Imendri continues to tromp through the snow and closes distance with the Fey nearby, slashing at it with the Cold Iron sword lent to him by Isker!
Imendri misses the fey--whoosh goes Yuln's sword.
Round 3 - Revenge of the Fey
Fey 3
Dez
Fey 1
Yrja
Fey 2 -9 HP
Chiquq/Ila
Braegan
Imendri
The furthest fey, seeing that his or her compatriot is grievously wounded, zips over and unleashes a rainbow colored blast over Yrja, Ila, and Chiquq---and the wounded fey.
The fey remains awake!
The fey recently threatened by Imendri flitters back and shoots an arrow.
And misses Imendri. Its eyes go wide, knowing that it is now vulnerable to the barbarian's sword.
Yrja, Chiquq, Ila, Will Saves and then it's your turn to attack! If you aren't asleep. :D
The speed at which the fey move takes Yrja by surprise. She turns around to track the fey that had moved behind her, in time to receive the coloured lights full in the face. Then... darkness.
Chiquq passes out as well, her fingers going loose on the tiny creature.
Ila trumpets in concern at Mamma falling over, and nudges at Chiquq with her trunk.
Braegan watches as the situation grows worse and worse. Imendri looked tough; he could likely survive a round or two against a single fey ... assuming he didn't get put to sleep, also. He looks back just in time to see Yrja and Chiquq fall to the magics. That's the clincher.
He steps closer, driving through the snow to hem in the already-hurt fey. The sound of embers crackling over a flame arise once again, and Braegan shouts as he reaches out towards the hateful little thing. Another glove is consumed by fire that ignites from Braegan's outstretched, charred fingers ... fingers he tries to connect with the fey.
Yrja and Chiquq join Dez in slumberland, slumping to the snow covered ground. Ila sounds her mammoth cry of concern, but indeed does not attack.
Braegan's touch of flame, however, has a horrifyingly incendiary effect on the tiny fey; it shrieks one last wail and melts into a mushy goo that leaves a steaming, bubbling stain on the snow.
The other two fey circle the group in petulant fury.
"You'll pay for shor!" One screams in high, squeaky, accented Taldane. Then balls of light appear around them and they speed away, darkening their own luminosity, leaving their summoned lights to linger for just a few moment. They are impossible to track in the dusk.
Oh, 'Shor' was the name of the fey Braegan killed.
The creatures were sprites. Each 5 above DC 10 reveals more...
After the fact, you realize that was Dancing Lights they cast.
Combat Over! Two have escaped...
After a few minutes, the Ustalavan tiefling, and then the Kellid and tiefling of Mahb's mentorship awaken, then rub their unseeing eyes fruitlessly for a score of breaths, and then can move and see normally again.
It is growing colder and the sun's rays are waning. You can press on, but it's clear that it will be very cold at night.
and now it starts to snow.
The tiefling girl gets to her feet slowly, eyes blinking rapidly until sight returns. Even warmly dressed as she is, lounging in the snow is not a smart idea and now her clothes are sodden and frozen. Shivering in the failing light, she looks around, checking on her companions.
"Is anyone hurt? Where are our attackers? What did they want?"
Braegan stands defensively over his snoozing comrades as the little attackers flee. He tucks his exposed hand into its sleeve, cutting a wary glance over at Imendri, seeing if the man saw the flame attack.
As the sounds of combat are replaced by the muffling of snowfall—and his teammates finally begin to wake up—Braegan takes a moment to pull his own furs from Ila’s bulging packs, glad for the additional warmth.
Despite the furs, he can't seem to keep the cold from creeping into his body as he waits for the team to prepare to move on.
"Everyone alright? Is anyone hurt?"
Dezső wakes up dazed, startles at fallen comrades nearby, but feels relief upon seeing that Braegan and Imendri (and Ila) are still standing. After getting the story from Braegan, he asks, "It sounds like they cast dancing lights to cover their retreat. Why do you think they fled? Perhaps they were frightened by your flames."
"Oof, it is getting really cold. And starting to snow. Do you think we can make fashion some snowshoes? If not, we should try to buy some first chance we get."
Blowing warmth into his hands, Braegan nods to the spot of melted sprite in their midst ... the only remains of the one they managed to destroy. "I don't know about snow shoes, but I'd say they don't like flames." His lips—turning blue—split into a grin, "Important things to remember, no?"
