Clebsch's Reign of Winter

Game Master Clebsch RoW

"I've never heard about the Dead of the Many. Who are they and what is your mission?" One of the centaurs asked. He did not seem to be the leader, despite being clearly stronger than the others. The leader was probably the older one, who seemed more cunning. Or at least should be.

"I've never heard of them as well, not until I've joined them. The Dead serve Shyka the Many, all men and women who were brought back from the brink of death." Even among the odd Dead, Oriol was an oddity. There were not many men who had survived an axe wound on the head, even if a glancing one. Despite their mysterious nature, and, to an extent, the mysterious nature and motives of Shyka, it was no mystery that Oriol would indeed be dead if not for them. He was on borrowed time, so it was natural to pay with some service. "I was sent to find a place called Artrosa, The Three Who Watch. I was sent to assist a group of people who bear the mark of the Black Rider." He did not share more because that was all he knew about it. It would not fit to have clear missions when serving an Eldest.

"Artrosa is outside the Hoofwood. You have no business in Vurnirn, so you are either a liar or a fool." The young centaur speaks again, looking around at his pears, how nod and shake their spears. "And we treat both the same!" A threat. Oriol remains motionless, his hands on Sunset's reigns and far from the hilt of his sword in his back. Apparently his calm was offensive as the speaker steps forward, pointing his longspear. "Are you too afraid to even fight? Draw your sword, coward! Lier! Idiot!"

"I'm afraid." He drones through his closed helm. "I'm also annoyed, tired and hungry. One only draws their sword if they intend to fight. I do not, even if I confess to have drawn it in anger. I'm not yet angry though." His words were certainly wasted on the young and strong centaur, but with some luck the older and apparently wiser one could still intervene. If not, he'd draw his sword if he failed to control his feelings, which wasn't unlikely at all. With so many hostile centaurs around him, he'd definitely die, so there would be no point in killing a couple of them. Unless he got angry. "I'm no liar. I follow the old roads to Vurnirn because I knew it was unlikely for me to skirt the Hoofwood without your scouts noticing me, and then I'd certainly look like a liar. With very similar outcomes, I've chosen the one of truth and diplomacy." Oriol slowly unstraps his helmet, revealing his ruined face, giving the centaurs pause. Oriol was used to see it in the mirror, but to others it was always shocking.

"As I've said, I'm tired, hungry, and reasonably cold. I'm glad to pay a toll for crossing your territory, as well as for food, drink and lodging." He offers, looking directly at the older centaur.

But, beneath its glamorous shell... his skin is pale like any snowborn, his hair is short and raven black and his ears are surprisingly pointy. Once he was remarkably handsome. Then he was hit by a freezing axe. His nose is slightly broken, his right eye is gone, his right ear cut in half and what remains between all of them is a mess of shattered bone, course scars and blackish spots of frostburn. His left eye is green but it is barely visible since his pupil enlarged as a consequence of the severe head trauma.

Oriol is a pessimistic, but in his eye he sees the world as it really is, not as how he wished it to be. He is honest, responsible, meticulous and pragmatic, he is focused and thoughtful. His near death experienced changed him, for now he can't really interpret his emotions or react to them sometimes, and with them out of the way, he started to think differently, more logically even. He is sometimes described as cold and tense, but he isn't a loner... no, he still likes to talk with people, even if he is not always well received or understood.

His childhood wasn't bad but it was far from loving. He never felt recognized. To his mother, he was a reminder of her mistake in having an affair with his father. He loved his father and he believes he loved him back, but he never stayed enough in Mirnbay and Oriol was never invited to travel to the Ilverani's lands for he'd not be welcomed. He longs for feeling wanted, needed and recognized.

The closest thing to recognition he receives is from his work as an armorer, yet even this is marred by the disgust in people's eyes as they look at him. He tried to use a mask, but is unbearable in the heat of the forges.

Oriol truly believes he owes his life to the Dead of Shyka, so he'll serve them. Of that, there is no question.

