Round 3:
"Well struck indeed, yes." the gnome winces, nearly doubling over in pain but propping himself up with his cane. Straightening up, he skips deftly across the ice, skipping over the log before dancing into reach of the creature , gripping his weapon tightly and spinning it whistling through the air toward the creature's exposed flank.
[b]"No blood to sustain them, hit hard, but nothing but snowmen, simple snowmen..."
With allies at his side, Cearb drops out of his defensive stance and lunges to the side with the dagger, trying to draw its attention away from Hilde and Olaf.
[ooc]Status: AC 17/17, HP 8/12
Cearb manages to chip away another shard of ice from the second elemental while Hilde has less luck.
The remaining elemental lashes out in rage at the skald once more...
Slam: for
Crit Confirm: for extra
...managing a thunderous blow that catches Olaf at the base of his ribcage. A wet crack portends the loss of structural integrity in at least one rib... but had the blow been a few inches higher it might have been much worse.
Bastagar then lurks up behind it and leaves it reeling with another accurate strike of his odd club.
Action Tracker (Round 3): Halfhand, Kelgar, Icy Lurks, Bastagar, Caerb, Hilde, Olaf
Action Tracker (Round 4): Halfhand, Kelgar, Icy Lurks, Bastagar, Caerb, Hilde, Olaf
"Hold fast, man!" the wizard shouts, watching the brawl carefully.
The Halfhand rises once more, stepping over the log and heading towards the elemental with knife in hand, a wild look in his eye as he moves forward to stab it.
As Olaf reels from the elemental's clubbed blow the Halfhand steps beside him to deliver what proves to be the defining blow against the second elemental. The dagger meets some resistance before sinking deep into the ice elemental's core and causing the creature to slowly melt and dissipate back into the ice that serves as the creek's surface.
The Halfhand roars an infernal battlecry as he strikes the deathblow, savagely tearing the knife free as the creature collapses. He takes a primal glee in the act, his face locked into a manic grin. His hollow laughter echoes on the wind.
"Another falls." he says, spitting on the ground where the creature was. He looks up towards the skald. "You were dealt a dolorous blow - are you fit to journey on?"
His same concern doesn't seem to extend to the battered gnome.
Bastagar spits a mouthful of blood into the ice at the Halfhand's feet, muttering curses as he hobbles up the road.
Kelgar regards the shattered remnants of the ice elemental with caution, poking and prodding it with the spear he liberated from the prior day's weapon cache.
"Looks like it's deed. Ah wonder wha' possessed these two icy shards to spring forth and attack some travelers?"
The dwarf looks around their makeshift crossing.
"It can't be coincidence that these two little buggers happened t' be under the river here, instead of th' crossing."
Kelgar lets his question sit on the shoulders of the Halfhand for a moment, certain the educated wizard will provide him with a plausible theory for the elemental attack.
"The elements are not kind, nor do they grant concessions to those who tresspass on their lands. No doubt the felling of the tree roused them and drew their attentions from wherever they dwelt before." the Halfhand says, nodding. "Though you may be right - the presence of outsiders such as these is often a sign of... otherworldly influence. Perhaps there's an anomaly nearby - a rift or gate of some kind... It would explain this unnatural cold. If so, there may be very little we can do to stop it."
The wizard readjusts his coat, tucking his knife back into its leather sheath, looking pensive.
"There is no point in loitering here. Other creatures may still be drawn to us."
Kelgar nods at the obvious explanation, yet it doesn't stop the dwarf from looking over his shoulder several times and circling about warily, as if he expects more of the icicle creatures to spring forth from the shadows.
"Agreed. Perhaps we'll luck out n' they stick to th' stream."
Strapping his axe back into position, Kelgar uses the spear to trudge ahead in the snow, searching for the main trail once again.
"C'mere wee one and let meh look at'cha..."
Kelgar utters a brief prayer of mending to Folgrit, praying that she'll mend the gnome's tiny wounds and guide them to a warm hearth before they freeze in the blasted wintery snow.
"Alright, les' hope that'll do. It's too bad there were no priests o' Torag or 'is kin in th' town. They'da made this little expedition a right cinch, they'da."
Olaf grimaces as he feels his cracked ribs, and mutters to himself under his breath:
"Snap out of it, you lily-livered milk maid!"
Feeling somewhat better, although clearly still in more than a little pain, he carefully crosses the tree-bridge.
"We should keep moving."
Bastagar will blink bewilderedly at Kelgar, his kindness a stark contrast to his treatment by the Halfhand. He interrupts his string of creative curses and manages a grateful smile at the dwarf. "Dwarf-god's magic tastes of smoke and dirt and makes our ears ring." he complains. "But Bastagar does not complain, oh no."
