Wealday 10th Lamashan (Late Autumn)
Late eve in village of Kustir
The spectral glow from the numerous fishoil lamps does little to ease the eerie feel of Kustnir. And their stink does little to endear you further to this isolated place…
This small Iobarian fishing village, perched on the bank of the Lake of Mist & Dreams, is home to around 90 souls. Though the thick lake haar, and graveyard silence makes you wonder if that the number is wholly accurate…
Barring those villagers who greeted you at the gate or who now sit, morose in their cups within the drinking lodge of The Kelpie’s Net, there has been scant signs of life. Or indeed of death… as the murderous curse the village has apparently endured has also failed to materialise since your arrival.
You have of course seen little of the village since arriving, having been hastily installed in The Net as the village council argue the best course of action. Klenna Fiscsdohtor, the eolder’s daughter has checked on you once or twice, but for the main you’ve sat and waited for a decision and to be formally received in the longhouse. Until this eve. The council have made a decision and on the morrow you will be petitioned by the eolder Pater Fisc on behalf of the beleaguered village. For what purpose or reason remains unclear… as muttered gossip and rumour clouds the place more than the haar that enshrouds the place.
The Kelpie’s Net is one of the few stone buildings in the village. Most fisherfolk live in single storey wooden dwellings with turf roofs. A few of the buildings (including the village longhouse and the drinking lodge) have stone walls with blackened thatch roofs.
The Net offers food and drink, but scant else in terms of hospitality. The cots at the far end of the building are wooden stuffed with straw, whilst the longtables host but a sprinkle of locals.
The lodge is run by Wym Wínmann, a short, rotund man rumoured to have hin blood. Wym appreciates the custom, but like all those in Kustnir is as wary of outlanders as they are their own shadows.
As you enter he hails you in thick Auld Iobarian;
”Welcome… welcome to our gisthus. I shall be over presently with æfengiefl and drinc. Please sit and talk. Aye talk… Would be nice to hear men talk for a change…”
Felgar sits with Kevkul, and looks to the Northman and strikingly beautiful woman that he has yet to meet. He figures that he ought to take his chances with the Northman first due to his shyness with the womenfolk.
My þancword, Wym!
With a slight grin he speaks to the Northman in Auld Iobarian.
So, Northman, I am Luke Falgren. What is your ágennama, and what is your frumcynn?
The northman to which Luke refers is a broad Ulfen, his furs covered with a wintergewæde from lingering in the sleet outside earlier - though the cold does not seem to bother him. Sitting at his heel is a shaggy-coated hound.
Scowling at the silence and dour mood in the Net he calls to Wym "My horn is emptied and the night is young. Best bring a stæna and leave it with me." before turning his attention to the newcomer.
Said loudly with little concern for who might overhead "I am Ragnar, and I left my cynling beneath the earth afore I came here. You see before you all that is my cynréd" as he reaches down and scratches the elghund behind the ears.
Wym meanders over to your table, keen to see the interplay between these outlanders.
He deposits four bowls of steaming something before you all, the swifty returns with horns of mead for you all save Ragnar, with whom he leaves a small timber cask
"Finest Highmettle Mead for you á... Master Ragnar may...err... áhealdan the keg... And to eat I give you the Kelpie's speciality..."
(cue mutters and wry comments from the locals present regarding the Net's limited menu)
He scowls at the dissenters "...Feh! Outlanders... I give you: Kustnir Skink and birch-bark bread... Honest food for our geócendas""
.
Luke raises his Highmettle Mead to Ragnar. His demeanor is genreally kind, but he appears slightly uncomfortable and out of place inside the Net. His clothing bespeaks heavy wear, and the long bow and axe on his back signify his constant state of wary preparedness.
Well met, Ragnar. I am a known ciricweard of this land, and I hope to provide ætstæl and my searu to Kustnir in its time of need.
He looks casually to the attractive, yet intimidating female at the table.
What of you, cempestre? What is your ágennama?
At Wym's last word Ragnar reaches out a hand to stop him and tells him plainly "Många köper björnhuden innan björnen är skjuten. Don't praise me for what I have not yet done. When we have dealt with what ails Kustnir I will bask in your praise... not before." holding his grip for a few moments before releasing the man and fishing out some coin "For the mead" passing the gold over.
Ragnar then re-fills his horn from the keg, and starts fishing out some of the chunks of fish to pass down to Liten Mun.
Wym looks a little castened as he walks back to his chair aside the casks. He sits rubbing his wrist which is now as red as his face.
