Kelgar raises a bushy snow-colored eyebrow to the Ulfen and gnome as he meanders to the side of the trail and sinks his axe into some wood of a fallen oak.
Still not convinced that properly removed the gristle from the draugr, he lands several other swings before brushing the axe head in the snow and returning to camp.
"Ye two daft fools done with yer banter? Ye do realize we jes' fought two men back from th'dead d'ye not?"
Shaking his head, Kelgar creeps closer to the carriage and inspects its interior while he continues to ponder the turn of events.
"Ah agree wi' Olaf -- men dun die and become unliving on th' own. These two likely had th' help o' a necromancer. Tha' dun bode well fer us, best we keep r' axes sharp and ready."
Ach, 'm weary already. What I would'na give for some of Brundir's black tea to take th' edge off.
At the mention of a necromancer, the Halfhand pitches in.
"That much is obvious." he says. "What's of more concern is that these were left here deliberately. They expected us. More ambushes await us if we follow this road."
The wizard scoops up the weasel from the ground, gingerly placing it on his shoulder before turning his attention southward.
"That ice bears no residual magic." he says, glancing over to the frozen warrior. "See if you can free the corpse. It may have supplies we can use yet."
Cearb stabs the snow repeatedly to cleanse his knife. He wipes it on his chest to dry, unknowing smearing his own blood all over it. His own blood starting to crystallize on his coat. Stowing it in his belt, he plods over to the carriage and pulls his other dagger out of the wood.
He holds his noses and peers into the carriage. "They have an endless hunger, that is a sad state, better to be frozen, endless sleep over endless hunger, even without an arm, the cold kiss is better than the banshee's call, what in here might give a reason for such a curse.
Content that no additional undying men will spring forth from the carriage, Kelgar turns his attention to the wounded gnome.
"C'mere a minute, lad, and hold still..."
Brushing some stray hair from his eyes, Kelgar sets to work examining the large gash left in Cearb.
"Ah don't half any kit or balm with me. I dun think yer be turning yerself to a gnome undyin' anytime soon, bust best we see what a prayer to th' ol' Father can do here. Be mindful, 'tis been a while since I've asked for th' favor..."
Turning his attention from the carriages , Kelgar turns to the frozen statue.
"Good thinkin' Mister 'Alf-, err... 'Ape? Best we thaw 'im out. 'E may have somethin' useful."
Rummaging around in his sack, Kelgar's hands grasp his flint and steel. With a quick search for something flammable amid the wreckage, he holds his makeshift "torch" near both the severed arm and intact statue in an effort to expedite a swift thawing.
Cearb fidgets the whole while Kelgar pokes and prods him. "What cha' getting at, lemme go, nothing so bad that I am giving up bread and cake, but a cut.." It isn't until he feeling some healing that he shuts up.
He pulls his coat open and looks at his bloody chest. He gives himself a poke, satisfied he gives Kelgar an appreciative nod.
"Halfway down the trail, Bastagar was!" the gnome says, defensively. He looks hurt. "Cruel he is, this tall one. Cruel and reckless, yes." he mutters, slinking away. "If he had brains enough to hide perhaps it might..." he adds, well out of earshot. He hobbles toward the statue after the Dwarf as the others search the wagon.
His eyes widen as the Dwarf works his magic. "Many tricks the Dwarf knows, where does it learn them?"
As the Dwarf attempts to thaw the statue with the meagre scrap of tinder, Bastagar shakes his head. "The Dwarf has spent too long by his hearth, yes, it will take far too long to get a flame going, time we do not have, oh no." he says, gathering up his rucksack and pulling out a small clay pot, stoppered with beeswax. "Fire we need. Yes. Fire." he says, pressing the pot into the dwarf's hands. "Carefully he does it, carefully..."
Caerb looks to the interior of the carriage and finds at first but gore and filth... the contents of the carriage having been thoroughly looted. But then he finds a small oaken jewelry box under one of the seats.
