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About a month before Reign of Winter came out, I had an idea cross my mind that occurs to most GMs at some point in their career: "What if the bad guys won?" This thought was the seed of a larger idea that would eventually become the alternate Ruins of Pathfinder setting that I would run Reign of Winter in. The concept is a simple one: It is a Golarion where nearly every Adventure Path has happened, and the heroes have failed time and time again. That means that entire kingdoms have disappeared, national boundaries have been redrawn, whole spawns of Rovagug ravage portions of the world. It is as close to post-apocalyptic as can be, and it served perfectly for the backdrop of an impending ice age.
When I decided to run Reign of Winter in an alternate Golarion setting, I knew I had my work cut out for me. I had to determine what the different factions of the setting were up to, what was happening in the various nations, and how the newly emerging villains would interact with one another. "How would Karzoug react to Tar-Baphon's return?" is a hypothetical question I never thought that I would need to write a fully fleshed out answer to. Each decision that was made wound up pulling up more corners of the tapestry of lore that had come before, revealing more areas that needed to be detailed. It started out as a flight of fancy, and turned into a much bigger endeavor than I expected. This also revealed a much more pressing question of, "would anyone even want to play in this setting?" The answer, clearer than I ever expected, was yes.
When I got my hands on the first book of Reign of Winter I wrote up the recruitment draft for the Play by Post campaign, outlining some of the changes to the setting I had planned on, as well as an alternate start date for Reign of Winter of 4715 giving Queen Elvanna a head start on her plan to create an endless winter and raise the stakes even higher. By moving the introduction of the campaign to Andoran also posed some unique challenges, such as recreating the entire first half of the book. Some elements like the moss troll Teb Knotten remained the same, but others were added or excised entirely. No longer is the party seeking a missing Taldan noble, but are now a rescue party for a team of Eagle Knights that went missing in Darkmoon Wood while investigating the disappearance of everyone in Falcon's Hollow. What I was starting to write began to look less and less like the original material, which made me take great efforts to ensure that the theme of Reign of Winter remained and that it was still recognizable as the adventure path I came to love.
By March I was well into the first book and already things felt so dramatically different due to the change of location, timeline, and some of the amazing characters I was graced with GMing for. After receiving a copy of book II, the Shackled Hut I had a conversation with its author Jim Groves that fully changed my expectations for the campaign. I had felt some disappointment with the concluding chapter of the book and Jim was kind enough to share some of his notes on how he originally conceived it with me. This helped shape the direction that I would choose to take the campaign as well as helped give some more motivation to the villain Nazhena Valisovna that I don't think I would have considered. I'm as excited to get there as I am to be running the Snows of Summer and with the players I've been graced with, I think it will be a fantastic journey.
What you'll read below is the culmination of Part I of the Snows of Summer, an alternate history telling of Reign of Winter that hopefully entertains everyone. I have transcribed the posts made by my fantastic players and all of my posts into a continuous narrative where the gameplay elements have been stripped out. While some of the writing may switch tenses and styles due to limited editing on my part and each player's individual tastes, I think it reads pretty well and remains a great story.
As a huge fan of Gluttony's Rise of the Runelords campaign logs, and now her Reign of Winter logs, I thought it would be a good time to share an adventure path run that I am so far quite proud of.
When all is said and done, maybe I'll have more to say on the experience as a whole. But for now, enjoy the Ruins of Pathfinder version of Reign of Winter.
* * *
A gunshot rings out and snow unsettles from heavily laden branches.
Between the thick trunks of towering pines a low fog obscured the thick snow on the ground. Burdened branches hide the movement beyond them, but the sound of crunching snow carries through the silent woods undeterred. Tiny bone and feather fetishes are suddenly disturbed by the hurried passage of a dark clad figure bursting through the curtain of snow-laden pine branches they are hanging from. In the fog, droplets of red bleed into the snow, giving stark contrast of color in the wake of deep footprints.
Panting heavily and clutching one arm, a blonde-haired woman stumbles through the knee-deep snow, leaving that trail of blood in her wake. The black of her uniform and breastplate armor stand out against the white of the forest. Blue eyes flick around her surroundings, scanning the treeline as she steps into the clearing. Taking a moment to pause, there is no respite. Instead, she flicks her good arm to the side, snapping out the cylinder from her revolver to shake empty shell casings into the snow. An injured hand, caked in blood, shakily begins to press new bullets into the six chambers as feverishly paced breaths of steam escape her lips.
Trembling fingers fumble a bullet and it tumbles down into the snow. The woman looks down for a moment, only to hear the creak of wood when she does. Her gaze snaps back up, and where there was once only snow now stands a battered and old looking doll, precariously balancing on top of the snow. The doll's mismatched white and blue eyes stare vacantly at the gunslinger in silence. Momentarily frozen in panic, the blonde woman shakily tries to reach down for the lost bullet while keeping her eyes on the doll. As she crouches, the doll slowly raises one wooden hand, then curls its tiny fingers into a fist, save for one that points over the blonde's shoulder.
Behind her.
Snapping the revolver's cylinder shut with only five rounds chambered, the gunslinger rolls onto her back and swings her firearm up to aim at whatever was behind her. As she crashes down into the snow, she can see an enormous, hulking figure moving swiftly towards her unhindered by the snow drifts. A tangle of moss, leaves, roots and snow-caked flesh, twice the size of a man, charges with a thick, knotty branch clutched in both hands like a club. She gasps, holds her breath, then exhales sharply as she sees the club swinging down at her.
A gunshot rings out.
Snow unsettles from heavily laden branches.
R U I N S O F P A T H F I N D E R
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"I will not have them in this chamber!" A voice rings out, angrily, down the corridor. Red-faced and one hand clutching the hilt of his sheathed saber, the fresh-faced Andoran lieutenant stares down his commanding officer in defiance while he walks at her side. In stride with the Lieutenant, a sleekly dressed woman of diluted elven lineage offers a an askance, cold, blue-eyed stare back at him.
Threading a lock of wavy blonde hair behind one tapered ear, she comes to a stop and turns to face the officer. "Lieutenant," is stated firmly, as if a reminder of his place. "Your objection is duly noted. However, I will not hear any more of this. The Winter Accord we signed in Absalom makes them our allies, until such a time as this situation is resolved. That is final." Even as the Lieutenant opens his mouth to speak, his commander begins walking again.
Chuffing out an abortive breath, he hustles to match her pace again. "Knight-Commander Reinn," he states in flustered tone, "I am not saying we should abandon the Winter Accord, but-- " he flails one hand behind himself towards a pair of closed doors at the end of the hall. "The men are restless! There are two dignitaries from Varis--"
"Shalast." Reinn cuts him off in mid-sentence, "they are from Shalast, and while they are our guests in the Aerie you will refer to it until such a time as the nation is formally liberated." Stopping one last time, Reinn turns and steps in close to the Lieutenant. "You will do your job and you will do it dutifully, Lieutenant. If I hear word one out of you about this again, I will have you court-marshaled and confined to a cell. Do you understand me?"
Seeing the fury in Reinn's eyes and feeling the force of her words, the Lieutenant backs down, though with reluctance. Simmering with anger and frustration, he relents and clenches his hands into fists. "I don't like this any more than you do," Reinn offers in a whisper, "But for the time being, we save more lives by cooperating than fighting." The appended do you understand me goes unsaid; it doesn't need to be.
"Now," Reinn states flatly, motioning to a nearby pair of double doors. "I have a briefing to attend to." She looks back to the Lieutenant. "Send that courier falcon."
"Yes," the Lieutenant mutters, "Sir."
* * * * * *
The Golden Aerie is a pristine, alabaster tower that dominates the skyline of Andoran's coastal capital city, Almas. From this pristine tower, the elite Eagle Knights command their operations throughout Andoran and beyond. Typically home to the three branches of the Eagle Knights -- the Golden Legion, Steel Falcons and Twilight Talons -- it today serves as home to a conglomerate of foreign and local representatives of the nations that participated in the winter summit in Absalom one year ago.
Some participants of this meeting have been in Andoran for weeks preparing for the meeting, others have only just arrived. Of the recent arrivals, it was the appearance of a ship in Almas' port bearing the sihedron rune of Xin-Shalast that has caused tremendous uproar. Two representatives of the runelord Karzoug and his empire have been invited to attend this conference, and few within the nation known for its liberty appreciate their presence. Emissaries of Karzoug represent tyrrany, oppression and the enslavement of the peoples of Varisia.
To now stand side-by-side with them and call them allies for the greater good has strained the patience of many.
Just before noon, the conference room at the upper-most level of the Aerie is filled with representatives and emissaries of the disparate nations suffering from this winter. While not all of the nations that participated in the Winter Accord last year are present, many are -- as are many more who have joined the cause since then. Twenty-seven individuals in total, all filling the seats around an enormous circular table emblazoned with the seal of a golden eagle.
The gathering is a motley one, a mixture of many races and different training and traditions. Andoran, sensibly, makes up the majority of those at the table. Most of them are scholars and members of the intelligence offices of the Eagle Knights, here to record the meeting and bring to light pertinent pieces of information. Two Andoran military officers have been asked to join them, one a human and the other a visibly in[i]human aquatic humanoid. Beyond this Andoran representation, the remaining 6 run the gamut from Cheliax to as far away as the Mordent Spire and peoples native to the crown of the world.
Most contentiously, however, are the two emissaries of the runelord Karzoug the Claimer. A human and a dwarf, both marked with the sihedron, sit together at the table and draw many steely glances from some of the Andoran representatives.
The reasons for these individuals, specifically, involves the Winter Summit held last year. The individuals in this room represent a hand-picked team of specialists from around the world put together by Knight-Commander Calisaria Reinn of the Twilight Talons. From what has been shared in correspondences and conversations, Knight-Commander Reinn appears to have new information regarding the worsening climate, and is planning to act on it. The men and women in this room are her choice of specialists for that action.
But until she arrives, what that action is, is anyone's guess.
Most unusual of the gathering was the merman Rasso, a direct appointment to this meeting by Garret Bryce, a member of the Steel Falcons. Rasso stands awkwardly in the room, scratching at his navy-blue dress uniform. The garment had needed special tailoring to accommodate his partially non-humanoid physiology. He is standing because he is the only delegate attending the meeting for whom using a chair is virtually impossible. Rasso's long shark-like tail and reticulated forelegs serve as a tripod to support his weight as he stands 'at ease'. His facial expression is one of passive unease. Gods damned monkey suit! This thing itches worse'n whore's c*nt in spring. Buncha fancy schmansy bullsh*t... The insignia on his chest mark him as a naval Special Operations Petty Officer Second Class. The kind of officer that spend most of their time in the field, fighting next to sailors. Underneath the insignia hangs a Golden Eagle medal for valor. [i]Not even the decency to give us any booze!
