|
Erland jumps onto the creature's back and begins to filet it like a massive ugly fish.
[dice=Damage]1d10+1
It lets out a noise that is quickly silenced by Erland's blade, and then, stillness retakes the area-- until it jerks to life again, requiring another stab of a blade to bring it still once more.
Fire-- fire or something else, right now, would be good.
Edwyn rises on shaky legs, leaning comically on his thin blade which is bent in a wide arc, point-to-ground.
"Even if you find flint," his voice carries over, surprisingly loud and commanding, "this is a poor place to make fire, let alone coax it to thrive and grow. There's a better way, friends."
He limps over to the smaller troll, strongly favoring his right leg, and with several quick, disturbingly calm and precise flicks of his saber severs its neck, letting the head roll free.
"As with all things which live, it must have breath. Breath is life. And we are standing over the greatest destroyer of breath, the greatest" he spares a quick glance to the bear-druid "force of nature in existence. Allow me to demonstrate."
Edwyn holds the troll head by its ratty, greasy hair with one hand while with the other he roots in the snow with the point of his sword. Feeling the expected clang, he bends down and picks up a rock. He then proceeds to unceremoniously pry open the troll's mouth and force the rock down its throat in a grisly display and casually toss the head over his shoulder into the drink.
"Done."
He dusts his hands together.
"Now, who needs seeing to?"
Sparrow lets out a breath she didn't know she was holding. The trolls are down. They were alive. Somehow.
Not thanks to you. The thought rises, unbidden, to her mind and she promptly buries it. When they returned to Greaffke, they'd get their reward. That's what she needs to focus on.
She lets her gaze flick over to Edwyn. Who knew he had it in him? Sparrow gives him a tired grin and keeps her voice light, "I'm impressed, Edwyn." The grin fades as she gestures towards the bear. "Uqalik looks like he could use some healing." Because he saved me.
With that last thought, she walks in the direction the troll threw the corpse. Was it one of Greaffke's men? Did he have a little girl waiting for him to come home?
The form of Nanuq wavers and shrinks until Uqalik, a halfling once more, thanks Erland for the healing. He walks over to his pack, picks it up, pulls out the vial that Sparrow had noticed, and brings it over to the larger of the trolls. "Now we'll see if that alchemist was a liar," he says as he lets the vial fall and watches it shatter against the troll's tough hide. The contents burn with a strange green flame, beginning to consume the troll's flesh.
Uqalik glances around, wondering where the nearest source of fuel to keep the fire going is.
Edwyn begins composing his ballad of Thorgrim's epic triumph over a roving band of giant trolls, addressing one verse to each person present to share the healing warmth.
"Hey guys, anyone have an issue with slant rhyme? Think I can get away with hewn and doom?"
Perform for Sparrow
Healing Sparrow
Perform for Erland
Healing Erland
Perform for Uqalik
Healing Uqalik
(If able) Perform for Thorgrim
(If able) Healing Thorgrim
(If able) Perform for self
(If able) Healing self
|
|
"I can also see to wounds if there are overmany." Erland says, huffing. Looking down at his bloodspattered form he continues, "If not I'd just as soon wash up in the river."
Erland's eyes drift to the sky and he says under his breath, "Thank you All-Father. Without you I am nothing."
A feeling of accomplishment washes over you for a moment before the sun comes out from behind a cloud, bathing the bridge and riverside in warmth.
The form of Nanuq wavers and shrinks until Uqalik, a halfling once more, thanks Erland for the healing. He walks over to his pack, picks it up, pulls out the vial that Sparrow had noticed, and brings it over to the larger of the trolls. "Now we'll see if that alchemist was a liar," he says as he lets the vial fall and watches it shatter against the troll's tough hide. The contents burn with a strange green flame, beginning to consume the troll's flesh.
Uqalik glances around, wondering where the nearest source of fuel to keep the fire going is. Discern Realities 2d6 + 2 ⇒ (4, 5) + 2 = 11
You're not quite sure what might be happening out in the woods, but you can hear bird life beginning to return back. For all intents and purposes, you're certain that the trolls are dead-- the green fire from the alchemist, however, is dancing in an odd way. As Edwyn strings together stanzas and rhyme, you can see the fire flicker in tune and time with it-- You are sure that the spirits of nature are enjoying his words, yet, that in and of itself is a dangerous thing-- and you should be on the lookout for what might be drawn near if he keeps plying his trade so close to the forest and so far from civilization.