He looks up in the general direction they fled, his smile melting. "If they didn't know we were coming before, they do now." He shrugs, noting the time of day, "Do we press on? Or should be looking for a place to get warm and rest? I think I could make it a bit further, at the very least."
Sprites are stealthy, have several magical abilities (which you have seen--Dancing Lights, Daze, and Color Spray, and the spray is 1/day)...and these sprites are indeed vulnerable to fire. Probably what drove them off.
Yrja and Dezső shiver for a moment, but then appear unharmed by the cold. Braegan, however, is not so lucky--he is looking a bit wan and tired.
You can see that the trail leads onward, but Braegan isn't doing well...by your estimation, it's supper time and on to night time.
Yrja rubs a horn thoughtfully, her tail flicking against her boots. "If we stop here, we are at a disadvantage. Our attackers know where we are and they could return... with more numbers." She turns slowly in place, looking around the clearing. "And there isn't much shelter here. We could light a fire, but that would signal where we are... Mmm, fire."
She turns to Braegan. "You said they don't like flames? We could sleep inside a ring of fire, they might not bother us then." She shrugs. "Or we could press on, try to keep them on their... uh, toes. I know that some of you don't see in the dark, but I do. Your choice." It is not very clear to whom that last part is addressed, as Yrja is now scuffing the snow with her foot, head down, as if she is embarrassed for speaking.
After a few moments, the girl sniffs at the air. "It seems to me that the weather is not getting any better tonight and it will only get colder. Very cold. So we either press on and try to keep warm by moving, or we go someplace with real shelter."
It's going to keep snowing and get down to -10 Fahrenheit.......uh, -23 Celsius. The weather is variable, but you know that it will snow for a while, probably most of the night.
"I vote for shelter," Braegan mutters between chattering teeth. "And fire."
Imendri watches the Fey flee and curses at them in Hallit. Turning around, he boldly walks up to Ila and pats her, saying "Good girl" in Hallit. He picks up his pack where he dropped it in the center of the clearing, and slings it over his back while the others stand, wake, and talk about the cold.
"Det's real cold right now. Going to get colter. Yuu haff a tent? Furs? Good clofes?"
He looks around at the party and assesses their survivability.
Chiquq wakes up woozily to find Ila snuffling at her with her trunk. "Ughhh..."
She hauls herself to her feet using the mammoth as a support and blearily picks up her bow. "My head feels as though a mammoth trampled in it. Did we kill them?"
On hearing that they fled, Chiquq frowns. She also frowns at seeing the cold flakes of snow beginning to drift down.
Chiquq grunts, unbothered by these little flakes. They are nothing like true winter! She pats Ila companionably, as the mammoth is finally happy to have snow again.
However, she sees that the singer is not doing so well. "Cha, you look to turn to ice," she tuts. "Come cling to Ila. She is warm. Also I have a blanket in my packs, if you need."
Chiquq frowns, stamping a little circle in the snow. "I have firewood with me if we camp. Is going to get colder, tonight. Tracking by night is hard-- especially against things that fly. I say we wait for dawn-- stay warm tonight."
Dezső listens carefully to Chiquq's assessment. "I defer to your wisdom and experience in these matters."
Braegan's eyes shift between Dezso and Chiquq. "W-w-would it n-n-not be better to f-f-find some shelter? More d-d-defensible and warm, I'd th-th-think."
"I have no tent and no furs." Yrja replies to Imendri's questions. "And Mahb would never forgive me if I let her dear nephew freeze to death", she adds, smiling at Braegan. "You should head back to the village."
Braegan looks at Yrja stubbornly, "We don't need to return home. It just seems reckless to set our asses down right here and fall asleep."
"Well, yes, of course with a shelter," Chiquq says patiently. "There are trees all around us, yes? Rope between the trees, blankets tied to those to make windbreak and roof with a gap for smoke. It is easy to make."
Chiquq starts getting out numerous things from her pack, moving as one comfortable with the cold weather and in preparing against it. A blanket, a pole, some firewood that is nice and dry unlike the snowy landscape around them...
"Look for a spot under the trees where the snow is not thick; the branches will provide us some shelter, and we will set up windbreaks to keep the fire going. I have a pot in which we can melt snow and boil it for hot water-- Braegan should drink warm liquids, quickly. Ila-- come here, stand here, girl, block the wind..."
Braegan is about to argue further, but—to his credit—shuts his trap. "You're the g-g-guide," he says, trying to recover some of his usual high spirits with a weak grin. "I'll see about f-f-finding that spot."