Where her memories become more clearer was with one particular night-she was promised a big pay to eliminate a certain politician, as well as her own home nearby the Lake of Mists and Veils, a place where she can live the rest of her days...only to realize it was too good to be true. House Surtova either no longer considered the gnome assassin useful, or they were afraid someone else would pay her to attack them; regardless, Pemta almost stumbled into an ambush. A voice whispered in her ear to flee, and flee she did-she fled into the Gronzi Forest, only to be discovered there, and climbed over the Icerime Peaks into Iobaria. Somehow, she managed to throw her pursuers off once she entered there.

However, the event shattered her mind quite a bit-while not enough to throw her to complete insanity and evil, her life felt like it fell apart through her fingers, and eventually she decided to stay in Iobaria even well after she believed House Surtova stopped looking for her. She continued her skills as an assassin within whatever settlements remained in Iobaria, but she cut her hair, garnered a cloak to hide her face, and traveled only at night when she was paid a few coins to kill some farmer or barkeep. Since then, she has been known as "Iobaria's Shadow", more of a local legend than a living person to the residents. Which fits her fine.

Her loneliness would have eaten her alive and possibly put her over the edge had she not had a single friend, a single voice of reason-her very own shadow. Her shadow speaks in a tongue that only she understands, whispering vague sentences of confidence to keep her from losing her mind completely. Pemta does know that her shadow might only be keeping her alive so it can continue to exist, but either way, she learned to live with her shadow speaking to her-pointing out things she might have missed, helping her weigh her options, and, like that very night she almost died, prevented her from wandering into a trap...

Since then, Pemta has stayed in Iobaria, setting up multiple hideaways across the various forests and caves of the region-the more isolated, the better. One day, while conversing with her shadow about how unusually chilly it was, a voice seemed to be calling to her. Very faintly, she made out the word “Vurnirn“; she was aware of the centaur settlement but hasn’t ever visited it. She called out to the wild to ask why Vurnirn, but the new voice just repeated the same word. After a small counsel with her shadow, she sighed, packed her things, and made the travel to the settlement. Even if this was a wild goose chase, it’s something that will change the monotony of her life-if one can call it that. She certainly doesn’t.

But she has a true motivation, one that she won’t say in fear of shattering her stoic, emotionless facade that adds strength to her aura. The reality is that, since she fled Brevoy, she has been in hiding for years. No enjoyment to be found in Iobaria, and no way to find enjoyment or else risk of House Surtova finding her. She’s had to go dark, and maybe, getting tangled up in a wild adventure is the unexpected salvation.

Because her life, as it is, is utter Hell. And she wants out.

I pause as I consider, being a tiefling in Sarkoris has never been... amazing, I have traveled far, to varisia even, where I picked up some of their military traditions. Until ended up killing a bunch of Norgober cultists, which got me framed by one justice ironbriar, and an effing Nocticulan Succubus, HER, exfiltrated me from prison. She offers me missions, always on targets more evil then myself, and I often end up accepting.

I never really believed the debt of my live to be paid.

I accept I think back

very well She suddenly stands before me, teleporting in out of nowhere.

I will transport you to the town of Vurnin, in the hoofwood forest, and bestow to you certain gifts as well as a token that proves your bona fides. The current riders are female ranger with a very large elk companion, a male cleric of Milani, and a male dragon disciple bard.
The demoness speaks, melodic, hypnotizing.

3 riders yes, which of them is white, red and which is black?
I ask, having some basic familiarity
All 3 are black Comes the answer

Huh? Thats new for sure

We live in unusual times She almost chuckles

Into the bag of holding you go, hold your breath, you know the drill She opens hers, bidding me to get in. Pragmatic as always, much cheaper then scrolls of teleport, and she does wash hers regularly.

The eyes are awake, not actively malicious, and he does not excude the aura of blatant aggression occassionaly blatant anger of demonspawn.

While raging, though, some amount of his Kellid upbringing comes through. Though he can keep a clearer head than most while raging, able to focus his aim to the particular weakspots of an enemy, he is nowhere near as civilized in his rage as some other Urban 'barbarians' are. It's the single-minded focus on slaying whatever is in front of him that keeps him from acting civilize, and not any actual loss of intelligence. Granted, aside from him being able to talk like normal about the values and benefits of technology, this has roughly the same effect on his abilities as a typical Kellid Barbarian's rage, albeit with steady hands instead of increased endurance.