On the other side, you glance over and can see now that there's no troll to really block your line of sight a wrecked wagon on the other side of the bridge. The corpse of the man the troll carried still lays there, bloody in the snow.
With that last thought, she walks in the direction the troll threw the corpse. Was it one of Greaffke's men? Did he have a little girl waiting for him to come home?[i]
You can see that the corpse of the man is crushed down into a pile of snow which has spattered red from the force of his arrival. He wears an iron helm, and a tabard with the image of a ripped flag flying in the center of it, denoting him as a member of the Bloodaxe Clan. A battleaxe still hangs on his belt, but his sword is missing.
Nearby, a wagon sits, wrecked with its wheels knocked off of the axels. Several crates and boxes sit in the rear of it, the lids displaced and straw and snow intermingle across the top of it.
Nothing else nearby stands out to you at first glance, though you can see the heavy footprints of the trolls in the snow, leading away from the wagon...
Edwyn begins composing his ballad of Thorgrim's epic triumph over a roving band of giant trolls, addressing one verse to each person present to share the healing warmth.
"Hey guys, anyone have an issue with slant rhyme? Think I can get away with [i]hewn and doom?"
Perform for Sparrow 2d6 + 2 ⇒ (2, 5) + 2 = 9
Healing Sparrow 1d8 ⇒ 1Perform for Erland 2d6 + 2 ⇒ (3, 6) + 2 = 11
Healing Erland 1d8 ⇒ 8Perform for Uqalik 2d6 + 2 ⇒ (2, 2) + 2 = 6
Healing Uqalik 1d8 ⇒ 1(If able) Perform for Thorgrim 2d6 + 2 ⇒ (1, 4) + 2 = 7
(If able) Healing Thorgrim 1d8 ⇒ 6(If able) Perform for self 2d6 + 2 ⇒ (2, 6) + 2 = 10
(If able) Healing self 1d8 ⇒ 7
Her eyes sweep over the man and she kneels with a whisper. "May the Mothers watch over your soul."
As Sparrow rises, she notices the footprints. Did they lead back to a troll-cave? Were there more trolls? Baby trolls? Inwardly, she cringes. Those have to be hideous.
Her attention turns to the crates and boxes. She climbs up in the wagon and begins rummaging through them.
Noticing the strange and eerie behavior of the fire, Edwyn suppresses a shiver. He's never before considered the potential repercussions of his performances, and the thought terrifies him. He goes silent in mid-verse, slumps his shoulders in defeat, and nestles his lute protectively in the crook of his arm.
"We, ah..."
He casts furtive glances over his shoulder at the smoldering green flames.
"...We should get going."
|
|
Her eyes sweep over the man and she kneels with a whisper. "May the Mothers watch over your soul."
As Sparrow rises, she notices the footprints. Did they lead back to a troll-cave? Were there more trolls? Baby trolls? Inwardly, she cringes. Those have to be hideous.
Her attention turns to the crates and boxes. She climbs up in the wagon and begins rummaging through them.
Discern Realities 2d6 + 1 ⇒ (4, 5) + 1 = 10
You note that there are more footprints than trolls or dead men-- the snow is kicked up in some areas. What happened to them, and where have they gone?
You find a shiny dwarven steel dagger in the bottom of one of the crates, a nice sharp weapon with some lightness to it. The rest? They're completely empty.You're not quite sure if the trolls found this wagon before or after the men left, and upon a second inspection, you don't notice a sign of a struggle around here-- at least not one that'd match two trolls and at least six men like the snow suggests. You aren't even sure who this Bloodaxe clansman is. Greaffke may not have told you the whole story.
The river babbles beneath the bridge, the soundscape occasionally blessed by a crackle from the troll-fire. The other troll's head swims downriver, away from it's body. A cold wind sweeps across the riverside, and far away, a raven calls.
Sparrow slips the dagger up her sleeve and continues with her inspection of the scene. Most of the crates were empty. Somehow she found it doubtful that the trolls would have taken all the weapons back to their cave. Maybe they did, but most of these would be more like toothpicks to them. Her focus is broken by Erland’s voice ringing clear across the snow.
She glances up to meet the paladin’s eyes. “What exactly did Greaffke say when he hired us, again?”