Wood from the carriage is stacked at the base of the ice prison of the ulfen guard and fired using Bastagar's pot of liquid flame. The heat of the flames soon melts the ice that traps the body and it collapses unto the ground in a slightly charred heap. Looking over the body you see if still wears a serviceable set of chainmail, and the longsword that was clasped in it's dismembered hand is of good make.
Bastagar sets about building the pyre with incredible speed. Before Kelgar can set down his crossbow the old gnome is dusting his hands. Finished his task, Bastagar snatches at the pendant with his grubby hands. "A gift for Bastagar, yes? yes? A gift for his hard work?" he pleads, with a covetous glance at the deep-set sapphire.
Olaf raises an eyebrow.
"I have the distinct impression that those jewels belong to the Lady we have been sent to rescue. She may gift you with something when we eventually remove her from peril, but I think it is a little presumptuous to take it just yet..."
While Olaf and Bastagar are somewhat arguing:
"Please hold your ire, brave Man of the North, not all men are fighters though still have their worth. My kinsman spoke hastily, but meant you no harm, he believes in the old way, when the world was yet warm. Much pain has he suffered, and many wounds too, yet his words cannot hurt a strong man like you."
To Bastagar she says:
"Be wary my kinsman, for this man is young, his story has yet to be written, his song has yet to be sung. Honor and glory mean much to his kind, for words may sore wound them, though blows they don't mind."
She has nothing to say regarding the frozen man and the fire and seems to neither approve nor particularly disapprove. She speaks to Olaf while the gnome and the dwarf are doing their work:
"Please pardon my asking but I need to know more, what plans for the dead, by your custom and lore. No time have we now, for the digging of holes, while fire's smoke may harm us, though it may salve their souls. Your kinsmen fought hard, far past their fated hour, I would not leave their bodies, to rot, ripen and sour."
Regarding the "treasure":
"It bothers me not, to take from the dead, for their needs are spiritual and our needs unread. Her jewels though are different, for the living have claim, if she has passed onward, then for those with her name. The sword still seeks blood and for that it is fine, I'd see the Northman claim it, for I still have mine."
She finishes by cleaning her blade, sheathing it and grabbing up her pack:
"Indeed we must hurry, for these dead do not rest, long miles may work, though a ford would be best. A trail we must follow to see how this plays, a Lady needs rescue, and I like not their gaze."
The long-winded fey paladin seems to have said her piece and is ready to get moving as quickly as possible.
Cearb disappears into the shadows of the carriage. From within, emits the sounds of a wolverine tearing apart a stump. After but a few moments, Cearb emerges from the carriage a few goose feathers fluttering behind him, and carrying a small box. He crosses the battlefield to stand before Hilde. He holds out the box to her, "There look like something a Princess might wear, good that the Witches missed this, too busy with death to see beauty, I am never so busy stabbing that one of beauty slips past."
With a crooked smile he pops the box lid open revealing Lady Argentea’s signet ring, a pair of silver earrings, a set of pearl-inlaid bracelets, assorted gold and silver necklaces and a sapphire pendant.
When Bastagar grabs for a jewel, Cearb snaps the box shut, "For the pretty lady. You are no pretty lady!" He opens the box again to show off the contents, but when Hilde dismisses the living treasure, he gives Bastager a glace and tosses the box to Kelgar. ""Trust a dwarf to count your riches and trust a gnome to lose them."
Olaf nods to Hilde.
"I do not intend to pursue a quarrel with your kinsmen, but I will not back down if he chooses to cause trouble. I can understand that he is not... familiar.. with our ways, so I can make allowances. He will, however, need to do the same."
When asked about his people's funeral practices, Olaf chews his lip thoughtfully.
"These men were warriors, but not war leaders. The custom for them would be either to burn them on a pyre, so that their spirits will be wafted aloft, and carried to the Boneyard, or to bury them in a stone ship, so that they might sail there instead. Needless to say, each man should also be buried with a weapon, so that he might defend himself enroute."
Bastagar stills his tongue as Hilde intervenes, bowing low. "Quarrel sir? No sir. No quarrel Bastagar seeks. No mischief. Good work does." he says, bowing once more and hobbling away. When Hilde's gaze turns elsewhere he will turn and bite his thumb at Olaf, making a flippant gesture and screwing up his gnarled face.
