Oldmar’s axe slices the wolf from shoulder to tail, dropping it to the snow in a bloody heap. Mikrik howls in frustration, ”Wolf rider no can ride DEAD wolf!” He begins kicking the fallen predator repeatedly in the face, causing one of its eyes to burst and squirt ichor on Mikrik, who carries on regardless, giving full vent to his disappointment.
More than a little startled by the goblins’ efforts to ride them, the wolves attack the would-be wolf-jockeys. The dark-furred wolf tears into Griggrigwin, scattering her blood on the snow and knocking her to the ground. The white wolf attempts to bite Shankerol, but he dodges out of the way and deftly mounts the wolf’s back! Griggrigwin, excited, shouts out, ”That how you do it! I wolf rider too!” She leaps to her feat, only to have the grey wolf bite her again, knocking her once more on her butt.
Judging from his expression, Shankerol can scarcely believe his good fortune - he's atop a wolf! A sly grin crosses his face, and he grabs the wolf by its ears while kicking wildly at its flanks, attempting to ride it away! He's nearly got the wolf headed in the direction he wants when it spins, trying to shake him off!
The other two goblins, seeing that Griggrigwin has not managed to get aboard “her” wolf, stomp through the snow toward it, eager to have a go. Bateer gets there first, and manages to scramble onto the surprised wolf’s back! He is much less effective in his attempts to direct the creature, however, and barely manages to hold on.
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Sobestian moves south and fires his bow at a wolf, continuing his story the whole time. ".....and they lived up north, sort of like this. They would visit this man who was stuck in a tree, all you could see was his face. I don't remember how he got stuck in the tree, a tree shape spell gone wrong or something...."
"Oh dear, do watch out, I'm not very good with this thing!" Sobestian calls out as he fires.
In spite of his protestations about lack of skill, Sobestian sinks an arrow into the ribs of the nearest wolf, which howls and kicks, trying to shake the goblin off its back! Rokdor swings her dreaded hammer mightily, but just misses the same wolf. As Oldmar trudges manfully dwarfully through the deep drifts, Hakotep’s ball of acid lands hissing in front of him, staining a small patch of snow an unpleasant yellow-green color.
The surviving wolves are clearly not happy about the goblins on their backs, and snarl and bite at them fiercely, though only the one being ridden by Shankerol connects. Both of the apprentice wolf-riders show surprising skill in hanging on to their mounts, though neither has any luck giving them any direction.
Still in a fury that she’s been denied a wolf, Griggrigwin leaps to her feet, leaving herself open to the nearby wolf’s attack! It bites her hard, causing her head to loll back and dropping her, once again, to the ground, where her blood begins to stain the roof of Oldmar’s snow-cave a deep red. Mikrik steps closer to the nearest wolf, hoping Shankerol will fall off and give him a shot at riding it.
With fearsome mightiliness, Rokdor swings her hammer and brings down the white wolf! Shankerol refuses to believe it, however, and continues to kick its flanks and yank its ears, until the wolf’s right ear tears clean off its head. Mikrik points at the bleeding scrap of ear in Shankerol’s hand and asks hungrily, ”You gonna eat dat?”
Sobestian’s arrow sails between Mikrik and Griggrigwin and pierces the last wolf’s fur! It lets out a howl and looks as if it’s ready to seek its next meal elsewhere!
The last of the wolves sees its pack-mates fall and prepares to bound away, in spite of the determined goblin clinging to its back. Before it can turn away from the fight, Oldmar shoves his way through an especially deep drift of snow – caused by his own shoveling in the construction of the snow cave, ironically enough – and brings his axe down powerfully, slicing its spine right behind Bateer’s seat on it!
With a whimper, the wolf drops and goes still. Bateer, too, goes still, but only for a moment. He begins to tremble with a deep-seated rage and cries out, ”Nooooo! You kill my wolf! I wolf rider. Stupid dorf! Stupid wolf!” He begins to pound on the wolf that he sits on, oblivious to the fact that each blow causes blood to jet out of the wolf and cover Bateer’s back. He knows attacking the party would almost certainly mean his death, and so he takes out his frustration on the juvenile wolf, smashing it with his fists and biting at it until its fur is a blood-blackened mess.
