The boar spear that was borne by the troll holds an enchantment upon it.
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Cearb lets the Princess dote on him a bit as he was really too weak to resist. Finally gathering his strength, he separates himself to say what needs to be said.
Cearb will doff his dirty white hat to stand by the fallen Olaf. He stands there a while until he breaks the silence with a just a few words, "Find your way safely on your next path. Look for Ng if you lose your way."
He dips his hat into the pooled blood Olaf spilled "Some blood of a friend...." He moves over to the Trow and finds where he had stabbed it deep in the leg and swabs much more blood into the fabric, "Lots of blood of my foe," He now moves to the fallen sprite he knifed and dabs the hat in the small pool, "Witches' reign will end..." and here he placed the crystallizing red cap back on his head, "When their blue blood flows."
Father...Grungir. Give me the power to see this done!
"Blood of friend, blood of foe, reign will end when blue blood flows." the bleachling parrots, staring transfixed at the portal. He gnashes his teeth, anguished. To not know what was on the other side could, quite possibly, kill him. Such is the curse of the Bleaching... "Seek the witch-queen, brave the ice. Here come Bastagar to claim his prize~!" he sings triumphantly, trudging toward the swirling vortex and reaching out his gnarled hand to touch it, fallen atomie forgotten in the snow.
Cearb throws a snowball at Bastagar
*POOF* Further dusting his appearance.
"Don't be in such a hurry, the Princess is in no shape for more fighting, we need to rest, loot these huts, find what is hidden, food and furs, out of the cold, mind the floors full of pits."
Cearb will search through the huts he has yet to burn a hole through, remaining mindful of traps.
Hilde steps over to Olaf's body, visibly conflicted. She begins to say something several times, stopping each time before even a single syllable leaves her lips. In the end, she leaves his body without saying anything, lost in her thoughts.
Hilde is beyond exhausted and standing by dint of determination more than strength. She is even paler than normal and her wan smile is merely a shadow of its former self. Her clothing is a rent mess of blood, visceral gore and freezing red ice. Her hair is a freezing rust color down to it's roots.
As soon as Cearb declares a hut safe, she will retreat there. After attempting some form of privacy, she will try to build a fire and melt snow for bathing before the blood completely freezes into her clothing or rots.
Once semi-clean, she will lay out a bed and immediately fall into a deep sleep. Tossing and turning, something clearly weighs heavily on her mind but goes unspoken.
The other three huts prove less treacherous than the one that nearly swallowed Cearb whole - yielding just some small sized sleeping furs and a few wooden crates by way of furniture.
An investigation of the cave is more rewarded as entering you see two bearskin rugs cover most of the damp floor. The walls are covered by crates, barrels, and other supplies. The ceiling rises fifteen feet overhead, where icicles of frozen condensation hang from sharp stalactites. There is also a sizeable lockbox, whose contents are preserved behind a lock.
Bastagar gleefully sets to prying open the lockbox, jealously clutching it to his chest.
Going over his remains you retrieve the boar spear that spilt Olaf's lifeblood and a belt pouch that contains: a key, a small mirror and 48 gp.
Ignoring the existence of a key that might make his work substantially simpler, Bastagar moves to wrestle with the lockbox.
Within are four potions of feather step in an iron coffer, four blue quartz “ice diamonds”, a silver diadem, a near flawless diamond, a jeweled necklace, a painting of Whitethrone, three sapphire rings, a decorative filigree longsword scabbard, and a small scrimshaw sculpture of dancing sprites surrounding a piping satyr. There is also 2,457 gp, 3,313 sp, and 1,760 cp.
"You certainly opt for the more difficult route..." The Halfhand looks over the open chest, an eyebrow raised. "That is a lot of coin."
"Ormr, look around. See if there's anything else hidden away." The Halfhand places the weasel down on the ground, allowing him to scamper about the cave freely.
Cearb will see to it that Princess Hilde is comfortable and private before he will maintain a watch over the camp as the others explore.
Halfhand finds nothing more beyond what has already been seen... bar a faerie's macabre collection of tufts of fur and feathers. The only item (barring the potions) that has a dweamor upon it is the spear.
Living quarters made safe, you are almost ready to fall into slumber... when a blinding flash of light pours from the winter portal. As the burst of white light fades, a gaunt horseman with curling ram’s horns and wearing coal-black armor lurches through the portal astride a black warhorse, surrounded by tendrils of cold, dark mist. Wheeling the rider turns to face the portal, holding his spear out and to one side, ready to strike. Hot on the heels of the rider an immense white wolf leaps through the portal. Moving swift and smooth the black rider's steed rears before leaping at the wolf - that seems to almost slow in the air as the black rider's spear pierces the beast at the neck before scything jagged through it's hide and opening the wolf's belly to disgorge it's life and blood upon the snow.
