Deep in the throes of the svart ilska Ragnar shows little sign that Nadia's words were heard... but judging by his actions Ragnar does not seem to be struggling to escape.
Nadia swiftly calls on luck to guide her as she unleashes two arrows at the cat.
Rapid/point blank/precise shots with luck:
Round 1 Cont
Skol &
As Ragnar struggles with the big cat, he strikes home with his own long-tooth, gouts of the animals blood washing over his arm to the elbow.
The Smilodon roars in pain, but does not release its tormentor...
Kevkul's crossbow shot flies high and handsome of its target, his mind perhaps too much on his acolyte.
Driven by the smell of blood, of men, of flame and of its ancient predator, the massive bull charges in the direction of Nadia...
... goring her in panic as it rumbles past;
:
:
The impact of the bull's crushing blow sends the young bard's body flying...
Nadia drops unconscious, but becomes stable.
To stabilize:
Round 1
Skolrykk charges the cat at full speed with his spear lowered and his herecirm loud.
Longspear:
Damage:
He plunges the spear into the beast, attempting to distract it from Ragnar.
Luke holds his position within thirty feet and activates the ring on his hand with a primal howl into the cold. He pulls a bloodrot arrow and lets it fly.
LB ATT:
LB DAM:
Skol bellows his intentions and plunges his lang-spear deep into the big cats belly.
The smilodon's yowl is countered by Luke's mournful howl which heralds a poisoned arrow lodging itself in the beast's skull.
These attacks combine to fell the tundra hunter which topples, pinning a greviously wounded Ragnar under its expiring bulk...
As the vestiges of rage ebb from his mind and heart, Ragnar uses the strength to heave himself out from underneath the smilodon and to his feet. A smile forms on his face as Liten Mun pads forward from his place of retreat and licks some of the norlunder's blod from the fingers of his left hand. Ragnar returns the gesture with a ruffle of the hund's neck that leaves a tinge of pinkish red across the fur on his hackles.
Turning to the others he laughs for a few moments before the sounds turn to raking hacking coughs that end with a gobbet of spat bloody phlegm on the ground. He nods thanks to the beardless lad and Luke before turning back to the smilodon corpse. Alfr smarta is wiped clean on it's hide before Ragnar kneels beside the beast, left hand resting on it's head. In a weary voice the northman asks "Have we time to gut and skin the beast? I would not waste it's hide..."
Aye, you deserve no less, brother. Muli, can we see to some healing for Ragnar.
The weather while still harsh has abaited somewhat, the sleet storm whipping Westward towards Halbriden, whilst your course was set more for SW...
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Ragnar puts a long bladed dagger to good use, skinning the beast as best he can, while also claiming a tooth from it's maw as a trophy. The second sabretooth is offered to another to claim. He cuts some ragged strips of leg meat for Liten Mun, and removes the great cat's heart for that evening's fire.
Kevkul trudges to the fallen Nadia's form. Brow furrowed with worry, it was after a quick examination does Kevkul find her merely unconscious. He hails the rest of the team together before calling upon Cayden's blessing to wash the white snow field with his blessed alcohol soaked radiance.
Looking at Ragnar's still wounded status, Kevkul considers further channels, but decides a nice scar or two would go nicely with the Ulfen's victory today.
Perhaps later, though.
Thank you Kev.
Luke ambles to the carcass an takes the second Sabretooth.
We should get back on the trail.
He checks his armor, then picks up the trail of the Dwerorg again. He patiently waits for everyone to prepare themselves an dredges forward.
A fine pelt! Skolrykk says, accepting the other tooth and stowing it in his pack.
He goes over to check on Nadia whilst Ragnar skins the beast.
Alright?
With a last look at the group as they skin and heal, the tundra bull snorts and rumbles off across the wild terrain.
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With everyone back on their feet, Kevkul gladly reloads his crossbow, whilst chatting with his acolyte..
It is best those that heal stand the longest, young one, and make yourself the hardiest, fastest and calm at the same time. When others fall wounded or lost their minds, you still have yours to decide the day.
Nadia wakes up as the priest pulses. She slowly gets up to her knees and then stands holding her lower back.