He shuffles around, trying to help Chiquq find a spot she deems suitable. When it comes to a fire, he stops the Kellid hunter from doing it herself. With a grin, he stretches out his hand. A quiet version of the sounds of embers popping precedes a small flame leaping from his palm to the wood. He maintains his effort long enough for the freezing kindling to catch.
Once the decision has been taken to camp in the forest, Yrja jumps in to help - taking out two blankets from the donkey's saddlebags and helping build the shelter, taking care of the feed and water for the animals, setting out her bedroll and finally settling down with a sewing kit and some bits of leather and fabric.
She gestures to Braegan. "Here, let me take the measure of your hands, make you some new gloves."
Braegan smiles but seems hesitant. After a brief moment, he offers one hand. It is horribly scarred, charred black, and hot to the touch, as though just pulled from a raging fire. The color is a jarring juxtaposition against his otherwise pale skin, and the heat is in contrast to his otherwise freezing body. The burns travel right up his forearm, disappearing into the sleeves of his heavy coat.
He can't help but recoil slightly at her touch, wincing with anticipated pain. "Sorry," he mutters, searching her face for a reaction, "it's not you. They always hurt, the burns. And it's a kind offer, Yrja, but I'm afraid I'll just end up burning your gloves off again. I don't usually go through this many gloves. Then again I don't usually ... use my gift this much." He gives a weak grin, "What are the chances you can make flame-proof gloves?"
Dezső stands near while Chiquq works, trying to observe and remember everything she does, and he stands ready to help whenever he can. He shivers, but is pleasantly distracted by the learning. "It is a pleasure to watch someone who has great knowledge put it to work. How can I help?"
He also cannot help but notice Braegan and Yrja's interaction around the gloves and Braegan's burns. "Yes, Yrja, it appears that making gloves for Braegan is a losing proposition. Although he seems to keep a pretty good supply on hand." "Might I ask you how you got such severe burns, and why they do not heal over? My understanding from the medical texts I have read is that the site of such a severe burn should either be rendered useless, or over time the skin will heal itself. I gather it has something to do with this 'gift' you refer to. Your magic is unlike the magics of the wizards and alchemists, which are within my comprehension, if not my ability to perform."
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
”Although he seems to keep a pretty good supply on hand.”
Braegan barks a laugh, which mists the air in front of his face. ”Kind of have to, really.” He raises the burned hand in front of his face, forming his thoughts.
”I didn’t always have them. I remember that much, and I remember getting them. Mostly, anyway. I was little. I just remember we were traveling. And then they caught us … the witches.” He gives a look and a wince towards Yrja, ”I mean, a witch of the north. It was their magic that did this. All I can remember is the pain. Well, constantly am reminded is more like it. Mahb has never told me why they were after us, but I’m pretty sure it had to do with my ma.” His gray eyes drift for a moment, warming to an orangey glow in the fire. Then he shakes himself, his tone becoming more upbeat, as if he can joke away the past.
”Anyway, I’ve always heard girls dig scars. Well, I have some wicked ones.” He gingerly pulls his sleeve farther up his arm. The scars just keep going, as gruesome and fresh-looking as those on his hand, but traveling all the way up his bicep. He lets his sleeve fall, shifts, and opens his cloak and shirt at the neck. Sure enough, the burns continue up onto his torso, though they become a bit less severe as they travel across his thin chest.
Interestingly enough, where the burns and scars fade out, tattooing takes over. It’s intricate, gray-and-orange glyphic work … northern work. It somehow seems to be a strange extension of the flames themselves. ”I don’t know why they won’t heal. Mahb says she thinks that they’re connected to the power.” He nods to Dezso’s observation. ”To my gift … though it seems more like a curse, really.” He shrugs, letting his clothes fall back into place, ”I don’t really know much more than that. But I figure someone up north does. I intend to find them some day and find out why they gave me these. Why they killed my ma.”
As he winds down his story, only the sound of the popping embers are left … a fitting accompaniment to Braegan’s story. The young Ulfen grins, trying once again to lighten the mood. ”Wow … that got serious quick. I figure at the very least I have a good reason to slack when it comes to manual labor. I’ve never had to chop wood a day in my life.”