This broke all sense of Kellid-ness in the man, and he ran, he ran as fast and far as he possibly could. Somewhere along the way, he met a travelling Tien family that taught him the secrets of blackpowder, and gave him the Haramaki he always wears. He was no longer a Kellid in his mind, just some weak, gun-toting coward with anger issues. And so he ran away from the Tien family that had taken a liking to the young kid, some internal voice screaming to not disappoint them as he disappointed his tribe. He ran as far as he could, passing through Brevoy before finally arriving in Iobaria. There, he makes a living as a somewhat-successful alchemist, stockpiling what money he can from selling potions and alchemical items.

As the rage subsided, he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned around, exhausted from the temporary bout of raging gunfire, to face whoever might raise his ire next. He did not see some evil, malevolent force, as he was accustommed to seeing. Instead, he saw what appeared to be some blind-seer type of venerable old human. The ancient man's eyes were firmly shut, giving off a wise apperance-- Grok, however, didn't care and readied another shot, in case he was some ice witch of some kind sent along with the Wolf with the Freezing Breath he had just struck down.

"Given the unmistakable sounds of those loud, deadly weapons from Alkenstar... you must be the Technologist I have heard so much about. Am I wrong?" Grok stared on in some form of shock as the old oracle spoke to him. Even if Grok had no respect for spellcasters, even less after this untimely and plainly supernatural cold came about, he felt compelled to listen. "My visions of late, those concerning the cold, have took an... odd and unexpected turn, you could say." The man spoke in a wavering, shaky Iobarian, which Grok was glad to have picked up right about now.

I have no time for a damn spellcaster's ramblings, Grok silently mused to himself in an internal dialog, a mix of his native Hallit and the stolen Androffan. "Just get on with it, spellcaster. What do your visions have to do with me." The old man laughed hysterically in front of him, tempting to draw the Kellid's ire once more.

"It's not every day I get visions of firearms more advanced than even the Grand Duchy can put out!" This, the promise of advanced firearms, calms the 2 metre tall gun-toting Kellid immensely. Spellcasters normally distrust the alchemical marvel that is blackpowder, so this inclines the savage technologist to listen. The both of them, almost simultaneously, take a seat on the freezing cold ground in front of them. "My visions speak of great technology you are clearly itching to get your hands on, as much as they do of this... supernatural winter."

The young Kellid man sighed, and relented. "Alright, spellcaster," he said, the last word dripping with venom, "What do your visions have to say about this damned cold. I'm as f+#$ing fed up with it as the next person." Grok didn't mince words, it was unbearably cold... even under tattered Androffan clothes, a Haramaki, and cold weather gear. He wanted this stopped as much as anyone else.

"The village of Vurnirn in the Hoofwood forest holds what you seek. While I do not believe you'll meet the technological marvels you seek immediately, I have heard you have a modicum of patience... at least for someone as fueled by rage as you are." Grok's rage was... odd, to put it one way. While most are able to shrug off blows that could kill them otherwise, Grok instead had steady hands he could use to blast a few shots through the temple of the nearest Winter Wolf trying to eat him the moment she saw what a weak excuse for a Kellid he was. The old man, however, continued on rambling: "There, you will meet with the Riders of Baba Yaga." The old man stops to tear some kind of meat jerky, and begins munching on it, before continuin, "A female ranger with a very large companion in the form of an elk, a male cleric of Milani, and some form of dragon disciple bard. The latter I do not explicitly know the gender of, but has a beard. Unless he has some dwarven genes in him, I do not think he'd grow such a beard if he weren't male!"

The tall technologist scoffed. It was getting dark at this point, so he pulled out his stolen flashlight for some modicum of comfort, before continuing: "What proof do you have of these claims. You spellcasters offer words but you never offer proof to me. As a follower of Brigh, I demand your proof for your claim. I need evidence. I am not some Kellid willing to go off of superstition and tradition alone." Even if he was a Kellid, Grok was extremely divorced from his culture at this point, having spent 5 years in Iobaria by this point. Thus, he had no issue saying he wasn't a Kellid, as in his mind, this was just a statement. Genetics may be Kellid, but behavior, rage aside, were far from his old ways.

