"Oh just wonderful! More fodder for the canons, more fools in the court!" grumbled Bo as the dwarf blurted out the old scar-face's note.
Indepted, eh? So this fat fool is one who does not mind falling into debt. And serious debt, to be sent on a mission where his life could be forfeit. Good to know, maybe he will find himself in old amma's pocket before this journey is yet over, heh.
Bo'Asha remained seated on her recently acquired pony. "Well, your lordship," she directed to Skoldir, "will we make camp with this...comfortable-looking fellow? You'll have no objections from me." No objections to bringing one more body to stand between me and oblivion.
Wearied by the day’s long ride, Skoldir only half-listened to the reading of the letter, paying only enough attention to decide that the strange little dwarf posed no immediate threat. Turning to Stennwulf (and noting the older man’s slack face and drooping shoulders - both quickly corrected once Skoldir’s gaze was noticed), Skoldir decided that, heeding his huscarl’s earlier advice and the old woman’s veiled suggestion, they would travel no further this day.
“Stormreaver, please check our surroundings and make certain this is a safe place to make camp. This seems like as good a time as any to take our rest, since we need to get ourselves acquainted with . . . And what was your name, dwarf?”
Only as he paused and awaited a response did Skoldir realize the full import of the letter: Frodnar had issued them orders. I’m not his lord’s errand boy, he thought, a flash of anger passing over his features. He forced himself to calmness: out here in the wilderness, already committed to their journey, there was little he could do - except make plans.
Even so, a trace of his anger escaped as, before the dwarf could answer his question, he barked another: “And what good are you to us? I care nothing about your debt. I’ll not have dead weight dragging at us -” Well, he thought, with a glance at the witch, more dead weight, anyway. “ - while we go into danger.”
The taiga elf nods. He had already planned on doing a perimeter check before settling in anyway. He strides into the darkness, snaps and cracks of limbs marking his trail as he moves about.
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Bo'Asha sets up her tent and is off to sleep instantly.
Vort'l seemed distracted. "Vort'l Highf.." Vort'l trailed off mid-word and instead reread the note, mumbling it to himself, getting more agitated with each guttural vocalization.
The nerve of him! That my life can be traded like some commodity! Does he not know of my destiny!? When I am RULER OF ALL MEN, I may let him lick my hunting dogs clean!
"..nerve.. ..if gr be traded gra commodity!.. nurf oh.. ALL MEN.. .brug.."
He was so incensed by this notion, that he completely missed what could have been interpreted as a full pardon and release to freedom by his new master. Instead, as the anger boiled over, he let out a roar. "rrrRRRAAH!" He threw the letter to the ground, gave it a single, solid stomp, spat on it, and turned to Skoldir with venom and fire in his eyes.
"Fine!," he shouted. In a patronizing, sing-song he continued, "And what can I do for my new.. mast.." As he looked on Skoldir, the idea slowly crept in that he was not talking to the 'sitting pretty on an ivory throne' kind of noble, but rather a 'pick up your axe and get things done' type. He may well have attempted to behead him where he stood for the insult.
Vort'l cleared his throat and changed his tone, "And what might I do for your lordship?"
If I play my cards right, not only might I not die here where I stand, but he may serve as a valuable member of my guard. And he seems to have these companions in his charge. Flip one, flip them all.
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>
And.
He’s.
A lunatic.
Skoldir struggled to suppress any outward reaction to the dwarf’s crazed mutterings and quickly-stifled violent outburst, though he could not prevent an eyebrow from arching slowly upward.
At least the witch will have someone to keep her company now. Strange days when - aside from Stennwulf - the traveling companion I feel most comfortable with is a taiga elf.
Realizing that his motionless stare had gone on for maybe a moment too long, Skoldir cleared his throat to reply, saying, “I need nothing for now, friend dwarf. A . . . pleasure to meet you.”
I could almost believe Frodnar wants us to fail.
