The spirits cannot leave here. There task is not yet done. The omens are not yet right.
It is early in the afternoon by the time the group is ready to leave the tower. Pikuvelli is agitated and hungry, having stripped the hillside bare with his foraging, and churned up much of the ground into mud with his tusks while searching for roots. Elenid seems somewhat put out at the lack of attention that Caedmon has been paying to her welfare, and insists that he prepares her a meal before they leave. She seems to have formed a bond with the mammoth, who happily lowers his neck for her petting.
The storm that Wheatbeard predicted is still some way off, but everyone can now feel the energy building in the air. Dark, threatening clouds are building above, bringing sudden swirling breezes and light showers of rain. It would not be good to be caught on such high ground when the storm finally arrives in full vengeance.
The terrain now leads downwards, heading into broken badlands that form the border between the high hills and the lower-lying Mudpits. The group make good time, despite their unhealed injuries, and soon leave the freezing, exposed moorland behind. At lower elevations, there is much less snow, and in its place small white and yellow flowers have begun to show. The spring grass is beginning to thrust forth, much to Pikuvelli's relief. Many small streams carry the runoff from the hills, and the group is forced to splash through the icy waters to avoid long detours.
Moklik's sensitive nose can catch the occasional whiff of sulfur on the breeze, carried up from the bubbling pools of the mudpits, indicating that they are approaching their destination. The group's best estimate is that they should arrive at the Mudpits on the evening of the third day.
Asheru seems different as they travel, more present than previously. He continues to get lost in his visions, startled at times by things only he sees, or memories he never lived. But the voices about him seem more focused now. Occasionally , as the group walks, stray pebbles and sticks pop into the air or begin to spin and dance as if brought to life, only to fall lifeless again after Asheru has passed. His matted hair and fur lined armor, as well as the light falling rain, swirl about in breezes unfelt by others. There is even a moment where the spring grass beside him seems to lie flat against the ground and spring back as if pressed beneath the footsteps of something unseen.
The warmer weather is welcome in many ways, but quite uncomfortable in many others. His armor sticks to his back as the trek causes the shaman to sweat, and strands of his hair and beard cling to his face.
Bonewright arranges to share a watch with Wheatbeard.
"What is the Order?"
"Long ago, when the world broke, much knowledge was lost. Decades later when people had learned to survive in this new world a few of those who had been born into the world-that-was realised that they were the last repositories of the ancient knowledge."
"The oldest tales say they weren't great shamans, or bards. Just normal men and women."
"They started to travel, meeting, sharing what knowledge they had. Finding a few younger people and training them. When the first of the Order were too old to travel, the younger members travelled from first to first. When they aged they settled down and new members visited them. When they were too old they left what clues they could before they died."
"The world-that-was was so rich that cities of those-who-think and those-who-know were built. But in the Broken Land most tribes can barely support one. So we must travel."
"Over time methods became traditions. Traditions became laws. They became the Order."
It's close enough, for now. Bonewright thought defensively I never said the words. I've done nothing wrong.
With no one else showing interest in the breastplate, Tupilek straps on the bronze masterwork. Though it weighs the same as his old wooden armor, it's much easier to move in and doubtless provides better protection. Perhaps now Bampfwick will finally know the same fear that she has inflicted on so many others. Tupilek is clearly happy to be back with Pikkuveli, nuzzling and scratching him often. He looks askance at the elf whenever she goes near the mammoth, but doesn't do anything to stop her.
The secrets of the spear are slow in coming to the Bonewright - he wrestles with them for a while. It is only when he imagines himself fighting an orc with the weapon that the solution appears in his mind. The weapon has been drenched in orc blood, and hungers for more. It will lie quiescent in its wielders hand until a chance to satiate itself presents, at which point it will roar into life.
The secrets of the breastplate are different, but when he sees Tupilek wear it, and the way that the drizzle and rain are trapped by the swirls of the metal, and carried away, that he sees the genius of its construction. The metal itself almost seems to flow, and he sees how it will learn to adapt itself to protect its wearer.
On the second day of travel from the tower, just as the group are making camp, the storm breaks.
Lashings of freezing hail ,driven in the gusting wind, preceed icy, biting rain. The clouds rumble and boom, and lightning paints the world in stark relief.