Across the room a dry, cackling hack splits the air as a sapling thin half elf, decked in mangy furs appreciates Wym being warned. He turns towards the group, one milky eye partnering a sharper keener one.
"Hehhhhh. Share your willspell o' the æðel and a drop of that fine medu with an old Hehhhhhh hunter eh friends?"
His yellow teeth smile in anticipation as he jostles his empty drinking horn...
You know this man to be “Gehylced” Gilstur, a half blind, old crooked half elf hunter. As his years have ebbed “Gehylced” has taken to trapping the occasional traveller or pilgrim as well as beasts. He is also a incorragable gossip...
Luke puts up a hand as if to ward off ragnar and the others.
Aye, Gehylced, you olde coot. I will share my medu for some tales of what ails Kustnir. What have you heard? I cunnan you have your éare to the ground like a good hunter.
Wym, another medu for our friend here!
Luke motions the old man half-elf to the seat next to him at the table.
Surrounded by so many humans, suspicious ones at that, Kevkul continues to sip at the Highmettle Mead offered.
Bah! Too watery.
Nevertheless he drinks it up, grateful for the warmth the liquid provides, keeping the bleary cold at bay.
Praise Cailean Caydean for that! he mutters after emptying his drinking horn. Kevkul looks around, trying to catch Wym's eye, gesturing for a refill.
He picks up when he sees the half-elf, curious as at what he has to say as Luke beckons him to sit nearby.
Gehylced scuttles over, thin even for a half elf, the hunters weathered skin is taut over his fine bones.
Attentive to a fault Wyn fills first Kevkul’s horn, then somewhat more reluctantly Gehylced's before walking off with a shake his head.
”Oh aye I know things! I geáscian things…”
He slurps at his mead, then adds;
”The morþorcofa villagers of Kustnir have risen as watery gest and stalk the lakeshore by night... I seen em... with my own eye hehhhhhh... all blácung and smellin' mealt”
Smugly he grins, his milky eye watering slightly as he drains his horn…
Kevkul nods appreciatively to Wym as his horn gets filled up. Kevkul reflects on the half-elf's utterings before opens his mouth to speak.
Aye, good Wym! Some medu for my sundorwine here. Make it æfesn, tab it on me.
He looks on as the mead gets served.
Sense Motive:
Diplomacy:
Interesting story you have there. Could you tell us more?
Ragnar does not speak to the half-elf hunter, he merely affixes him with a steady gaze and continues eating and drinking.
Wyn hustles over, a flustered look upon his face;
”Master dwarf… is Highmettle mead… the best we have. Admittedly the rain (ahem) seeped into this particular keg a little, but to open another… would be 5 gold marc at least…”
As his horn is filled again Gehylced wets his lips and continues;
”See I done some business with a cíepa out o’ Orlov. Sold me something that ain’t a linament for cnéosár… don know what it is, but I know what it ain’t see…” (the hunter fishes for a tin vial and presents it for all to see)
”… anyway I.. planned on having a… word with this cíepa basturd… so there I was tracking him and his alfur ferhweard along the lake shore, when through the haar I smelt em. Sour… Wrong-like… I hide good and proper… for I want no gest eating my soul! Then I seen em…”
The hunter takes a large draught, then wipes his mouth, one good eye glinting as he continues;
”Men… Dead men. .. All pale and blácung, speaking a tongue I didn’t care to hear again. The tongue o’ the dead… hissin and clicking like…”
Around the lodge, men of Kustnir make warding signs...
You sense that, like his bones, the hunter’s story is a little crooked. While the details may be true, his motives for tracking the merchant may have been less than honest…
Aye, I hear you, Wym. Lets enjoy the mead before too much water spoils it further. Say, if yer beverage stocks are running low or you need a little mislícnes, we could have a little chat on that.
Continuing to place his attention to the half-elf, Kevkul holds out his hand, gesturing to the linament.
What happened to the cíepa and the ferhweard then?
Luke leans in close to Kevkul and whispers quickly.
That must be the Cíepa and alfur that we heard disappeared.
Wyn nods his thanks towards Kevkul
"Many thanks Master dwarf... If our stocks aren't replenished soon, we may well have that word. Curse this dryhtenbealu that blights us!"
The vial contains something that is most definately not linament nor medicinal... You also believe it may not be mundane in nature...
At the question, the crooked hunter shifts uneasily in his seat, staring intently at his drinking horn;
"The Gest got them... must have done, or the mist beasts or the iss trow... take your pick æweweard! Falgren will tell ye how dangerous the wilds can be..."