The rider sighs before slumping in the saddle. Now noticeable is a shard of blue ice jutting blood stained and brutally from his back. The rider reaches down to smooth his horse's mane once before the steed slowly dissipates into black smoke that spreads and seeps into the ground. The black rider falls from height unto his back with an unceremonious thump of metal and flesh and emits a painful groan as the ice that pierced his back is jostled within the wound.
Hilde leaps from her blankets at the sound of combat outside and grabs the longsword beside her. Slinging it across her back, she grabs her shield in one hand and runs outside the ice hut.
Emerging to catch the tail end of the fight, her eyes briefly flash with faerie fire before she straps her shield onto her left arm.
Bastagar is sure his end is upon him as the white wolf emerges from the whirling snow. He lets out a shout of terror, leaping into hiding and clutching his rucksack tightly to his chest. As the beast is felled, however, he lets out a triumphant shout. "Wicked winterling speaks false omens, it does! Winter-wolf shall not claim Bastagar, no."
I propose those feather step potions go to us 20ft. movement party members (Kelgar, Caerb, Hilde and myself) to prevent another fight like this where we can hardly move... As for the rest, it's mostly treasure. Any takers on that spear?
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Hilde's jaundiced gaze detects no taint of foulness upon the black rider, and a briefly lingering tinge of evil upon the wolf that fades with it's lifeblood into the snow.
The black rider haltingly puts a hand to his helm and pulls it from his head. The horned metal dissipates into shadow like the steed did before it and beneath is a weary and aged man. He raises his head and heavy lidded eyes towards you and beckons you approach him.
Cearb warily approaches him, daggers out. "Friend or Foe, Shadow Man? You slew the White Wolf, and that pushes you to Friend of those that fight the Witches, but I would hear it from your lips."
The black rider chuckles at Cearb's words, though that sends lancing pain through his form and becomes a grimace. "Friend or foe to whom capling? I both serve a witch and have been given cause to also kill witches... both are cold and colored white. I mean no harm to you... if that is your concern."
Cearb turns to Hilde, he sheathes one knife. "We should hear his story, there is little he might do in his current state, he seems exhausted, his words of the other side of the Ice Gate will repay this mercy, seems the cold takes all our strength."
Hilde comes up behind Cearb, strapping her shield to her left arm.
"When thou entered the gate,
what didst though hope to find?
Came thee seeking known friends,
mayhap allies of thine own kind?
Though I be willing enough,
to remove that spear of ice,
once we learn your nature true,
it may become thy bane now twice."
Kelgar paces anxiously as the others speak with the black rider, coaxing what little warmth he can out of camp's fire before finally taking a break from that duty to join the conversation.
"Ahl-right, let's giv'im some space..."
Rubbing his eyes, Kelgar examines the man's wounds, trying to ascertain both their severity and origin.
Without a hint of suspicion or wariness in his voice, he redirects the conversation towards friendly inquiries.
"So yer master, err-- mistress? She sent ye on some sort o' errand then? Perhaps ye could share yer tale with the lot o' us..."
The Black Rider shifts at the words and notes the caution in Hilde's words. To Kelgar first he clarifies "Grandmother is my mistress, I bear her mantle and it is her return that I herald... And you need not fear me Sunblessed... if I wished you dead, you would be so." words spoken plainly and without malice. He has the confidence of an elder fae and speaks with the gravitas that comes from age, experience and power.
"I was driven through this portal by the Vitt Vargen... it swore fealty to the crowned daughter Queen Elvanna, ruler of Irrisen and betrayer of her own mother." pausing to let that sink in before adopting a slightly formal air and continuing "But I can offer my truename... Illarion Matveius as signal that no harm is meant. Though now I am Black Midnight, and where I ride, death follows"
Hilde nods, but seems unsure. This seems to her a choice between Evils and while that is a path she is unwilling to tread, suicidal charges serve the cause of Good no better.
Not knowing what to do or say, Hilde will attempt to aid Kelgar in his work.
"To me is unknown,
your purpose, my role.
Yet, as a knight come in peace,
We'll at least make thee whole."
"You are saying your Mistress wages war on the Witches of Irrisen? <low long whistle> Then why are you not in Irrisen? Why is this portal in the Gringir?"