With a nod to the dwarf he turned to Stennwulf, quietly conferring with the huscarl and making it clear that the dwarf should be watched whenever possible. Then the two men prepared their suppers and readied for slumber, each keeping a wary eye on the newcomer.
"His lordship may need nothing from you, friend dwarf, but I'll require you shut your noise-hole while amma gets some shut-eye. Eh?
Aye-yi-yi, what has become of us, dry bones? Less than two days ago and you were making a fine stew full up with turnips, yams, snap peas, and wood hare. Now, Gods be damned, we've wandered leagues from home in the company of an up-jumper, a tree-hugger, and now a loud, crazy tub o' lard. Heh, perhaps here is where yer meant to perish: among the rejects of the kingdoms.
Vort'l gave Bo'asha a sidelong look. He didn't appreciate being ordered in such a rude manner by a subordinate.
But, perhaps she's right. We're all weary and they've traveled a long way. Things will look different in the morning.
Vort'l took one final account of his possessions and went to bed.
Moments pass after Stormreaver disappears into the woodland surrounding the minuscule tor that struggles to serve as camp to the growing number of residents present. For the taiga elf, his perimeter watch is a nearly mindless prospect, so familiar is he with the method. The sum total of the birch trees are a far cry from a forest—little more than a large copse. Little has passed this way in a long time, save for the frost dwarf's comings and goings, easily identifiable by a distinct and heavy footprints. A small gust of air manages to work its way into the trees where Stormreaver makes his circuit. . .
. . ."Listen. Wait. Feel your surroundings. Eyes betray. There are things that stir beyond sight." Sleetdancer's words were barely a whisper, just loud enough for the contingent of elves surrounding Stormreaver to hear. Without warning, the veteran ranger nocked and loosed two arrows into the canopy overheard. A shrill wail echoed through the taiga all around the elves. At once, a host of blizzard wraiths descended upon the elves. . .
. . . A gust of air that defies the wind itself. Something beyond sight lurks in the trees all around Stormreaver, their passage all but imperceptible as they meander towards the flicker of the campfire deeper within.
Stormreaver darts back to the campfire. He looks to Skoldir and says, "We are not alone. There is an unseen threat here."
Skoldir stifled his surprise at the elf’s sudden return. I didn’t hear him at all until he was within the camp! I know I’m not much of an outdoorsman, but it seems the stories of the elves are not exaggerated.
His sword and shield were propped up against a nearby tree, intentionally placed within easy reach. He grabbed both, sliding the sheathed blade back into his belt, before turning a quick circle, eyes darting, but seeing nothing but shadowy tree limbs waving over darkness.
“What is it, elf? As you say, this threat is unseen. Are you certain we’re in danger?”
"I don't know yet. But I do not think we are alone. I have my reasons."
Stormreaver knew his response was vague, but he had little to go on himself other than a memory and breeze that defied logic.
Without moving from her prone position, stomach-down on her bedroll, Bo'Asha began the incantations of old, drawing cold up from the frosted earth beneath her.
Bo'Asha audibly gasps and shudders, perhaps seeming to the gathered compatriots as if she started from a bad dream, but worse, a night terror. Aches run through her body, like pin pricks of a waking limb or even one slowly fading to frostbite.
Skoldir thinks the elf insane for several moments, nothing to be seen but the dancing of leaves and branches above their cozy campsite. Aggravation seizes Stennwulf's features, and he takes a half step towards Stormreaver, mouth opening in what would have likely been a scolding reprimand on his lord's behalf. He is cut short, his eyes going wide and hand to hilt as they begin appearing in the treeline, hovering above the ground in a perfect ring around Bo'asha's ramshackle tent.
They seem almost pensive at first, cowled figures covered in wispy, frayed garments of light greys that hang loose all about them. While their bodies beneath the garments speak of a humanoid posture, no faces are visible beneath the cowls; no hands, legs, or feet to be seen below the waists. Their attentions remained fixed on Bo'asha for a time, then as one, they turn to regard Skoldir. They act as if taken aback, and seem ready to flee the campsite altogether. Then they begin to change.