She leaps off the wagon. “Because these crates are empty and” , she gestures towards the corpse, “this is the first I’ve heard of Greaffke having Bloodaxes in his employ.”
Thorgrim steps calmly beyond the green-flame enveloped corpse to stand near the wagon with the rest. "It is unlikely the big gífr would have riddled his club with the missing weapons. The blades I saw were of poor make and worse upkeep."
The barbarian strides over to the dead Bloodaxe and kneels over the body, examining it closely. Perhaps the trolls were not the first to intercept this wagon. Perhaps the trolls are not those responsible for this weakling's passing.
"The body is ruined." Thorgrim stands and straightens up. He turns towards any who are still picking through the wagon. "If there are more trolls nearby, I will send them to meet their brothers soon enough." He begins making his way to any tracks that might betray the path that delivered the monsters here.
Having finished a ritual aimed at preventing the trolls' spirits from desiring vengeance on the living, Uqalik joins the rest of the party examining the cart and surrounding area. It is as Amaruq the wolf that he sniffs the air, seeking answers that no eye can reveal.
|
|
Hold 2d6 + 2 ⇒ (2, 5) + 2 = 9
Discern Realities 2d6 + 2 ⇒ (6, 4) + 2 = 12
Likely, men were here before the trolls... the wagon was probably smashed by the trolls. Their scents leave on the path Thorgrim is walking, and do not return.
You sense a strange, electric scent that lingers in the forest around this wagon, mingled in with the stink of troll and the smell of man. This scent makes you hungry and thirsty, craving and yearning... it's a strange, strange smell. You're certain that something else supernatural was here long before the trolls ever made it.
He begins making his way to any tracks that might betray the path that delivered the monsters here.
The wind picks up and howls through the trees for a brief moment. It's getting colder, you're certain of it, but you're used to it. You were born in it. Outsider:
You hike up the snowbank mottled with troll and man tracks to find a much clearer path snaking through the fir trees in front of you. You can see enormous tracks--troll-- walking alongside the line of men's tracks. They continue on deeper into the woods, and it seems as though the trolls may have stumbled upon them and followed them to their likely destination.
What you notice, however, is a small flower blooming through the snow. It's vibrant, yellow and blue petals draw your attention, and you notice that around it in the snow, almost eroded by wind, is an impression of a footprint so light that it's almost impossible to see-- like a footprint in the dust on a stone floor. Small and feminine, it's a humanoid footprint. There are no other tracks around it.
Thorgrim Sigurdson squats down to examine the flower for mere seconds before unceremoniously ripping the rarity out of the earth to give it a sniff. The fragrance would be pleasing, were he some fop of a child from Last Bastion. Such things are not to be indulged, however, and he simply peers over his shoulder towards where the halfling-wolf currently stands. "Dog. The trail entertains many guests this night. What make you of this?" He holds the flower out before him, beckoning Amaruq to investigate.
You sense a strange, electric scent that lingers in the forest around this wagon, mingled in with the stink of troll and the smell of man. This scent makes you hungry and thirsty, craving and yearning... it's a strange, strange smell. You're certain that something else supernatural was here long before the trolls ever made it.
Am I hungry, thirsty, craving, yearning for anything in particular?
Do the footprint and flower also smell like the strange smell, or is it different?
|
|
You sense a strange, electric scent that lingers in the forest around this wagon, mingled in with the stink of troll and the smell of man. This scent makes you hungry and thirsty, craving and yearning... it's a strange, strange smell. You're certain that something else supernatural was here long before the trolls ever made it.Am I hungry, thirsty, craving, yearning for anything in particular?
Do the footprint and flower also smell like the strange smell, or is it different?
Excitement-- the feeling of adrenaline, running, heart beating. The dullness of drink and the worryless laughter of a feast day. The feeling of dipping fingers in blood or putting paint to wall or paper. These feelings strike you as... odd. Forced, almost. They buzz away after just a few seconds, leaving a strange vacancy behind.
They also smell similar. The footprint smells like man, but with something else-- something more poignant. The same scent wafts from both, oddly welcoming, softly beckoning.
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
Sparrow nods at Erland and glances back at Uqalik and Thorgrim. Before she is able to ask anything, the two have already left - pursuing a trail. Well, it’s becoming readily apparent that we’re notgoing back to town. Where it’s safe. Then again, behind Thorgrim is always a safe place to be. Only fools messed with that brute.
