2nd Waescdaeg of Snaermonan, 499 IR. Town of Aslov, the Freelands.
The Freelands. A misnomer if there ever was one, as they are anything but free. One must pay for everything, and sometimes dearly. And this being the middle of winter in the Hearthlands, one thing in particular is expensive - very expensive...
Food.
With coin running out, the four of you have taken to looking for work to keep food in your bellies. Two days ago, you noticed a flyer in the market square of Aslov, seeking men of courage craving adventure. The flyer said to meet at the Four Sheaves tavern at noon this day, just outside the gates of town, and to tell the keeper you are to meet "Rodgar".
Once at the tavern, you are ushered to a table in the corner of the tavern, near the fireplace. Some simple fare is laid out in front of you, with the barmaid telling you its been paid for already.
After about a half an hour, the tavern door opens and in steps a well-dressed man. The man takes off his cloak and shakes off the snow. He approaches your table without looking around, bows politely, and takes a seat.
“My name is Rodgar ap-Annwn,” he says after ordering another round of drinks, “a farmer from the village of Dalsetter. Thank you all for coming.
“I'll get right down to business. In return for 50 gold scields apiece, I wish you to take a cart to the village of Dunross and collect a shipment of flour. The flour then needs to be taken to the baker in Dalsetter.
"It shouldn’t take you more than a few days each way. I would go myself, but I’m forced to stay in Aslov due to other business. Take what I owe you for your services out of the money the baker pays you and drop the rest off at my house. The baker knows where I live. I’ll collect it later.
“I know it’s poor weather for traveling, but word has reached me the baker has run out of flour. A poor harvest and cold winter meant we were rather short of flour before the snows began. These are emergency supplies, vital if Dalsetter is going to survive the winter.”
He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a scroll, which he places in front of you. “This is a map of the area, just in case.” He then pulls out an envelope from his jacket. “This is a letter authorizing you to collect the flour for me. Just hand it over to the granary supervisor in Dunross.
"Dunross has a very large mill, which serves the surrounding farming villages. The grain from these villages is transported to Dunross and stored in its granaries before being ground into flour. The villages can have access to a mill without having to build their own.
"I can't tell you how vital this delivery is. That is why I am offering so much, to ensure that it can get done. Will you take the job?" he asks.
Knowing that even in an apparently placid town like this, harsh times could force men to desperate (and foolish) deeds, when Varn, his 'charge' Ferguth ap Garth, and the two strangers they had shared a meal with last evening had been shown to the inn's table, he had instinctively taken the chair which allowed him the best view of the door. The wily Saxa tracker had noted which of the other occupants of the room still carried anything that might serve as a weapon, and having claimed his chair, had subtly but firmly steered Ferguth to the one furthest from any potential attackers.
He also noted that the closest seat to any trouble was the one chosen by the young warrior who had first been introduced by his travelling companion, Serin Skald. Varn recalled the momentary flicker of fear that had washed over him at the sight of the Hearth Elf; it wasn't his horribly burnt and scarred skin - obviously the result of some terrible conflagration - but the look that he had given the woodsman and his reliquary master. It was one that spoke of utter confidence in his ability as a swordsman, and coupled with the lithe grace with which he moved, had told Varn that should he turn out to be a foe, the old man's life would end on the snowy streets of Aslov that day.
It was to their great good fortune, that the bard - one of those naturally garrulous and easy going individuals who it would be difficult to dislike even as you found him stealing a kiss from your daughter before slipping out of her bedroom window - had explained how the two had met, and while Varn still cast occasional glances at the paired curved blades that the Elf wore, he had allowed himself to relax slightly, knowing that were he truly an assassin or hunter seeking to steal any lore the sage had collected, he would surely have completed his task, and not now be sitting drinking with them in the tavern.
Returning to the matter at hand, he had listened to the entreaties made by the man Rodgar. Varn understood exactly the man's motivations for offering the job to them - greed clothed in the veneer of altruism. Why else would he offer such a ridiculous sum for such an apparently simple task if he didn't stand to gain personally? 'Or maybe' thought Varn sadly, 'too many years mean you now only see the worst in things'. He took a long draft of the weak, earthy ale they had been served, then set the clay mug down and stroked his thick moustache with his left hand, before instinctively reaching down and running it over the leather cap covering where his right had should be. Over 20 years since he had lost it - cut off by a foul and vicious Saxa noble called Thorbjun - yet still on occasion the stump throbbed and twitched as if the hand were still attached.