It had been a year since the strange merman had last been in the Aerie tower. A time too short for one who despised ostentation the way he did. The one silver lining to this meeting for Rasso was that they'd sat him next to Captain Styvanus Rozier, a good soldier with whom Rasso had much in common. Elbowing the Captain, Rasso leans over and whispers to him in Aquan.
Captain Styvanus Rozier stood behind his chair near that very merman, stance wide and confident, his chin was high and his eyes active. Even at this event, he wore what appeared to be a slightly heavier version of the parade armor of the parade armor of the Eagle Knights. A heavy blue coat over a chain-link covered torso hid his equally chain mailed arms which ended in threatening gauntlets with spiked feather motifs. An insignia on the shoulder of the coat marked his rank as Captain. White breeches cover more chain mail and he wears sturdy blue boots of leather. Oddly enough, there was a well made shield emblazoned with the image of a blue eagle strapped to his back.
Styvanus kept his hands crossed behind his back and surveyed the room, smiling slightly at the discomfort his merfolk friend had in his uniform, and also the discomfort his merfolk friend caused to the various delegates around the table. The man certainly stuck out like a sore-thumb wherever he went but it didn't change the fact that he was a helluva soldier and sailor, and someone that anyone would be lucky to have watching their back. Styvanus was happy to hold that honor, no matter what Rasso looked like.
The Captain pondered his friends question, and took note of the exchange of glances between him and the Chelish marine across the table. He finishes with a smirk before turning his attention to the exchange between the masked elf and the rune-marked dwarf.
Across the room, the envoy of the Mordant Spire stood in quiet contemplation regarding the affects of teleportation magic as they lingered in his gut long after his arrival to Andoran. It wasn't his first time traveling outside of Spire. Five years earlier, barely an eye-blink to an Elf, he had accompanied the spire emissary Giseil Voslil, his brother Arylon and a hundred other of his people as they marched to war among the ruins of Celwynvian. Now, Teladon found himself surrounded by humans and half-humans; a far cry from his home.
Five years. Five years since the sky fell and a second darkness overtook the world. Five years since Kyonin was destroyed, Crying Leaf was overrun and the elven bastion of Hymbria was attacked by the very fey they were once allied with. Now only The Mordant Spire remained. For century's the other elven nations had scorned the Spire, claiming they were xenophobic and un-trusting and yet now who of the great elven peoples remained? Since the return The Mordant Spire had prepared. They had saved the relics of their past and locked away thousands of years of knowledge in the deep vaults that stretched to the oceans floor. All in preparation for another cataclysm like the one that destroyed great Azlant. So much death. Thought Teladon, surveying the room behind his steel wrought mask.
The Darkness wrought by our fallen kin was bad enough. But the world as we know it won't be able to survive if these unnatural winter storms continue. Continuing to stand, the elven warrior kept his back to the wall examining each of the other emissaries in turn. Eyes narrowing as he spotted the dwarf and human bearing the brand of the sihedron he frowned, the expression hidden by his mask. Teladon had heard reports of the attack on Crying Leaf by the Claimers army's. Even now, four years later the wood elfs continued to fight a war of guerilla tactics against the reborn runelord amid the burned husks of the Mierani Forest.
Continuing on his gaze he looked over the two score gathering of humans from various nations. Idly he wondered if the humans found any irony in their claim of liberty and freedom, when that was a tenant that his people had lived by since they first inhabited this world. Humans. So quick to judge, to assume. They are like blind men seeing light from the mouth of a cave and thinking it the sun. Thinking back to his peoples stories of the Earthfall and the destruction of Azlant, Teladon gave an internal sigh. All of this has happened before, and all of this will happen again. Nations will rise and fall. Everything repeats itself. The elf mused internally as he ran his hand along the hilt of the scimitar he had been entrusted with by his Elders. Thinking of the runic symbol Acavna inlaid into the fuller of the blade the magus somberly nodded to himself. All things die... even gods.
Watching the gathering of unlikely individuals sat the proverbial fox in the henhouse, a marine from neighboring Cheliax, a man whom in another time may well be fighting face-to-face with emmbers of the Eagle Knights rather than side by side, but even old salts like Marcellano Kain know the score that's been leveled on Golarion, even Cheliax knows to pick its battles carefully.
A round table? Marcellano mused in his seat, trying to get comfortable by leaning back, arms crossed. The outfit he was wearing identified him as a Chelish Navy Marine to the others; a light, loose fitting black and gold shirt under a similarly colored tabard bearing a red and black cross in a golden circle over two crossed sabers - the symbol of the Marines. On his head lies a black with gold-trim Tricorne hat, his favorite hat that he always wore. At his side is a gold-hilted cutlass with a polished blade.
What kind of mockery of a meeting place is this? No respectable leader would sit amongst servants and soldiers at a round table! A round table implies equality. A soldier is anything but equal to his superior. Bah. Apparently, it just goes to show how the 'officers' of Andoran think of themselves. Its a wonder they've lasted this long. Still, the room itself is impressive enough. I guess they've got one thing right.
Marcellano, unable to get comfortable, looks around at the other attendants. What in Asmodeous' name is that thing? Certainly not a Sahuagin... I've killed enough of those to know that. Perhaps some kind of Sahuagin mutant? I've heard of such things, but never one to look quite like this. Not a Locathah either... perhaps its some sort of extraplanar demon or daemon? No, while its certainly hideous enough to be as such, the people of Andoran at least are smart enough not to work with such filth.
The Marine continues to eye the Merfolk intently trying to figure out what it is. Though he has a scowl on his face due to the concentration, and barely notices the time as he tries to figure it out. [/i]Well, worst comes to worse, I'm sure a bullet'll penetrate that thick carapace of it, at least.[/i]
Seeing the Chelaxian marine frowning at him from across the table, Rasso gives him a big toothy grin and a wink. Sour pussed bastard must know how many of his buddies I've sent to watery graves.
Silent, thus far, has been the dark-haired woman seated at the table. Of dark complexion and stern features, the woman's nationality is indiscernable to most in the room. Her people come from much farther away, and her disconnect with their society is perhaps cause of her silence. Wondrous place... So very different from home. For the moment the foreign woman, Talavuc, paid more attention to the hall around her than the people gathered about. It certainly shows that survival is not the first concern for the people here.
Her thoughts flashed briefly with images of the stilt-legged wooden houses of home. The spirit-lodges would seem like hovels to these people, she mused and a slight look of concern crossed her face briefly. Her gaze fell across the shining symbol of the eagle, and she smiled each time. They respect eagle here. This is a good thing. Almost instinctively, she reached up and brushed the eagle's feather pierced through her ear.
She pulled herself out of the reverie as someone bumped in her chair, a scholar by the look of him, and chided herself for her lack of awareness. She felt naked, defenseless, here. She only wore the usually outfit of her people, heavy by the standards of these southerners, but not armoring like the treated hides she so often put on. It made her feel closer to the spirits she served, clothed in the hides of their children. They were gifts given in the eternal competition of life, something that most would consider taken, but she thought better of it. Her spear was gone, only a thick walking stick sat next to her. A weapon, but not the one she would've chosen. The worst, by and far, was that Naasvit was not here. I bet he's sleeping in that stable they offered, curled up and enjoying the pampering. She grinned slightly at the thought, but it did little to dismiss the feeling. She felt vulnerable and it bothered her.
The murmured conversation in the room is broken when the double-doors to the conference hall are opened. The Andoran representatives not yet standing push back their chairs and rise to the sound, before realizing that it is not their leader that arrives, but someone else entirely.
A tall and thin human dressed in voluminous robes of ceremonial design is accompanied by a broad and scarred dwarven man, each of them bearing the multi-pointed star emblem of Xin-SHalast on their brows, the Sihedron rune. Whispers of disbelief usher through the chamber on their emergence, escorted by a pair of Eagle Knights of the Golden Legion. "Announcing, Fenyx Dagannauth and Ar'Zarrcal, emissaries of Xin-Shalast," one of the Eagle Knights states with a strained tone of voice. Both knights suspiciously watch the Shalasti emissaries enter, directing them to open seats at the table.
The dwarf, Ar'Zarrcal, surveyeds the spot granted to him and the other ambassador. He felt the Andorans had been wise with a round table, as it prevented a potential insult by way of seating position. Of course, it would be far wiser for them to merely dispense with this farce and submit to Karzoug and allow Shalast to take the lead in this, but he knew that they would cling to their traditions and freedom until the end. In time they would learn the error of such resistance. He had resisted once, until he was made to understand the true power of Thassilonia and Karzoug. They too would serve.
Ar'Zarrcal revealed to those observing him as he walked to his seat with Fenyx that he was in fact quite tall for a Dwarf at just over four and a half feet tall. His grim countenance was a stark reminder that Thassilon had been reborn in violence and sorcery. Dressed in fine fur trimmed clothes of black and white marked with the Sihedron for this diplomatic function. His coal black hair and beard were a greasy and tattered mess. His hairline all but receded to the crown of his skull, leaving what remains to hang long and limp. Around his neck hung an iron Sihedron of some holy purpose, which his stubby fingers often gripped at. Where his clothing did not obscure his flesh one could see the handiwork of his conversion. The skin itself was darkened by fire and sorcery and branded with an assortment of arcane Thassalonian Runes.
Not overly fond of exchanging pleasantries, the rune-scarred dwarf had attempted to sit at the spot granted to him and keep his silence. Yet the chair was not all that well sized for him and he found himself growing uncomfortable and agitated. Thoughts tangled within his mind as he looked over the other ambassadors and representatives, struggling with understanding their current role in his master's plan as well as the future place they would serve within the hierarchy of Shalast.
Fenyx, on the other hand, remained silent and alert, his hands folded in front of him at the table and cool stare focused not on any one individual, but at the center of the table itself, his thoughts much his own.
A little twinge of discomfort struck Talavuc as she looked over the delegates, seeing those from the nation of "Shalast" and Cheliax. What are they doing here? Does the winter threaten their people just the same? She chided herself for not considering it. What am I, a child? It should be obvious. Of course it would threaten their people as it does us all. The thought of the terrible morozkos crossed her mind, the storms that she'd somehow survived on occasion... by hiding. As her gaze came across Rasso, it was not discomfort, but curiosity that she felt. I have never seem anything like him. I wonder where he is from? What is his story? She smiled to herself and remembered the time that she had related that feeling to Pavius. He had chided her for disregarding the tengu as a person and regarding him merely as a curiosity. He had also understood the feeling, though. She sighed and smiled sadly, looking in the strange man's direction, but obviously not seeing him. Pavius... I miss you.
With deliberate steps Ar'Zarrcal began to walk around the table, making it clear that as an emissary of the Rune Lord Karzoug he walked where he pleased. His gaze fell on the merman and he stared. His pinched face, with his sharp nose and deep sunken eyes took on a look of genuine curiosity. Slowly he completed near the completion of his circuit around the large round table. His milky, frozen blue eyes fell on the tall masked figure. His hands left the iron Sihedron about his neck and pulled at his black, pointed beard. This one was a complete mystery to him. He would need to rectify that immediately.