Muttering under his breath I came expecting a land settled by my ancestral kinsmen, not a village of cowards who huddle under their bed afraid of shadows. Draining his horn, he refills it from the keg.
Discreetly casts Detect Magic on the ointment..
Do you still need that linament tin, Gehylced? I could barter a healing service for the tin if yer interested.
Diplomacy:
Gehylced mulls Kevkul's offer... then nods;
”Aye dweorg I’m interested but not in hæling ..."
The crooked hunter grins and whets his lips
” A priest o’ the lucky druncan must carry some decent liquor nei?”
The “linament” vial’s contents are clearly magical. Identified school is Transmutation.
Wyn picks up on Luke's comment regarding the merchant;
"Are you sure they are missing? The Orlovian's alfur Ferhweard followed Old Deadeye, and seemed most capable. They were módigan right enough, hell bent on making Gánnáhwǽr right enough..."
Gehylced sneers again;
"Mist trow... Einchadu... who knows what got them... But it weren't me heh."
The door to the feasthall booms as it slams into the wood behind it. From out of the dark and stormy night enters a stranger. Striding up the hall between the long tables, the graceful figure stops before the biggest men in the room. The stares and open mouths of those warriors and wenches both as she passes causes the woman to smile brightly and the room seems palpably brighter in the presence of her mirth. Her gleaming breastplate shines in the now brighter light and, as you stare at the form fitting contures of the odd metal, you realize you can see your own reflection staring back at you. A great winged circlet rests upon her brow and her bronze hair radiates it's own light setting the silver and copper feathers of the wings aflame. A very serviceable heavy spiked shield is strapped to her left arm. In her right hand she carries a short spear topped with a pennon of a snarling wolfhound looking back over it's shoulder.
"Where is your héafodmann? I am níwcumen and would eáÞgesýne."
Luke stands and addresses the imposing and infatuating female that walked into the Net.
Well met, my name is Luke Falgren, and I am a known ciricweard of this land. I hope to provide ætstæl and my searu to Kustnir in its time of need. We are all meeting with the héafodmann, Petar, in the mornin'.
What of you, cempestre? What is your ágennama?
Sneering slightly at the half-elf as he speaks, Ragnar is not one to hide his low opinion.
As the female warrior makes her entrance, Ragnar watches appraisingly. Now this is a woman worthy of a place in a bordweall. He raises his horn to her "Hail"
Wyn stumbles slightly as he rushes to attend to the amazonian newcomer. Smoothing his hair back, the short lodge-keeper grins inanely;
”G-Greetings cyrten maiden! Wilcuma to Kustnir... I am Wym, your... humble servant and... here, please sit... Would you care for food and drinc?”
Wym pushes a place clear at the table amongst the other Outlanders...
Gehylced grins slyly at the reactions of the other men, although he too wears the look of a hungry wolf...
He turns his attention to Luke, hissing a comment to the ranger;
”Falgren you have nei chance with this one hehhhhh. Ulfen hilderand-mægden... wedded to their weapons and duty... better ye get one o’ the fishwives to knock boots with hehhhhhh...”
Well met, my name is Luke Falgren, and I am a known ciricweard of this land. I hope to provide ætstæl and my searu to Kustnir in its time of need. We are all meeting with the héafodmann, Petar, in the mornin'.
What of you, cempestre? What is your ágennama?
Disa coolly regards the warden before responding. "I am Dísa Valbjörndóttir, a scóp and wæloeæ of the cynréd heoruwearh. Where does this héafodmann hide himself?"
As the female warrior makes her entrance, Ragnar watches appraisingly. Now this is a woman worthy of a place in a bordweall. He raises his horn to her "Hail"
Disa hardly spares a glance for the stoic man until she notices the hund at his feet. A quirk of her eyebrow betrays her interest as she nods to the hundþegn.
”G-Greetings cyrten maiden! Wilcuma to Kustnir... I am Wym, your... humble servant and... here, please sit... Would you care for food and drinc?”
Turning to the innkeep, Disa responds, "Géa, and tarry not over long."
The lucky druncan's priests always carries some around, for lucky ríce like yerself, Gehylced.
Kevkul rummages in his pack and takes out a bottle of fine wine.
Here, have at it. There's more than enough to share eh? Why not share a toast to remember the losian and to celebrate the cempestre's arrival? I'm sure you'd be just the person to slake her thirst.
Gehylced’s bony fingers grab at the bottle and he smiles; ”Done deal dwoerg! Truly an amel right enough hehehehuuur!”
The bent old hunter hacking laughter echoes through the lodge, and he rises grasping his prize…
”That’ll be my sign fer turning in… Looking forward to hearing what the eolderman and you heroes have to say come the morn… Less of course the unmenn get me in my sleep heeehhur!”
