shifts posture to a more readied stance, "If by orc, you are referring to myself, then I suggest you trimmed that flea infested mop out your face and open your eyes. Because I am clearly a dwarf. I have my mother's eyes., he indicates, pointing to his own eyes. " And you, I suggest putting that butterknife away before someone gets hurt..."
Pete hisses in alarm in his hidey-hole. The stink of more strange creatures assails his nostrils! Every nerve in his body cries for him to flee, but he forces himself to remain -- this is the spot that his dreams have led him to, so something important must happen soon.
He can't understand what the Northener is saying, but the man doesn't seem totally pleased. The halfling gets ready to spring to the attack if blood is shed.
Solvistania feels a wave of fatigue crashing through her body, and thinks Such foolery, they see something which they don't understand, and the first option is to draw their weapons and hack it apart! Small wonder they have degenerated so!
Barely managing to keep her feet, she responds to the dworg
The dworg tilts his head towards the woman; not relaxing his stance nor taking his eyes off of the barbarians.
To Chops in orcish (barely audible):
Solvistania thinks to herself This one is not like the others...he will be useful, as a bodyguard if nothing else.
She whispers back in Orcish:
The clopping of horse hooves is the first sign of another traveler approaching.
A young woman's voice calls out in Norther, but with a heavy southern accent
[spoiler] "Northmen. Would you have room at your fire for a weary traveller? I have come far, and I am not used to these chilly nights."[spoiler]
Perception
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Perception 1d20+3
Sky watches closely with growing anticipation...and dread. These people he has seen them before...in his dreams. If they do not break into violence he will join them soon. It must be destiny.
The the "smile" in the weary dworg's eyes fades and his mouth closes into a frown, as if he has been through all this before. He reluctantly shifts posture to a more readied stance, "If by orc, you are referring to myself, then I suggest you trimmed that flea infested mop out your face and open your eyes. Because I am clearly a dwarf. I have my mother's eyes., he indicates, pointing to his own eyes. " And you, I suggest putting that butterknife away before someone gets hurt..."
"Flea infested mop?! I'll have you know that I slew the magnificent beast whose hide I wear on my own when I was but a young lad -- it was an honourable contest, one that confirmed my standing in the eyes of my people, living and long departed. Disrespect this hide once more, or its wearer, and I swear upon the tombs of my ancestors, that you'll never draw breath again... I'll show you just what the sons of House Falon can do with their "butterknives," with their "pigstickers"... The bear-man raises his sword in a high guard, but does not advance.
He squints as the dworg points at his own eyes. "You are far too tall to be a dwarf... and those teeth... how can...???" Then, reverting to Norther, he addresses the hooded figure behind him:
"Brother... have you ever heard of one such as this? Everything about him screams "orc," yet he claims to be... dwarf... Can this be? Come to think of it, he looks much like that orc that did not quite seem to be an orc, from the dream..."
Solvistania stands her ground and retorts in a cutting whisper, using the same tongue,
** spoiler omitted **
The bear-man is clearly surprised by the cowled woman's ability to speak Norther. Turning his attention momentarily from the dworg to cowled woman, he addresses the woman in his native tongue:
"Where do you hail from, woman? Show your face! Where did you learn our tongue? And what of this dream of yours... what did you see?"
Once the woman has had a chance to reply, and as she speaks with the dworg, the bear-man growls again, this time in Trader:
"So, you both speak the harsh tongue of the enemy, as well... and that is supposed to enhance our trust in you? Brother, give the word... there may be more of them..."
The big man seems to be struggling to restrain himself...
The clopping of horse hooves is the first sign of another traveler approaching.
A young woman's voice calls out in Norther, but with a heavy southern accent
Spoiler:"Northmen. Would you have room at your fire for a weary traveller? I have come far, and I am not used to these chilly nights."[spoiler]
Perception 1d20+3
As the bear-man hears the clatter of hooves and yet another stranger greeting him in Norther, he calls out:
[spoiler]"Who are you, and where do you hail from, that you speak the tongue of the Dorns and would share our fire?"
Still keeping his eyes on the dworg and the cowled woman, the man-bear eventually and cautiously lowers his blade...
Spoiler:
"All these strangers converging on our camp at the same time, apparently with peaceful intent... this must be more than coincidence, don't you think, brother?"
Solvistania restrains herself from doing something foolish as the bear man Dorn challanges her. By the Shadows fire, she was tired. But she realized this was a dangerous time for her, for all of them, as with a flash of insight, these moments were as dipping a hot metal blade into water to quench the fire, to temper the blade.