"I am ambassador Ar'Zarrcal of the Empire of Shalast, faithful herald of Runelord Karzoug the Claimer... Who are you and what faction do you represent here?" The voice that escaped the tortured form was surprisingly firm and powerful, yet lacking harshness or rasp to its tone.
Though difficult to tell from behind his mask, the elf cocks his head slightly. Through the slits Ar'Zarrcal can see that the elf's eyes look past him as if speaking to someone, or something ten feet above him and to the right. The elf's dry voice whispers from behind the mask, in the rhyming cadence of ancient Azlanti, a language lost on everyone in the room.
Pausing in mid-sentence, the elf gives a nod, as if listening to another voice and agreeing with was said. From the mask the dry voice wispers again. Remaining perfectly still, the elf continues to look past the dwarf, his eyes slowly following whatever it is that he is looking at. Then, as if a statue has come to life the elf crossing his arms, he shakes his head. Giving one final nod of agreement with the unknown entity, the elf swivels his head down taking in the rune-scarred dwarf visage for the first time. Closing his eyes ever so slightly the elf seems to peer into the dwarf. Whereas before the elf seemed be having an entirely different conversation, he now focuses all of his attention on acknowledged the dwarf's presence.
Ar'Zarrcal took a wary step backwards. His fingers fell to the iron Sihedron around his neck and he clutched it almost fearfully. He had recognized the language as ancient Azlanti due to it being one of roots to Thassilonian, but he could only make the words 'I', 'Runic', and 'Mordant'. His pinched face scrunched up further and he curled his lips downward in a frown.
Though the eyes were visible through the strange mask the elf wore, they seemed to tell Ar'Zarrcal little of the emotions lingering in this emissary from the Mordent Spire.
A unsettling smile crossed the rune scarred dwarf's bearded face and he returned words to the masked elf. He however spoke the language of the reborn Kingdom of Shalast and the Thassilon Empire. There was a smug smile on his face when he finished speaking, but it quickly vanished. In the common, Taldan, tongue he added, "Is it not rude to speak in tongues not familiar to these Andorrans? Would it not be proper to use the language of our hosts?"
Members of the Eagle Knight's council sit awkwardly while the disparate groups talk amongst themselves and grow acclimated with one-another. As the conversations in near a half a dozen foreign tongues carry on, the hour of the day ticks by. Within the windowless conference room, it's hard to tell that the snow is driving hard and fast outside, that the skies are still shrouded with clouds, that all the talking in the world will solve nothing.
Without any fanfare or ritual, the double doors to the meeting hall open again as a pair of armored Eagle Knight squires bring the massive doors apart. Between them, a tall and graceful woman strides into the room with a commanding presence. Dressed in the blue, gold and whites of an Eagle Knight's uniform, this blonde half-elven woman is also decorated with enough medals on her uniform that she could probably melt them down and build a life-sized gold statue of herself.
As she enters, the Andoran dignitaries rise from their seats and salute until she reaches her chair and gives a motion for everyone to be seated. Knight-Commander Calisaria Reinn does not sit, instead she stands beside her chair, one hand resting on the basket-hilted rapier sheathed at her hip. Reinn's eyes scan over those gathered at the table for a few moments as conversations naturally die down at her presence. Once the room has grown silent, she motions for the doors to be closed, then begins to pace a circuit of the room around the table.
"I thank you all for attending this meeting today," the Knight-Commander begins in a firm, projected tone. "Those of you seated at this table today represent our world's best hopes to push back the tide of winter that has crashed on all our shores." Reinn's voice resonates through the room, carrying the force of presence suitable for a woman of her station.
"One year ago, the Winter Summit in Absalom represented a first for all our peoples. It represented nations' capability to put aside their differences to work in concert towards a unified goal. No part of our world is spared this wintry fate, though some have felt it less than others... there can be no denying that this change in our climate has come." Turning towards the table, Reinn stands behind the two Eagle-Knight officers, looking at each of them for a moment, before continuing her circuit.
"Since the signing of the Winter Accord, each participant nation has endeavored to find the source of this winter weather. With our combined efforts, we have made several leaps in discerning the nature of the weather, despite its seeming ability to circumvent divination magics." Finally back at her chair, Reinn motions for one of the sages. He rises from his seat with a scroll case and unstoppers it.
Paper ruffles and scrapes as it is shaken from the tube, and slowly the old scholar rolls out a map of Avistan across the table for all to see.
"We have uncovered reports from the nation of Rahadoum in Garund that that city of Manaket was destroyed by the appearance of a tornado made of ice and snow. This tornado flash-froze the citizens of Manaket and created a permanent arctic blot on the landscape." Reaching into her jacket, Reinn withdraws a thin metal rod, then pulls on its rounded tip to telescope out a baton-like pointer. She taps it on the map where Manaket is visible to the far south on the edge of the continent of Garund.
"Wizards from Rahadoum investigated this site and believed that it was a portal from whence the winter cold was escaping through. Unfortunately," Reinn closes her eyes slowly, "the wizards were too eager to quell the cold rather than study it, and they invoked a powerful disjoining magic that sealed the portal and ended the influx of cold to that region." Exhaling a strained sigh, Reinn looks around at the attendants in their seats.
"That was five months ago," Reinn clarifies, "and now we believe we have determined the location of another of these sites. After pouring through reports that came in over the last three years from Andoran cities, we have discovered that there was mention of snow appearing in the Darkmoon Vale as early as Desnus. This was in 4713, and we were so distracted by the tragedy in Kyonin and conflicts elsewhere," a brief look to the Thassilonian representatives is given, "that it went uninvestigated."
Pointing now to Andoran, Reinn's baton traces a circle on the town of Falcon's Hollow on the Andoran border of Isger. "Pursuant to this, it has come to my attention that the town of Falcon's Hollow, just south of the Darkmoon Wood, has gone silent. For the last two months it has failed to submit taxes and lumber deliveries from up the river have been non-existant."
Nodding to the scholars, Reinn waits as they roll out a mp of the Darkmoon Wood that looks recently drafted. That it has been drafted in wintry colors is a dire sense of artistic license, as if to say, it will always be like this.
Should this team fail, perhaps it will be.
REIGN OF WINTER
Part I: Silence of the Hollow
"One week ago, I sent a reconnaissance team to Falcon's Hollow. The team consisted of five Eagle Knights of the Twilight Talon branch. Knight-Captain Talisa Gwynn led the unit, along with Lance-Corporal Braden Tavel, Lance-Corporal Girardin Shalewind, Lance-Corporal Tycora Sandein, Lance-Corporal Cerasan Falentini and Sargent Andis Lohengrin. Accompanying them was a warrior-delegate from Lastwall, an orc-blooded soldier named Ordrud."
Tapping her baton on Falcon's Hollow again, Reinn furrows her brows and looks pensive for but a moment. "As of today, the team has not reported back with the sending scrolls they were given. We have reason to believe that their silence is related to the silence of Falcon's Hollow."
Collapsing her baton, Reinn places it back into her jacket and crosses her arms over her chest. "Those of you here, today, I ask for assistance. Golarion begs for your assistance." Looking down to the map, Reinn draws in a slow breath, then exhales it through her nose.
"Your mission is a straight-forward one. You will depart Almas by way of the ice-breaker ship the Red Wraith and sail north up the Andoshen River to Falcon's Hollow. The journey will take three days." Blue eyes lift from the map to look around the table. "You are to ascertain the status of Falcon's Hollow, find Knight-Captain Gwynn's team, and if possible find out if the reported weather in the Darkmoon Wood is related to the winter portal in Rahadoum."
Sternly, Knight-Commander Reinn nods her head once, and looks to each and every individual at the table. "Questions?"
"Aye, I've one," Marcellano makes a gesture with his hand showing he wishes to speak. He stands up, then takes a moment to glance around at the assembled people, before looking back at the Knight-Commander. "First, who will be in charge of this expedition? It is best to know who is in command from the get-go so we don't have any issue with multiple people trying to play leader along the way. The clearer the chain of command, the faster and easier things get done."
He pauses a moment, before continuing. "Second, if we do find the Knight-Captain's Team, are we to follow her orders, provided she is still alive, or will whoever be leading this expedition take command of the recon team as well?"
He pauses one more moment, before adding one last thing, with a small smirk. "And finally, when do we leave?"
Turning her attention to Marcellano, Reinn threads a lock of blonde hair behind one ear. "Given that this is an Andoran mission taking place on Andoran soil, and given his expertise in leadership and tactical assessment, I will be placing Captain Styvanus Rozier in charge of this mission. Should Knight-Captain Gwynn be alive, I will leave it up to Captain Rozier how he would prefer to proceed as both he and Gwynn are of the same rank, if differing in title. She will understand."
Shifting her weight to one foot and rubbing one hand over her chin in thought, Reinn looks across the table and considers her answer. "Should the situation change, I leave it to you all to be responsible enough to delegate command or re-assess command if need be. Each of you are specialists and highly skilled, I expect you each to contribute to the cause equally."
Then, specifically to Styvanus, "Captain, I expect you to handle this with fairness and an open mind. Take into account all points of view and intelligence offered from your team. Their lives, and our lives, are in your hands." No pressure.
"As for your departure, this team will leave in five hours from the harbor. That should give you enough time to finalize any preparations you need to make." Then, nodding towards one of the Andoran intelligence officers she adds. "Lance-Corporal Vedik will see that each of you is outfitted with a cache of good to help protect you in this climate. See him before you depart."
Styvanus sits quietly, listening to the Chelish man's inquiries. Upon Reinn's attention turning to the young captain, Styvanus stood to his feet and nodded affirmatively to each of her points. He nod's to Lance Corporal Vedik when he is mentioned.
Beginning unassumingly, his voice carries well around the room. "Knight-Commander; Lance-Corporal." He recognizes them both aloud, then turns his attention to the team gathered around the table. "We're the hope of Golarion allies. Expect fairness and transparency here, We're the last, best hope. I encourage each of you to get to know me. My ears are always open. " His blue eyes meet the eyes of each of the party and he stops last on Rasso, his stern expression giving way slightly to a smirk. "Let's go do our job."
Marcellano nods at both the Knight-Commander's answers, and Styvanus's words, apparently satisfied, before sitting down to await any other information before heading out.
"Sounds all well and good, Sir," Rasso says, nodding to Knight-Commander Reinn. "But I'd know a little more about who'll be watchin' me tail."
He turns back to the others nominated for the mission. "Guess I might start with me own particulars. Name's Rasso. I'm a close combat specialist, with some magic to aid me. Mainly me spells enhance me own abilities, but I can do some minor healin' in a pinch," he says, snapping his claws together. "I've also got a decent ability to use wands, scrolls and the like."
He stares at Marcellano and the two Shalasti representatives for a long moment. "Normally I'd soon as kill them what hold slaves as truck with 'em. But I know this is probably the most important damn mission of my life. So I hope we can all play nice." It's hard to tell whether his toothy smile is genuine or forced.