"I may not offer proof, but what I can offer is reason, Technologist. What do you have to lose, and what do you have to gain? If the knowledge I have of you is right, you risked your life to gather technology, like the handheld technological torches you seem to be known for. Would you not do so again, for the promise of technological weapons this time? Far greater than those produced in a land where magic is outright dead? The choice is yours, of course, but you can always head back here to put a bullet through my head, if my words prove untrue. I will probably succumb to old age by then anyways, so feel free to do so!" The old man, finally finished with his vision-laden speech, handed a hastily-scrawled map to the hulking beanpole of a 'barbarian.' "Besides, the riders should have proof you seek. As for reward? Knowing you, the prospect of weaponry that can shoot oh so ever faster than your pistol is sure to be reward enough, hm?"

And with that, the old man got up off the ground to head back to whatever village he came from. Damn spellcasters, Grok thought, why do you have to be so cryptic? Even with his hatred of spellcasters, even with what little knowledge he had of the Queen of Witches herself, the allure of firearms was far, far too great for the young man to resist. And within the hour, he found himself packing up his meager belongings, and following the map into the Hoofwood forest. He even smiled a little bit more than usual, imagining what kinds of Brigh-pleasing creations could be found on this newfound quest.

Trawets followed after his parents in their worship of Nethys but is much more fervent in his worship. He followed in his fathers vocation as a wizard, but is much more militant than either of his parents and chose the path of the Evoker, much to their displeasure.

Six months shy of his 18th birthday he started asking the local clerics of Nethys for a quest. After six months of being pestered by Trawets the high priest decided to get rid of him on his 18th birthday. He sent Trawets on what he thought was a wild goose chase. Little did he know Nethys put the destination in the priest's mind or maybe he didn't. Either way his long voyage as led him north and east to Iobaria.

{The whole conversation is in kelish}

"What is that?" So much authority and arrogance in so few words, as if Pyrrhus's sole purpose was to answer her. Pyrrhus was crouched, caressing the snow between his fingers and waiting just for her arrival, but even so he let the seconds stretch just to annoy her.

"A portal, clearly, to a cold place" The small joys in life, his smile hidden from his peer.

"I can see that, Durst." She was annoyed and probably throwing daggers on his back. De-light-ful. "A portal to where?"

"Did not cross it." He stood up, licking his lips and working his jaw just to make the smile in his face disappear. "But one of the survivors claims to be from Irrisen." There were corpses all around them. A couple hulking giants with long tusks and furred coats, some tiny fey, and many warriors and horses from Ular Kel. The smell of burnt flesh was only faint because of the strong winds that blew from the portal, his robes flying wildly.

"And where is Irrisen, Durst?" Oh sweet winter night, she did not know. She was livid, but he could not be blamed for her ignorance, could he? Actually, he probably could considering how his peers regarded him. Once a lowly-slave, always a lowly-slave, even if he now had a Name for himself and a manor to live.

"A land of eternal winter, north and west of the Castrovin, if I'm not mistaken." He wasn't, but he needed to appease her a little. "From what I understood, this was a scouting party, yet I'd rather not speculate too much without bringing news to the Council. The prisoners should be brought back to Ular Kel for further interrogation." His words stated obvious facts, but Pyrrhus suspected Esha interpreted them as an order from the burning gaze he received. "I haven't been able to close the..."

"Then you take them back to Ular Kel, Durst." Such confidence. Almost enviable. "And I'll close this portal."

"But Esha..." His words were wasted, of course, as she had already walked past him. "As you wish, Councilor." Pyrrhus shakes the snow from his shoulders as he walks towards a nearby rock where Otri was watching the pair of bounded fey. "Let's get home Otri. Yes, I know, but the Councilor is right... it is beyond my power to close the portal." That was undeniably true. It was also true that the portal could not be closed from this side, but Councilor Esha was so sure she could, that it would be rude, and pointless actually, to point this out to her. "How about some soup, this night? Yes, the spicy one. Yes, the one with mint and garlic." The three winged monkey seemed to approve.

***

{The whole conversation is in kelish}

The glowing magical globe was remarkably interesting, crisscrossed with numerous lines and connecting multiple locations, everything overlaid with arcane runes and symbology. It was surely a representation of their own world, showing massive land masses, oceans and even mountains. It was very flawed, however, judging simply by how inaccurate the region around Ular Kel was.