Once the threat of the wolves has been dealt with, the Pathfinders consult the map and directions given them by Ragna Lightfoot, which say to descend from the mountain passes into the grasslands, then head southwest to the hamlet of Harvest's End, following the town's chimney smoke as a guide. The directions also caution the party that, once in Harvest's End, they should keep a low profile and find the ferry crossing to ford the treacherous Rimeflow River. These directions are easily enough followed, and after half a day’s travel the party arrives at the outskirts of the small village.
Harvest’s End is a quiet place. The few traveling merchants in colorful garb are easily distinguished from the locals, who dress in woolen clothes of drab browns, greens, and grays. There are no sounds of laughter or play here. Fishermen put their catch out for display, while others congregate in small groups and whispered conversations. Smoke rises from the chimneys of uniform but well-constructed buildings, most of which are surrounded by small white picket fences.
It is clear from its riverside location and a few quick questions asked around town that Harvest’s End subsists on fishing and trade, but also sports a ferry across the wide Rimeflow River that allows merchants and lumberers to cross back and forth. When asked about the ferry, a dour fisherman with a face like a sturgeon offers his view, ”You want to take the ferry, you talk to Rimetusk. Big fella, though not as big as some of his kind. I’d guess for an ice troll he’s a bit small, though I’d not tell him that, if I was you.” He abruptly shuts his mouth, as if he’s said more than he’d like. Turning away, he gives the goblins travelling with the party a scowl, but other than that few townsfolk seem to pay them any mind.
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Oldmar offers up his wand again to heal Grigg, grinding his teeth quietly at her foolishness.
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The dwarf historian is somewhat used to gathering info in hostile environments, having traveled twice to the Hold of Belkzen to interview orcs, but has only moderate luck here.
"Well, it looks like we can't just kill him and take is ferry," he says when the group reassembles. "Not that that was a good idea to begin with. Sobestian, you learn anything?"
Although she’s unsuccessful in learning much about Rimetusk himself, Rokdor is able to learn that the troll can usually be found at the river near his ferry, when he’s not walking through the village glaring fiercely at people. Just as the Pathfinders conclude that it’s time to head for the river and try to arrange passage across, Mikrik, who has been grumbling quietly for some time, lets loose a full-throated whine, ”Hongry! Have to eat! No eat human food from backpack! Want meat!”
Shankerol nods along quietly, a considering look in his eye, and adds in a quiet, creepy tone, ”Fresh, bloody meat. Yes.” Bateer provides his views on the matter as well, his tone even more full of seething rage than usual, ”We in town! No eat backpack food! Give meat or I kill that cat and eat!”
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Hakotep nods in understanding with the goblins, trying to show that he is sympathetic to their causes. "I would like some meat as well. After we speak with this Rimetusk fellow-if you are good-we will go find some food and get you fresh meat. Do you think you can do that? Stay quite and be good for just a little bit longer?"
Mikrik begins to moan and gripe at Hakotep’s reply, but Griggrigwin knocks her fellow Frostfur goblin on the shoulder and says, ”Hey stupid! If get food later, we even hungrier! So they give us more food!” Mikrik scratches his head at this argument, and the other goblins seem completely flummoxed by the notion of delayed gratification, not the mention Hakotep's notion of being good, but the half-pint Godking is quite convincing and they all nod and agree to come along.
The party makes their way to the riverbank, where they can see a stout dock, which has clearly seen better days. Its planks are warped by the many freezes they have endured, but cut thick enough that they seem sturdy nonetheless. Tied to the dock is a simple ferry-boat, really a floating platform, with a pulley mounted on a post, through which runs a heavy rope anchored to each side of the river.
Sitting on a pile of spare planks is Rimetusk, an ice troll clad in the rather moth-eaten pelt of a great white bear. He stands as the party approaches, and does not tower over them quite as much as one would expect. It seems Rimetusk may be a bit of a runt among ice trolls – though clearly a fearsome creature still.
He eyes the Pathfinders and their goblin charges curiously a moment, then says in a deep, powerful voice, ”Wantin’ to use the ferry, are ya? Not if I gots somethin’ ta say about it – an’ I do! Why should I let ya cross, huh?”
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Sobestian bows deeply to the troll, flourishing his hat along the way. "Well met mighty Rimetusk. I have never met a troll before, but from what I've read, you are an incredible troll by any standard." Bowing again, he continues. "Indeed, we would like to use you services to ferry us across. We offer payment, but I, myself, am not aware of the going rate for ferrying. Could you tell me your price?"