A copse of bonewood[1] trees, set against an overhanging bluff, provides some shelter from the sky's assault, but the group are in for an unpleasant night, rigging what makeshift windbreaks and shelters they can from the variety of captured clothing now tightly rolled up on Pikkuveli's back. The mammoth himself is skittish and tormented by the storm, starting at the lightning and pushing his head to the ground in an attempt to block out the roar of the lightning. The Bonewright's ravens have disappeared, seeking what shelter they can.
Elenid, having identified the most comfortable spot in the copse, sits patiently waiting while Caedmon struggles to secure her a shelter against the rain, nibbling some dried meet with a disinterested look on her face.
Wheatbeard, the elements seeming to affect him much less than the others, finds the storm somewhat refreshing. The rain cleans his hair and beard, and the wind blows the dirt of the trail from his skin. He can almost sense the storm above him, and finds that he can predict lightning a few moments before it splits the sky.
It is during one extended lightning flash that he notices the deep claw marks on the trunk of the largest tree in the copse - four long, parallel grooves carved with violence diagonally into the bark, with a single central line cutting through them.
[1]The wood of the bonewood tree blanches white soon after it is cut, and gradually colours to ivory over time. Its knobbly branches are the source of those mysterious greatclubs that look like giant femurs but are in fact made of wood that the group seems to have accumulated.
Happy to be out of the ground - an odd sensation for a Dwarf - Wheatbeard was pleased to be away from the dead, even if it mean being in the raid. Especially so, actually, for it was cleansing to him. It also helped the gray skies were easier on his eyes than the garishly bright sun.
The bronze breastplate did not seem to overburden its wearer much during the travel, so Wheatbeard took special interest in it. If only more things could be made to endure as that... Over time, the stalagtites of caves were shaped by the elements, and over time, the elements reshaped many man-caves; huts, tents, and shacks were blown away, watered-down, or, in this case, pummeled to a powder. The hail was more cold than harmful, but the occasional bullet of it fell just the right way to sting briefly.
Wheatbeard's thick skin prevented real damage, but it would not do to inspect his amulet in such weather. While fearful of the ancestor's reprisal, he felt it necessary to find whatever culture they'd belonged to - especially after the appearance of the ghosts. Maybe the Elf-woman would know, but it was hard to say - and harder to say to her. Her haughty ways didn't sit well with the more practical Dwarf.
One night of particularly ponderous precipitation, Bonewright shaed the details of his organization with Wheatbeard. Dwarves, as a culture, also respected tradition greatly, so he understood the urge to follow the will of regularity. There was a notable difference between the two though. "So you have seen these cities-that-were? I've only heard tales, but I can imagine they were wonders. Relics from them would be valuable, but I'm more interested in the stories they'd tell." Jogging his memory, Wheatbeard pulled out the amulet he found in the tomb. "The place we were - it had this in it. I can't make sense of it's meaning from the picture. Maybe one knowing the old peoples would?" He gave Bonewright the amulet - not something easy for him to do, parting with gold; though he hadn't been among his people for a time, old ways were forgotten slowly.
As the winds and the rains build, Asheru tries to help build windbreaks using the spare clothing. It is one step back for every two steps forward however, as knots unravel themselves and treelimbs snap and bow shortly after he's affixed them. He soon tires of the trivialty, and resigns from the attempt.
The rain is welcome as it washes away so much of the sweat and soot of the past week. However, the water soaking through their layers will bite at their skin beneath as temperatures drop with the sun. Recognizing this, Asheru searches for discarded limbs of bonewood that have been shielded enough by the copse of tree to be usable as firewood.
Caedmon goes through everyday quietly doing his duties. He is steadily getting annoyed by the Elven "Princess".
Bonewright goes quiet for a while.
"The cities-that-were. I saw one once. From a distance. I hope to go there to die. Perhaps there I will see my teacher again. I had thought... but if the ancients who gave use these could still talk, perhaps there is hope."
Brought out of his reverie he studies the amulet carefully in the light
Detect magic?
"This is a great and holy item. Ancient work. Sanctified to the Earth and the Auroch - this figure on the front is an Auroch - an item of blessing and protection."