Taking a moment while the others talk, Talavuc marvels at the map of Avistan. Ahh... Always a sight to see. She smiles to herself and looks back to the commander, giving the woman her full attention.
She considers the second map unrolled for a moment again when Rosso stands and gives his introduction, forcing her away from her thoughts. She watches as he speaks and decides to introduce herself. She stands and looks over the collected people for a moment, again taking in the assembled parties.
"I am Talavuc, spirit-talker of the Miusunnit of Aaminiut, and a friend of the Pathfinder Society." The words felt a bit clumsy in her mouth, so different from her native language. "The spirits bless me with magics for my devotion and I carry spear and sling." She pauses a moment. "Beyond fighting, I know the ways of the wild. The harsh cold is a common thing for my people and I. I've survived in it for all of my life. It tests each person to see their fitness for survival."
She looks over to Captain Rozier, "I will give my all for this. Just as with Avistan, so too do my people suffer. Many have died in the unnatural storms and the dead that walk them." A pained look crosses her face for a second.
"I know of the terrible things that those from Varisia and Cheliax are capable of. I've heard the tales and seen the darkness in some of those lands." Her eyes turn to the Chelish marine. "But I also know that brighter things can come from such places. I will hope that you all are of such character."
She turns to Knight-command Reinn. "The map of this wood shows no paths, trails, or roads. There is no information as to the location of such things or shall we have to contact the locals, should they still live?" She pauses for a slight moment, not enough time to give a response, "Do the frozen dead walk here as well?" A look of deep concern crosses her face. She had not heard such stories, but it was better to be safe.
Rasso gives the spirit-talker a nod of acknowledgement. Never seen nor heard of a Miusunnit before. She musta come a long way.
At Talavuc's question, Reinn offers a look to one of the scholars at the table whom rises from his seat with a nod to her. The scholar, a wiry looking human with dusty brown hair and a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles leans over to point at the map of Darkmoon Wood.
"Ah, the trails in this forest are likely changed from what they once were." There's a tone of disappointment in his voice. "Though, the lumber consortium that works here has made some through-roads that cut through the thickest parts of the forest." Reaching into a pocket on his sleeve, the scholar pulls out a piece of charcoal.
"Here," he states, starting to scribble on the map. "These are the logging roads that the consortium used. They're likely still clear of trees, but-- ah, snow -- I imagine -- will be an issue." Furrowing his brow and pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, the scholar then circles an area on the map.
"This here," the region of Cold Marrow is circled, "is where the undead have been encountered in the past. It's a blighted section of the forest where nothing will grow. The trees are dead and the land is parched. We're not sure what its present condition is."
Then, to the far west he circles a portion of the mountains. "Out here was an old monastery that the Pathfinder Society uncovered in 4709 when searching for a cure to the plague in Falcon's Hollow. There was a cult operating out of here, animated dead-- all very terrible business. They're long since dispatched, however."
Grimacing, the scholar tucks the piece of charcoal back into his sleeve. "That's ah, the most we know about that topic."
Styvanus nods toward the female of the north, and watches intently as the scholar steps forward and marks the areas of interest on the map. " Thank you Scholar, I'm certain that every little thing helps."
He turns his full attention to the northern druid and offers a comforting smile. " Talavuc, thanks for your insight, and the words of wisdom. I'm sure both will prove invaluable in the days and weeks ahead."
"As for my own abilities," He begins." I'm a martial specialist. Nothing too fancy about that, but I shall represent the Andoran way in combat and negotiations. When it's appropriate, I'll defer to each of your specialties."
In turn, Talavuc furrowed her brow as the scholar pointed out locations on the second map he produced. She nodded to the scholar and looked up from the map, her thoughts drifted away a bit from the conversation, to the point that she almost missed Styvanus' words to her. She gave him a short nod of acknowledgement. This region is not prepared for the morozkos. It's a worrisome thing. She looked about the table, picking up Styvanus' appraisal of himself. I will have to see how ready each of my companions will be for this weather. A grim look crossed her face for a moment. The dead are here...
Through the entirety of the Andorran briefing the two representatives from Shalast remained silent. Once, Fenyx leaned down and whispered something to his rune scarred dwarven companion. What was said however was spoken at a hush and in the language of Thassilon.
As each gave in turn gave an introduction of their names and abilities Ar'Zarrcal kept his thoughts to himself. He seemed to have no inclination to speak further on the matter. All that they needed to know was that he and Fenyx represented Shalast and Runelord Karzoug the Claimer on this mission. He had fully intended to remain silent until the Erutaki spoke. Her questions proved to shed much light on the situation and information was revealed that should have been earlier provided. He thought that perhaps the Andorran's should have put her in command instead of one of their obediant military officers.
Stepping forward, he studied the map provided once the scholar began to circle and outline the logging trails.
"Will our transport take us up this river?" The dwarf pointed to the river marked Darkmoon on the map. "I do not see this Falcon's hollow anywhere on this map. Does the captain know the way?"
He turned back to look long and hard at the woman from the Frozen lands to the North. He would seek to illuminate her to the truth of Shalast, but not now, it would not do to dispel the propaganda of the meddling Andorran's in their own council hall.
Only after his questions had been answered would he address the rest of the group gathered together on this mission. "I am ambassador Ar'Zarrcal of Shalast, faithful herald of Runelord Karzoug the Claimer. My counterpart is ambassador Feyronix Dagannauth, practicioner of the arcane arts of Thassilon." The frost-eyed dwarf gave no further details at this juncture.
Listening to the representative from Shalast, the scholar defers to Reinn on this question. "Falcon's Hollow is just a few miles south of Darkmoon Wood, it's on the map of Avistan and northern Garund," she instructs, motioning to the other, larger map. "Captain Brevin of the Red Wraith knows the way."
"The vessel you came here in is not fitted to break the ice of the Andoshan River which is at present frozen. We have commissioned an ice-breaking ship from the north to serve as conveyance for you to expedite the journey." Crossing her arms over her chest, Reinn scans the maps as an afterthought. "The vessel is an oar-powered ship of Skald design with iron plating on the bow. It is designed to cut through the thick ice, though there may be times when the ship and its crew need to stop to manually hack through the larger pieces by hand. None of you will be expected to assist with this."
It seemed then that they would not be taking the Darkmoon river, but rather another river that traced its way to the South, where Falcon's Hollow lay beyond the bottom edge of the map provided.
Falcon's hollow seemed to be the place to start and if no relevant information could be gained there, the logging consortium's main camp looked like the next best bet. He studied the map in more detail, trying to memorize the locations that seemed of particular importance and interest.
Marcellano had been patient through all of this, remaining sitting and yet still unable to get comfortable, listening to the others' questions, comments, and introductions. After being mentioned indirectly multiple times, he waits until he has a chance to speak before standing up and addressing those assembled.
"I am Marcellano Kain, nephew of the deceased Commander Kyan Kain and former Marine aboard the Dominator. As representative to Cheliax, my superiors have commanded me to give the Knight-Commander my complete cooperation in this matter, and I aim to do just that." He pauses a moment, before continuing. "As a former Marine, I am trained in enduring and surviving harsh environments, performing emergency first aid in case magical healing is unavailable, and being an expert in both close-quarters combat and mid-ranged combat with firearms."
After another pause, he continues, "I plan on giving this mission my all. I hope, despite our current affiliations, ideological differences, and past prejudices," His gaze flickers towards Rasso for a split second, "We can work together to see this mission through, unless our respective nations continue to suffer under this outlandish weather. I plan to see this mission through the end. I hope all of you will do the same." At the end of his introduction, Marcellano gives a nod and sits back down.
Having never sat down, the masked elf takes in the entirety of the room. When his gaze does pause, it's not on a particular individual, but rather on architectural details, stone busts or even an absence of space. It is as if the elf is looking at this world with eyes far older than many in this space. Stepping forward, the elf's eyes settle on a soaring stone bust of a rampant Andoran eagle. Though the mask a dry, lilting voice echoes outward. Haltingly the voice speaks, as if unaccustomed to the tongue and dredging the memory of it up from the recesses of his mind.
"Who I am in unimportant." The elf states. Each word slowly ushering out the next. "Who I represent is." Echoes the voice from behind the mask as he continues to let his gaze wander about the room, never stopping in one place for long. "I am the emissary of the Mordant Spire." Eyes finally settling Knight-Commander Reinn, the elf gives the smallest of bows.
Not bothering to give a description of his ability, you get the feeling that the elf is a creature of few words. "There is a flaw." The elf's graven voice states. "Logic dictates that we cannot depend on locating the sending scrolls from your team. They may have be destroyed. If you wish to guarantee status updates then I will need more. And what of your scrying and divinations? What has that revealed? Have you been able to determine what exists at the center of the storm?" Crossing his arms, the elf then looks past the Knight-Commander towards the blue painted map, before back up to the ceiling.
Knight-Commander Reinn arches one thin brow as Teladon speaks. Blue eyes sweep from him to the map, then back again. "I expect something more mundane to track the team down," she notes with a point of two fingers up towards her eyes. Shifting her weight to one foot, she re-crosses her arms and furrows her brows.
"The storm also has no center, per-se. This weather is spread out across every nation in Avistan and most of Garund. We have one, singular report from Falcon's Hollow dating back three years, and it doesn't specify where in the Darkmoon Wood that the snow started." There's a little bit of a sigh at that. "There's hundreds of square miles of forest out there, and we could try scrying that wood in twenty-foot increments for the next few hundred years and still come up with nothing." Then, tilting her head to the side she adds, "We'd all be frozen solid by then."
Starting to pace, Reinn offers a slow shake of her head. "Regardless, divinations have largely been inconclusive. Either we're asking the wrong questions or someone has protected the information we've tried to get by means of mind-blank, misdirection or some other ward." Blue eyes flit back up to Teladon. "The parties of the Winter Accord determined that the snow is not natural, that a magical force is generating it, and that if left unopposed it will continue to spread until it has consumed the entirety of the world."
Furrowing her brows, Reinn considers the maps again. "That we assume there's a... core to the weather in the Darkmoon Wood like there was in that town in Rahadoum is sheer speculation. It's a hope, and one that I had counted on Gwynn's team to determine." With a shake of her head, she looks away from the maps and around the table.
"Every resource we can employ at a range has been employed. This information is the best we've been able to muster. If it were any easier, we probably could have solved the entire problem on our own by now. We need feet on the ground. Finding Gwynn's team is -- " Reinn hesitates, as if it does not please her to admit something. "Finding her team is secondary to finding out if there is a source of the weather in the Darkmoon Wood."
"If you do find and secure them..." Gwynn's brows pinch together in worry, "if the people of Falcon's Hollow are safe or can be saved, that's just a bonus for us."
"Noted." The dry voice half-whispers from behind the mask, giving one slow nod of understanding. The rest of his body remaining ever still, the elf cocks his head to the right as if receiving some far off instructions or listening to the sounds of the wind rushing past the exterior of the Golden Aerie. Giving a nod, the elf turns his gaze back towards the Knight-Commander. "Are there any other places besides the lumber camp and the monastery that your team might have sought shelter at if they had come under attack? Anything defensible?"