Yrja remains silent for a few moments after Braegan tells his tale, looking thoughtful. "I knew that story from Mahb, but hearing you tell it..." She trails off, eyes unfocused, her hands clutching at the scraps of material in her lap. "I am sorry for your pain. I want to help you find your answers... and I have some of my own to find as well."
She turns her attention to the work in her lap and starts to mend the scorched mess. "If we find some dragonhide I'll make you fire-proof gloves. Nice ones." She smiles at Braegan, although her eyes still retain a melancholic shadowing.
Dezső listens closely to Braegan's story, his eyebrows raising as the extent of the burning and the tattooing is revealed. "I am sorry to hear you still suffer so much pain. It's remarkable that your temperament is so cheerful. I've read texts suggesting that constant pain warps the mind, and can even drive some towards evil. As our journey seems to be taking us North, I do hope we will be able to find some of the answers you seek. I've often felt it was simpler that I never knew my parents, although I gather that is not how you experienced it, Yrja."
Dezső stares at the fire awhile, searching his mind and organizing his thoughts, "And I must admit that I too feel my life story has some connection to the witches of the North. For as long as I can remember I have had dreams of a snow-filled landscape and a shadowy figure who I knew innately to be a witch. I think of how Old Mother Theodora foresaw my coming, all of us. I don't understand how there could be a guiding hand in this, but there is so much I don't yet understand..."
Chiquq's and Imendri's talents of the wild secure a camp off-trail, with some rocks to shelter a fire and create a makeshift lean-to for the party; two in the tent, the others curled around the fire in various furs. The wind and snow may dissipate the smoke...you hope. In any case, the night is uneventful, save for the rhythmic sounds of mammoth and donkey breathing.
You awaken to find fresh snow falling, although the trail is still fairly obvious.
The tiefling girl rises with the sun, shaking the snow off her blanket and putting away her bedroll and blankets. The donkey is snuggled close to Ila, turning soulful eyes on Yrja as she approaches. "I'm sorry, Momo, I know you're cold. I'll make you a coat."
Her part of the camp packed up, she moves a little away from the others and gives a long, high whistle. After a few minutes, a small brown bat flutters down and attaches itself to Yrja's woolen scarf, snuggling against her chest. Her back to the camp, the girl spends some time petting it, feeding it bits of her rations and murmuring to it.
Through the fire-talking, the Kellid woman mostly just listens, sitting on a log with her back to Ila's warm, solid bulk. She has a piece of bone-- actually mammoth ivory-- that she works with as people talk, carving slow chips from it with a sharp short blade. Ultimately, the tusk will look like this, but that's a ways away yet.
Chiquq gazes at Braegan's burn scars with arched brows when they are revealed, but laughs it away. "It is good if we have a man of fire... if we are to fight the cold," she says, seeming in better spirits than she has been since they all met. It must be the falling snow.
Chiquq does get out her battered mess kit-- tin from these southlands, which has served her well on her many voyages north and back again-- and she melts snow over the fire. In the hot water, she soaks a piece of dried jerky from her pack, creating a sort of hot broth which she insists Braegan drink.
She takes the first watch, standing with her arms draped over Ila's back and staring out into the dark, with its blobs of falling white.
In the morning, Chiquq stamps her feet and rubs her hands together, packing up the gear from the night before with quick efficiency. She takes a quick survey of the snowy ground around their site.
"Elk," she says, nudging Imendri with a smile. "If we had time to hunt...! Oh well. Come, we hunt different prey today. It's too bad! Elk is very good eating!"
With things stowed again on faithful Ila's back, and the mammoth nomming down handfuls of grain feed, Chiquq is ready to proceed, leading the hunt for the trail.
The elk prints are fresh and follow the filled-in track of horse and humanoid that you have been following. You can clearly see the the elk has gone in both directions.
You come to a narrow game trail and there, standing in a small clearing of undergrowth and snow-laden trees, stands a majestic stag elk, its snow pure white. It remains still, watching you expectantly.
Chiquq stumbles to a startled halt in the snow, her breath steaming in the air before her as she stares at the sight before her. It's hardly what she expected, and she cannot help but think that she stands in the presence of a spirit, perhaps a face of Tekkeitsertok of whom her father spoke... or perhaps one of the other gods, worshiped in places beyond the north.
She stands frozen a moment, one hand tangled in Ila's shaggy fur and the other still clutching her bow, but down at her side. Awkardly, Chiquq takes a knee in the snow, inclining her head to the stag.
"If I am in your woods, Many-Points, I am sorry. A hunt brought me and these people here."