She replies to the Dorn softly,
in Norther
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From the darkness beyond the fire and it seems beyond the world as well, a voice calls: "Your brother sleeps, Northman. And he dreams of flight with ravens. Call him no more until he wakes lest his spirit becomes lost underneath raven wings." A figure in white steps in the light. "You in the forest, come out. It is I who called you here - all of you. But not everyone answered the call. And not everyone survived the journey." This person appears to be impossibly large elf - some seven feet tall and well muscled. His face is inhumanly beautiful but cold as winter wind. His unbound hair as white as snow falls to his feet and he is dressed in a long unmarked white robe. In his hand a huge sword rests in a white scabbard. His eyes are pure white and they shine with soft light that is not reflected fire.
From the darkness beyond the fire and it seems beyond the world as well, a voice calls: "Your brother sleeps, Northman. And he dreams of flight with ravens. Call him no more until he wakes lest his spirit becomes lost underneath raven wings." A figure in white steps in the light. "You in the forest, come out. It is I who called you here - all of you. But not everyone answered the call. And not everyone survived the journey." This person appears to be impossibly large elf - some seven feet tall and well muscled. His face is inhumanly beautiful but cold as winter wind. His unbound hair as white as snow falls to his feet and he is dressed in a long unmarked white robe. In his hand a huge sword rests in a white scabbard. His eyes are pure white and they shine with soft light that is not reflected fire.
The unearthly appearance of the elf almost made up Sky's mind to get out of here as fast as possible...but...he feared the dreams might yet persist. Oh well here goes nothing...and Sky drops to the ground and approaches the fire, keeping a wary eye on the other members of this ragtag band.
"Might as well." Zafina mumbles to herself. She leads her mount towards the fire, making soothing noises towards the spooked animal, and stroking it's snout.
She looks up at the tall, white elf and asks: "Why did you call us? And why us? Why me?" Each question comes slightly louder than the last.
"Flea infested mop?! I'll have you know that I slew the mag....
Stops listening at this point, mutters:
The tall, ugly dwarf turns his back on the northerner mid rant and starts to walk away. He pauses when he hears the new voice, then turns listen the giant elf.
"Now things are going to get interesting."
Pete the halfling skitters forward into the firelight on all fours and growls at the half-orcs. In the trade tongue he hisses a few halting words towards the tall elf:
"You send dreams? Why do not-orcs get dreams too? Are you from Shadow?"
The dworg shrugs his shoulders, and slides his backpack off onto the ground in front of him. Remaining alert for treachery, he slides his hand into a special compartment sewn into frame of the pack. When the pack slips off of his shoulders, viewers catch a glimpse of a nasty burn mark on his neck, as well as a long, thick scar marring otherwise beautiful and ornate tattoos. Out he pulls a well used, but pristine urutuk hatchet. The head of of the hatchet has the obvious quality of a dwarven master smith. The long, slightly curved handle is bone white and and simple, with one dwarvish rune carved just below the head. The handle is wrapped in a brown leather thong along the distal portion, providing enough grip to give its wielder the option to swing with one hand or two.
While he pulls out the urutuk, the robust half-orc replies to the large elf, "Stranger, it is a motley assortment of characters you have drawn together. I do not believe you are from Shadow. Otherwise, I would be assaulted by orcs, not mad Dornians. I do, in fact, have an object carved from bone. It is an urutuk; inherited from my uncle. I have used it to slay many orc, as well as one legate. It has fallen out of my possession several times, only to find its way back into my hands. Are you saying it is special in some way?"
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"The head and blade of that ax is not, but the handle guided you to me - and to these people gathered around the fire. Perhaps it will guide you still to the greater destiny." The strange elf turns to others. "And the rest of you - make yourself known to one another by the legacies of bone that you carry with you."
Pete warily reaches inside his torn, grimy leather jerkin and shows the elf a crude necklace of bone beads with a giant plains cat's claw for a pendant.
"Mine. Not yours; mine."
Solvistania stares at the figure who has dominated her dreams and cannot respond with words. Silently she undos the clapse of her cloak, and opens it up. The rest of the group sees a frail looking snow elf wearing a faded and tattered blue silk dress, obviously expensive. Fastened around her waist is a fine leather belt with the ivory buckle that resembles the other items carried by each member of the group.
Also you all see her face for the first time, and cannot help but notice the blood red eyes, never seen on an Erunsil before, brimming with tears.
"None of you were chosen directly. I have cast the seeds on the winds and they have taken root in you. If you wish, you can tell yourself that Arith has chosen you and not me. You have some trinket with you, carved of white bone, do you not? What is it, pray tell me..."