"I wouldn't call the monastery defensible," Reinn remarks with a look at the map. "The Pathfinders who discovered the cult there unintentionally razed the structure in their battle with the cultists. If there's anything left, it's little more than ruins."
After considering the remainder of the map, Reinn looks back up to Teladon. "There's a lodge, actually. Not far from where that logging trail cuts across the river on the western bank. It's owned by the Lumber Consortium now, but at one time it was a sentry outpost for the Steel Falcons. It was decommissioned over twenty years ago..."
Tilting her head to the side, Reinn takes a thoughtful pause. "I'm not sure what condition its in but it might be worth a look."
"So, we have three places we know of to check - the Village itself, the Lumber Consortium's main camp, and a lodge that is owned by the Lumber Consortium, which we do not know if even still exists - am I correct?" Marcellano stands up and points to each location on the map as he mentions them, the looks at everyone to see if they agree with him or not.
"If we can agree on this, I think we should get going - the sooner we get there, the sooner we can find the fate of the village and of the recon team, as well as find the solution to this problem, if there is one to be found." He then looks over at the Knight-Commander for her response.
Offering a nod of agreement to Marcellano, Knight-Commander Reinn confirms Marcellano's assessment. "Correct. It sounds as though you have a direction to go in. The Red Wraith will be waiting for you in the harbor. It is the only vessel with red sails, it's impossible to miss, even in this snow."
Folding her hands behind her back and squaring her shoulders, Reinn tilts her chin up ever so slightly and regards the team. "The vessel disembarks in three hours, and Captain Brevin will know better the duration of the ship travel." Drawing in a slow breath, Reinn closes her eyes and exhales the held in breath through her nose.
"Andoran, your homelands, the entire world is counting on your actions." Blue eyes slowly open, and the Knight-Commander furrows her brows and offers one solemn nod to the table of disparate heroes, unlikely as some of them are.
"Dismsised."
<< | | | >>
Finding the Red Wraith in the Almas harbor wasn't hard. The Ulfen-designed icebreaking ship is of unique design and relatively old looking, battle scars and replacement planks on the hull showing its age. Its rich honey-hued wood harvested from northern forests is supple and resistant to damage and the armored plating on its bow ensures that it can plough through the thick, frozen river ice. The fanned crimson sails give the vessel a distinctive silhouette and made for finding it among the other docked vessels a simple task.
On boarding the ship, the expedition team was greeted by Captain Brevin, a calloused and sea-worn Ulfen man with a scraggly beard, sunken eyes and a muscled frame. Bundled up against the cold the captain's frame seems even larger than it should, giving him a bear-like quality.
The captain is a harsh, gruff man with an iron-handed charisma that drives his crew by means of intimidation and fearsome prowess rather than by engendering true loyalty, an odd mix for an Andoran assignment. Desperate times make for desperate allies, as if the assembled team itself were not proof positive of that.
On boarding the ship, the expedition team members were shown to the common room below decks filled with long galley tables and bench seats and a handful of the ship's crew. It is there that they were informed that the journey to Falcon's Hollow will take just over three days as the distance to Falcon's Hollow is more than 200 miles. Typically a ship of this size moving through river ice would take more than a week to travel that distance, but the icebreaker's unique design means that the vessel will be dramatically impeded in its travel time.
With the knowledge that the team is going to be in transit for a few days, they have largely been left to their own devices. Cramped personal cabins below decks are offered to each, though they are little more than a closet with a small cot and not a window to spare.
With nothing but time on their hands, the expedition crew is left to acquaint themselves with one another and await their arrival at Falcon's Hollow.
Though not as prone to sea-sickness as some of his race, it was clear that Ar'Zarrcal had no great fondness for the sea or even rivers for that matter. He seemed overly cautious upon the boat, each step being taken with care, every creek in the boards given a glare.
The strange dwarf found his cabin quickly after boarding and stayed within it for some great time. He changed out of the expensive garments of an ambassador and instead more a tailored outfit designed for travel, which mixed between white, grey and black with a midnight hued fur cloak. His armor and shield were left in the cabin as well, though he did carry his crossbow and warhammer with him on deck.
For the most part he stayed near the middle of the ship, with a hand always gripping something firm, his jaw line set and his chin outthrust in defiance of the discomfort that sought to grip his stomach.
Nearby, Talavuc stood on the ship, attempting to stay out of the way of the sailors. She had been on the waters before as a passenger, but never as a sailor. It's interesting how different life on vessels such as this is. She grinned slightly and looked out over the water as the plied the waters. The spray of the water was different, but strangely similar to the feeling of the precipitation of her homeland. Convenient then that snow also fell, leaving her to feel both out of place and quite comfortable.
She stared out over the waters for a time before she decided to see how Naasvit was doing. Poor Naasvit. He doesn't seem to be taking well to sea travel. She glanced for a second at the nearby shore. Well... river travel, anyway. Grinning slightly to herself, Talavuc headed to the below decks.
On her way down the stairs Talavuc gave a wide berth to the crew as they came and went, navigating the narrow halls of the ship with relative ease and famliarity. She opened the door to her cramped cabin, only to find her mink, Naasvit. curled up in a ball the size of an overstuffed backpack on the floor. The normally excitable mink stirred just slightly to look up at her and utter a small grunt before he laid his head back down.
She approached Naasvit and reached down to stroke the top of his head. He made a short yipping noise as she approached. "Yes, yes, I know you don't like it. Only a few more days, alright?" The mink stayed silent, then snorted once in deference. She smiled at him and laid down on the bed. She stared at the ceiling and slowly stroked the top of his head and back of his neck. What will we find there? Will it be nothing? The answer, more so than the question, worried Talavuc the most. Rather than dwell on it, she curled up beside the mink, resting one arm over him to comfort his troubles. Sleep, even if brief, seemed like the best solution.
Back above decks, when the opportunity presented itself, Ar'Zarrcal approached Captain Brevin and spoke in the language common to the Ulfen peoples. <<Greetings Captain Brevin. I am Ar'Zarrcal and this is a grand vessel you have here.>> The dwarf kept his voice low, to hinder those who would overhear his conversation. <<I regret that I am no sailor, but if anything on your ship needs mending I can be of assistence...>> The rune-scarred dwarf let that offer hang in the air for some time before speaking again. <<How long have you been in the employ of the Andorrans Captain?>> Ar'Zarrcal was careful to avoid touchy topics as best he could.
Presently watching the horizon from the forecastle, Captain Brevin turns towards Ar'Zarrcal when he is addressed in Skald. Arching one thick brow, the ship's captain manages a smile and steps down to the midship with an uneven gait. <<She's a tough b*tch, reminds me of most of the women that I'd had in my life. Thick-skinned and fat in the back.>> Cracking a somewhat larger smile, the captain seems to not be put ill at ease by conversing with an outwardly marked member of the Thassilonian empire resurgent.
<<I'll take any steady hand if this ship needs damages repaired, what with the terrain we're heading to. The Andorans may be loose with the coin, but this vessel takes finely tuned hands to repair.>> Offering an askance look across the deck to one of his crew, Brevin grows momentarily silent and runs a hand through his curly, blonde beard. <<his is a one-time service for this ship. We're not in the business of selling ourselves out to the Andoran people. This is a free ship and we're free men. The Andorans heard of us because of our raids on Chelish ships near the Arch of Aroden and they knew we had a vessel capable of cutting through the winter ice.>>
Furrowing his brows, the Captain's expression shifts to something subtly darker. <<This is the second trip north we've taken. The first team never returned, and I warned them as much. You can't control winter, you can't tame it, and you sure as the Hell are hot can't stop it. Trying to do so is inviting an icy death.>> Grimly, Brevin looks out to the snowy horizon. <<Just best to adapt and survive. Struggling only makes death hurt.>>
Then, grimacing a little he adds, <<Or so I've been told.>>
Ar'Zarrcal felt his left eye begin to twitch and flutter and a flash of old memories briefly flooded his mind. He saw himself sitting within an Ulfen meadhall, drinking heavily with dwarves and ulfen warriors, telling tales as the large fire in the hearth cast shadows along the notched table. Yet the image quickly faded, replaced by a spinning Sihedron and the Spires of Xin-Shalast.
Fingering the iron Sihedron that hung about his neck, he nodded to the captain. <<You may be right. Winter may be inevitable in these lands, but there are others who are capable of great feats of sorcery. My lord has bridged the gulf of centuries in a single step, so too will he tame the harsh winter.>>
It when then that Captain Styvanus Rozier sought out the Ulfen captain. Briefly interjecting himself in Ar'Zarrcal and the Brevin's conversation, Styvanus made his point short and sweet. "The Nation of Andoran thanks you for your services, Sir; as do I." He begins in a humble tone, offering the man a firm handshake and going on to introduce himself. "Captain Styvanus Rozier. It looks like you run a tight ship, and I respect that. I'm sure you have things under control but should something arise that requires our collective attention, there are a few capable sailors in our unit, and I'm sure the rest of us wouldn't mind pulling our weight. It goes without saying I'm sure, but don't hesitate to ask. Your ship, your command Captain." He finishes with a slight bow of his head, and waits formally for any response.
Styvanus receives an up-and-down look, then a subtle nod from the ship's captain before he returns to his conversing with Ar'Zarrcal in the Skald tongue, seemingly having had enough of the Andoran formalities. Seeing that he's been dismissed, Styvanus heads below decks.
On the stairs, Styvanus crossed paths ever so briefly with the team's Chelish Marine, coming up after having putg his supplies and gear in the 'luxurious' personal space he was offered. Marcellano had decided to walk around the ship and do a quick inspection about it, making a mental note of anything combat-worthy or that could be used in case of an attack. Ulfen or not, a ship is a ship. Its good to be back onboard, even for so short of a time. The captain... I'll have to keep an eye on him, even if he is in the employ of Andoran. He also makes a note of where enemies could possibly board it, in case an attack happens in the night. He's had it happen far too often back in the Shackles, and experience tells him to always know the strengths and weaknesses of a ship he is on.
On his survey of the ship, Marcellano discovers the signs of previous battles board the ship. Most of them are scuff and scrape marks from errant weapon strikes, indicating that the ship was boarded at least once.
Overall, the vessel is in excellent condition. The only means of ingress is the above-deck area, as there are no port-holes on this vessel below decks, though there are six that look to lead into the captain's quarters (two on both the port and aft sides and two larger windows on the stern).
The crew gives Marcellano space on his inspection of the vessel, largely so as to not cause undue friction with their temporary clients. It's clear that their attitude is somewhat less than friendly to the outwardly Chelish marine, but they try not to make a point out of it for the time being.