"Master Durst?" Enna's voice was urgent and scared. "Do you need..."

"Look at this, Enna, look at how accurate information is important. According to the notes our host provided, this ritual is supposed to represent our whole world and all these dots are supposed to be portals much like the one we've found, while these crosses are supposed to be large settlements. What is your take on this?" It was a somewhat absurd to call the burned witch on the corner as their 'host', but Pyrrhus did fancy humor by exaggeration.

"Uhm... I think... uhm... the portal in the map seems to be more distant to Ular Kel and, oh, Ular Kel is not that close to the mountains." Pyrrhus nodded and raised an eyebrow, a clear gesture that there was more. "And... oh, all the other dots are distant to the crosses?"

"Precisely... yet very imprecise on their part, don't you think? It was luck that a trader was passing somewhat close to the portal when it opened, but even so it would not take us much time to find it, while, imagine for example if it had appeared between the Saag Rock and Mustan... it would have taken months before we realized what was going on." All those portals, supposedly blowing frigid winter all over the globe. How many were still up?Were these Irriseni trying to freeze the whole globe? With which purpose and how would they do so, imagining the amount of cold in this realm wasn't unlimited. And...

"Master Durst?" Again the interruption.

"You'll return to Ular Ket in the company of Captain Mir. You'll report our findings to the Robed Council and inform I've stayed behind to close the portal, since it can only be done from this side. Once I do, I'll investigate what is happening and then return to Ular Ket." He raised a hand to stop her from interrupting. "And you'll remind them of their agreement to see to my project's needs while I'm gone."

"But Master, shouldn't we... oh." She smiled. Enna wasn't particularly pretty, but her smile was entirely adorable. "...if you delay your return, with a plausible goal, they will be forced to honor their bargain, even if they initially just agreed to it imagining you'd be back in a couple days at most. Right? But isn't it too... risky and dangerous?"

"I was once a slave, as you know, Enna. You'd not be calling me Master if I did not something risky and dangerous from time to time." He sighs. She wasn't wrong of course, it was risky and dangerous. On the other hand, he was a member of the Robed Council and the safety of Ular Ket was his duty. He'd have stayed behind no matter what, but if he could squeeze some advantage, that was just good business. "Inform my wife about my decision as well, but do so in a light way... I do not want her to be worried in the least." He did not want her to be too hopeful and happy with the prospect of his death in truth.

***

The air was chilly again, even if not was bad as in Whitethrone. The tea was hot thought and the sound of the wind against the trees was quite soothing. Pyrrhus was sit on top of a large boulder with three wraps in front of him, displayed with care and as the centaurs approached, Pyrrhus opened his arms wide in an unmistakable salute while Otri was close by, eating some nuts.

"Grreeetings beoble of zee Rashaalkaa! I Byrrhus Durrst frrom Uularr Keet and I brring yooo gifts as sign of goood faith." He gestures the wrapped gifts with ample gestures. "I wish nosing but safe bassage srrough yourr lands. My destiny ze town of Vurrnirrn."

It could be said the centaurs were a bit lost, Pyrrhus wasn't sure. Centaurs were not uncommon in Ular Ket, and Pyrrhus did know their social norms. "And if we do not want your gifts?" The one that looked the leader asked.

"Zen I would bee said aand I would insist." He kept smiling. Them being unsure and lost was better than sure and angry. "I brring noo sbearr aand noo arrrow, noo sworrd aand noo aaxe! Coome! Take ze gifts, take zee teaa if yooo like. In Uularr Keet I have centaurr frriends aand zeey saay zaat 'by chance wee meeet, by choice we become frriends!'." He rests his hands on his heart. "Eeeverryone has too many enemies nowadays."

One of the centaurs shrug to the others. Another one nodded. In truth, simply being nice is good business.

Pyrrhus wears flowing robes of contrasting blue tones as well as details in golden. His clothes are fine, hinting of him being a noble or at least very wealthy. His long hair is generally kept hidden. He doesn't carry many jewelry or other baubles.

On his shoulder, there is Otri, his xiao familiar, a white-furred monkey with swirling blue marks and three black bird wings, which despite its animalistic nature wears a couple clothes, armor and earrings. Between the two, Otri is by far the vainer.