Bonewright returns the Amulet carefully and reverently to the dwarf.
The strength, tough hide, and resilience of the auroch is bound in the amulet. It will grant protection to its wearer.
The group makes camp as best they can, huddling beneath the trees, and around the sputtering campfire that Asheru manages to start. It is an unpleasant way to pass the night, but better than being out in the storm. In her sleep[1], Elenid rolls over close to Caedmon and snuggles.
It is the last watch of the night, with Moklik and Asheru on watch[2], and the fury of the storm is abating somewhat, although there is still a burst of lightning every 30 seconds or so. Between the rumbles of thunder comes a distant gutteral roaring, as though of a beast that has picked up a scent.
[ooc]Moklik Knowledge Nature: [ooc]
Moklik has never heard the like before.
[1]Elves sleep.
[2]Chosen randomly. If you want, you can give me a rota.
Moklik tenses, his body reacting to the strange roar. He nods at Asheru. "Awaken the others quietly. I will slip away and investigate. I will return as soon as I know more."
+1 if on ice or snow
Moklik is loth to leave the relative comfort of the trees and the campfire, but the echoing of the howl makes the hairs on his neck stand up.
Moving with feline grace through the night, offering no angles to the wind, he feels the sting of the rain on his face and the cold air whipping through his clothes.
He crests the top of the small depression where the group has made camp, and looks east across the top of the bluff. He sees nothing. Surely nothing would be aprowl on a night like this.
Then a flash of lightning throws stark light across the flat ground, and in the moment's light, he sees a hunched, deformed figure loping across the ground approximately 100' feet away.
He does not recognise it, but it looks dangerous.
Asheru nods silently, eyes wide with apprehension. He's never certain if the noises he hears are figments or reality, but Moklik's swift reaction solidified the presence of the low rumble he had heard carried through the storm. The shaman rises from the fire and sludges through the muddy ground as quickly as he is able to rouse the others. He seeks out the dwarf first, who seems to have a greater knowledge of the natural world. Upon waking him, Asheru brushes the wet hair from his own eyes, and holds a finger to his lips. He slides his finger back to tap his ear lobe. "Listen" he whispers to Wheatbeard "and ready yourself." He then trudges on to wake the others, urging them towards silent preparation as well.
Moklik slowly retreats, only speeding up when he's sure he's clear of the creature's sight. He breaks into a ground eating lope and soon arrives back.
He turns to Asheru. "Something approaches. It is twisted and hunched. It comes this way. Rouse the others!" Moklik hefts a spear and readies an action to throw when the creature is in sight, within 30'.
After waking the others, Asheru slides his greatclub free of its sling. The rain has made the wood slippery, so he does his best to dry the handle on the clothing hidden beneath his furs.
The whispering begins to grow louder around him, and the fire nearby pops loudly, sending sparks that spiral into the air to dance for far longer than the storm should permit. Drips of water stream down the shamans face, which he wipes free from his eyes with a forearm. He is unable to see the beast Moklik described, but is prepared when he does to call his ancestors for aid. "Stay close." he mutters to the rest.
https://docs.google.com/file/d/0Bzm2DNZNJqxnM3BxZDJmUHEwcFE/edit?usp=sharin g
Tupilek wakes easily and begins to strap on his new breastplate as quickly as possible. He gladly accepts assistance from anyone who is already armored. After tending to the breastplate, he grabs his club and mounts up on Pikkuveli. "Thing you see on two legs or four?"
Bonewright awakes, grabs his staff and starts to climb to his feet.
Startled at first, the sign for quiet kept Wheatbeard's questions internal for now. What manner of creature would be roaming tonight? Granted, such nights were more a spectacle than a sadness to him, but other than fish, he didn't know what animals got excited during storms.
The lightning highlighting the trees once more in the night, Wheatbeard saw how close they were to the cliff's face. Protection from lightning from one direction... The odd center cut in one tree's bark puzzled the Dwarf the most though. Much of what appeared to be claw markings could be foudn on the tree, four in a row. Yet the gash across the quartet did not seem to be of the same make. Perhaps a cut made as someone hunted a beast. That still did not explain the four assumed clawings on the tree. Two sets of marks? If so, why parallel to each other? Perhaps they were something else entirely.