After doing such, he decides to get some exercise, and thus goes onto the foredeck, still in his sailor's uniform, and proceeds to do some pushups for as long as the crew will have him in the way. Need to keep preparing myself for this cold weather, as well as show the crew that as a Cheliax Marine, I'm not to be trifled with. Damned Ulfen Pirates.
Once aboard the ship Rasso gives it the same wandering inspection as Marcellano, though for now he keeps his distance from the Chelish marine. After satisfied that he knows as much as he can about the Red Wraith he seeks out the captain. "Pleasure to be aboard sir." He says, offering a bow of his head to the Ulfen man. "Name's Rasso. I'm plannin' on staying out of you and yer crew's hair, but iffin you need me for somethin' I'll be an able enough hand." Glancing around the impressive ice breaker, he nods. "Damn fine ship. I'll excuse myself now to acquaint meself with her nethers."
Three days aboard ship huh? Luckily I bought three bottles of rum and three hams before we left Almas. Rasso heads for his cabin, stopping to tell Styvanus "I'll be drinkin' below decks if you need me." Completing his short journey he deposits his gear in the room, and begins to drink his rum and eat his ham.
Next door, Styvanus had already sought out his cabin and claimed the one adjacent to Rasso, relieving himself of his considerably heavy pack. As a soldier, he was rather used to carrying large loads over distance, but this worsening winter made seemed to make his pack heavier. He took the time to remove his armor and changed into something more suiting of three days of travel up the icy river; a shirt of thick linen, pants of thicker wool, one glove (he kept the spiked gauntlet on his left hand), and a hooded cloak of the same material slung over his long blue coat, all over a layer of animal furs.
Finally settled in, Styvanus headed over to Rasso's cabin to acquaint himself with the fellow Andoran. "I have a bottle of Oldlaw in the cabin," is his aptly timed greeting, as Rasso is only just cracking into his bottle of rum. "Unless you'd rather drink alone." Rasso's response is the most incredulous face a shark-toothed fishman can muster before he flippantly waves Styvanus off to go get his booze.
Styvanus, promptly, retrieved his bottle and joined the Merfolk in his cabin. He sipped on the single-malt smooth rye, offered a drink of the whiskey for a drink of the rum to Rasso, and proceeded to make conversation with his Andoran Ally, small talk, barroom tales, and what-have-you.
Gladly exchanging some of his rum for the whiskey Styvanus brought, Rasso enjoys their friendly banter. It wasn't often that they got to spend more than an evening together and he was looking forward to getting to know his new commanding officer better.
"How d' you reckon those Shalast types ended up that way? You think they're slaves of the mind as it were?" he asks the Andoran captain.
Styvanus contemplates Rasso's question grimly, staring into the bottle of Oldlaw for a long while as if it had the answer. His ears perked at the Skaldi sea chants, but his attention turned back to Rasso. "Perhaps some sort of mind control? But, it might just be a matter of survival. I'm afraid I can't speak for what they've been through. Some folks are drawn to power. It could be any number of things."
Finding himself alone in the small windowless cabin, Teladon put down his pack, and sat on the edge of the cot crossing his knees and tucking his feet underneath him. Closing his eyes, the tall, lean elf forced himself to burn away all of the anxiety and frustration he was feeling as he took off his ceremonial mask. Clearly something had been lost in translation following the Winter Counsel, the elf thought to himself as he pictures a flickering torch and allowed his emotions to be consumed by the ever growing flame.
Casting his mind back back to the meeting at the Golden Aerie, Teladon remembered feeling surrounded. So many humans. Like rats they breed, seeming quicker each year. He recalled the Knight-Commanders proclamation that a human would be left in charge. Shaking his head Teladon, though of the few humans he had met throughout his one hundred odd years. They are rash, impulsive and short sighted, the magus thought. The Elders warned me that I would have to deal with outsiders... that they suspected witchcraft was somehow involved and that my training and focus would be a great asset. But humans? I can work with anyone, but I will not work for someone. No nation has ever told the Spire what to do. I will not allow myself to be the first. Snorting, Teladon withdrew his black rune engraved scimitar. Letting the blade and pommel rest on his knees. He lightly ran his hands along the blade and felt the inset markings of Acavna, goddess of moons and battle beneath his fingers. The dwarf would not have been so bad. They are a long lived race. But that one has been... turned. Whatever the Runelord did, it left an indelible mark.
Sighing, Teladon continued to feed his inner flame, seeking the peace that lay within logic. Finally after several more minutes of contemplation the elf felt at piece. Then, reaching down into his bag he withdrew an brown leather book embossed with elven runes. Resting the book on his lap, so that the spine rested against his blade he opened up his spellbook and began to review his incantations. For the next several hours Teladon engrossed himself in his magics, until feeling his stomach rumble, Teladon realized that he was hungry and needed to eat soon.
Sighing, the elf put away his book and with a whisper of a blessing, sheathed his blade he rose before finally affixing his ceremonial mask. Reaching for the door, Teladon frowned from behind his mask. Likely whatever is for dinner tonight will be either burned or bloody and soaked in alcohol. frowning once more Teladon opened the door to his cabin and began to search out the ships galley.
Once he arrived in the galley, Teladon's fears and suspicions were largely turned on their ear by the unlikely cuisine served by the lone cook aboard the Red Wraith. It would turn out that Teladon was arriving as the Ulfen were preparing for náttmál, or "night meal" in the common tongue. Most of the crew of the vessel had gathered down here, a rowdy but good-spirited bunch of scraggly looking men with thick beards and fair complexions weathered by years at sea.
The aroma of their food, though, is particularly alien to most cultures outside of the lands of the Linnorm Kings. What is being served out on the wooden dishes looks like a discolored gray-brown slab of fat and thin layers of pungent meat atop which the rubbery skin is still attached beside which is served layers of seaweed and steamed mollusks. As best as he can ascertain from the conversations, they are being served a dish called hakikarl, a meal that consists of fermented shark meat, explaining the pungent aroma. The seaweed and mollusks look to be fresh and not preserved via fermenting.
At least part of Teladon's supposition of food was correct, however, in that there is a copious amount of mead being slung around in pewter tankards.
From where they share drinks in the cramped confines of a cabin, Rasso and Styvanius can hear the Skaldi sea chants beginning to bellow from the galley. Even above decks, Ar'Zarrcal and the others can hear the songs, deep and resonant, echoing through the cold evening as the horizon darkens and night approaches.
Talavuc awoke sometime later in the evening to the sounds of chanting and the pungent smells of the meal being served. As her senses returned to their fullest range, she smirked to herself. "It's dinner. Time to wake and quit being so lazy." She smirked to herself and carefully picked her way out of the meager bed, careful to not disturb the slightly cantankerous mink. Fortunate enough that he doesn't have the energy. She shook her head. Poor Naasvit. Sighing, she reached down and gave his head a reassuring stroke before heading out to the hall.
Walking down the narrow hall, Talavuc finds herself directly below midship in the galley. Here, the chanting songs and boistrous conversations of the Ulfen crew ring off the walls and mix dirge-like ballads with the sound of crunching ice up against the ship's hull. In the galley, Talavuc notices the elven component of their team assessing the food on offer, and Teladon's masked countenance belies no visible emotion aside from its steely facade.
But Teladon isn't listening to the sea chants, he isn't even paying attention to the smell of the food now, or even Talavuc's approach. His keen, elven hearing has detected something else amidst all of the noise that would serve to distract him. Something that shouldnt' be. Carrying back the disgusting bowl of pickled shark to his room, Teladon felt something. In hindsight he wouldn’t have been able to say exactly what it was, but none the less there was a sense of wrongness. A sense of something impending.
Down the hall out of the galley and in Styvanius' cabin, Captain Rozier and Rasso share stories over drinks, the sound of the river ice crunching up against the hull a constant pop and clunk that serves as a backdrop for their relaxation. They find themselves unaware of what it is Talavuc has sensed.
Above decks, the captain offers Ar'Zarrcal a wry smile. "We should eat," he finally says in an accent-stilted Taldan tongue. "Have you ever had hak-- ' Cutting himself off, the captain looks past Ar'Zarrcal and for the barest of moments looks like he sees something. On the deck, one of the crew who is keeping an eye out on the darkening horizon looks to match the captain's expression.
Then, all at once, the three crewmen above deck cry out, "Boarders! Boarders!" From over the sides of the ship creatures emerge from the dark, soaked in freezing river water and draped in the tattered remnants of farmer's clothing. Their bloated, water-logged corpses are composed of pulpy white flesh, eyes eaten by fish, exposed bone and muscle, some crusted in ice.
"Zombies!" The Captain shouts in a piercing voice, "All hands on deck, all hands on deck!"
"Zombies!"
Seconds before the elf had heard the cries of “Zombies” and “All hands on deck” Teladon had already dropped his bowl and was rushing up to the ice encrusted deck of the Red Wraith. As he did so, he whispered thanks to his Elders. It was his training that left him ever prepared. Where some might feel safe below decks in an armored ship, Teladon had chosen to wear his armor and carry his blade. Some might call it paranoia. As he ran along the wooden decks, nimbly jumping out of the way of a stateroom door being thrown open, Teladon smiled behind his mask. They could call it what they wanted; it was only paranoia if you were wrong.
"Zombies!"
The shout froze Talavuc for a few moments. Zombies? The walking dead are strike already? Are these the same corpses I have fought before on the Crown? Her thoughts race before she focuses her mind. No, questions will be answered later, for now, I must help.
Knowing that her spells were risky to the boat or of little help against such mindless opponents, she rushed back to her room. Talavuc grabbed her spear and looked down at her companion for a moment, thinking of rousing him. No, I'll not subject him to these creatures while he's like this. She gave him a reassuring stroke on the top of his head and turned to head for the deck above.
As the captain lets out his cry of alarm, he reaches down to his side and draws out a notched battle-axe etched with Skald runes. Hefting the blade in both hands, he grits his teeth and exhales a gout of steamy breath before shooting a look to Ar'Zarrcal, then back to the zombies. "Blod og ære!"
Captain Brevin's men look ill-prepared for a full-scale boarding in the middle of the Andoshan river. Only two of them are armed properly and they draw their short swords with the shearing sound of sharpened metal, though their resolve looks to be less firm than the steel of their blades.
The other crewman on deck, already carrying a shovel to haul snow off of the deck simply hefts it up over his head and brings it down in a furious arc at one of the creatures, screaming loudly all the while. The shovel swings unwieldly and wide, but the creature's attention turns to the sailor.
One milky eye and one ragged socket stare back, and as the sailor feels his stomach turn, the corpse gurgles up a mouthful of murky water and lunges forward towards him with outstretched hands. The zombie smashes its hand against the crewman's face, pushing him back and curling decaying fingers into his mouth. The zombie pulls itself in, leaning down in and sinks its teeth into the side of the crewman's neck, pulling back a mouthful of bloody flesh. The sailor's scream becomes wet and gurgling as his legs give out and he drops the shovel with a clang.