"A coup..." the Halfhand mutters to himself. "Don't you see, gnome? This Queen of Irrisen has great ambitions. To defy the great Baba Yaga is a bold enough move in its own, but it seems her sights are set on more than just the realm of the Winter Witches. She seeks to expand her domain from the confines of the far north, and consume us all."
His eyes fix on the rider. "Isn't that right, rider?"
"Grandmother." says Bastagar, eyes widening. As the others crowd around the knight, Bastagar is quick to join them, rubbing his gnarled hands together, listening intently. "Witch-Queen, Old Crone, Old Knobby Legs, yes, yessss..."
To Cearb he clarifies "We stand at one end, the other of this portal is in the heart of Irrisen... but this is one portal of many."
The Rider nods at Halfhand's observation "More and less... Every hundred years, Grandmother returns to Irrisen to place a new daughter on her throne... but something has happened to Baba Yaga... she has not come. My kinsmen the Bright Morning and Red Sun have been hunted and slain by the Queen's servants... I am the last of three heralds... and my time in service is drawing to a close." a fit of coughing coming over him and his lips and beard left stained with blood from the force of it.
"My strength wanes... through wounds of the flesh and taint laid into my blood... I cannot stop the White Queen... but fate has taken me here to you..." gritting teeth as he implores "Take the keys, wear the mantle and find Baba Yaga... only she can stop the Queen of Witches from burying your world in ice and snow."
"If you do not... then Elvanna will spread a new ice age across your world, consuming it for all eternity."
Kelgar stands in the snow, a distant look in his eyes, his mind deeper in thought than the snow upon which Teb the troll tread so lightly.
He nods, his eyes still set upon the horizon.
"Aye. Tis time t' repay Kelnir's debt then. Ah knew this day was coming."
Kelgar continues talking, almost as if he's addressing the future rather than anyone in his company.
"Tis best t's on me watch, than Kelvor's. Cold times lay ahead...
As flakes of snow form in his beard, the old dwarf shakes himself out of the half-trance and his eyes focus on the rider.
"Ahl-right, rider. Where is Ol' Gran now?"
Hilde stays quiet, helping remove the icicle from the Rider's back. Her lips are pursed however, and she has a very grim look about her.
Kelgar's use of a familiar term for Baba Yaga elicits a frown from the tired old man, but he does not speak of it. Hilde's attempt to remove the jagged ice is met with a warding hand "There is no need for the kindness... it is not the ice that wounds me."
Kelgar's question is met with obfuscation "It is not that simple bearded one. You can find the source of this portal in the Pale Tower, once you pass through. It connects Irrisen to here and both forces winter and serves as conduit for the passage of beast and fae. The means to close it are there."
"As for Grandmother... you must use her Dancing Hut. The hut is a living construct that can cross great distances, even travel between worlds. If you can control the hut, it can take you to Baba Yaga.”
"But to reach the hut will not be simple. Elvanna stole it, chained it and put it on display in Whitethrone. It stands in the capital as a brazen symbol of her defiance and power. You must find the Dancing Hut and then free it."
"From there the hut has many keys... objects that serve to open the doors of space and take it almost anywhere." he puts hand within his armor and retrieves a lock of snarled and white hair, and a mask oft used by doctors tending to plague "Two I have... but more you will need. But Elvanna stole their power to prevent anyone from using the hut to find grandmother. I can restore their potency... but not until you swear to see my master freed. What say you?”
Cearb puffs out his chest, "I am sworn to the Grungir. That is why I am here. But his stoic pose soon devolves into him almost jumping in place, "If the Hut...<giggle>...if stealing the Hut ends this invasion. If that....by the First Acorn....steal the Hut.....If that and finding Grandmother ends all this, I do my duty AND fulfill your oath."
Cearb pulls a odd assortment of collection of glass fragments, pottery shards, and an few broken toys and dolls out of his bag, "Are any of these of use as keys? The more keys the better...to steal the Hut, did ja hear that Basty, we are going for a ride." But then he goes all serious and takes his hat off. He wrings it in his hands as he looks over to Hilde, "Minding if that is something the Princess approves of?" Cearb's puppy dog eyes are in full force.
Hilde steps out from behind the knight, kneeling to remain on his level.
"Oathsworn, I shall not lie,
twisting words to best deceive.
The Oath thou say thou seekest,
from me, thy won't receive.
Heroic fates, these have I seen,
for my two kin before thee,
with them, to Hell I go today,
but not for her, and not for thee.