Tending to divert his attention to such things, Wheatbeard needed to make a conscious effort to refocus himself on the situation at hand. What they saw was probably a beast scared by the lightning. More than that, they would see when the time came. Tupilek already voiced the short man's inquiry, so he kept his mouth closed at the moment.
Moklik shakes his head. "Cannot tell. Hunched over, twisted. Could be two legs, could be four. Didn't ask it."
The roaring howl comes again, closer this time, and carrying through sheer volume through the drum of the rain, and the crash of thunder.
The sound has barely died away when the word leaves Caedmon's lips:
"Troll"
Moklik grips his atlatl and spear nervously. He knows very little of trolls, but has heard tales of their near-deathlessness.
Trolls? Those were just folk-lore - or so Wheatbeard thought. The markings on the tree made a bit more sense now, a Troll being large enough to perhaps wreak such large incisions. Perhaps this was it's territory...
Either way now, there was a good chance they would come to hostilities. The Dwarf picked his spear off the ground and surveyed the horizons as best he could in the storm, waiting for the creature.
The shaman's eyes grow wider as he hears the Bonewright utter those words. He can feel the beating of his heart in his throat, and buckles slightly to keep from throwing up. Instead, he spits as if the action should satisfy the sickness welling within him.
"What do we do?" He whispers, looking to the others with white eyes, trying to be heard over the echoing of the rain pelting the trees, and the reverberating thunder claps. "Do we extinguish the fire? Do we hide...?" His last word is cut off as he fights to hold back the bile crawling up his throat. There's another wild pop in the fire, spraying embers into the air accompanied by a distant whispering. With the next crack of lightning, Asheru is standing tall; no longer white-knuckling the greatclub in his hands, but gripping it with a calm confidence as rainfall collects and funnels down the veins of the weapon.
"I can direct it." He says. The voice louder, yet somehow distant. "We can guide the creature. Confuse it with where we are. Control first actions. But we must stay downwind, so our scent doesn't conflict with the sounds." As the shaman speaks, the muffled sounds of laughter can be heard faintly on the wind.
Caedmon dons his Reinforced Coat and draws his Axe. He speaks in a soft whisper."Why must it be raining... Maybe we should lay a trap somewhere else."He then seems to have an odd realization. He speaks and nods toward Elenid while standing ready to defend against the Troll."Was she up against me?"
Bonewright mutters to himself, as if reciting something, and peers around wildly in the rain.
Not sure if the rain is going to cover the sound of casting.
Thinking he'll use the time to cast
(A) Message
(B) Shield
(C) Expeditious Retreat
and if possible the round before attacking
(D) True Strike. - plan is to expeditiously charge into combat and hit once with true strike up. Not a great plan, but probably the best he has.
The troll reaches the edge of the cliff, and begins to descend the slope towards the copse of trees. It stops to sniff the air, swinging its great nose from side to side, obviously having picked up a scent even through the pouring rain.
It turns its head towards the trees, its heavy brow beetling in suspicion and a low growl escaping its throat. It begins to lope towards the copse when the sounds of clamorous, aggressive shouting erupts, seemingly from thin air, off to one side. The creature pauses in its stride, a look of confusion on its face. It backs off slowly, peering through the rain for the source of the noise.
"The sound will only continue for a few seconds more. Now would be our chance." The shaman whispers. He then creeps carefully into the center of the others, pleading underneath his breath with the ancestors that empower him. Another gust of wind whips through the copse, sending horizontal sheets of rain and swirling about the group and lifting Asheru's soggy mane twisting into the air as if caught in a funnel. Those around him feel a light tug at their arms and spirits, as if a guiding force were directing them.
Yes, you've had time to put on your armour. And mount the mammoth if you wish.
"Attack now while it distracted?" Tupilek asks from Pikkuveli's back. He lowers his long lance in the direction of the troll, ready to charge forward as soon as it's clear he won't be alone.
"Attack now while it distracted?" Tupilek asks from Pikkuveli's back. He lowers his long lance in the direction of the troll, ready to charge forward as soon as it's clear he won't be alone.