In better times, he would have laughed at the prospect of Ferguth - a reliquary and sage - performing such a menial deed. Where was the hidden lore to uncover, where were the secrets of the elves and dwarves which the earth would yield up, where was the prestige in uncovering magical secrets from ages past? Varn suppressed a snort. Despite his vast knowledge, as if a library had taken human form, Ferguth's searches did not always prove to be fruitful. Even with the assistance of Varn, his companion now over over five years and experienced in navigating paths long forgotten or impassable to those without skill, more often than not the snippets of knowledge collected, collated and pored over by the other man had turned out to be dead ends, figments, or lead to caches long since looted.
And so, they found themselves in need of funds to pursue their next search; funds which this small detour would provide. In the five years they had been together - partnered by their reliquary masters - the two had become, if not friends, then at least comfortable in one another's company. Many nights they had spent round a fire in the depths of the wilds without so much as a word between them: Ferguth with his head buried in a tome or scroll, Varn, bred from dour Saxa stock, for whom speaking each word seemed to be as appealing as taking out his purse and throwing scields into a river. Yet, for all the fact they acted as equals, Varn was a Guardian of the Arcane, and as such deferred to the younger man when it came to decisions.
"Will you take the job?" he heard the man Rodgar say at the conclusion of his speech. Varn's eyes passed over the Elf and the bard, before alighting on Ferguth. He waited to see if they would be making a trip into the very shadow of the ice barrier...
Serin finishes chewing, wipes his mouth, and speaks in his silvery baritone.
"Yours is a very generous offer," he says with a smile, "but rain never falls but from some clouds. Can you tell us more about the... difficulties we might face in this task? What gives you such pause that you require such a stalwart delivery service?"
He glances approvingly at the fierce Rindilnir, then somewhat more curtly at newly-met Varn.
His eyes flicking quickly but carefully over their prospective employer, Serin sits back in his seat and butters another roll. Harsher fare than I had in Chalcis, he thinks, but it's hard to argue with free!
Ferguth listens carefully to the others as he sips his third glass of wine, mulling over the local events, and information from travellers he has heard over the past couple days, to determine what possibly could be the cause of a farmer from Dalsetter coming to Aslov, to return along the road the farmer came from, to pick up a load of flour he most likely could have picked up himself as he passed through Dunross in the first place. Why couldn't he find men to take the flour from Dunross on his way through in the first place? Or why couldn't he take it himself?
Looking at the map, more out of curiosity of who the cartographer as and how recent it was, Ferguth pondered it for a while. When the wench came over to ask if they needed anything else, he ordered another bottle of wine. Glancing at Rodgar, and then back at the map, with his finger tracing the path from Aslov to Dunross, he spoke, "Yes, what can you tell us of the road here to Dunross and,"[b] his finger traced beyond Dunross to Dalsetter, [b]from Dunross to your hometown of Dalsetter."
the elementalist glanced at Varn with a puzzled look, not sure if the mountain of a man would come up with the same skepticism. The money was good, and they needed money. Perhaps he was over-thinking the situation.
As soon as we arrived, that’s when I saw it , the Four Sheaves, it's sign flapping in the crisp air and above that, it's roof... It's thatched roof... Easy, Rindilnir... It's ok.... thatched roofs are perfectly safe... they are... right?..
Serin and I enter the inn with the two humans we met the night before, down by the market square. We are all directed to a table and the older human, Varn i think his name is... as if reading my mind sits in the corner... leaving Serin and I with the best seats... the ones closest to the door... ok... this isn't too bad... if something terrible happens, gods forbid... something terrible like.. oh... I don't know... the whole place going up in flames... Serin and I ought to be able to make it out unscathed... not like last time...
Ok... just hold it together... just relax... everything’s fine... stop frowning so much, I don't think the others have noticed yet... they seem to be making light conversation... although Varn has looked over this way a couple times... just don't look at the roof... make eye contact with the humans... that’s it... don't look up... maybe I'll have a drink to take my mind off things... .... .... ok that’s not helping... where the hell is this guy!!!
Finally he arrives... after making me wait in this saxa death trap for half an hour... a whole an hour... at least he gets down to business... this Rodgar, he tosses a map onto the table... then he asks if we'll take the job...