He skulks away, muttering once more. "Builds a pyre he does, good work, hard work. Tall ones are ungrateful, yes, the farmers would leave out butter and porridge for Bastagar. Trouble the tall one says, Trouble!"
Bastagar nurses his sore fingers as Caerb snaps the box shut, and casts a spiteful glance at the gnome. "Trying to maim us, kinsman is. Make us like the halfhand." he says, sourly. "Onto the pyre with them, then. Quickly now. Quickly the lady says. Grungir waits, yes."
Kelgar makes an attempt in vain to catch the lofted jewelry box, but his stubby hands fumble and the box thuds softly into the snow.
"Dammit, ah lost m'feelin' in m'fingers. Slippery--"
His face reddening, the dwarf digs the box out of the snow, dries it off with a cloth and settles it deep into his backpack.
"Ah'll be keepin' an eye on these fer th'lady we are to rescue. Dun get no funny ideas wee one."
After giving Bastagar a warning glance, Kelgar realizes the gnome is already off stacking wood for a pyre. Sighing to himself that his warning may mostly have been unheard, he grumbles to himself before setting to gathering additional kindling for the fire.
As the corpses are dragged onto the fire, Kelgar will place the longsword in Hilde's hands.
"Lass, ah noticed y'had one already. But, as ah see it, this makes sense in yer hands, it not being an axe n' all."
The old dwarf gives Olaf a knowing nod as he exchanges the weapon with the young woman.
"Now, are we ready t' laught th'pyre and get goin'? Th'lady ain't savin' 'erself!"
The Halfhand watches the scene impatiently, his arms folded. "What a waste of time..."
"Are you quite done with this senseless ritual?" the Halfhand says sourly. "Because as much as I would love to continue signalling our presence here, I believe it would be prudent to move on."
He looks to the snowy trail leading away from the site, eyes tracing the path into the distance. "They will be expecting us."
"They expected us here, they will expect us there, no use shunning a fire, icy embrace awaits, when all dies, old ways die hardest." Cearb holds the blade of one of his knives in the pyre's flames. He runs his sharpening stone along the edge, adding a few small sparks to the roaring fire.
Bastagar watches the ritual irreverently, warming his hands by the roaring fire, hopping from one foot to the other. Once the blaze gets going he gathers up his things, slings them over his shoulder and makes down the trail.
As they walk, Bastagar will pull a half a block of hard smoked cheese from amongst his things, and the rest of yesterday's stale bread. The smell of smoke and death, it seems, had not hurt his appetite. He offers it first to Hilde, then to Olaf, approaching gingerly and flinching before the ulfen man can respond. A gesture of friendship. He'll then offer a piece to the others, pressing it into the hands. "Long road ahead, yes, Bastagar shares his feast."
Once the pyre is burning merrily, Olaf nods in satisfaction.
"His soul is enroute to the Boneyard. May the Lady of Graves judge him a true warrior!"
Once the party is on the trail, Olaf continues to glance around himself, alert for ambush. When the strange little Bleachling offers him some bread, Olaf regards Bastagar warily, but accepts the proffered bread cautiously, nodding his thanks at what he presumes is an act of reconciliation.
The bodies of the fallen are gathered and burned and the group sets off with the pyre and the thick column of rising smoke at their back. Halfhand's words prove valid... as there has been a marker laid, and any who cast their gaze this way might see it. Though it is with some luck that your path takes you below and under the canopy. Once there the full force of winter is arrayed against you.
Temperatures drop below freezing and there is constantly falling snow around you. Additionally, 6 inches of snow cover the ground, making your footfalls heavy and making you force your feet forward to move.
A short distance after it enters the full expanse of the Border Wood, the trail passes through a small clearing among the taller trees before continuing uphill and out of sight. A large chest lies half-buried in the snow, apparently dropped or discarded by those who hastily passed this way.