I'll fight the witch's daughter,
and take the fight where're it be,
but can we win without your mistress,
I shall not, will not, set her free."
Hilde turns, placing a hand on Cearb's shoulder.
"Make no mistake brave kinsman,
give what Oaths thy heart dost see,
but also mind, no other is here now,
if not thee then, who else will take his key?"
Kelgar's mind wanders as he thinks about what the rider is telling them -- that they must travel to the monster-filled winter metropolis of Whitethrone and fetch Baba Yaga's hut. It's a job that would have been significantly easier with Olaf sill alive, given that they barely escaped their battle with Teb by a thin sliver.
"And rider, what o' time? We find ourselves a warrior short, and what ye ask o' us is no small task..."
Clearing his throat, he assumes his full height, however short that may actually be.
"And ye 'ave my word tha' Kelgar Frostbeard will see t' it yer mistress be freed again n' things are set right once more."
The Halfhand remains silent for a long while, his contemplation accompanied by a growing unease in his stomach. There was little choice in the matter. One way or another, this needed to be done.
No. This is not a burden. It is an opportunity.
A spark ignites inside of the Halfhand. Something that had been long extinguished by the cold winter chill. A spark of ambition.
A slow smile creeps across the Halfhand's face. This was a chance for redemption. A chance for power. A second chance.
"We will see it done."
As the others each speak up in turn, a shrill voice follows. "What is in it... for Bastagar?"
The rider measures Hilde's words and responds "There is no half-measure... Either Baba Yaga is freed... or this world entire will be swallowed by ice and snow. The choice is upon you Alfborne - pledge to free the Grandmother or by your own inaction force genocide upon this world." his gaze is levelled at Hilde with tacit challenge - though without any malice or coercion "Choose quickly... before what power I still hold drains to the earth with my death."
"Thy words do not move me,
my Oath's not thine to demand.
Go find another to help thee,
but hurry, thy time is at hand.
An evil queen will I fight,
for this, thy help will I take.
But to save the Great Crone herself,
is not an Oath that I'll make.
This land holds many heroes,
they will rise and they will fight,
thy key is but one path forward,
thy price, I'll not pay this night.
Get back on thy black steed,
find a villain to free your Crone.
I may have to free the great Evil,
but this decision will be my own."
The rider exhales, but still looks to the others "And what say you then? Do you hold to the adamant and uncaring words of the Alfborne... or will you take on the mantle and free both my mistress and this world?"
"He gives keys to the Hut, steal the Hut, thus steal the power, free the Crone, but come to learn, learn the Hut secrets, learn Grandmother's secrets, know what makes the Hut walk, know what makes Grandmother come and go.....the Hut....he gives us the way to the hut! Cearb's eyes are larger than normal and he seems overcharged with energy.
"Shh!" The Halfhand says, dismissing the excited gnome. He knows... But the Halfhand will not stand idly by and let fae command such power.
"Forget her, Rider. Hers are the cold words of faerie-kind. She cares not for the fate of mortal men." The Halfhand crouches in the snow, extending his hand. "I will take on this mantle, even if others may not. This is a matter of men and dwarves - Grant me the keys and I will see the Great Crone freed."
The black rider mulls all words spoken before nodding with gravitas and resolve before beckoning you nearer to him. He takes a deep breath and begins to very slowly exhale before the very air that surrounds you seems to slow and grow turgid and thick. With steady arm and oily speed, Black Midnight moves more quickly than you can react and draws a straight single edged blade from his waist. The knife is brought up and across his neck with economy of motion, severing through skin and cutting almost to the bone. As the rider's throat wells and flows with bright scarlet color, the knife is whipped in an outward arc - five drops of blood flying from the blade.
With accuracy unerring and defying the howling wind, the drops of blood arc through the air and simultaneously land upon each of you. Touching down upon your cheek, your forehead or neck you feel a brief moment of warmth before the sanguine fluid chills and numbs where it touches. You begin to regain thought and action - turning back to the rider where he sits to see him wane and fade before your eyes.
Chest now covered with blood that flowed over both the white haired and mask totem without staining them, the man's armor and spear begin to fade into tendrils of blackened smoke. His eyes are not sad, but are tired as they close for the last time and his form slumps into the snow. His raiment fades entire leaving the body of an old man, dressed in a simple hessian tunic colored black.
The tendrils do not fade into the ground as did the smoke that formed the rider's steed... instead lancing out with raking speed towards each of you. The smoke twists and twines before forcing itself in through where the spot of blood touched down. It numbs you with cold... but there is also pain that rides with it. Your mind assaulted with a precision headache... as visions swim through your waking mind...
