Trox keeps a watch on the area around them at a complete loss for how to approach this creature.
Cordwin manages to allay the pixie's concerns. "Follow me! Oh--it might not be easy for you unless you can fly. Or swim. Or have a boat. You don't have a boat, do you?"
It's slow going. The trees of the Shimmerglens quickly grow tangled and dense once one travels out of sight of the swamp's edge, rising wretchedly from shallow pools, their arthritic branches curled into miserable tortured claws. The forest canopy seems to generate its own mist that shadows the sodden ground beneath it. Even when the chill wind ceases for a moment, the trees still move, creaking as they sway back and forth. If anything, the unnatural effects worsen the further into the swamp you travel. Fist-sized spiders, fangs dripping with venom, hang from trees. Dying birds twitch in the shallows, and slithery things with too many eyes flee from the party through the water. Under the creaking of the trees and the splashing of things unseen in the water, everyone can hear whispers that hang on the edge of intelligibility.
Finally, the tangled swamp gives way to a relatively large clearing, a calm pool of unnaturally still water ringed by twisted, decayed willow trees. Though the cold wind blows constantly, the trees do not move. It is as if the very land has died. The pixie stops. "We're here...my lady waits for you within. I dare not go any closer...." He flits behind a tree and vanishes from sight.
As if invoked by the pixie's departure, a ghostly figure rises from the center of the pool, howling in rage and sorrow. The remains of what in life must have been a beauty that could rival a demigod can still be seen despite the ravages that must have been visited upon her before her death. Her disembodied arms float at her sides, exposed bone and sinew stretching toward her torso but just slightly out of reach. Her lower torso fades away to mist, savaged too cruelly by whatever killed her for her deathless will to want to retain its shape. But her most terrifying feature is her eyes: wells of hellish horror, crying out silently in an agony beyond the ability of mortals to grasp. "YOU! All of you failed him, failed my Lamatar! None of you would save the fort and the people he protected! None of you stopped Kreeg's ogres from taking him away, away to Hook Mountain! And now--now, too late you come, too late to do anything but see what your failure has wrought! What have you to say for yourself?"
+3 to identify creature abilities and weaknesses
+3 to identify creature abilities and weaknesses
Skarn’s eyes narrow as he watches the ghostly figure rise from the pool, his grip tightening around the haft of Foeslayer. He leans in close to his companions, his voice barely above a whisper, though the urgency in it is clear.
“That’s no ordinary spirit, my friends. If she’s truly a nymph—or even what remains of one—she’s likely powerful beyond mortal understanding. Nymphs are fey, and that means their connection to the land, to magic itself, can make them forces of nature. But look at her… this one’s suffering. Whatever happened to her, whatever twisted her into this, it’s far worse than any mortal grief.”
He glances at the others, his expression grim. “Her eyes... I’ve seen that kind of agony before. She’s likely tied to the land itself—whatever killed her, it’s left a mark, and now the land’s suffering with her. We’ve got a tough road ahead. She’s not just mourning Lamatar; she’s lashing out at us for our failure, real or imagined. We need to be careful. If she’s truly a fey, her power is tied to her emotions, her sorrow. The key to saving her might be finding a way to end that grief, or at least calm it.”
Druamin steps to the side of the group, still facing the apparition but preparing for combat if such a thing is about to break out. His had drifts to the cold iron axe hanging form his belt but he doesn't pull it free just yet.
He nods at Skarn. "I think you've nailed it, Skarn. She said Lamatar was taken. Maybe we can get him back..." Drumain's voice trails off as he turns back to face the ghostly fey.
Reynard recognizes her as being, or at least having been, a nymph.
Trox looks around keeping an eye on what is going on as he lacks the knowledge or conversational skills to be of much help.
Cordwin will look at the undead nymph with sympathy, Noble Spirit! Who took this Lamatar and where can we find them? We will find him so that you will know peace!