Thrashing violenty where they hang in air, their frayed garments begin to twitch and coil until they appear as a vaporous haze of white fog. A malign, green pair of eyes burns into existence within their cowls, and they unleash a series of inhuman wails that echo through the forest with a terrifying volume. Where sleeves emptied into nothing, now there exist fog-like claws, and their murderous intent is worn plainly as they surge further into the camp.
: 6 ♣
: Ace ♥
: 4 ♦
: 3 ♥
: Jack ♠
: Nine ♣
Though startled at the sudden arrival of these vile beings, it took Skoldir only a moment to identify them as minions of Hela. Whatever caution, hesitation, or fear he may have had was overwhelmed by rage. Whether they were searching for me or if this is mere chance makes no difference. I will destroy these creatures!
Answering the forest’s ill wind, Skoldir bellows, “Tiw!” and charges, heedless of peril, into the nearest of the creatures. Drawing his sword mid-stride, he brings the blade down onto the nearest of them . . .
Curse you, gods! Must Ye give this poor wretch such damnable frenetic power and yet give her the energy to plow on? I hope yer real that I may spit in your eyes once I meet you in Hell!
Bo'Asha scurries out of her tent on hands and knees, sees the geists, and makes for the far side of the tree. Come on now, cooperate for ol' Bo, won't cha!
Vort'l, roused from a rather peaceful slumber by Skoldir's war cry, looked around, lazily rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
What are those, wraith of some kind?
>
Figures. Weeks with naught but the occasional weary traveler and the moment I get tied to this lot, we've got trouble. I bet they're attracted to the witch.
Vort'l got to his feet. Hoisting this beach ball of a man and balancing it on his two twiggy legs was a bit of an ordeal.
Though they seem unfocused and utterly devoid of discipline, what they lack in cunning they make up for in ferocity. They continue to shriek and wail as they go, lashing out wildly even before they have made their way to a chosen victim. They swoop and sweep through the small campsite with reckless abandon, apparently heedless of their surroundings. Fortunately, in their murderous rage they do not manage to inflict any worthwhile injuries. Bo'asha earns herself a new tear in the fabric of her shirt's left sleeve, while the rest of the combatants manage to fend off the blows of their otherworldly opponents with ease.
Bo'asha has seen these things before, though they seldom lingered for long. Even then, they appeared as they had before their vile transformation. Something about her "gift" always seemed to draw their attention—little more than a mild fascination before they continued onto wherever the blasted things continued onto.
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Seeing the spirits become malevolent, Stormreaver considers his options before settling on the fact that his blade would likely prove more useful here over his bow. He draws his blade and nimbly ducks away from the thing's ghastly claw before slicing his blade through it's midsection.
He turns to Winterfang, and in his native tongue, calls out:
His command, however, was unnecessary, as his faithful companion had already lashed out against it's assailant. The canine's teeth snap wildly at the spirit.
__________
Though compelled to rush to his lord’s aid, Stennwulf is not so foolish as to turn his back on such foul creatures as these. Instead, he tries to push clear of his opponent, smashing into it with his shield, before darting away to join Skoldir.
Damn ye, let's not screw this up again! murmured Bo'Asha as she began the chant for her spell of Ice Shards.
Curses!
Though startled at the sudden arrival of these vile beings, it took Skoldir only a moment to identify them as minions of Hela. Whatever caution, hesitation, or fear he may have had was overwhelmed by rage. Whether they were searching for me or if this is mere chance makes no difference. I will destroy these creatures!
Answering the forest’s ill wind, Skoldir bellows, “Tiw!” and charges, heedless of peril, into the nearest of the creatures. Drawing his sword mid-stride, he brings the blade down onto the nearest of them. The blade comes away with naught but a trail of fog, though the swing does meet physical resistance before its path concludes.
Curse you, gods! Must Ye give this poor wretch such damnable frenetic power and yet give her the energy to plow on? I hope yer real that I may spit in your eyes once I meet you in Hell!