Keep it together... Varn looks over this way again... Ferguth, is saying something as he points at the map... is it getting warmer in here?... Serin is saying something now, he looks at me approvingly.... is that smoke?...
“We'll do it!!!” Rindilnir bursts out suddenly. “We'll take the job, how soon can we leave.!!!”
Ferguth stops mid-sentence as the elf bursts out.
“We'll take the job, how soon can we leave.!!!”
The arcanist raises an eyebrow at the elf. He hasn't met many of them, but this one seems a bit more on edge and nervous. You'll take the cob? Calm, down, man. Corn is not in season right now. Now stop this talk about weaving, we're discussing a job with this fine man." Glancing at the elf again, Ferguth thinks, Is he sweating?
At the sound of Ferguth chiding the elf, Varn suddenly found that the accumulated dirt under his fingernails had taken on a great significance. With the merest glance at his charge, and the hint of a rolled eye in the direction of Serin, the old Saxa tracker took a small fruit knife out of his pack and begins to very slowly and carefully pare the dirt from underneath each nail in turn.
Negotiation, he had found in the past, was often a lengthy process of compromise and counteroffer. When Ferguth was doing the bargaining, milk was likely to turn to cheese, flowers would bloom and wither, and previously clean-shaven men would end up sporting full beards. He shook his head, as much in sympathy for what the Elf and the skald had let themselves in for than anything else...
With a glance at Rinildir and his panicked look overhead, Serin realizes what is happening. After sharing a wry smile with Varn (Oh, I see what you have to deal with!), he turns back to Rodgar.
"Forgive my estee..." No, steam is not a good idea to put in Rinildir's head right now... "...my valued companion. As you can see, he is an elf, unquestionably expert in the outdoors, like the land around your farms and the mill, but far more comfortable in those environs than in these cloistered quarters. As he says, of course we'll accept your offer, but the bur... the important question is what we should expect in defending your grain. We'll be far better guardians if we know what to expect, after all.
"Rinildir, I do believe I forgot, er... that small leather bag, in the inn, as we checked out this morning. Do you think, if one of us ran back right now, they might still have it?"
“Oh... yes... the bag, I'll see to it at once!” Rindilnir says, eying the door, happy for a reason to leave.
Freedom!!!
“I'll leave the rest of the details of vegetables and linens in your capable hands.”
Rindilnir stands and gives a quick but somehow still graceful bow, then turns and makes a bee line for the exit.
Bless you, Serin. You've pulled my arse from the fire again!
They better not tell me we're staying the night here. o.O
Ferguth turns to Serin, "Excitiable fellow, isn't he?" Turning back to Rodgar, he takes a sip of his wine. "But they does have a point. If there are hags at the inn, what can we expect on the road?" Ferguth was trying hard to understand the others, but they were all mumbling. Why couldn't people speak clearly?
Serin finishes chewing, wipes his mouth, and speaks in his silvery baritone.
"Yours is a very generous offer," he says with a smile, "but rain never falls but from some clouds. Can you tell us more about the... difficulties we might face in this task? What gives you such pause that you require such a stalwart delivery service?"
"Yes, what can you tell us of the road here to Dunross and", his finger traced beyond Dunross to Dalsetter, "to your hometown of Dalsetter."
"Fair questions, good sirs, and I will try to answer them". He looks down at the map. "I don't anticipate any problems for you along the road, other than weather. Its just that I have pressing business here in Aslov which will prevent me from delivering the grain myself. I've been here for almost a week, and the grain wasn't ready for delivery before I left. So I need it delivered quickly".
Noticing the skeptical looks on your faces, Rodgar chuckles, then smiles broadly. "These past few years have been good to me, and I am...well...seeking new avenues that will ensure the next few years are just as good for me and my family. Does that answer your questions"?
"Is all well with the other farms in Dalsetter? It is indeed good when the Norns offer a generous wyrd, as they have done for you, but I know the flowers of fate can prove cankers of envy for others. Are you quite confident there are none there who wish you ill? I apologize for this inquisition; please know that I ask this only so that we may be better prepared as guardians for the valuable yields of your farm."
As Serin asks this, his eyes open wide, both conveying an impression of utter honesty and openness and, at the same time, carefully examining the farmer for any traces of nervousness.
"And as for the miller in Dunross, what token should we provide to prove we are your agents? I hope he would not just hand away a wagon-load of flour on a stranger's say-so!"