The hunter tips the bottle at your group with a final yellowed grin and makes for the lodge door. He drops some coin in a small bowl as he passes a baleful Wyn.
Wyn brings over a jug of mead and fills Disa’s horn (and any others needing to slake their thirsts further);
”… if I may answer this scop maiden’s question Master Falgren. Pater Fisc is our eolderman… On the morrow, all who wish to onlíesanus from this evil will be received in the longhouse. After you all have drunk from the Bittor Horn, why then the mótian shall begin…”
Aye! I hear you Wyn! Let us drink and weallím together. I would not run into danger with elþéodig. So bring an end to that! I present myself, Kevkul Steelhide. A dwoerg out of Brevoy, æweweard of the lucky druncan.
Luke nods in agreement with Wyn's response to Disa.
Aye, Disa, Pater Fisc is a good eolderman, and I look forward to the mótian in the morning. Until then...
He raises his mead in salute to Disa, and bangs the horn of Kevkul in a toast!
"Pah, unmenn and evil spirits - I've seen naught and only had your bíspells to speak of them. I pray they show themselves and soon. 'Skäggig' has been hungry too long" draining his horn once more and refraining from re-filling it immediately.
Upon Ragnar's remark Wyn regards the big Viking with a sense of panic;
”Please Master Ragnar, do not incite the déaþgodas that blight our village!" The lodge-keep composes himself and sighs before continuing;
"Once you see the graves of the cilda, the rúna in blód on the walls and floors… Then you will see our plight as no bispell…”
The other patrons soon dwindle; stumbling out to the cold fog night with fearful and curious eyes at this group of Outlanders. Wyn reminds you all of the straw and fur cots at the far end of ”The Net" should you wish to sleep, you can however drink on as you wish, as he will attend as required.
The rotund lodge-keep then busies himself tending to the ebbing fire and fish oil lamps.
Ragnar stands abruptly and affixes Wym with the stare of a Northman before intoning loudly "Upon my áþstæf I will walk through those doors with their wældreór as my sigeréaf." letting his gaze wander the room so that all present took heed. A few moments later he sits again and refills his drinking horn.
As the evening becomes night, the lamps dim, men and hunds slumber and soon the damn's light battles with the lake haar...
The night has passed uneventfully... another night where the murderous blight has failed to materialise...
Your awoken by a thumping at the lodge door and the voice of the eolder's daughter Klenna seeking entrance;
"Wyn! You sæne auld dysig... open up. Everyone is gecliht in the langhús, Pater wishes to meet with the outlanders... Wyn? Wyn!!!"
Her knocking is persistant, as the rotund lodgekeep sleepily grumbles as he fumbles the wooden door bar;
"Och... I'm coming girl... Surely we'll have time for a medu and underngeweorc... our guests cannot save us on an unful stomach nei!?"
At his last comment he grins and winks at those of you awakened
Aye, Kleena, we'll be right along...Wyn, some medu, quickly!
Luke pops outside and washes the sleep off of his face, head and kneck with handfuls of icy water and snow. He returns inside refreshed to down his mead. After checking armor and weapons, he addresses the others.
Shall we to the gecliht in the langhús?
An irate Wyn opens the door to an equally frustrated Klenna.
The young Iobarian woman's braided dark hair pokes from her woolen cloak. She steps in nodding at you all, clearly eager to see her village's would be saviours up close.
"I'll not have them presented without a hearty underngeweorc! I have gull's eggs, buttered herring and mead or buttermilk..."
The lodge-keep stokes the stove and looks out some bowls as Klenna looks on disapprovingly...
Raising himself from his straw cot, Ragnar slaps himself to aid with waking up before strolling outside to water the snow.
He returns soon after and looks forward to a morning repast before the meeting.
Disa rises at the sounds of banging upon the door and the shrill cries of the girl without.
Going outside to make her own ablutions, she returns and sits down to partake of the offered breakfast.
"I look forward to the heorcnung of inwitspell of this burgloca."
Oathday 11th Lamashan (Late Autumn)
Early morn in village of Kustir
Wyn proudly cooks up and serves the standard breakfast fare of The Kelpie's Net; Nut bread, cheese (sheep or goat), gulls eggs, buttered herring and smoked fish. Washed down with buttermilk or ale.
Klenna sits stoicly observing you all, and making polite conversation when necessary;
You notice her ram's wool cloak has an unusual almost golden lustre to it, and sense it may not be the mundane sheepskin cloak it appears to be at first glance...