Gentlemen, I think I may have abolgen the bison. At least one of my arrows struck true on the Smilodon before I was fortredan. Nadia chuckles as she picks up her gear that was spilled all over the snowy ground as her body was catapulted ten yards from where she was struck.
Thank you for the healing Kevkul.
CLW:
Ye could take care of your own, young lass. It was my pleasure as well.
Kevkul completes winching up his crossbow, before he stands ready to continue the journey.
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Muli goes to work after the skinning. He collects the beast's liver and a few other small odd organs as well as a sample of blood. He also collects the claws "For grinding". Elbow deep in gore, Muli says, "Don't worry, Muli is not making the stew tonight, but will be cooking."
Aye, Skolrykk will take extra claws if Muli does not need them.
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Ragnar gives the dweorg once more his thanks for wounds salved and closed over by the grace of the spedig wesa. After the bloody work is completed, Ragnar chills his hands with snow and uses the melting water to slough off some of the dried blood.
"We should be away nei?" before he places skaggig across his shoulders once more and sets himself to begin trudging once more. With Liten Mun trotting beside, Ragnar's deep voice rumbled quietly as he recounted an ode of the Black God of the Hunt descended from the heavens to slay creatures of the mortal realm.
After your encounter with the Iobarian nature; all red in tooth and claw, Ragnar's ode trails off as you trudge through the frost dusted tundra.
As you march, the cold bites, but you are all well prepared and insulated. Still it cools the interplay between you all; save for the odd scrap of wilderness lore from Muli and the welcome sip of holy liquor from Kevkul's flask...
The hours pass and the shadows grow long... limbs ache and whiskers become hoar-kissed as you doggedly follow the merchants trail.
Then tired and cold in the dying light, you all see the welcome glow of campfires in the distance...
By the very faint heat at the heart of some cattle scat, you discern that its owner must be near...
[spoiler=Perception DC 18]
There are two campfires; one larger one and on the camp's edge another smaller flickers...[/ooc]
Knowledge Nature:
Perception:
knowledge (nature):
Perception:
There are campfires ahead, one larger, with a smaller one on the edge.Come, let us approach.
Luke moves towards the fires with his bow drawn.
Nadia whispers pointing to some fresh dung. Those droppings are fresh. There may be another bison around. Keep an eye out. She readies her bow as well.
Droppings are probably more likely to be from the hairy cattle pulling the merchants ware... but you do well to be cautious non-the-less
Ragnar eyes what the others points out afore spitting into the snow "Lets make for the big fire first."
Muli walks up to a pile of dung. "The most interesting insects often lay their eggs in fresh du......oh we aren't stopping here...shame for Muli." He trundles on toward the distant fires.
As you approach the larger fire, from somewhere in the gloom the torque of crossbows can be faintly heard, and a strong voice calls out to you all;
"At makilala ang granizo ! sheathed almas na lumapit ka sa kampamento at ang lasa ay Highmettle ka ng busog ang kagat!"
Hail and be known strangers! Weapons sheathed as you approach the camp of Highmettle or you shall taste the bite of our bows!
Natatakot hindi, ito ay isang kapwa pandak na tao na diskarte, ako, Kevkul Steelhide, pinakamahusay na ng alak maglalasing at ng pari ng masuwerteng lasenggo.
Kevkul answers the challenge in turn, motioning his fellow comrades to keep their weapons sheathed as he approaches the fire.
Ragnar chuckles "You think skaggig has a sheath dweorg?" but Ragnar does take a moment to drape a scrap of fur over the axe blade to show he means no ill.
Luke shoulders his bow and walks ahead with Kevkul.
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Nor does my spear, but it is ever searching for one! Hah!
In the twilight two dwur-sized forms become more apparent as you approach the encampment's perimeter, they sound heavily armoured and hold crossbows.
Further still and flanking the dwur, two riders slowly arc to cover the crossbowmen...
The riders are lightly armoured and seem cautious... something about their silhouettes seems odd however (even in this fading light)
your keener eyes notice they are actually centaurs... Nomen mercenaries no doubt - a proud and warlike folk
As you approach them one of the dwur huskily whispers to his comrade;
"Ach! Hindi higit ang hilaga ! humalik lass sa langit ang salaysay na ito sa pighati!