Varn watched the young man put his questions to the farmer. While Ferguth might eventually grind information like this out of the man, Serin's approach was much more precise, skillfully weaving the conversation in such a way that the farmer barely realised the extent of the interrogation. The old Saxa tracker noted his mastery of words with a certain admiration - he'd never found talking to be either easy, pleasant or even desirable, so welcomed the bard's gathering of information, should it transpire the group were to accept the commission.
Varn sat a little straighter in his chair, taking in any titbits of knowledge about the surrounding land; he would file them away in the hope that if the journey proved to be less than the straightforward job described, he might make use of them when it came to ensuring the group reached their goal safely, and with the cargo intact.
Ferguth was glad that there was a talkative member in the group, but wished the young man would speak up. Arms in Dalsetter? Killer in Dunross? Why must these people mumble so? Turning to Varn he asks, "What is he saying about a killer in Dunross? This is definitely something we should investigate. Dunross is a small town and it's constabulatory may take too long in apprehending the murderer."
Varn recognised that determined (he'd heard it called manic by some) gleam in Ferguth's eyes which indicated he'd come to a decision about the matter. While a couple of the bard's questions still remained unanswered by their erstwhile employer, it was now clear to the Saxa that by tomorrow they'd be on the road again. From what he'd seen of the Elf, he was sure there would be no objections from that front, and even though he was yet to find out how capable either he or Serin might be away from the comfort of civilisation, at least the fact they now numbered four meant one of the Varn's usual concerns - that brigands or worse might attempt an attack - was less pressing.
Rising to his feet (and feeling the characteristic pain in his left knee that was almost a constant companion now), Varn directed his gaze at Rodgar.
"When do we leave?"
"When do we leave?"
Rodgar smiles and says "Whenever you're ready. I have a wagon with fresh horses waiting outside. There are some bags of oats for them in back of the wagon, more than enough for a few days of traveling". He hands you the map and authorization letter, both rolled neatly into a leather scroll case.
"May the blessings of Freo guide your journey, and may Rigr grant you vigilance".
Standing outside the tavern is a covered wagon, with two horses that while healthy looking, appear to be many years old. Thick winter blankets drape their backs, and they nibble on some grass still poking through the thin snow.
It is high noon when you set off, and the sun glints brightly off the light coating of thin, crunchy snow. These flakes fell a few days ago, but the bitter cold tells you that the harsh winter is approaching. Soon the whole landscape will be blanketed with thick snow.
Within the first hour, the road begins to climb into the foothills of the Jagged Peaks, known for many fearsome beasts.
"I'll sit in back," Serin offers. "If we encounter trouble on the road, that lets me stay a bit higher for bowshots while our stouter members cleave through our opponents. Ferguth, why don't you perch back here with me? You can tell me more about the Reliquary, and that time you got out of the tomb just ahead of the paladins of Hoenir."
"Oh... and you wouldn't happen to know if there have been any, er, well... wolfpacks roving the area, do you? Yes, I'll definitely sit back here. Dressed for trouble."
To distract himself from any concepts of canine company, Serin sets up a beat on the slats of the wagon and begins to poke some musical fun at their employer....
Forward the four // fared on to Dunross,
Where they garnered the grain // it was their task to guard.
Forward the flour // they ferried to Dalsetter,
But unknown the mysteries // their master kept mute.
Ah! Rascal Rodgar // who rarely tells everything:
What had he kept from them? // Where was the danger?
Their axes and arrows // the four kept well armed,
And gazed from their wagon, // both wary and watchful.
As soon as the companions had stepped outside, Varn hawked and spat a large gobbet of phlegm onto the hard ground - whether it was a sign of displeasure, resignation or determination was hard to say. Several hours later, the others got the distinct feeling that perhaps it was a mixture of all three, as he was having a little difficulty controlling the horses pulling the cart. Obviously more used to making his own way cross country, the apparently simple task of keeping to the hard packed road caused the grizzled woodsman to occasionally mutter under his breath - something unpleasant judging by the tone...
Serin smiles broadly, in his engaging way.
"There was a cart-driver named Varn
Who told passengers, 'I must warn:
The way that I steer
May give you cause to fear;
It's as twisty as a strand of yarn.'"