The village healer nervously nods at Disa's assertion;
"Once you have gehoered what Pater and the hám's inwitspell, and should you frecan accept to fylst us, then I will lead you to the places of wéa within our walls..."
Should you wish to use a Perception check to assertain more about your bartered potion its a DC16 check...
Luke makes quick work of his breakfast and ale while paying close attention to the newly-met individuals with whom he will attend the gathering this morning.
Perception:
Kevkul, did you áscest anythin' about the vial last night?
áscest = examine, observe ge~, learn by inquiry, discover
Perception:
Ragnar polishes off some smoked fish and cheese at the table. As he rises to proceed outside he addresses Klenna "I am eager to meet your demons."
As he waits for the rest to join him, he squats in the snow and roughly pats Liten Mun.
Luke follows Ragnar outside. When he sees him petting Liten Mun, he approaches the pair.
Ragnar, I did not get the chance to meet your gada. What is its ágennama?
Smiling for perhaps the first time since you saw him, Ragnar responds quietly "He is Liten Mun (Little Mouth), named for his lack of appetite" rustling the hund's hair and roughly patting its back "He geágennod me as I ran past Belkzen on the way from my eard"
Aye, and a fine hund he is...well met Liten Mun!
Luke bends and pets Liten Mun on the top of his head and under his chin. He then stands and looks at the skies overhead to try and discern the day's weather as he and Ragnar await the others.
Survival: Take 20 = 26
Luke’s ken for the land discerns that despite the haar lifting, this Oathday will see a storm of sleet and hail lash the Lake's coast and surrounding area throughout the afternoon. However both Fireday and Starday should be brisk but calm Autumnal days.
Welcome to the game proper! Many thanks for waiting – let’s get Muli introduced… we’ll pick up as the group are passing the gate. Muli will have just arrived and be met with joyful shouts from the children and disconcerted stares from adults alike...
Having eaten your fill of The Net's morning bounty, Klenna bids you all follow her towards the Kustnir's langhús. Typical of most Iobarian villages, this proto-Ulfen hall is the heart of these communities.
As you pass towards the wooden structure, the village gates are once again being opened to a visitor. Children's shouts of "Muli! Muli!" are tempered with mutterings of "déoren more like" and "Muli sé Seainere" from some adults.
Klenna for her part, smiles at the children, flicks back her braids and bids you hold while this newcomer enters...
You know, or at the very least know of, Muli - the shaggy ward of the hermit healer Geir. Despite appearances you know him to be a good natured, wise and talented man
Muli moves deftly among the prancing children despite his bent frame under a tremendous pack that towers above him. "No time cilden. Muli is busy!" He says, a bit of a smile peaking through his massive beard. The children refuse to take this for an answer and continue to dance around him and few braver souls hang from the straps on his pack, becoming one with the stuffed squirrels and rabbits that hang there. Till finally he is forced to put the pack down to the cheers of the children. He has them line up and has a ribbon for each girl and and small carved wooden swordsman for the boys. As each gave their name and their thanks, he gets a good look at them remembering which might look ill or injured.
With the children dispersing, Muli looks a little unsure of himself, especially as Klenna approaches. He turns to his pack and fiddles with some straps. "For the cilden...you know..oh, and Hanna looks like she might have a wee drif and shouldn't be out much today."
When he turns he meets her eyes for a second then looks down at the ground. "Bit of áglác I geáscian. Came to see what I could do. Geir would a come but you likely geáscedest he déadian." Muli kicks at the ground, aware of all the stares he's getting.
Muli stands about 5'6" when not sloughed over. A mass of hair tumbles out from under a beaver-skin cap. His dark eyes and bright teeth struggle to be seen through his beard. The rest of him is wrapped in furs. His pack is the size of him or greater. It seems fit to burst and has many additional items tied and strapped along the sides including an assortment of stuffed rodents, gourds, mushrooms.
Cilden - Children
drif - fever
áglác - Trouble
geáscian - geáscedest Hear - Heard
déadian - died
Luke recognizes the ward of the now deceased healer. He approaches swiftly, raising a hand in greeting.
Hail Muli, sorry to geáscedest about Geir. We are headed to the langhús to learn 'bout the áglác here in town. Join us, eh?
geáscedest = hear
áglác = trouble
At the sight of Muli, Liten Mun's hackles have raised somewhat and although not openly growling and baring teeth he has grown wary. Ragnar takes heed of his elghund's caution...
Taking the hund round the neck, Ragnar soothes him "Easy boy, easy..." before cautiously watching the hirsute arrival.