Ach! Not more North men! The sky kissed lass with her tales of woe is enough!
One of the dwur hails you again, this time in the Common tongue;
"Hush Caedd - they are Ædensor's guests now! Greetings travellers and kinsman. A prestur o' the Lucky Drunkard is always welcome at the camp o' auld Highmettle! All we ask is weapons stay shealthed..."
Perception:
Perception:
Ragnar spits to the side and grimaces while motioning Liten Mun closer to his legs. To the dweorg he gives an even stare before replying "I'll keep my axe to myself unless forced... but skaggig is a big large to peacebond nei?" before gesturing with a chin to the circling centaur "Ye going tae call ye friends to a more peaceable spot afore we come in?"
Like I said, a spear has no sheath but I mean no harm! Skolrykk says, leaning on the shaft of his spear.
"That one is a bit close to the ground for Muli to be calling him a centaur."
As you get closer, your group is met by two doughty armoured dweorg. Both are stocky, both carry loaded flatbows – which they no longer trained upon you. The younger of the two guards has beard and long hair heavily braided... his nervous eyes betray his youth in service...
The older warrior, a grizzled veteran with a long greying beard clasped by a golden fist fastener, beckons you all forward. He tilts his helmed head toward the lurking centaurs, who nod and melt back into the gloom. What little you see of them, the Nomen seem to have bodies of both Northern barbarians and stout Steppe Garron.
While the Nomen centaurs prowl the fading light, you get the distinct impression they have little love for itscanca such as you...
The auld dwoerg gives his name as Byrr and bids you pay the Nomen ”nae heed” before beckoning you follow him.
He trudges through the mercantile encampment towards the main campfire, from outwith your eyesight the sound of flatbows being made safe is clearly heard;
”Boss... Visitor’s coming in. One brethren and some langshanks, Northerner’s and locals mostly... Brethern’s a priest o’ the Holy Mug tae boot!”
Before you sits a number of dwoerg, most are armoured like Byrr, but one sits proudly at the centre of the camp. An ornate tankard in one hand and a smouldering pipe in the other, the ruddy faced auld dwoerg clearly hold’s court here...
Around him several humans sit or bustle around the fires perimeter; an older man in winter clothing carves a slice of meat from a roasting boar... Two more, one lanky and one burly wait expectantly with plates to be filled. From upon a wagon another sits idly stringing a longbow
.
Two others of note attend the campire; a cloaked woman sits by the chief dwoerg’s right hand and holds the attention of many present... including the other that stands at his right shoulder – an armoured and proud Noman centaur woman. She picks at some sizzling meat skewered upon the point of a mighty lance.
As you enter the flickering light of the campfire all eyes shift upon you as the leader of the merchant company acknowledges Byrr’s hail;
”Ha! Northerners an’ a Prestur o’ the Mug! Well come one and all; me fire is here tae warm yer bones, me drink is here tae warm yer bellies and me hands’ll warm yer coin if ye’ll see fit to buy me goods...”
Good to meet the brethren out here. Always a warm hearth to where a dwarf's at, in the mountain-homes or out here in the tundra. My beard's having icicles in it and my lips rimmed with frost. A dwarf fire is what's best for the beard and dwarf ale for the lips. Your generosity speaks the greatness of your clan. And who should the Lucky Druncan hear of this generosity? For I Kevkul Steelhide, would tell of it.
Kevkul accepts a mug with ale and drinks, warming his belly. Gesturing to the rest to take up a mug each.
Perception:
Brow furrowing at the thought of the nomen either choosing or being forced to the perimeter, Ragnar's mood darkens. Standing at the edge of the firelight like a reaper of death - stained in blod and with the skin of a sabretoothed beast upon his shoulder he is direct and forthright "Ragnar Skold Fodd, and my forebear Olof Skötkonung walked these lands afore ye were born Byrr... the Nomen, do they choose the smaller fire or are they made to go to it?" speaking loud enough for his voice to carry to the centaur if their ears were open to his words.