Fenyx, still reeling from the exhaustion of his efforts, falters backwards a few wobbly steps on his snowshoes before lifting a single finger to indicate the zombie he was able to master. "That one... I command..." he manages between forced gasps before sputtering further, "...kill...the rest." Heeding his own advice, and understanding the ineffectiveness of such a creature against others of its kind, the necromancer issues a command to aid his allies in subduing the remaining threats; his finger now aims at the nearest zombie that still threatens them as he growls out a command: "Subdue!" The zombie obeys without hesitation, limbs and hands surging forward as it attempts to drag the other undead villager to the ground.
As the creatures thrash about in the snow, Fenyx reaches behind him, still breathing heavily, to retrieve a simple crossbow. His numb fingers struggle to guide the bolt into its slot, and he nearly loses the missile to the snow in the process.
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With a groan of pain the zombie under Fenyx's command wheels about and lunges at one of its own kind. Grasping fingers tug and pull at theadbare cloth and leathery flesh. Soon, the two zombies are tangled in one another, one wildly struggling to break free and the other mindlessly trying to drag its opponent to the ground.
Not far away, the living dead that is kept at bay by Ar'Zarrcal's shield lunges forward again, its frostbitten hands trying to pry down the shield so that it can get its snapping jaws closer to hot flesh. But the dwarven cleric is not so easily pushed around, and Ar'Zarrcal holds his ground, warding the zombie off with a slam of his shield, sending it staggering backwards and away from him as it looses a raspy howl.
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(miss)
(miss)
A grappled creature cannot use Stealth to hide from the creature grappling it, even if a special ability, such as hide in plain sight, would normally allow it to do so. If a grappled creature becomes invisible, through a spell or other ability, it gains a +2 circumstance bonus on its CMD to avoid being grappled, but receives no other benefit.
Now that the 'bugs' were dead and the necromancer was using a crossbow, Ordrud decides that it is time to handle the zombies. He hustles to the side of the dwarf with his greatsword ready.
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Keeping his shield up, he attempts to manuever himself so that he can effectively flank the Zombie with the newly arrived aid of the towering Ordrud and his great sword.
With the snow crunching beneath his footfalls, he pressed outward with his shield, hoping that the undead would instinctively grab at it, before whipping it to his left, hoping to pull the undead human off balance and give him a clear shot at its head. When a rotting skull of frozen hair made was brought within range of his axe, Ar'Zarrcal whipped his right arm downward, burying the head of his axe into the Zombie's skull.
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Standard Action:
Critical Confirm:
Move Action: 5' step to flank if necessary.
Round 3 - Initiative 21
Seeing the chaos go on around her, Talavuc pauses, waiting t see how the events will turn out. She looks down at her writhing companion. Please be all right soon. The changing battlefield shifts so favorably, though, that she simply looks down at her sling with dismay. Only bladed weapons will be effective... crosses her mind as she looks at the zombies struggling in the snow.
Seeing a lack of opening for her own weapons to be effective, she steps over the snow to near Rasso and casts a spell, going through the gestures understood not by rote, but by divine guidance. [b]"Благословена Циљ!" she shouts as her free hand moves, touching it to Rasso. The energy flows invisibly from her hand, a divine blessing to help him strike true.
"Blessed Aim!"
"A bit of divine guidance to help you, Rasso!" She clutches the sling in her hand a bit tighter. That's all I can really do.
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Exhaling a steaming breath through the mouth slot on his mask, Teladon lets his bow fall to the snow as he starts to stride forward on his snowshoes. With a fluid motion, he draws the curved elven blade from its sheathe at his hip, gripping it tightly in one hand before lunging out at the grappling pair of undead. His blade slips between the zombies, then cuts horizontally across one of their midsections, spilling rotten organs out onto the snow in a blackened, congealed heap of maggoty flesh. Withdrawing the sword, Teladon flicks it behind himself, shaking some of the thick blood off in dark spots behind him.
Following through on Teladon's attack, Rasso lunges in with his sharklike maw, leaning over one zombie to bite the other. His saw-toothed mouth and elongated torso and neck allows him to reach across the gap between he and his opponent. The teeth sink into rubbery flesh and crush bone, shredding as he saws muscle apart and splits tendon. There's a meaty snap a moment later as the zombie's ribcage cracks under the pressure and Rasso's sawtooth mouth rends flesh in a huge bite mark up from bone.
The zombie shudders, spasms and then finally collapses to the ground with stringy flesh and connective tissue stretched from the prone corpse to Rasso's jaws.