Bo'Asha scurries out of her tent on hands and knees, sees the geists, and makes for the far side of the tree. Come on now, cooperate for ol' Bo, won't cha!
Vort'l, roused from a rather peaceful slumber by Skoldir's war cry, looked around, lazily rubbing the sleep from his eyes. What are those, wraith of some kind? Figures. Weeks with naught but the occasional weary traveler and the moment I get tied to this lot, we've got trouble. I bet they're attracted to the witch.
Vort'l got to his feet. Hoisting this beach ball of a man and balancing it on his two twiggy legs was a bit of an ordeal.
Though they seem unfocused and utterly devoid of discipline, what they lack in cunning they make up for in ferocity. They continue to shriek and wail as they go, lashing out wildly even before they have made their way to a chosen victim. They swoop and sweep through the small campsite with reckless abandon, apparently heedless of their surroundings. Fortunately, in their murderous rage they do not manage to inflict any worthwhile injuries. Bo'asha earns herself a new tear in the fabric of her shirt's left sleeve, while the rest of the combatants manage to fend off the blows of their otherworldly opponents with ease.
Bo'asha has seen these things before, though they seldom lingered for long. Even then, they appeared as they had before their vile transformation. Something about her "gift" always seemed to draw their attention—little more than a mild fascination before they continued onto wherever the blasted things continued onto.
Seeing the spirits become malevolent, Stormreaver considers his options before settling on the fact that his blade would likely prove more useful here over his bow. He draws his blade and nimbly ducks away from the thing's ghastly claw before slicing his blade through it's midsection. Rivulets of a haze-like blood spurt from his blade's path, vanishing in a splash of smoke where they impact the earth beneath. The creature wails in agony, clutching at injury, though remains in the elf's path.
He turns to Winterfang, and in his native tongue, calls out a command. His command, however, was unnecessary, as his faithful companion had already lashed out against it's assailant. The canine's teeth snap wildly at the spirit, though find no purchase.
Though compelled to rush to his lord’s aid, Stennwulf is not so foolish as to turn his back on such foul creatures as these. Instead, he tries to push clear of his opponent, smashing into it with his shield, before darting away to join Skoldir. Cascades of the thing's foggy essence explode out around his shield, and it reels back from the mighty blow. Seconds later, the grizzled huscarl joins Skoldir, ready to lay low whatever vile spirits these might be.
Damn ye, let's not screw this up again! murmured Bo'Asha as she began the chant for her spell of Ice Shards. Whether from the pall of exhaustion that settles about her like a shroud, or the press of a crazed spirit hungry for the old woman's flesh, the Hellfrost lends no energy to her spell. Curses!.
As one, the enraged entities continue their assault, lashing, clawing, and tearing at the persons in front of them like crazed, cornered cats. You are all able to avoid their fury, save for Bo'asha, whose robes are further savaged by her opponent's efforts. If it keeps up such tactics, all might be subjected to the elderly woman's birthday suit.
Before Stormreaver, the wounded creature continues reeling from the blow dealt by the Reaper, unable to get its bearings and mount a worthwhile counterattack against the taiga elf.
______________________________
: 8 ♥
: Queen ♦
: King ♦
: 2 ♦
: 4 ♣
: JKR (First)
______________________________
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Stormreaver plunges his sword deep into the specter and then surveys the scene. He sees that everything seems to be in hand for the moment, except for the witch and Winterfang. He knew he could lend aid to his hound faster than the old hag, so he moved to join the fight with Winterfang.
__________
Ducking away from the swiping claws, Bo'Asha begins her hasty spell for Icy Skin:
"Vosk! To me!"
In his zeal to strike down the creatures, Skoldir courted disaster. As his blade passed, ineffective, through his target’s misty body, it reached past his defenses, its claws scoring a set of shallow cuts across his cheek. The supernatural chill of its touch left him reeling -- but also brought him to his senses.
Steeling his resolve, Skoldir counseled himself against any further foolish risks. The fell creatures will die as easily to a measure assault as to a furious attack. You must survive this!