Varn turns to Serin at the conclusion of his song and gives him a look that might be interpreted as 'listen young fellow-me-lad, I've got enough to worry about between getting my ear bent by my deaf boss, trying to make sure I don't send us all to our doom by accidentally driving this accursed contraption over a cliff, and the fact that the temperature is already beginning to drop to the point where I'm losing the feeling in my toes, without having to listen to you humming along like an old woman darning her husband's shirt'.
Instead he gives the young bard the benefit of a beady stare, then with an audible 'harumph', he turns back to the road just in time to haul on the left hand rein and guide the horses away from a large angular boulder jutting from the grass beside the track.
Ferguth nods to Serin and climbs up into the back of the wagon. He hitches his mule to the side. "She should be good enough to come along with the other animals, she' isn't that ornery. Nothing a little nip of whiskey won't cure. Ferguth takes some time to stow his gear and his mule's saddlebags in the wagon. "no need for her to carry them if we have a wagon.
Patting Varn on the shoulder, he speaks up, [b]"Yes, this will do. Drive on, Varn. You do know how to drive one of these things, don't you?" Sitting back down, he pulls out a bottle of wine that you are sure you saw the wench bring over to the table last night. Uncorking it he begins to talk to Serin, passing the bottle to the skald now and again, but mainly reserving it for himself. Occasionally he stands to survey the surroundings and make sure that Varn is still on the road.
Once loaded up, the wagon trundles forward, as the sun reaches early afternoon. As the sun slides down from the sky, it gets noticeably colder.
By late afternoon, the few farmhouses surrounding Aslov become fewer and fewer, until you are very well aware that you are in the wilderness. Even though the sun is low, its reflection off of the bright snow makes it seem earlier in the day.
Soon the journey becomes monotonous, with every copse of trees appearing identical to the last. It is now approximately 5pm.
Rindilnir cries out "Ambush!!! Orcs in the bushes to the right!" as he grabs the reins to bring the wagon to a halt.
Momentarily startled by Rindilnir's shout, Varn looked in the direction that the elf was pointing before he leapt off the wagon.
Spying the figures lurking in the undergrowth, the wiry Saxa uttered an oath and muttered 'fool boy's going to get himself killed!'. He turned and grabbed Ferguth by the arm - no telling if the reliquary had heard the shouts, and from the way he'd been attacking the bottle of wine his vision might be similarly impaired. Once he'd made sure he had his charge's attention he gestured at the orcs, and began to scrabble around behind the driver's seat for his axe.
Fergith jerked awake at Rindilnir's yell. "What..? I was just resting my....forks in the tushes? Boy! What are you going on about so loudly? Varn's hand closed around his shoulder and Ferguth knew no one had flatware in their backside.
The horses trundle to a stop as Rindilnir grabs the reins to help Varn stop the wagon, and the elf leaps vaults out of his seat. As soon as his feet hit the ground, several arrows whistle out of the brush...
"Ahhh! Not the horses!!!" cries Rindilnir, with a pained look on his face. "Filthy savages". Rindilnir curses under his breath.
Serin had been swaying along with the cart as it trundled along the road.
"There was a sweet lass from Aspiria,
Who had a most shapely pos... What's that, Rindilnir?"
Spitting an oath worthy of Varn's vocabulary, the bard stands, seizes his bow, and steps forward. He remains in partial cover behind the fabric draped at the front of the covered wagon, but nocks an arrow and stands ready for any targets to present themselves.
Torillan, are they considered under cover, or have they come out in the open to attack?
Round One Actions
Varn feels the wagon lurch as the horses are hit by arrows. He stops trying to retrieve his axe from behind the driver's seat and makes a grab for the reins with his left hand. Wrapping them round his right forearm, he strains to control the thrashing horses.
Try that Driving check again! , Wild dice
The left hand beast, maddened by the pain of the shaft sticking in its flank, bucks and the motion throws Varn off-balance - the reins slip out of his grasp...
Serin sings out a chant to the darkening woods....
"Against the orken army, they say I'm number one!
With zest those pests I skewer, until they all are done!
'Tis not so hard for me, a bard, to tally up such scores:
When all is said, those orcs so dead, were all just sons of…
"…Hey, Varn, do you need any help?"
Round 1 summation:
Rindilnir rushes an orc in the brush, slashing at it as the startled beast drops its bow and begins to reach for a sword thrust into the snow beside it. Rindilnir's sword arcs downward at the orcs' neck, nearly severing the head from its body. A massive spray of blood soaks the snow as the orc thuds to the ground, lifeless.