Hilde accepts Bastagar's cheese and bread. Reaching into her belt pouch, she unfolds a small wax envelope of nuts and berries. She rolls the cheese he gives her in the mix, before swapping it out for his own. She continues this procedure with each person in line, sharing a bright smile that belies the cold weather.
As she gets to Cearb, she squeezes him tight with one arm and says quietly, "A good heart you have, though you hide it down deep, your kindness does touch me and your thoughts I will keep."
On the trail, she quietly offers the sword to Olaf, if he would like it. She also shows that she has mail beneath the cuff of her tunic, letting him know that he may keep the other if he likes.
Hilde seems reluctant to cross into the clearing, lingering on the trail outside. Her eyes keep going to the chest and she looks at Bastagar with caution in her eyes. "Our people seem flighty, that I certainly know, but we are not wasteful, to leave chests in the snow."
She is unwilling to say more or enter the clearing.
Kelgar gives the falling snow a sour look and makes a sound that resembles something of an angry moose before continuing to trudge ahead in the fresh laden snow.
"Why'd it hafta snow? It's like it was waitin' fer us to get close, but th'lady's countin' on us..."
As he spots the lone chest in the clearing, his grumbling subsides a little as he raises a hand.
"I dun like it. Might be a trap..."
The dwarf looks around at the edges of the clearing, going so far to trudge over while one of the "wee ones" investigates the chest.
Olaf smiles at Hilde's offer of the sword, but shakes his head.
"I prefer my axe. You should keep the sword. You seem to prefer using a blade, in any case."
Once the party reaches the clearing, he listens to the assessments of the others.
"I agree, it is most likely a trap, but we should still check it out, anyway."
Bastagar raises a crooked finger to his lips and motions the others to wait. "Soft as a mouse and swift as a spriggan Bastagar goes..." he mutters, slinking into the clearing toward the chest, using cover wherever it is able. This time he will have his shillelagh at the ready.
As Bastagar quietly creeps toward the chest...
Cearb impatiently kicks a fallen sapling off its stump. He picks up the 7' denuded tree, and snaps a few dried little branches off. "For poking, the box or the Banshee Washrag, give them a good rap, see iff'n it yelps or moans, any ice that comes out, it will be a dead tree and not me."
Cearb holds the small dead tree like a pike, ready to charge the chest as soon a Bastager gets clear...or not.
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The Halfhand shoos away the gnome with a displeased expression as it tries to offer him food, barely even offering it a hint of recognition before turning back to the road ahead.
"This fell weather bodes ill."
As the temperature drops, the Halfhand bids the group to hold for a moment. Pulling his shield from his back, he plants it into the snow, running his finger over the carved runes. The runes glow faintly as he utters a short phrase. Seemingly content, he picks the shield up and slings it across his back once more.
---
The Halfhand readies his crossbow as they approach, blinking through the snow. Seeing its master on the alert, Ormr stands tall on his shoulder, mimicking the wizard's stern expression.
"Undoubtedly. The fey are limitless in the wickedness of their deceit." he says, agreeing with Kelgar and Olaf's sentiments. Ignoring the presence of Hilde and the gnomes, he continues. "Child-snatchers, goat-manglers, one can only imagine what cruel tricks they have in store for their enemies if even the innocent suffer their torments..."
Hilde offers Halfhand a wide smile.
"Though meant to be barbs, that's not what you've wrought, I'm so happy to know, that I'm in your thoughts."
She pats him on the back and then nods to Bastagar and Cearb encouragingly.
"Bastagar smells fear on this one, yes." Bastagar stands on his toes, listening intently to the Halfhand, skipping around him with a sing song voice. "Fear and rot and unwashed furs, not the smells a gnome prefers~! Damp and smoke and weasel's piss, those the townsfolk will not miss~!"
He plants his feet, turning to the others and looking contemplative, stroking his long whiskers thoughtfully. "Bastagar cannot say he has ever mangled a goat. What of Clankyboots and the fairie-lady?"