Rimetusk’s face splits into a truly hideous grin as Sobestian and Oldmar praise his might. ”Da folk here in Harvest’s End should be more like youse guys. They don’t wanna give me gold, they don’t talk nice to me like youse guys. Ya know what? You kin cross wit’out payin’, jus’ fer tellin’ it like it is, ‘bout me bein’ mighty and all.”
After letting the troll know they’ll be crossing soon, the party takes the goblins for a rather unpleasant meal – it’s never been fun to watch them eat, but to be with them in an eating establishment, even the rough inn that Harvest’s End has to offer, is both disgusting and embarrassing. Heading back to the Rimeflow River, they find the troll still waiting, eager for more praise. He fishes crudely for compliments as he uses a stout pole to push the ferry across the river, and even the goblins begin to praise him, having caught on that it prevents him from wanting to kill and eat them.
Once across the river, Rimetusk watches the Pathfinders depart, then begins to pole his way back, pausing from time to time to lean over the edge of the ferry, as if to admire his reflection in the water. At one point, he can even be seen to flex his somewhat scrawny muscles and snarl at the river.
Leaving the Rimeflow behind, the route on Ragna’s map from Irrisen to the Land of the Linnorm Kings takes the Pathfinders through a stretch of wooded land, with the intent of keeping them out of sight from the wandering patrols of either nation. Natural trails wind through these woods, allowing passage through the thickets and shrubs. A sudden opening reveals a little house, no larger than a small child’s tree fort, built atop bundled tree branches lashed together like stilts or legs. The woodwork on the exterior of the house is exquisite, almost delicate in its craftsmanship. The only entrance to this small, one-room structure is an open doorway facing west.
As the party moves across the clearing, they can see the door on the western side of the tiny hut is open, and the interior is dark. Mikrik has ceased whining, and is rolling his eyes in fear, like a spooked horse, even appearing to froth at the mouth a little. All of the goblins are huddled close together, quite unlike their usual behavior of bashing and bad-mouthing each other.
With fear making her shudder, Griggrigwin says, "Hut watches! Some have dolls inside, they watch! Witch Queen watch through doll eyes!" The other goblins say nothing, they just shiver in fear like very small dogs with unusually large heads.
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Sobestian ponders for a moment, then says. "I think I remember reading legends of this region, legends of chicken-legged huts inhabited by porcelin dolls. The dolls held the trapped souls of children! I thinks those huts stood as a sort of border guard. Are we near the border? I wonders if this is one of those...?" Curiousity getting the better of him, Sobe creeps closer to the huts. [smaller]So quaint and cute, surely it can't be dangerous...."
Glancing at the goblins, Sobe waves them off. "Surely THIS is one of those huts."
As Sobestian moves closer to the hut, he is able to truly appreciate the craftsman ship of it. He's particularly intrigued by a pattern carved into the side, resembling a path winding through a dark forest. He follows this path around to the western side of the hut, where it vanishes amongst the carven trees. Lifting his eyes from the hut wall, he realizes he's standing right by the door, and he can see within.
In the shadows inside the hut, Sobestian can see, seated in a small wooden chair in the center of the hut, a doll, sized about right for a child to play with. However, it would take a stout-hearted child indeed to take pleasure in such a toy, for the doll wears a grim, world-weary expression, its mouth curved in a disapproving frown. In contrast to its dour appearance, the doll wears a beautiful little dress of of pure white, with a blue apron embroidered with flowers. Her long, blonde hair is braided with flowers and ribbons, and atop her head she wears a sort of tiara of cloth flowers.
The doll does not move - why would a doll move, after all, with no child to move it? Nonetheless, it manages to give off an air of quiet menace.
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"Fools!" hisses Oldmar from the edge of the clearing. "Have you forgotten we're in unfriendly territory?! With goblins who like to get themselves killed in tow? If this a border guard, what are you doing?!?! Let's get out of here before we bring the whole Jadwiga down on us. Do you often walk up to hostile towers to see what the guards are having for lunch? Now is not the time for curiousity!"
The doll sits and stares, literally glassy-eyed, as some of the party ponder her and one stalwart dwarf argues that there's no call to trouble trouble. The creepy figure remains immobile as the party stands at the door. It appears that its role is to keep people out of Irrisen, rather than keeping them in.