”It looks like Uqalik picked up a scent. Shall we?” Sparrow flashes a half-smile at Erland before following the majority of her group. Thorgrim holds a flower that Uqalik seemed to be sniffing. She crosses the snow to get a better glimpse of it. Its beautiful - which, from her experience, usually means it’s dangerous.
”Anyone know what that flower is?”
|
|
This flower isn't a monster or particularly unusual, but the strange color and scent of it is enough to hint that it has something to do with the court of the fey-- a dangerous prospect in these parts. So far from where they normally hold dominion, and yet, close enough that they might toe the line forward a few inches to count you in it anyways.
As it usually tends to do, the rabbit hole becomes deeper as light is shed upon it.
Spoutin':
"The fey exist as an innate duality: Seelie and Unseelie, Summer and Winter courts. Some divide them further into Spring and Autumn sub-courts, but..." Edwyn notices quite a few rolling eyes, and continues.
"Right, but, err... to the point. The Winter fey are cruel. Not by human standards, mind you-- they won't cheat you at cards or dice, per se. They're quite simply outside of the human concept of morality. The same goes for the others-- the Summer are by no means benevolent, just merely different. Winter is the harsher side of the natural world. It's the choice a mother wolf makes to leave one of her pups behind in the snow, or the chance a different mother's child, a blind faun, will stumble into that same mother wolf that same night instead of a patch of clover. It's pitiless, but no less beautiful than anything else, no less an equal part of things, and certainly no less dangerous."
"Many claim the Trolls are related to the Winter courts, whether they're the eventual awkward de-evolutions of whatever forms these fey dreamed for themselves upon entering our world from theirs, bogged down over the years with the banal and (to them) immutable nature of our reality, or just maybe they like to smash things, and sometimes the true fey need some stuff smashed." He grins to himself, as if thinking of an anecdote, but upon seeing the stern faces of his fellows, discards the thought.
"I was, uh... going somewhere with this, wasn't I? I think what I really meant to say was something along the lines of, 'Thorgrim, put that down, and lets get you to something to slay.'"
You sense a strange, electric scent that lingers in the forest around this wagon, mingled in with the stink of troll and the smell of man. This scent makes you hungry and thirsty, craving and yearning... it's a strange, strange smell. You're certain that something else supernatural was here long before the trolls ever made it.Am I hungry, thirsty, craving, yearning for anything in particular?
Do the footprint and flower also smell like the strange smell, or is it different?
Excitement-- the feeling of adrenaline, running, heart beating. The dullness of drink and the worryless laughter of a feast day. The feeling of dipping fingers in blood or putting paint to wall or paper. These feelings strike you as... odd. Forced, almost. They buzz away after just a few seconds, leaving a strange vacancy behind.
They also smell similar. The footprint smells like man, but with something else-- something more poignant. The same scent wafts from both, oddly welcoming, softly beckoning.
Ah, good. Uqalik and I had feared it might be a craving for human flesh
|
|
Following the scent of these strange creatures leads you farther and farther into the snow-covered woods, across ice-capped glades and half-frozen creeks. The trees creak and groan with the weight of snow and the rime that freezes them throughout, lending a strange cadence to the journey itself. Overhead, the sun begins to slowly descend until it touches the treeline and begins to pass under it, orange light filtering through the firs and creating long, desperate shadows.
The forest doesn't yet seem to realize that night has begun to fall-- in fact, it seems to wholly reject the notion of any sort of consistency whatsoever. Rounding a small ravine in the woods at sundown, you step into a long stretch of forest to find that it is suddenly warmer. Snow no longer covers the ground, and the buzz of insects fills the air. A marmot makes its way across the ground at a far distance, and disappears into the underbrush with a start when it notices the new arrivals to the strange place.
Taking a few more steps forward, you discover what appears to be a long trail of winter cloaks-- more than eight or nine, discarded in a haphazard fashion that could only be explained by the line of men not stopping to disrobe. Another flower sprouts from the ground here, wild and vibrant.
A voice pierces strangely from the woods around them, echoing and fair-- a woman's voice, beautiful if not a bit... strange. "Such creatures, so far from home," it speaks, its true location unable to be tracked by sight or sound alone. It asks, "What are such creatures doing so far from home? What are their names?"