Bastagar flinches at the sound of the sundered branch, standing straight as a board before turning on Caerb, all thoughts of stealth thrown to the wind. He advances, poking his shillelagh into his kinsmans ribs. "Clankyboots wants to wake the whole Grungir, he does! As if his footfalls not loud enough! Quietly we goes. Quiet as a mouse." he says, waggling his crooked finger sternly. With a swipe of his stick he will attempt to knock the branch from Caerb's hands:
Cearb swings up his pike and blocks the club with a wild smile and laughs.
"What do you play at Bedsheets, beat the box not me, give it a knock, give it a rap, how can you sneak on a box, it is right there, you are right here, it knows you by your nocturnal glow, but cannot get away, knock away, if it knocks back, step back, and I will use the big stick, or better yet, I play stabbitty with the lock...stabbityy...stabbitty."
Bastagar stops to consider the wisdom of Caerb's words, listening to the frantic gibberish as if it were the talk of a great skald or wizened oracle. "Hrm... You are right, Bastagar supposes. Big ones are silly to worry, no ambush here. yes." he steps aside and waves his hands most graciously to the clearing and nods to himself, a certainty in his voice. "What could go wrong, Bastagar says. What could go wrong? No ambush, Bastagar says."
Kelgar finishes giving the perimeter of the clearing a good long gaze before turning his attention back to the chest.
Whereupon he finds the two gnomes engaged in some sort of gnomish mock combat, waggling sticks at one another.
"Blessed Father! What in th' names o' the Gods are y'both doin'? I ask y' to check th'box and this is what ah git?"
With both hands outstretched, the dwarf manages an exasperated head shake as he closes the distance to the center of the clearing.
"Ah'll jes do it me'self, then since yer both toooo busy t'seems!"
Kelgar pauses for a moment in his advance to the chest to see if either of the gnomes change their minds, and break from their stick-duel to investigate the chest.
to Bastagar, "Back to the box, back to the box, I will watch and wait, but don't let the Dwarf near it, dropped the last box, drop this one it go boom, icicles for everyone, give it a looksee, give it a whack, I will give it a kick it it comes to that, stabby the lock, kill the cold."
"Dropped it he did!" he says, laughing and skipping past Kelgar into the clearing "Stubbyfingers, Stubbyfingers~!" he sings, as he drums his shillelagh on the chest a stern look taking his face as he questions it. "What secrets do you hold, little box? What secrets do you hide from Bastagar and his kin?"
If the box does not open and trouble doesn't present itself, he will tip his rucksack into the snow, gathering up an assortment of stolen tools, some lockpicks, some blacksmith's tongs, a bone-toothed comb, and set to work fiddling with the lock, whistling as he goes.
Bastagar stalks forwards and looks over the chest in question, and cannot see any traps or nefarious constructions upon it... and begins to move to tinker with the workings. It is at that exact moment that his cold hands go clammy... and he sees the rope...
His leg brushes against the taut corded rope hidden within the snow and it releases without any noise to accompany it but a creak and a swooshing sound of a heavy object rushing through the air. Above you high in the trees a spiked tree-trunk has been released and begun it's descent... gathering momentum and speed as it ploughs through the air upon a murderous path.
Caerb, Hilde, Olaf and Halfhand cautious all are out of the area of danger... however in his grumbling reproach of the gnomes - Kelgar has opened himself up to the path of the trunk. You barely get any time to think, let alone dodge before it swings through...
Spiked Log Trap - Kelgar: for
Spiked Log Trap - Bastagar: for
Olaf shakes his head when Caerb and Bastagar bicker.
"Gnomes."
He remains on high alert when the near-bleachling starts to fiddle with the chest...
...but can do nothing as he springs the trap! Olaf cannot help but wince when the spiked tree-trunk lurches out of the canopy, and slams into both Kelgar and Bastagar.
Crit Confirm - Bastagar: for
The spiked log ploughs through both dwarf and gnome alike, sending them flying to the side with the impact before the chest is knocked open as it crashes through. The chest is half-buried in the snow and earth below it... but is empty. The log crashes into the trunk of a tree at the end of it's arc and then lies still.
Olaf sighs, and moves over to the unconscious Gnome.
He reaches down, and shakes Bastagar roughly.