Hilde smiles at the gathered group and moves to join Bastagar.
"The man of snow doth beckon though the trail ahead does call. Rest and investigation seem needed before the sun should fall.
Bastagar nods, and in the reverent, rhyming tones he saves only for Hilde speaks his counsel. "Bastagar knows not why icy river is alive, but reasons it would have that mortal-minds cannot contrive." he says gravely.
He turns to the Halfhand with a wicked grin. "Perhaps they came to claim the rest of its fingers? Bastagar cares not." he shrugs. "Press on we should, before others come."
Doubling back towards the trail you find it easily enough, and see the back of the strange snowman guardian - now standing stoically despite it's melted head. Turning back to the north and along the trail you see the legs and feet of a frozen corpse jut from a pile of snow a little further along the path.
Pulling the body from the snowdrift you find that it bears a face some of you recognize as Old Man Dansby, a farmer of Heldren. Though he carries weapons, he bears no armor despite warm clothing and his chest is stove in, by the ice elementals judging by the wound.
Grunting as he turns the corpse over, Kelgar gives the farmer a reverent look and bows his head out of respect for the dead.
"Dansby, 'ah think this one was. Dangerous for 'im to be out this far alone. 'e'll need a proper burial, at least as good o' one as we can manage in th' cold."
Dansby was a farmer and lumberjack that lived on the outskirts of town. You are not aware of any living relatives.
Olaf shakes his head sadly as he regards the frozen body.
"It is a shame that yet another has fallen to the tricks of the Fey twisted by the Winter Witches. They shall pay."
"He won't be missed." the Halfhand says. "Man once tried to take an axe to me for liberating a handful of herbs. Tch. Who's the wretch now, Dansby?" he snorts, giving the body a little kick. "Farmers..."
The wizard seems to show no shame as he crouches down next to the corpse and rifles through its pockets, cutting the money pouch from the man's belt and tucking it into his coat.
"His loss is our gain."
"... and watched his chickens like a hawk, he did. Our gain indeed, yes." he says, scooping several gold coins into his cap and squirreling them away onto his person. "Enough to feed us for two moons, what luck! What luck!"
The Halfhand can't help but chuckle at this moment of shared history - the two of them picking at the corpse like a pair of old crows, and squabbling over coins.
A look of displeasure spreads across his face as he catches himself, and he straightens up almost immediately, seemingly disgusted that he has anything in common with the gnome.
"We should move on." the Halfhand says, clearing his throat. "Any silly rites you wish to invoke can wait for the journey back."
Hilde steps in as The Halfhand backs off. Doing her best to tidy the gentleman up, she arranges his clothing as best as possible and lays him in what she imagines to be a formal pose for viewing. Looking up at Olaf and Kelgar, she speaks,
"My dwimmerling kin most certainly die, but not in a manner such as thee. They casually cast aside their bones for all of nature to come and see.
My sire's men, their honor strong, take care in dying, lest later their reade be wrong. This brave soul will fill a hall, with mead, meat and wine. How will his gods perceive him, if left slaughtered, no more than swine.
Care for others, whether tall, squat or long of ear, begins not from without but from within I fear. A farmer born, yet a warrior dead - what shall be his glory, when his reade be read? I say, his hands were brown, yet his blood flowed red.No bed-death here, nor flight nor need for shame. Let us send him on to meet his gods, in glory, born aloft on pillars of flame."
You can see in her eyes that Hilde takes the disposition of this man's corpse very seriously - reverently. She is neither angry nor accusatory, but rather - firm in her stance.
Cearb works at removing the farmer's boots and tosses them into the middle of the road. "Set his boots aside, they will have more miles to walk, if not kin, than the next traveller can fare better, and without shoes, an ice corpse's feet will snap off, meaning it can't follow us come moonrise."
Kelgar raises an eyebrow at the Halfhand's suggestion and then decides to wave the Chelaxian ahead.
"Ah, feel free then to get followin' the trail ahead o' me then. Ah'll be seeing 'is burial's a proper one."
The dwarf bats away Bastagar's hands like a grandmother protecting a candy jar.
"And best ye not be lootin' 'is corpse like a carrion-bird, unless like yer wee friend 'ere says - ye'll be seein' a visit from ol' Dansby in yer dreams tonight."
The old dwarf considers what he just said, reflexively, and decides to embellish on the warning.
"Ye know? Maybe it's best tha' Bastagar carries all th' coins o' this dead man. Tha' way only one o' us is haunted by 'is spirit. Aye, tha sits we me jes' right."