Ferguth waits a moment for the wagon to slow enough to leap down, and he does, if not gracefully. He scrambles to his feat, chanting in the arcane tongue, as flames begin to crackle about him, growing in intensity as he heads towards the brush to find some cover.
The three remaining orcs, momentarily taken aback by Rindilnir's brazen assault, roar challenges as they drop their bows and unsling large shields from the backs. They grab swords that had been thrust into the ground near each of them and advance. One hefts his shield and closes on Rindilnir, specks of blood spattering its shield as its comrade falls.
Serin attempts to steady himself in the lurching wagon, desperately sighting his bow at the orcs. Seeing them beginning to advance on the wagon, Serin fires, the shaft flying true at an orc. The arrow thuds into the orc, but it doesn't slow down, almost not sensing any injury.
Varn desperately yanks on the reins, but trying to slow down two large horses is a vaunting task, even for one with both arms functioning. Varn struggles against the panicked horses, nearly dropping the reins. They rear, screaming in pain, and the wagon lurches forward again.
Round 2 order:
1st - Serin (K diamonds)
2nd - Orcs (J spades)
3rd - Ferguth (9 spades)
4th - Rindilnir (6 diamonds)
5th - Varn (5 hearts) (bad luck again! - sorry!) :-(
Round 2:
Again, this effect will be modified by the temperature. Let me know what it is and I'll include it in the roll.
Ferguth breathes forth his fiery burst. (1d8.open(8),1d6.open(6)=[1], [3])
EEP! Siphoning! I'll opt to use a benny to reroll that!
Ferguth spends a benny and breathes forth his fiery burst. (1d8.open(8),1d6.open(6)=[5], [5])
Serin has no intention of exposing himself to the tender mercies of the orcs by leaping out of the wagon. Besides, Varn shouldn't be left all alone!
Remaining behind the hanging curtain of the wagon's opening, Serin draws another arrow and fires at the leftmost orc, hoping this shaft will strike more true than its predecessor.
Varn curses his useless right arm as he desperately makes a grab for the reins with his left hand. The horses show no sign of stopping, in fact beginning to pick up speed, and Varn begins to wonder if he should follow Serin's lead and leap off the wagon before it crashes. He resolves to make one more attempt to get it under control, gritting his teeth with effort.
Another Driving attempt
Wild dice
So intent on getting a hold of the reins is Varn that when he looks up, he sees with horror that the horses are heading directly for a tree. Deciding discretion is now the better part of valour, he lets go of the rein he has just grabbed and flings himself off the driver's seat, hoping to land in a snowdrift.
Agility
Wild dice
Agility check re-roll
Wild dice re-roll
As luck would have it, there is a deep pocket of snow right where the Saxa tracker's body crashes back to earth...
Varn:
multiple actions garner the -2 penalty to ALL actions...so your attempt to control the horses would have had another -2 penalty, I believe.
Also, Wild dice get all the penalties that normal dice do too. So your Wild die would be 6+4-2=8.
Round 2 summation:
Serin, realizing that the wagon is no place for an archer, leaps off before it can gain any more speed. Regaining his feet, he redraws to fire at the advancing orcs, only to have his arrow fly past one, just missing it.
The orcs (1 & 2) advance cautiously, confused by the sudden conflagration of fire surrounding one of the humans, and seeing one of their comrades felled by an elf.
However, the flaming human leaps forward and spews forth a great ball of fire at them , only to find themselves engulfed in flames.
An orc (#3) advances on Rindilnir, enraged at the death of his comrade and swings its short sword at the elf , but the elf is quicker than the lumbering orc and blocks its attack.
Rindilnir blocks a savage blow, only to return the favor,
but not enough to overcome the orc.
Varn realizes he has no choice but to bail out of the runaway wagon, and leaps to freedom, landing nicely in a snowbank.
Serin nimbly rises from the snow and continues battling against the orcs.
Varn rises slightly shakily to his feet. His clothing, hair and moustache are clogged with snow, which he quickly brushes off before getting his bearings. Remembering that his trusty axe is still on the wagon, he looks on as the combat rages. He hopes that Rindilnir will deal with his remaining opponent, so he moves cautiously closer to the pair who have been targetted by his master's fiery burst.