"Yes. Go while we have the chance!" Normally not one to rush things, Wheatbeard did not like the look of this creature at all. They would need all the variables on their side they could get to vanquish it.
He waited for the mammoth to charge the interloper then followed behind him.
Tupilek drives his heels into Pikkuveli, "Yah!" he cries as the furry pachyderm lumbers forward towards the troll.
The rain whips into Tupilek's eyes like tiny darts in his wild charge forward and the tip of the lance completely misses the Troll.
Wheatbeard followed the cavalier's lead, but his stubby legs would not take him as fast as a mammoth.
Initiative:
Moklik watches the others attack the troll and sighs. He drops his spear, unsheathes his claws and charges.
Caedmon moves to flank the Troll opossite of Moklik.
Although not a monstrous giant, as some of the Stories tell, the troll is still a hulking brute, easily dwarfing even Pikkuveli. Hunched over, sniffing the air for the source of the mysterious sounds, it still stands taller than a human, and as it raises its head and roars its frustration at the storm, it rears a good nine feet tall.
As the lightning flashes, Tupilek spurs his mount forward, deadly lance tip aimed squarely at the creature. The troll seems oblivious to the charging threat, but at the last moment it spins, some feral instinct protecting it. Its huge clawed hand swats aside the tip of the lance, and it roars its defiance at its new target, its huge fangs glinting in the night.
Right behind the charging mammoth comes Moklik, with claws and fangs of his own, looking almost as bestial in the flashing illumination of the storm as the troll he faces. He ducks beneath the creature's swinging limbs and rakes upwards, carving long wounds into its flank.
Caedmon is not so quick, but then he does not have to be. Running wide, he zips past the others and attempts to circle round behind the troll, ready to deliver a flanking blow.
Moving with supernatural swiftness, the Bonewright weaves through the rain, his skull-staff seeming almost to glow in the darkness. He steps up next to the creature and swings his heavy weapon.
The blow connects, but Bonewright's combat inexperience tells, as he strikes the creature on the thickest part of its hide, barely bruising it.
Asheru completes his spell, invoking the blessings of the spirits upon his imperilled group.
Ever the reluctant warrior, Wheatbeard calls upon spirits of his own. He takes a deep breath and blows, and as he does so he feels a sudden connection to the storm around him. He feels the fury of the towering clouds, the pounding force of the rain, and the deadly energy of the lightning. Its strength and rage is his own. The breath that leaves his body seems to carry that strength with it. It slams into the body of the troll.
The troll roars its fury as the group emerges from the storm to confront it. It raises its great claws to strike, when suddenly Elenid is next to Asheru in the trees. She raises her voice and shouts, her voice carrying even over the crash of thunder and pounding of the rain. She rapidly enunciates a stream of clashing syllables, punctuated by whistles, pops and shrieks that makes no sense, but seems to ring in the ears of those who hear it. The troll, its attention drawn to the elfwoman, stands slack-jawed, its great brow creased as it attempts to make sense of what it heard.
Furiously Bonewright strikes again, a nimbus of energy sheathing his skull-staff - only to miss as the troll moves slightly.
Tupilek drops his lance, and drawing his club urges Pikkuveli to step over the remaining short distance to the troll. Both rider and beast attack in concert, trying to down the troll.
_______________
Though the creature took a beating so far, it was far from collapsing. The power of the storm coming to the Dwarf's aid was still not enough, nor were the strikes of the others at the time. Then we must have more.
Closing the rest of the distance with the troll, Wheatbeard took a thrust of his spear at it.
Asheru peers through the rain at the elven princess. His mouth slightly open, and squinting to see through the water that streams down his face. Another flash of lightning, and the sound of his companions struggling with the massive creature pull Asheru from his shock. Something else pulls him even deeper.
The wind howls through the grouping of trees, as Asheru feels the blood within him begin to heat and churn. His muscled are compelled forward, trudging quickly through the mud. He doesn't rush the creature, but begins to circle it, with a loose grip on his great club and the distant sound of shouting carried on the wind in his wake.
Whatever force drives him forward is not forcing him, but compelling him with such ferocity that he craves it. The weight of his club feeling more and more comfortable, and every step forward like scratching an itch.