Scooping up other possession from the farmer, Kelgar makes to hand them all off to Bastagar, doing his best to project a belief that karma will visit the gnome in his future.
After performing his improvised funerary rights, the dwarf makes to pass out Dansby's former weapons - the longbow and handaxe.
"Ahm sure 'e won't mind us liberating these."
And then, quietly to both Hilde and Olaf he adds, "Ah doubt th' risk o' 'im hauntin' us is high, ye dun need to worry such."
Bastagar nurses his gnarled fingers as Kelgar bats him away, contenting himself with his small share of the coins, handing the other to the Halfhand. He jolts upright at the Dwarf's warning, advancing on him menacingly with his cane before giving him a solid poke in the ribs. "Kelgar should not speak such things, lest he invite his spirit back." he says, spinning three times in the snow and making a warding gesture before stamping his foot in a huff and making up the trail. "If you wish to invite ill luck further, do it alone you can!" he says, stamping up the trail.
-----
He sits down on a stump and folds his arms, glowering at the dead man. "Dansby may claim us yet, stupid old wretch, when sun is swallowed and Grungir wakes." he mutters, sulkily.
"Hold, faerie." the Halfhand calls out, jogging after the old gnome. "You won't be sneaking off to meet with your wintry comrades while I'm around."
The Halfhand holds his crossbow loosely in hand as they walk, not taking his eyes off the gnome for a second.
Bastagar turns, with a face not unlike a cornered rat, eyes wavering on the crossbow before his whiskers twitch into a sinister grin. "Bastagar hates the cold, if the maimed man must know." he says, hobbling quickly along the trail, head low. He'll walk ahead for a moment before tugging irritably at the Halfhand's coat. "Too tall it is! Too tall! No good looking for trouble if it sees us first. Human must keep its head down." he says, yanking the Halfhand sharply by the ear. "...Ill-luck it is to travel with a seven-fingered man..."
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Cearb follows Kelgar to where he intends to bury the farmer. "Mighty cold and the ground hard to dig a big hole for someone who can't appreciate it, you wants me to find a burrow to stuff him in, make a good larder for a bear come the thaw, or maybe you wants me to cut him up in smaller pieces, you dig a smaller hole and we plug it up with Farmer chunks, so you don't dig much, farmer gets in the ground, and we leave this place all the faster.....now where to start...the hole will at least need to fit his head, it would be gross to have to shell his noggin, but that axe of yours can take that task, ..." Cearb breaks out his sharpening stone and starts to scraped a large jagged blade from his boot. He looks at the farmer like a carpenter sizing up a board for sawing, judging where to make that first cut.
As the odd couple move forward from Dansby's as yet open air grave, eyes turn to the method for the farmer to be conferred to Pharasma.
The earth is indeed frozen and packed down, but would still be workable if one with broad shoulders were willing to invoke a lusty sweat to invoke the soil to move.
Similarly Cearb notices a middling size burrow... badger? At any rate the entrance to the burrow is indeed too small to take the head of Dansby without some modification of it's external dimensions... and Cearb wonders if the depth of the burrow would be enough to take all of the man within also.
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Kelgar frowns at Cearb in reply to his recommendation of butchering poor Dansby, but chooses to spend no further time discussing the matter.
After finding an appropriate location, the old dwarf bows his head in meditation and then begins to wave his stubby hands about while mumbling a prayer to Magrim, a step he knows isn't necessary in what he's about to do, but does so anyway.
With each gesture, the snowy ground begins to sizzle and steam as the chosen location begins to radiate more heat than an Osiriani daytime bonfire. Beads of sweat drip from Kelgar's forehead as he seems to relish in the exothermic energy envelops him like a burning blanket and continue his work.
"Alright, th' diggin' should go easy now."
With no proper shovel, he liberates Dansby's axe and begins to use that to work the earth, wondering how long it will be before the Halfhand and Bastagar circle back or one murders the other and if he'll need to dig a second hole.
A mental note is made that a badger burrow is about the right size for a gnome corpse.
Cearb sheathes his knife with a confused look on his face, "Worms got to eat I guess, don't know what makes them so special, plenty of birds and foxes wouldn't mind a taste as well, hmm, you can sure heat the dirt, I was just going to piss on it, minding Hilde's discretion to look away, but I ain't got that much vinegar in me." He spends some time near the burrow while Kelgar digs.
Panting, Kelgar leans over and rests both his hands on knees - his breath puffing out like a chimney on a chill winter's morning.
He mutters something to himself, only the first few words audible to those nearby.