Uqalik returns to his normal form and answers the voice, "Not all of us are men. What is this 'song of endless winter' of which you speak?"
"Don't expect an honest answer out of them. They speak in riddles and half-truths meant to taunt and entrap."
He steps forward and turns his head as he speaks, as if to address the entire area. "Know that you won't glamour any of my companions while I draw breath, fey. You may know winter's song, but so do I. And I know the sweet strings of summer's song to counter it. Don't make me use it."
Edwyn poises his fingers on his lute and plucks a few loud, resounding notes as a warning.
"It's demanding," the voice replies observantly, almost mockingly.
From directly behind Edwyn.
Standing just behind Edwyn in the strange, warm glade is a beautiful woman. Her fair skin almost glows, and she's completely nude yet for a string of flowers across her breasts and a skirt of green leaves that trails to the grass they stand upon. She's slender, with long black hair wreathed through with flowers that runs past her waist. Her eyes are green-- greener than anything, black and gold color shimmering throughout like veins in a stone. She plies a single thoughtful finger to her chin, a smile upon her face. She wears several bangles and bracelets cut from many different materials and styles, a long-collected amount of jewelry. Some appears very old.
"She doesn't wish to hurt it," she says, softly, "as long as it doesn't want to hurt her." Without the wood to echo her voice, she sounds soft, calm-- alluring. She takes a step back from the group into the light, maintaining distance. In the glittering sunlight, it's apparent that her skin isn't flesh-- it has the whorls and lines of ash wood, and a similar color.
"They're not part of winter's court? They haven't heard the song? Do they not know what has happened here and beyond?" she asks, directing her questions like Edwyn was-- to the group, but also something beyond. She seems distracted-- very distracted, almost far gone for an instant before the focus in her eyes returns.
A tree groans in the grove. The creak of wood fills it. The trees seem to loom a bit taller. A marmot squeaks in the distance.
"Then, perhaps, they can help her?" she asks, turning her attention to the group again. "She can show you the song, and what it has done. Or are you like the other men, entrapped by the song and come to bare steel fangs and bleed the creatures of this grove?"
You can pretty easily identify this woman as a dryad-- specifically, a dryad of the summer court. If you'd like to lore a bit on dryads like you did on fey, I'd like that. For your last spout lore, by the by, I'll tell you that the fey in the Ironheart stake very direct, concrete regional claims for each court. What those stakes are? Where are the stakes and how are they drawn? Who maintains that order? Who knows but the fey... but woe unto those that cross them or those lines, whatever they may be.
Thorgrim spares a disinterested glance at the dryad, instead turning to regard the discarded cloaks that litter the forest's floor. "My steel bites only those worthy of being bitten and those who transgress. Prove yourself neither and you will live yet, for a time." The northman kneels beside one of the cloaks and grabs the garment, giving it a cursory once-over and a brief sniff. The odor is not a favorable one, and he lets it drop once more to the ground.
"I care not for songs. Where are they that wore these cloaks?"
"The men who wore those cloaks? They descended into the gardens," she explains. "She is the only survivor of what happened there, but the men may yet still remain. She will show you."
Summer's Flourished Leaves turns to a copse of thick trees and impassable, gnarled roots just feet from the adventurers. She gestures, and the trees quicken suddenly and begin to crawl across the grass and eachother. They fold into a rough circle and the leaves pull back suddenly, forming what seems to be a rough natural portal.
Beyond, a natural pathway running through the forest sits, and to either side, what appear to be elvish men and women. Their bodies are strange-- their skin is tinged blue and frost and ice hangs from their ears and extremities, which is a far contrast from the summery grass and pleasant light they lay in. Numerous unbleeding blade wounds run across their frozen bodies, and they wear what seems to be the thin robes of acolytes. These people were obviously not warriors, and were cut down without reason.
Farther up the path, what appears to be a large tree sits, and around it is wrapped what seems to be elvish woodwork and marble columns; A large complex of which can be seen bushels of half-frozen half-colorful flowers, what lies beyond is without a doubt 'the gardens'. Patches of ice draw beautiful patterns across the tree's surface, and a light snow seems to be paradoxically falling around it in the warm summer breeze.