"The ogres! Kreeg's ogres, may they rot for--wait. Fine words, but why have you really come here?"
Skarn’s gaze hardens as he steps forward, giving the ghostly figure a steady, unwavering look. His voice is calm, but there’s an edge of resolve beneath it as he speaks.
“You’ve got it wrong, spirit. We’ve not come here to fail again. We’re after Lamatar, just as you are. His disappearance, the ogres, all of it—we know of his fate, and we’ll make sure the ogres pay for what they’ve done. We’re not strangers to this land or its struggles.”
He looks at the others, then back to the nymph. “The ogres may have taken him to Hook Mountain, but we aim to bring him back. That’s why we’re here, and that’s what we’ll do. You won’t suffer this torment alone. Help us find him, and we’ll make things right.”
Skarn’s grip tightens around the haft of *Foeslayer*, his eyes still locked on the spirit. “We’re no strangers to saving those who need it. If Lamatar’s your heart, we’ll be the ones to bring him home.”
Inspired by Skarn's words, Druamin steps up next to him and faces the fey. He nods. "My comrade speaks true. We will find Lamatar and bring him home. You can count on us."
The spirit quiets a bit at the party's words. "I know in my heart he is dead, but bound by some foul magic--I tried to call his spirit back and reembody him, but to no avail. Bring me his body, I beg you. Even a lock of his hair would be enough."
Druamin nods again but with a frown "How long ago did this happen?"
Druamin nods again but with a frown "How long ago did this happen?"
The spirit pauses as if in thought. "It seems an eternity, but it has only been three weeks."
Trox is impressed by Skarns speech but is unsure about bringing back a complete body. He relaxes when the lock of hair comment is made.
"If we find him whole carry the burden to you. If we find a part likewise."
From your conversations with the remaining Black Arrows, you know that the Kreeg clanhold is at the top of Hook Mountain, west of Skull's Crossing. It'll take two days to get there if you want to arrive ready to fight.
Reaching the base of Hook Mountain is straightforward enough, but the ascent from there is considerably more challenging (particularly because of the weather--the temperature drops the higher the party goes, and the rain soon turns to sleet, then snow).
+1 to track, +2 vs giants
Reynard knows many things, but he is not a man with much experience getting along outside of civilization. But he gamely gives it his best.
Reynard stumbles around in the snow for a while, slipping and sliding, before Skarn sniffs the air, grins, and heads off in an apparently random direction...and soon comes to a narrow (for ogres) trail that zigzags back and forth up the mountain.
Three hours of marching later, the party comes to a switchback that a quick peek around the curve ends in an open area. It appears that the summit is near.
Skarn pauses at the edge of the switchback, his breath puffing out in clouds as he looks up at the summit. His eyes narrow, but he quickly reaches for his canteen, uncapping it with a quick twist. He takes a generous swig of his freshly prepared ale, savoring the taste before pulling it away and giving a contented sigh.
“Aye, nothing like a good drink to remind you that even the harshest climbs can be made bearable.” He mutters under his breath, glancing back at the group.
He fumbles around in his pack for a moment before pulling out a fresh stogie. He pops it between his teeth, chewing thoughtfully as he looks over the path ahead, his expression one of quiet satisfaction.
“No better way to handle a mountain’s wrath than with a bit of ale and a good chew.” He grins, looking at his companions with a wink. “If this summit doesn’t kill us, the cold air might. But at least we’ll be warmed from the inside out, eh?” He lets out a low chuckle, continuing to chew on the stogie. “Let’s get moving, lads. We’ve got a mountain to conquer, and I’ve got a date with this stogie.”
Peering around the switchback, Skarn can barely make out a gaping hole in the side of the mountain through the blowing snow and frost. Occasionally when the wind shifts he can smell smoke. There are two ogres in front of the opening, and unless they're being atypically cunning for ogres they don't seem to have noticed the party yet.
Skarn points out the ogres to the party.