...a withered crone gifts you a robe of black, that when worn morphs into a steel raiment...
...riding down a witch of winter and spearing the woman through the throat...
...a massive battle rages, and in the distance a monstrous behemoth of a frost giant roars and swings a warhammer in savage arc...
...a crushing sadness comes over you, as you feel the death of two of your trusted friends and harbingers both...
...before the visions dissipate, and you come back to the clearing with the portal. The man is still dead, the wind howls, and though rocked by what you have just had forced upon you... there is a sense that you have grown more...
Hilde's eyes drop to the withered form of the old man, wondering how long it's been since he picked up the mantle on his own. Turning back to the huts, she sighs, and begins to wearily build another bier beside the first. She works in silence, thin mist coming from her breath as she labors.
Finished, she places the withered Harbinger on the pile of wood, ready to help send him to his final destination.
Kelgar's stubby fingers linger where the blood and smoke found their way into his body. His eyes narrow in distrust, but quickly find their way to widen in amazement as the scene unfolds and the rider blinks his weary eyes for a final time.
Ye n' me both Rider. Peace find ye now tha' yer touch be passed.
With a renewed look of determination, Kelgar grips his axe tighter, but then disarms his gaze when he realizes the stern demeanor he has surely adopted. He knows well that this allies will need a bridge for their differences to cross, meet and settle and works to dispel the tension in the air.
He grumbles.
"Ah'm gittin' too old fer this world-savin' adventurin'..."
Eyes twinkling, he clasps the Halfhand on his shoulder and gives him a weary look that somehow hints at a spryness still yet unseen accompanied with a half-smile.
Bastagar's dabs his gnarled fingers where the creature's blood touches him, bringing it down to his lips and leaving long streaks through his whiskers. His furrowed brow suggests that just what this creature is lays well beyond his narrow expertise. He hastily assists his mistress in constructing the bier, proving more a hindrance then help, before rejoining the others. He first turns to Hilde, and then, reluctantly, to the Halfhand. "What does it make of the Shadow Man? Bastagar knows... Bastagar knows not."
At Kelgar's grumbling he stares up at the dwarf with child-like curiosity. "How many winters has longbeard seen? Bastagar has seen seven-score and three and Bastagar is fit as a fiddle. P'raps longbeard grumbles too much."
The Halfhand clutches his face as the rider's powers enter him. His mind was fragile enough as it was - this was almost too much. His world becomes one of extremes. The snow becomes blinding, the shadows dark enough to engulf him.
The wizard looks over at Kelgar, a horrified expression growing on his face. He turns away from the group, as if to run, but freezes stock still, colour draining from his face. All of a sudden his eyes roll back, and he collapses in the snow unconscious without so much as a whimper.
The Halfhand starts, shooting to his feet and swallowing hard. Another voice takes his attention. Dark words emenating from a creature that once was Bastagar. He can't understand a word of it.
The wizard turns, terrified, and tries to flee into snow. But something blocks his way. A black rider atop a shadowy steed. He falls back as the horse rears up, its rider raising black steel high. The Halfhand lets out a silent scream as the hooves fall down upon him, extinguishing his consciousness.
Bastagar blinks at the Halfhand as he collapses in the snow and gives him a few ponderous nudges with his walking-stick. "... Maimed-one does not stir." he says, matter-of-factly.
Cearb rubs his hat on where the blood spattered his cheek. He feels the power wind its way through his veins, the old man's blood seems to call out to him and he is only too eager to let it run its course "Blood and more blood, Black Blood to kill the Ice Blood."
Cearb turns and looks at the crumpled Halfhand, [b]"He was maimed in more than the hand, to see and feel the power of the First World is more than many mortals can take, it may have finished the task of breaking his mind, not a big task mind you.....do we add him to the pyre?"
Hilde stops her work on the pyre and comes to check The Halfhand. Feeling his neck for a pulse, she sees that he is still alive although his heart is racing and his breath coming in rapid gasps.
"This one still clings
to a world of his own.
Please keep him warm,
'til his mind is his own."
Hilde is going to light Olaf's bier, sending the warrior off with his armor and axe. If possible, she will lay the corpses of the sprites and the head of the troll at his feet. She will stay awake as long as she can, but will eventually nod off, waking once the fire has gone out and the cold returned. Assuming the others have divided the treasure, she will then be ready to go through the portal.