At the same moment, Stennwulf joined him. The huscarl’s arrival momentarily distracted the creature, and Skoldir took the opportunity to strike -- being certain, this time, to keep his shield up.
Vort'l was not naive about the realm of Hela and its denizens.
These are not simple beasts. Crazed as they may seem, there is an intelligence inside them. Perhaps some diplomacy.. perhaps at the end of a stick. Ha! Better than risking turning myself into a slobbering idiot.
"..grbl beasts. Craze..see thrr telligence is thee. Malfr stick. Ha! Brr.. shur idiot."
Vort'l made his best attempt to address them in what he assumed was their native Black Tongue. He had read a few books on and in the language. He'd even bore witness to incantations and the like so he knew how it was supposed to sound. What he'd not done, until now, was to try to construct a sentence of his own design in the language. He wasn't exactly sure of the syntax in this regard, so the grammar.. well, there was no grammar. This was a pile of words.
"Causitum.. no um.. Queretus.. thertum.. interdicta theus.. um.. pica muertus no, more like.. noctum repositus? Vec pacifi os.. divistu.. no.. departus!", he shouted as he swung his stick at one swooping by.
>
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As one, the enraged entities continue their assault, lashing, clawing, and tearing at the persons in front of them like crazed, cornered cats. You are all able to avoid their fury, save for Bo'asha, whose robes are further savaged by her opponent's efforts. If it keeps up such tactics, all might be subjected to the elderly woman's birthday suit.
Before Stormreaver, the wounded creature continues reeling from the blow dealt by the Reaper, unable to get its bearings and mount a worthwhile counterattack against the taiga elf.
Stormreaver plunges his sword deep into the specter and watches with cold satisfaction as it utters a final, ethereal murmur and dissipates into nothing. He then surveys the scene. He sees that everything seems to be in hand for the moment, except for the witch and Winterfang. He knew he could lend aid to his hound faster than the old hag, so he moved to join the fight with Winterfang.
Ducking away from the swiping claws, Bo'Asha begins her hasty spell for Icy Skin. A sheath of protective rime begins to coat the aged woman's frame, a frigid sheen as strong as plate armor.
In his zeal to strike down the creatures, Skoldir courted disaster. As his blade passed, ineffective, through his target’s misty body, it reached past his defenses, its claws scoring a set of shallow cuts across his cheek. The supernatural chill of its touch left him reeling -- but also brought him to his senses.
Steeling his resolve, Skoldir counseled himself against any further foolish risks. The fell creatures will die as easily to a measure assault as to a furious attack. You must survive this!
At the same moment, Stennwulf joined him. The huscarl’s arrival momentarily distracted the creature, and Skoldir took the opportunity to strike -- being certain, this time, to keep his shield up. Much to his relief, the blade sheers through haze and robe alike, and the creature fades into oblivion without sound.
Vort'l was not naive about the realm of Hela and its denizens.
These are not simple beasts. Crazed as they may seem, there is an intelligence inside them. Perhaps some diplomacy.. perhaps at the end of a stick. Ha! Better than risking turning myself into a slobbering idiot.
"..grbl beasts. Craze..see thrr telligence is thee. Malfr stick. Ha! Brr.. shur idiot."
Vort'l made his best attempt to address them in what he assumed was their native Black Tongue. He had read a few books on and in the language. He'd even bore witness to incantations and the like so he knew how it was supposed to sound. What he'd not done, until now, was to try to construct a sentence of his own design in the language. He wasn't exactly sure of the syntax in this regard, so the grammar.. well, there was no grammar. This was a pile of words.
"Causitum.. no um.. Queretus.. thertum.. interdicta theus.. um.. pica muertus no, more like.. noctum repositus? Vec pacifi os.. divistu.. no.. departus!", he shouted as he swung his stick at one swooping by.
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: 6 ♠
: 4 ♥
: 8 ♦
: King ♥
: 2 ♣
: JKR (First)
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