"This is a place that those who love this world find, and that is a place that they whom find this place may worship in. The song of winter has ruined this place by killing those who live here with the minds of men made slaves by its song. Certainly, it does not mean to stop there. It will plunge this place of power into winter and endless cold, like it has so many places before it, and it will only grow stronger."
She turns to them with a strangeness in her eyes. "The song is not something that can only be heard. It is something that can be seen. The song sings, and is jealous of those who can hear it. It is not from your world of men, but of something far before, before shapes had shapes and were given form. One would do well to beware its call," Summer says, and looks upon Edwyn's lute again.
And without batting an eyelash, she extends a hand to Uqalik and speaks: "Druid-- one whose name floats on the wind. There are yet still others that these men have not returned to the ash of the world. They are within the grove, behind ancient doors. She is powerless to help them-- She can only walk so far from this place. Please, help them?"
His cold eyes staring harsh as the winter at the dryad, Thorgim seems to listen passively to her words—words as flowered as her hair. As the forest itself withdraws and contorts to give them passage beyond, the barbarian nods grimly to himself before turning to his nephew. "You had best prepare yourself, Cronarson," the large man grumbles harshly, "for trolls are not the only test that await you this day."
"I have seen it seldom, and heard of it less. The vetur tekið. Men losing themselves to winter's madness; brother turning against brother on the whims of a frigid gale as cold as their turned hearts. They are men no longer. 'Tis things deserving of our steely bites." Thorgrim nods to the dryad as he says this, then moves towards the new path before them. He stops just short, waiting for the rest to satisfy their own curiosity before pressing on.
And without batting an eyelash, she extends a hand to Uqalik and speaks: "Druid-- one whose name floats on the wind. There are yet still others that these men have not returned to the ash of the world. They are within the grove, behind ancient doors. She is powerless to help them-- She can only walk so far from this place. Please, help them?"
"Who are these 'others' of which you speak? Are they creatures like yourself, more elves, or something else?"
Uqalik wonders how far they can trust the wood-woman.
|
|
The dryad stares down at Uqalik. "They draw breath now. Soon, they may not. They are elves and men, birds and animals... and it's only a short time until it may return to this place."
What's odd is that the song of winter passed by this place without scratching it; what's stranger is that that door was closed just a moment ago. Why didn't the song stop here? Perhaps the dryad is cowardly and hid, or perhaps something else is at play.
Erland reaches out to Cronar, and receives direction. Sight beyond sight lends itself to him, and with the supernal senses of a hunter, he can see that the dryad bears no evil-- yet, the pathway up towards the gardens teems with it. Evil stains the dirt, stains the leaves, the blades of grass, leaves heavy footprints up the path and colors the stab wounds of the frozen elves. Evil is afoot, there is no doubt.
Edwyn's eyes go wide and he theatrically stumbles back a few steps and sketches a deep, courtly bow. "My lady, I humbly and sincerely beg your forgiveness. I did not expect to meet a beauty of the Summer court in such a place. For that, I both feel--and am visibly and publicly proven--foolish. I beseech you, grant me the honor of earning your good graces and undoing the sleight I have unwillingly offered."
He looks up earnestly into her eyes, and offers his best gleaming smile, holding out his hands as if begging alms for the poor.
"What do you wish I would do?"
"What do you wish I would do?"
Uqalik rolls his eyes at Edwyn's question. "Fight, obviously," he mutters under his breath.
"Who shut the door?"
"What do you wish I would do?"Uqalik rolls his eyes at Edwyn's question. "Fight, obviously," he mutters under his breath.
"Who shut the door?"
She gestures, and the trees quicken suddenly and begin to crawl across the grass and eachother. They fold into a rough circle and the leaves pull back suddenly, forming what seems to be a rough natural portal.
"What do you wish I would do?"
"Save them, anyone-- please," Summer's Flourished Leaves asks, quietly.
"Milady, thy will be done."
Edwyn straightens once more and nods amicably in her direction, satisfied that, since she must answer truthfully, she isn't deceiving them or sending them to their (at least immediate) deaths.
Sparrow breaks her silence, muttering under her breath. "After he wipes the drool from his chin, that is."
Behind the sarcasm, her heart continues beating furiously inside her ribcage. The tales her father used to tell her were fresh in her mind. One of them was going to lose an eye; she was certain of that. If they were lucky, that was all they would lose.