Another pair of zombies turn on one of the sailors who just drew his sword. The first zombie finds itself pushed back by a flailing arm, but the sailor backs up right into the other, finding the creature grasping at his head and neck before biting down on his spine, raking teeth over flesh and bone. Its white, pulpy mouth now caked in blood. That sailor collapses, but still embraced by the zombie's grasping hands.
Lurching across the deck, the other zombies leave icy trails of water in their wake, the groaning wails of their ragged mouths echoing across the ship. One begins slumping up the stairs towards Ar'Zarrcal and the captain, the corpse of a teenage girl in a tattered dress.
The sudden emergence of the Zombies caused Ar'Zarrcal to recoil. Taking a few steps back the dwarf felt sudden exposed without the protection of his heavy armor. A crossbow and the beautifully crafted warhammer were at his side, but his thoughts instead went to magic. The captain had previously shown scorn for magic, thinking it unreliable and fickle - here was a chance for the Thassilonian Herald to prove the grizzled seadog wrong.
Gesturing outward to one of the thick rope cables at the side of the boat. He uttered an incantation in the once ancient language of Thassilon magic. "се водат и вратоврска" For a moment strange glyphs appeared upon the length of the rope and it quickly tied itself across the length of the boat forming a trip wire length barrier.
Rushing along the wooden passageway the magus headed towards the sounds of battle. As Teladon got closer and closer to the stairs leading to the deck of the ship, his keen elfin ears picked out the screams of the dying and the harsh wet ripping sound of flesh being torn from bone. Steeling himself, the magus pulled his black rune-engraved scimitar from his scabbard and concentrating for a split-second he uttered the 23rd incantation of empowerment. As he did so, a faint blue light seemed to radiate from his ancient blade. Leaping up the stairs two at a time, the iridescent blue light from his blade streamed out from behind him leaving a blue contrail. Storming up to the top of the stairs he was greeted by a foul sight. All around him on the deck were the waterlogged corpses of the unquiet dead. Maggot white skin and dripping with river water, a zombie near the stairs turned to regard him with unabated hunger as he rose onto the deck. Roaring out a primal Azlanti war cry, Teladon, whipped his scimitar down towards the zombie in a overhand slash, the blade gripped with both hands and the edge streaming blue witch-fire.
Teladon's scimitar cuts deep into the flesh of the creature lurching nearby, slashing deeply into its neck and back, revealing grayed muscle and twitching tendons. The creature's head jerks to the side, fish-eaten eyes staring at he elven swordsman. As it stares at Talavuc, he can see the tapered ears more clearly, the thin frame and the once graceful features consumed by the decay of death and the river.
As it gurgles some unintelligible sound, Talavuc is thrust face-to-face with an undying member of his own species. How old was this woman? 100 years? 200? How many centuries of knowledge and training went completely to waste, only to take another century and a half to reproduce.
This wasn't just some walking abomination, it was an insult and a tragedy with legs, teeth and maggot-colored flesh.
The elven zombie turns fully from the crew-mate it had been ruthlessly attacking and lunges with arms outstretched towards Teladon, vomiting up murky seawater from its crooked jaws as it does. Rubbery fingers find purchase in its sudden lunge, grasping a hold of Teladon's outstretched sword arm before sending broken jaws down. Teeth don't quite penetrate through the fine chain links of his armor, but the inhuman jaw pressure breaks blood vessels and strains the flesh as it tries to eat Talavuc's arm as best as it can.
Behind the zombie, the crewmate who had withdrawn his short sword draws his sword back and lets out a horrified scream as he brings the blade down wildly on the zombie attacking Teladon. The short sword pierces into the zombie's back, but only a few inches and even then the puncture wound does little to actually impede the zombie's motion as no blood flows from the small point of entry.
As Ar'Zarrcal throws out that length of rope, the once-spooled length of hemp ties itself taut around the rope anchors on the floor. As the girl's shambling corpse approaches, her arms begin to lift, fingers grasping and mouth opening and closing slowly. She advances, mindlessly, straight towards the captain and Ar'Zarrcal, only to find herself stumbling over the taut tripwire of enchanted rope.
Staggering forward, the zombie twists and struggles as it finds the rope snaking up over its body and then wrapping around its legs and one arm, tightening and loosening erratically like a flexing muscle. Struggling to move any further, the zombie barely manages to make it a few more steps before halting entirely.
Relentless in their hunger, the two zombies that felled members of the crew stop to hunch over and devour the flesh of their victims. While there may have been hope for them surviving their injuries, the gruesome lengths of flesh and tendon torn away from wounds gushing blood confirm that both are now dead. The feasting zombies make grotesque, gurgling noises as they stuff themselves with the steaming-hot meat from their still twitching victims.
Those that do not have meals of their own move in ravenous hunger to find them. Brevin, refusing to become their next meal, steps in towards the ensnared young corpse and hefts up his axe. A primal scream erupts from his throat before he brings the axe down square in the girl's forehead. Thick, black blood does not spray or flow from the wound, it only oozes like jelly out from the wedge he's cleaved into her skull.
With a sucking sound, the axe is wrenched out, but the girl continues to struggle against the rope, hands flailing wildly, fingers curling and grasping and a rattling whisper escaping her fish-eaten lips.
"Gods below," Brevin whispers in Taldan, droplets of gelatinous blood spattered across one side of his face. Eventually, the zombie that the captain had wedged his axe into finally wobbles, twitches and collapsed to the deck in a sputtering heap of gelatinous blood and pale flesh.
Another zombie moves from those that are eating to climb up over the corpse of the one that was tangled by the rope. This shambling, fat corpse jiggles its way up the stairs, an over-swollen belly wobbling from left to right, fat sausage-like fingers twitching, jowls wobbling and lips pursing as its milky white eyes stare down the captain.
Silently Ar'Zarrcal returned to his original position, confidence in his magic allowing him to recover from his initial recoil. He pulled the warhammer from his side with two rune-scarred hands and with an upward strike, sought to shatter the jaw and neck of the Zombie with its heavy face. The impact of the blow strikes true and the zombie jerks back momentarily from the blow, but then quickly reels back around, unphased, letting out a wild hiss of watery breath.
Below decks, Rasso leaps to his feet at the cries of "Zombie". Gods damn it. I hate the taste of zombie. A grim look on his face, he scuttles up to the deck posthaste. Behind him, a crowd of Ulfen pirates are gathering their weapons and preparing to head topside once they are armed.
From his slumber below decks, the servant of Karzoug the Claimer stirs. Fenyx's eyes snap open, the flurry of motion above and below deck does not seem altogether out of place to the necromancer, especially given the constant annoyance of the ship's prow crushing through the frozen river. His eyes close once more, and he rolls over on his side and hopes the revelry will quieten enough for him to actually get some semblance of a rest.
His eyes snap open again. Zombies? Fenyx swivels his head to fix the door with a sidelong glance. The yells resume, followed by a much more pronounced clamor. [/i]Unexpected.[/i]
More awake than the crew had realized, Fenyx walks casually through the bowels of the ship, his cold gaze not betraying the anxiety simmering beneath the surface. A flourish of his wrists, not unlike flinging dust from a rug, and his garments have changed from something practical for sleeping into that of his more common garb: immaculate black and grey robes in the style of Shalast. He adjusts a bulbous satchel on his hip, rummaging through its contents with his left hand as he continues towards the deck of the ship. A hint of a smirk crawls onto his face as he says calmly, "Едвај надвор од пристаништето и лудилото почнува. Без разлика на тоа. Мртвите ги бираат своите жртви лошо оваа ноќ."
Styvanus feels the hair on the back of his neck stand up and hears the shouts of boarders and zombies. He stands, taking a moment to secure his shield across his right arm. "It seems leisure isn't in the cards these days Rasso." He takes a deep breath and bolts out toward the ship deck.
Seeing the zombies clamber up onto the deck and strike down two sailors, Marcellano begins to feel the rush of combat he so loves - he's already pumped up due to his exercise, and leaps up from being prone, draws his trusty cutlass, which has the words "Loyalty" masterfully engraved along the side of its blade, while taking a step towards the nearest zombie. He then takes a stroke with his cutlass, using both hands and putting every muscle he has into swinging it, trying to take out the nearest zombie. As he does this, he roars at the zombies, challenging them to try and face him, despite knowing that they're probably mindless.
The Chelish soldier's swing cleaves a lethal arc straight through one of the offending corpses' throats, cleaving its head clear off and sending its waterlogged corpse crashing to the deck in a slippery heap. The head hits the deck, bounces a few times and rolls to a stop, jaws still working open and closed.
As 'reward' for his actions, Marcellano catches sight of another zombie move in a sudden lunge across the deck from beside the ones that are feeding. It throws its arms up, belches up a mouthful of river water with a gurgling cry and grabs the soldier from the side, putrid fingers curling in the fabric of his uniform.
The zombie's jaws snap open and its mouth comes down onto Marcellano's shoulder. The cloth of his uniform tears as the zombie's broken teeth rip into his skin, rending pieces of skin away as it scrapes deep cuts through the exposed flesh but can't quite find enough purchase to pull away a whole chunk.
Giving a muffled grunt of pain from behind his steel engraved mask, Teleadon reflexively pulled his sword arm back, ripping several teeth out from the mouth of the waterlogged elven zombie. Grimicing behind his mask, he watched as the pale skinned human who Teladon had previously seen at the Golden Aerie grabbed up a battleaxe near to him and swung it with a bone crunching force down onto a nearby zombie. In the detached, logical part of his mind Teladon gave a nod of appreciation. The man was a brute, that much was clear, but he wasn’t lacking in skill. Across the deck, Teladon could also make out the form of the rune-scarred dwarf and the ship’s captain putting up a fight, but the rest of the crew didn’t seem to be fairing so well.
Taking a half step back Teladon focused his anima and murmured the 3th invocation of combustion. Completing the spell, his black blade of elven heritage began to sizzle in the snow and give off waves of heat. Raising the blade in a salute, Teladon lunged forward, bringing the heated blade down in a two handed grip. Striking down, his blade struck the elven abomination causing her flesh to sizzle and blister and an black elven rune for Rejection to appear on the woman brow. Bringing the blade down in follow through, Teladon half-heartily lashed out a second time. Completing his sword form, Teladon stepped back, looking at the woman. Such a waste Teladon thought, fighting back the sadness that all elves had felt since the destruction of so many of their people. Truly, such a waste.
Teladon's blade cleaves deeply into the elven zombie and splits her from clavicle to sternum, leaving a fissure of dead gray flesh and dark blood drooling with murky seawater. Despite the grievous injury, the creature continues to move, barely held together by insatiable hunger, inescapable cold and inhuman rage.
Fortunately for Teladon, his second sword-strike, while not solid enough to cut into her flesh, nimbly wards her branded face from getting close enough to secure another flesh-rending bite. The blow keeps the staggering creature at bay for now.