The bear-man seems on the verge of erupting into a violent rage when he sees the dworg turn his back on him, mumbling again what sounds like orcish gibberish. The hooded woman's disarming words in Norther, however, seem to calm him.
"How can a free man be expected to trust a dwarf that looks more like an orc, and that speaks in their tongue?" he mutters to no one in particular. "Had I met him alone in the wilderness, he would be dead already. And at the slightest sign of treachery, I swear that he will be..."
As the towering elf in white and the feral halfling appear, the bear-man again tenses, doubly so when the former purports to know what his sleeping brother dreams of.
"More surprises," he growls to the white-clad elf. "Never have I met woodland fey of your stature, and friend have I been to many elves..."
After a few more moments of tense hesitation and perhaps internal reflection, the man-bear relents, allowing the point of his long-hilted sword to rest on the ground. With his right hand, he pulls back the bear-head hood that rests over his brow. Although the Nord's voice sounds young, his matted shoulder length salt and pepper hair and the creases around his sunken, tired eyes and forehead, suggest that he has seen many winters. His face is haggard, with skin stretched tightly over his hard features.
The grizzly hood pulled back, the man then grasps for the spiral-patterned bone pin that keeps his hide cloak fastened at the neck, and holds it up for the elf in white to see.
Solvistania stares at the figure who has dominated her dreams and cannot respond with words. Silently she undos the clapse of her cloak, and opens it up. The rest of the group sees a frail looking snow elf wearing a faded and tattered blue silk dress, obviously expensive. Fastened around her waist is a fine leather belt with the ivory buckle that resembles the other items carried by each member of the group.
Also you all see her face for the first time, and cannot help but notice the blood red eyes, never seen on an Erunsil before, brimming with tears.
The tall Dorn gasps as the elvish maiden reveals herself for what she is.
"Forgive my rude welcome, my lady... Had I known you from the start to be Erunsil, I would have greeted you more cordially. My brother and I have travelled far and... seen far too many horrors that have frayed our nerves. I see the same sadness in your eyes... What has befallen you and your people?"
The northman gazes in fascination at the Erunsil woman's eyes, apparently wanting to question her about their unusual hue, but does not bring himself to ask. Eventually, he shakes himself from his reverie and turns his attention again to the rest of the group...
Zafina's face tightens into a small scowl for a moment, and she quickly puts her right hand over the sleeve of her left wrist, but as some of the others begin to pull out objects, she seems to relax.
She pulls back the sleeve of her robes, and holds up her left arm, revealing a small horse-shaped bone charm hanging from a leather bracer.
Sky moves closer to the group, approaching in time to hear the request for the bone items. He lowers the hood to his cloak, and turns to address the other Erunsil here, but then the words freeze in his throat when he sees her eyes. Quickly turning away he addresses the tall elf.
"I am Sky'tor Tu'kaleth, and I have traveled far to arrive here, driven by my dreams". "I am ready to see what beckons me".
With that he draws his unstrung bow from his back, and unwraps the protective leather skin, displaying the grooved bone surface of the hand grip of the bow.
The tall Dorn gasps as the elvish maiden reveals herself for what she is.
** spoiler omitted **
The northman gazes in fascination at the Erunsil woman's eyes, apparently wanting to question her about their unusual hue, but does not bring himself to ask. Eventually, he shakes himself from his reverie and turns his attention again to the rest of the group...
Solvistania notices the stare at her eyes and for a moment is overwhelmed by long buried memories of her childhood. She composes herself momentarily and replies to him
Solvistania notices the stare at her eyes and for a moment is overwhelmed by long buried memories of her childhood. She composes herself momentarily and replies to him
** spoiler omitted **
Eyvindr nods in acquiescence, a hint of empathy showing through his weary stone grey eyes...
Chops observes the behaviors of the barbarian in reaction to the pale elf's gesture. He doesn't know what the significance is, just that the woman is unusual and the empathy in the Dorn's eyes reveals a humanity he was quick to dismiss. Maybe he will delay his expedition for just a little while. Maybe this gathering is provident, and there is a power at work here. Maybe, he hopes, an end to the Shadow rule is present in this small group. If it is, he cannot shirk his duty for a selfish quest.
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The tall elf nods at your showing of the bones and approaches the fire. "The bones remember the debt that is owed - all the debts. That is why you are here - to repay that debt and collect what is owed to you." For a moment he is silent and then he continues. "Underneath that crumbled tower, deep underneath, there is a stepping stone, the first in a path that leads under the mountains, where my brother sleeps. I can not reach the stone - it is forbidden to me - but you can. You can awake my brother, after all this time that he slept through. This is why I have summoned you."