"Our patron here is a beautiful specimen of hamadryad, cousins of the fey whose souls are bonded with specific trees." Edwyn expounds to no one in particular.
"This one, if I'm not mistaken, is one of the meliai, an ash spirit. They're nurturers and healers, and her concern for the afflicted is, I believe, quite genuine."
Edwyn casts a lusty glance back over his shoulder as the party passes through the portal and continues in a low, conspiratorial tone, "I'm also told that, despite what one might expect of their, err, topological texture, their caresses are nonetheless quite--"
"Eyes to the front, skinny one. There will be time enough for earning splinters in your manhood after the toil beyond. The witless hear keenly the call of Winter, and there is yet much crows that need feeding."
Thorgrim strides along beside Erland, eager to find these vetur tekið and exact his own toll. Mutants of the jötun and the crazed harbingers of the Rìmsong in a single day? Perhaps Cronar does favor us this day, that he lines up my enemies so closely. A grim smirk creeps across the barbarian's upper lip as he travels the path that lay ahead.
|
|
As you travel forward up the path, you can see that the tree ahead seems to stretch and skew strangely, as if approaching it along the curve of the horizon was a daunting and complicated task here. Both sides of the path are dotted with frozen elves, most of which appear to have fallen in violent death. A warm summer's breeze blows through the area, followed shortly by a shrill wintery wind.
The tree, surrounded by elvish architecture and marble gardens, stands tall in the center of a clearing in the forest. You follow the path to a large pair of double-doors to find them slightly ajar, a battleaxe heft into the wood but left behind. Through the doors are what appears to be a beautiful courtyard; an amphitheater dominates the center of the room, a harp standing alone on the stage. Flowering plants and fruit-bearing trees grow in the courtyard, interspersed with eroding marble columns that hold nothing aloft. A small reflecting pool sits at the far end of the yard, a marble statue of an elven woman holding a lantern in her hands looming above it.
Crossing the courtyard, you can see a beautiful wooden lodge at the base of the massive tree. A pair of doors sits open at its face, and inside is a tall, long dimly lit library of sorts. Very old books sit on the walls. Flowering plants hang from the ceiling and the bookshelves, which seem to grow out of the ground itself and are interspersed throughout the room in a mazelike pattern. Several marble benches comprise the seating in the room. Another door stands at the terminus of the library, but it is closed; the haft of a leather-wrapped dwarven handaxe is shoved roughly between the handles, making opening it from the other side likely difficult. A bloody handprint is smeared along the door, and droplets of dried blood retreat into the library somewhere-- but not out the door.
At the far end of the courtyard, you can see that beside a lodge is a set of natural stone stairs that begin to loop up and around the tree's base. Following them upwards, you come to a terrace that looks to be an artist's den. Easels and half-completed sculptures of elves, halflings and beautiful men and women in loose cloth stand in the terrace. Strangely, everything here is completely covered over with thick frost. Snow stands tall on the ground here, and the plants and garden hedges are frozen over. A strange chill rests in the air here.
Along the right side of the wooden lodge at the base of the tree stands a rough natural stair that leads downwards along the slope of the earth. Following it leads you to what looks to be a small garden dominated by a large pond, lily pads and tall grass growing from its shore. A stone bridge, smooth and strange, leads from one end of the long pond to the other. A pair of statues of what appear to be beautiful women-- -- stand on either side of the bridge. At the far side, the two ponds seem to be being fed by a pair of marble baths that stand a bit above the earth around them. Steam rises from the water in them, in accordance to the patches of odd ice on the ground and the chill wind in the air. Beyond the baths and around the cover their stairs provide, you can easily see a group of men standing in the yard. They seem to be resting, sitting along a ruined marble pillar and around a small brazier that they've stoked a fire in. A corpse of an elven man sits between them, shrouded by a cloak and sitting in a pool of blood. Beyond them is a pair of stone doors that two of their number are shoulder-ramming with mindless abandon, the doors rocking softly each time but not yet giving. There are roughly six of them, with four at rest, but not all of them appear to be Bloodaxe clan-- some of them wear no armor at all, or leather pelts, appearing to be trappers or lumberers instead. Upon closer inspection, the elven man seems smaller-- and the men are cooking something in the fire, staring and salivating with a look of dull, monstrous hunger that reminds you of the trolls.