"Up! Up I say! It is not proper for a warrior to die like this, even a Fey one!"
Kelgar's eyes go wide as the spiked log comes rushing at him.
"AH KNEW IIIIIIT!"
"Aaaaugh. URFF!!!"
The dwarf lands face down in the snow several feet away from the impact. Despite remaining conscious, he remains face down in the snow for a few moments, presumably "resting".
".. should'a.. stayed.. home.."
Like a turtle trying to right itself, it takes the dwarf several rolls to build up enough momentum to bring himself back to his feet. Standing, he winces and holds his side, nurturing a cracked rib.
"Did we win tha' battle?"
"No, there was no battle? Blasted chest..."
Now that the trap has been expunged, Kelgar can see that it was a simply rigged deadfall. Unless he wants to haul the trunk back to it's lofty position the area should be rendered safe.
As Kelgar inspects the trap, he shakes his head with disappointment.
"Jes' a simple deadfall, even. But why trap 'n empty chest here? They coulda rigged the clearin' without a chest if they were afraid o' bein' followed. It dun make no sense!"
The dwarf scratches his head in exasperation.
The Halfhand watches with some satisfaction as the gnome ragdolls through the air, walking over as Olaf revives the bloodied creature. He lets out a chuckle as Bastagar regains consciousness, grasping and gasping for air.
"You mistake fear for caution." the Halfhand says smugly. "How piteous the creature before me, that a fey-kin is laid low by a lump of wood and must be revived by a mortal man."
The Halfhand then turns his attentions away from the creature, looking over at Olaf.
"You are no normal warrior." he states, appraising the man. "There was power in your words. A magic I've not seen before..."
The wizard is silent, staring intensely at Olaf as if he were some puzzle to be solved.
"That was divine power, yet it was born from arcane source... But you neither fight nor act like any practitioner I've ever met." She shakes his head, unable to unravel this mystery. "It fascinates. Tell me, what manner of man are you?"
Throwing her nervousness to the wind, Hilde rushes across the clearing. Stopping at Kelgar, she assures herself that he is alive. Giving him a wince of sympathy, she turns to Bastagar.
His unconscious state fills her with worry, her eyes downcast and her usual smile gone. Olaf's healing spell fills her with hope and when Bastagar opens his eyes she breathes a sigh of relief. Taking Olaf's giant hands between her own, she gives him a smile, unshed tears of gratitude in her eyes.
Going to one knee beside Bastagar, she lifts the tiny gnome in her arms and stands. "I feared thou dead my friend, thy burden, please let me carry, for safe haven we must find, before we can tarry. I wish you could rest, for thou are most brave, go to sleep now, while we find a Lady to save."
Turning towards the continuing trail, she will carry the wounded gnome until we make camp at nightfall, unless he objects.
Olaf shrugs in response to the Haflhand's question.
"The People of the North tend not to produce 'traditional' arcanists; I come from a culture, as I am sure you are aware, that celebrates the form of the warrior, and has a deep distrust of your average wizard or sorceror, thanks to the Witches of Irrisen. Noenetheless, there are other kinds of arcane magic; oral traditions passed down from generation to generation. There is a magic in words, in beliefs, in stories. Old magic, powerful magic. Not as flashy or impressive as that thrown about by your typical wizard, but satisfying and ... useful... nonetheless.
It was not yet time for that one's story to end; his place in this Saga was unfinished - his role required that he not die, at least not just yet. Thus, I knew that he could be revived, with the right application of words..."
When Hilde to carry Bastagar, Olaf nods.
"We should keep moving."
"Oh, I see." The Halfhand says, nodding appreciatively. "I had heard of such things, but never seen it with my own eyes... Perhaps there is something to be gained here..."
The wizard thumps his palm resolutely and turns back to the skald. "We shall discuss this more when we have reprieve. I believe we could learn a thing or two from each other."
He walks forward towards Kelgar as the inquisitor looks for tracks. "It seems you're made of tougher stuff than gnomes, my dwarven companion." His air seems a lot less hostile than it was before. "Your wound, it's not too grievous I trust?"