"Ahm gittin' too old fer thi--"
Kelgar's application of caustic spurts of liquid have the desired effect, though also leave the earth sodden with that same liquid. Given the way that the axe idly begins to bubble as the residual acid expends itself on the steel... there is a fear that Dansby's corpse may not be long for the worms of the earth. However as the grave deepens, the effect of the acid lessens and there is greater belief that the internment will not be corrosive.
"Bah. Nothing ahead but snow and cold and aching bones." he grumbles, more to himself than his companion. "... and no sign of this lady. Bastagar's patience grows thin."
Catching his breath, Kelgar regards the pitting in the axe with some disdain before testing its balance.
With a few brief, barely intelligible words, possibly with at least a single mention to a human deity, Kelgar shuffles back to the trailhead and holds his hand to his brow to shield his eyes from the sun.
Feeling rather archetypical with the wild assortment of weapons now accumulating on his person, he relates his status and wishes to the others.
"Ahm 'bout ready." ("Dwarf ready.")
"Let's move out, then." (Move out!)
Olaf wordlessly assists as the burial is performed, although he sheds at least one cold stare in Cearb's direction as the Gnome offers his 'helpful' suggestions.
When the task is done, he sighs.
"We should keep moving. The sooner we find, and deal with, these Winter Fey, the sooner this area will be that little bit safer."
Hilde joins Kelgar for whatever portion of the ceremony he will allow her participation. As the body is interred and covered with dirt and ice, she faces the sun, now falling in the west and sings:
Cár'tuulén ... coorán, coorán ... Avá'artán'cár'áll ...
Cár'tuulén ... coorán, coorán ... Avá'artán'cár'áll ...
Cár'tuulén ... coorán, coorán ... Avá'artán'cár'áll ...
ésh'neán ... carpá'ó'cár'áll!
ésh'neán ... carpá'ó'cár'áll!
In Aklo - Linguistics DC 10
The death... to die, to die, Avá bless the living.
The death... to die, to die, Avá bless the living.
The death... to die, to die, Avá bless the living.
Not the end ... The beginning of everlasting higher living!
Not the end ... The beginning of everlasting higher living!
The Halfhand brushes the gnome away as he tries to pull him along, but finds himself walking more cautiously all the same.
"Bastagar hates the cold, if the maimed man must know."
-
"You are not the only one. The cold has robbed me of much..." the Halfhand says, looking down to his gloved hand. "... But I will conquer it before the end. Cold and wind, ice and snow, I will be their master..." His voice trails off as he begins to mutter to himself. He grows more twitchy, his eyes darting back and forth, constantly scanning the shadows.
"We've gone far enough." the wizard says, scratching his neck idly. Ormr pokes its head from within the wizard's coat, its head looking about curiously.
After Dansby has been interred, the rest of the group follows where Bastagar and Halfhand have already trod. Meeting back up as the two advance scouts either pause or begin to double back, minds are turned back to the trudge after the trail. The trail extends onward into the distance, clear and easy to follow on the path limned with trees and snow.
...freezing my balls off out here while...
...bloody flying icy b1tch."
They are ahead of you and upon the trail... maybe fifty feet distant, though shielded a little by the bend of the trail.
Kelgar trudges on ahead, his mind distracted by thoughts of Cearb in a butcher's apron, chopping away at something fleshy with an oversized butcher's knife.
"Hsst!" Cearb holds up his hand careless of where the blade in his hand might swing. He whispers, "Bigguns up ahead, not fey, speak like our HUMAN, they are cold and curse a Rokhar and a flying icy b1tch, sounds fifty feet that way, maybe they bleed something other than icewater, .." and he points up past a bend in the road.
Bastagar, oblivious to any other noise but his own curses, nearly loses a few whiskers as Caerb swings his knife through the air, answering him with a jab to the ribs with his shillelagh. "Nearly took an eye, it did!" he says, making sure his eyebrows are still intact before continuing. "Bastagar curses Rokhar and icy b1tch too..." he grumbles, before dropping low and cupping a hand to the howling wind and listening up the trail.
"Around we should go, quiet as snow. Or we could surprise them! What fun!"
"Men?" The Halfhand says. "Then we draw near..."
He readies his crossbow, crouching low and looking around.
"A pre-emptive strike, yes..." The Halfhand says contemplatively. He looks over at Hilde. "Have some serve as distraction while we come by the wayside and catch them off-guard. Lead the way, faerie."
Hilde sees the wisdom of this approach.
"I see thy thoughts and find them fine. Upon this road will I advance, join when you deem it time."
Hilde then makes good her claim and begins to slowly walk up the trail.