Across the ship, captain Brevin watches Ar'Zarrcal's warhammer do nothing but cause the zombie they battle to stumble about. Using Ar'Zarrcal's attack as an opening, the Captain swings his axe horizontally across the zombie's mid-section. This time, though, the captain loses his footing on the ice-slicked ship deck, his swing lashing out and striking the ship's railing leaving a notch of missing wood after its passing.
Over-extending himself as he did, the captain finds the zombie he attacked lunging in with sudden alacrity and urgency, a drowned groan bubbling up from rotten lips as jagged, yellow teeth are revealed. Swinging his axe back up, the captain smacks the zombie square in the jaw with the flat back-end of the axe, knocking its gnashing maw away. "I'll not be your dinner!" The captain bellows as he keeps the creature back.
Across the ship, Marcellano finds himself surrounded by the flesh-eating creatures, no matter how fast he seems to dispatch them. One of the zombies closest to Marcellano simply lunges forward with a hungered groan of pain,rising up from the leg of one of the crewmen, his calf muscle still in his mouth. It closes the distance too quickly for the Chelish soldier to withdraw, and without his armor he finds the foul creature finding both easy purchase with its waterlogged limbs on his shoulders, and then no resistance when it sinks its teeth into the side of his neck by his shoulder.
This time the creature pulls skin away, leaving a large toothy mark and a spray of blood between its jaws. The creature, so close, reeks of decay and brine and Marcellano can feel the unearthly cold of its near frozen body and see the desperation and pain in its murky eyes.
Two of the other zombies, smelling fresh kills, rise up from the crewmen they were devouring and jerk their heads towards Marcellano. Moving into loping gaits, these two near frozen corpses begin shambling towards he and Rasso, gurgling up blood, flesh and water in a brown vomit.
Below decks, the rest of the ship's crew still struggles to get their weapons and armor in the crowded halls, leaving the fight above decks to those who have already been battling. There simply isn't enough space for everyone to rally at once.
Oooh, I'm gonna walk around deck in no armor! Hmmpf. Rasso sees Marcellano getting eaten, and decides to aid the sailor. In a moment of inebriated indecision he first lashes out with a claw at the zombie fighting Teladon, seeing it's close to being put down. His feeble effort connects with nothing but air, as he turns to jam his left claw into the belly of one of the zombies on Marcellano.
Lunging past the undead writhing on his pincer, Rasso's long neck propels flashing jaws towards the zombie directly in front of the chelish marine. His shark like teeth are aiming straight for its neck.
Rasso's wild attacks create a flurry of action on the deck. While his first swing misses the target engaged with Teladon, it does serve to drive the zombie backwards into one of the ship's surviving crew. That sword-wielding pirate steps into a flanking position pinning the elven zombie between he and Teladon. When Rasso pushes it back, he thrusts forward and drives his short sword through the back of the zombie's head, the point of the blade forced out of its mouth.
Ripping the blade out, the Ulfen pirate pushes the still staggering corpse forward to collapse down at Teladon's feet, the brand of light crackling on its brow still visible.
As Rasso moves to his next target, huge claws rend through pulpy flesh with ease, pulling muscle and flesh from bone as if the zombie were boiled pork just out of the stew-pot. The rake of clws doesn't drop the creature, but it does spin it around and drive it back from Marcellano. The latter bite sinks deep into zombie flesh, but the piercing shark-like teeth simply don't have the same effect on pulpy, rotten flesh as they do the living.
Furthermore, the taste is revolting and will stick with Marcellano for the rest of the day at the back of his throat.
Footsteps even and stride long, Fenyx continues making his way up from below deck. Just steps away from his destination, the necromancer pulls up the hood of his robes, cloaking most of his face in deep shadow as he makes his grand entrance. He emerges onto the deck of the ship, the freezing winds whipping his trailing garments about wildly as he rises from a half stooped position to his full height in defiance of the oppressing frigid gusts. Such a pity to spoil such a fine night on this paltry lot. The necromancers eyes seize the myriad threats seeking to sup on the bodies of those who would bear he and his companions to their destination.
Through a brief, bored grimace, he calls out firmly and evenly, "Мртвите може да се зголеми и мртвите може да падне. Уште поважно, на мртвите може да служи." He fixes the frozen, waterlogged dead with a stern gaze before shouting angrily, "Obey!"
At that moment, a chill pulse of dimming light radiates outward across the ship from the representative of Shalast, Fenyx as he finally makes his presence known aboard the ship. With that psychic urge and channeling of fel energy, one of the zombies jerks and twitches as if lashes by puppeteer's strings, then turns towards Fenyx and bows its head subserviently.
The heavy warhammer fell from Az'Zarrcal's grip to clatter on the icy deck at his feet. He had struck a blow that should have broken a living man's neck, but against the undead standing before him it was a useless gesture. Though his magic still lingered on the rope, his mastery of that magic informed him that it would be futile to attempt the same trick once more. With desperation in his eyes the dwarf searched wildly about until his gaze fell upon the unused battle-axe hanging from a loop at the captain's belt.
"Kaptein, to akser er bedre enn ett."Ar'Zarrcal said simply in Skald and then yanked the weapon from the larger man's belt. He had expected the weapon to feel awkward in his hands, for he had no recollection of ever practicing with one, but as soon as his hands curled around it the axe felt as natural to him as a warhammer.
Styvanus moves up the stairs and past Rasso, taking in the chaos of the deck, however his trained eye noticed that it seemed to be a dwindling chaos. The world's gone to hell and here I am without my armor. He criticized himself as an afterthought, bringing his readied shield in front of his face as a reflexive barrier between himself and a waterlogged, barely standing corpse. Like routine however, he did his best to steel himself against the gruesome reality and delivered a prodding blow to the zombie. The blow slid off the icy carcass of the zombie but he managed to keep his shield at the ready, seeking to make up for his lack of armor. "Come at me!" He shouted encouragingly to the mindless undead.
Talavuc rushes up the staircase leading to the deck, the evening sun providing illumination similar to that below deck amongst the lanterns and rowdy ulfen. A sudden gust of wind whips her, the wind blowing snow into her face and stinging her eyes while the cold drops of melting snow provide a familiar sensation, reminding her of her homeland. A quick scan of the deck reveals the extent of the boarding, but as she looks at the undead, a bit of relief rises in her. Not the same. These poor people are not the same as the ones in my homeland. The sight of the dead crewmen reminds her of the seriousness of the situation and she chides herself for feeling relief. It is not the time for such things.
She raises an eyebrow at the bowing zombie and stabs with her spear at the other in front of the chelish marine. Her arms pull back for a moment, snapping forward with the power of a two-handed thrust, aiming at the zombie's throat. The largely ineffectual attack causes her to reassess for a moment, and she steps back onto the aftcastle to consider another route of attack.
"Aaaaaggh, you sodding son of a-", Marcellano yells as he is bitten again. "You think your pathetic bite'll stop me? This is nothing! Its but a flesh wound! I've had worse!" With fury born of pain and anger, Marcellano takes his cutlass and brings it down on the zombie that bit him with everything he has, intending on endings its miserable unlife.
Reeling from the pain, Marcellano's cutlass only glances off the zombie's brow leaving a hairline slice in its pulpy flesh.
Having closed the distance, Teladon's eldritch-fueled blade cleaves down deep into the carcass of the rotting human, cleaving through most of the side of its head and jaw. The momentum of the blade sends the zombie's body sprawling to the floor, the noise of wet suction accompanying some of the blackish-gray morass of rotten flesh in what remains of its skull sliding out onto the deck.
Across the ship in the forecastle, Captain Brevin lets out a mad laugh as he hefts his axe back up over his head and brings it down towards the obese corpse staggering towards he and Ar'Zarrcal. The zombie lunges forward at the same time, slamming into the captain, his axe slicing a wide cut across the zombie's cheek and through the side of its jaw, shattering rotten molars.
"You thrice-damned fat sack of-- " the captain screams before the fat zombie's mouth presses against his face. The cursing turns to screaming as blood runs down the side of the captain's face, and as he pulls away from the zombie he leaves a piece of his cheek dangling from its jaws, a large bloody patch of raw flesh exposed where its teeth had sunk in and found purchase.
Back on the midship, the remaining zombie by Marcellano seems unattracted to the goading of Captain Rozier, instead it continues to launch itself at the injured meal that fights back. Lunging in at Marcellano again, the zombie finds its path blocked by the Chelish soldier's forearm. As its forced back, the creature's jaws open and its teeth dig into Marcellano's forearm, blood oozing through the fabric of his sleeve and pain shooting up into his shoulder and down to his fingertips.
Just as soon as it looks like the zombie is going to try and tear Marcellano's arm out of the socket, its ripped away, up into the air and then down onto the deck as Rasso's hulking form rends it limb from limb in a flurry of slashing claws. As the eidolon-bound, monstrous-looking merfolk turns his sharklike visage towards the zombie controlled by Fenyx's necromantic arts the creature seems ready to turn and join the fight by the captain. Instead, Rasso's claws dig inches into its back and yank it over, followed by a saw-toothed bite on its neck, the rending sound of tearing flesh and the zombie's tooth-marked head rolling to a halt at Fenyx's feet.
When Rasso's eyes flick over to the zombie still engaging Ar'Zarrcal and the captain and his muscles tense in preparation to attack it, a pale beam of gray-white energy rockets forth from Fenyx's extended hand accompanied by an eldritch invocation. As the beam strikes the bloated corpse, it burn away flesh and bone into a fine white powder with searing force, turning the edges of the affected area a fiery orange color. The creature lurches forward, then is pushed backwards down the stairs by the captain.
Head over heels, the fat zombie rolls and tumbles, huge chunks of its body coming off in charred portion that turn into windborn particles of white ash. By the time it hits the midship, most of its body has been reduced to fine powder and the rest an unmoving heap of scorched flesh and bone cleansed by the ray of positive energy.
With the last zombie destroyed, Captain Brevin clutches one hand at his face and lets out a bellowing litany of curses in Skald that ring out over the water.
...soon joined by the bark of a golden-furred hound at Talavuc's heels, tail wagging, and an excitedly looking up at the Erutaki woman with hopeful expectance.
A little late, though.
What, no comments on this awesome piece of work? Pfft! Keep up the great DMing Lucent! Its been an amazing campaign so far, and its only getting better from here on out.
Unfortunately, I've got to second Anorak's comment.
I've been planning to read this since it was posted last week but I haven't really found the time as the posts are pretty long, potentially deterring readers from checking out the story in the first place (to a certain extent, this also applies to your Pathfinder Ascension journal, Lucent, which I've read and really liked so far, by the way).
Perhaps it might be a better idea to write shorter, more easily digestable entries that allow the reader to begin reading and then taking a break after a specific post (whereas here many people might not be willing to stop in between if they do not have the time to read a post in one go).
I really like the premises of your modified campaign, Lucent, and would consider it a shame if many people just didn't read it for the length of the instalments. As Anorak has pointed out, alternatively, a PDF would also be a good idea.
I've mostly tried breaking it up by scenery changes so that each post reads naturally. I guess I could break it up into more bite-sized portions...