The group’s efforts bring Braegan around and—by morning—the young singer seems back to his usual, warm self. As he digs around to help with the cold breakfast of rations, he winks to Chiquq, ”The man of fire needs food.”
After the breakfast of cold rations, and a moment to greet the strange bat of Yrja’s, Braegan looks longingly in the direction of the elk tracks before following Chiquq’s lead. When they stop, it takes a moment for Braegan to realize the white stag is right in front of them.
He looks at Chiquq and Imendri, unsure of how to proceed, especially given Chiquq’s obvious reverence for the creature.
”So … uh … what is it?” he whispers in Taldan.
Dezső observes carefully the rituals of all of his comrades, trying to learn best wilderness practices and discern what behaviors are functional (such as for preparing spells) and what behaviors are culture and custom. He asks questions as much as they are tolerated. He strives to organize each bit of information and to mentally file it away carefully both for easy access and to be compiled and cross-analyzed with other bits of information. It is a practice he has engaged in since leaving Lepidstadt and finding himself unable to translate his book learning to the world outside the University. To his companions, he seems to be both staring intently and lost in his own thoughts at the same time. If questioned, he will apologize for staring, but soon return to doing so.
As they break down and leave the camp, he continues to defer to Chiquq as the wilderness leader. Upon encountering the white elk, he gather's from Chiquq's behavior that this is a rather unusual sight, and follows her lead and lowers his crossbow. He remains standing and still, trying to figure out the scene before him.
Yrja walks at the rear of the group, gently tugging the donkey along; following the others' tracks is easier for both girl and donkey than wading through fresh, unspoiled snow. As the others halt, she has a bit of trouble at first seeing beyond them and leans out to the side to better discern the reason for stopping. At the sight of the magnificent stag her breath catches; here in front of them is a beautiful creature and she is in awe of it. She doesn't kneel to the stag like Chiquq does, but still assumes a respectful posture towards it.
She wonders if this is a real animal or a mythical being.
At the same time, a nagging thought at the back of her mind concerns itself with the tracks they are pursuing and questions if there is a connection between their quarry and this stag.
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
To all intents and purposes, this looks like a normal stag to you, albeit majestic and almost otherworldly. Whether it is of this plane or another, Braegan cannot discern, and there is nothing obviously fae about it, to Yrja and Chiquq's eyes. And yet, at the short obeisance and speech by Chiquq, its muzzle quivers and its ears flicker. And then, a clear voice speaking Taldane resounds from the stag, its calm eyes fixed on you all:
"Good morrow, travelers. My lady, my apologies, I do not speak the languages of your North. I am Nief, a White Stag. Who are you, and what do you seek? Perhaps I can help you."
After a few dumbstruck moments, Braegan gives a questioning look to the team, then shrugs.
"I'm Braegan," the Ulfen says, so taken aback by a speaking stag that he loses all of his usual charm. "From Heldren. We're looking for those responsible for this unseasonable cold. And those who took a woman who was traveling through this forest."
"What are you?"
The stag lowers its impressive branching antlers a jot and then stands tall again; a nod, you realize, but the gesture is so grand it takes a moment to comprehend. "The White Stags are the watchers and guardians in a place such as this. This is Golarion, yes? Our land is...similar, but different. We are sometimes summoned here when there is need for aid. What are your men with horns? We do not have them. We do have the fairy folk, though; they pierce the veil of the world and cause mischief. Do you hunt them? Are you armed against them? And what is the woman you seek? I have seen people pass through here."
Although Dezső intended to let the others do the talking, at hearing himself referred to he is unable to restrain himself and he takes a step to stand next to Braegan: "I guess I am the man with horns you refer to? They call us tieflings. I am born of human parents, but my appearance is due to the fact that an infernal being inserted itself into my bloodline at some point in the past. But please rest assured that I am not an evil creature."
If the stag seems satisfied, he continues, "And, yes, this is Golarion. Where are you from? And do you know who summoned you here? It seems impossible to imagine that our paths have crossed by coincidence. Hunting the fairy is not our primary aim -- we seek answers to this cold and follow those who kidnapped a woman of some importance. Some of the captors were fairies, and they attacked us yesterday."
"We are not well armed against the fairies. Any aid you can offer would be much appreciated. It is not mere mischief at work here. Those we follow killed this Lady's guard and raised two as zombies. And I suspect some even greater malicious plot is behind all this."