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"Psat! Pleh, pleh, ack!" Rasso exclaims, spitting the putrid flesh from his mouth. "I bloody well hate zombies!" He scoops a large clawfull of snow into his mouth and swishes with it thoroughly before spitting it out. He pulls out the last of his rum, and drains the bottom of the bottle. With a jowl wobbling shake of his head he straightens back up ready for action.
Ordrud spends a minute recovering from his rage producing huge puffs of mist from toothy mug. He sheathes his greatsword and goes over to the down companions looking for vital signs.
After they appear to all shake off the fey effects, he wanders around looking for faerie parts to examine them more thoroughly. Actually, he wants to pull their wings off for a measure of revenge.
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Only one of the three fey is even intact, but Ordrud can surmise by the tiny amoutn of breast escaping its miniscule mouth that this fragile looking humanoid figure is still barely clinging to life, but the blood it is losing -- a seemingly trivial amount to a creature of Ordrud's size -- is vast for something as diminutive as a sprite.
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"This bug lives if anyone wants to save it. Otherwise, I'm removing its wings." Ordrud says holding the fey in the palm of his hand.
Talavuc looks at the fairy in Ordrud's hand and then over to her recovering companions, especially Naasvit. The mink slowly walked over to her, obviously sore from the twitching and thrashing he had been doing in the snow. It'll pass quickly, but still... She sighs and looks to the half-orc, "Part of me wants to, for some odd reason, but these fey have shown their intentions. They do not change, not their base nature, at least not as easy as we might. If you are going to kill it, please do it quickly." She sighs and looks around the field once again. "Does anyone need to be healed?" she asks as she unconsciously rubs the side of her thigh where the sprite's arrow had pierced her hides.
Her vision looks briefly over the the stilled undead, but stops briefly at the controlled one still standing in the snow. Damn... Another 'tool'? This feels just as wrong as creating them in the first place. She lets out a deep breath, trying to draw up more resolve and patience with the issue. Just don't think about it for the time being, she says to herself as she buries the feelings.
Recalling some of the lectures he had endured at Korvosa, Fenyx takes a fleeting interest in Ordrud's query. "Though not my specialty by any means, I seem to recall a colleague of mine going on at length about the unique properties of the wings of certain fey, particularly as they related to enchantments and illusory endeavors. I believe the fey themselves are predisposed to said magic, and so it follows that creatures born of The First World are inherently infused and suffused with similar qualities. As to the actual applications? As I mentioned before, I'm not the authority on the subject, having been tasked with more pressing pursuits relating to the Whisper Tyrant's unholy crusade, but I know..." The necromancer suddenly remembers who he is talking to, and the disinterested looks from all save Teladon halt what was shaping up to be a long-winded lecture on subjects of decidedly arcane nature. "Suffice to say, the wings have value. Whether or not we can interrogate our rapidly draining hostage is a matter I'll leave to our Captain's discretion. I would posit a theory, however, that perhaps they know altogether different things than the broken and beaten villager-hunters we encountered in the ruins of the lumber camp. Perhaps these are direct servants of the witch that has been alluded to?"
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Styvanus stands to his feet, still groggy with the remnants of color in the corners of his eyes. He rubs his eyes slightly and walks over to Ordrud holding the dying fey."Good work taking care of that team, these little buggers caught me off guard there...Still yet, vengeance is over rated, there's no need to be cruel. Place the fey on the ground Ordrud, when the time comes, you can be the one to put it out of it's misery, but I won't stand by and allow you to inflict undue misery on the thing.
Once Ordrud had complied, Styv kneeled beside the dying winter fey and exhaled sharply." Your time is at it's end. Tell us about who sent you and I'll make your end swift as possible. Lie to me and I'll recant my order to the Orc and let him rip your wings free. The choice is yours." He finishes matter of factually and waits for a response.
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The Captain's words are lost on the winter-touched fey.
All the creature can do is bleed into Ordrud's palm, its tiny chest riding and falling with shallow breaths. Its blood is blue-white, glittering with a half dozen other colors like an oil-slick. The fey has been rendered unconscious by the arrow gash in his side, and as Styvanus is examining it the breathing arrests. It will be dead within seconds if it is not healed in some fashion...
Ordrud obeys the captain's orders.
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"Arrrghhh" Marcellano groans as he picks himself up, "What in the Hells hit me? Argh.. I'm still seeing spots.. did we kill everything?"
As he gets up, Marcellano picks up his musket laying in the snow, then grabs his hat, shakes off the snow, and puts it back on his head. Although he is blinking furiously to clear his head, he's back up on his feet in very little time.
Ar'Zarrcal ran his fingers across the ratty beard that clung to his face, combing out ice and snow that had gathered within it. He swung the axe he had used to fell the Zombie over his shoulder and marched across the snow to where the faerie lay dying.
"I do not think we can trust anything the faerie might say. It would be best to conserve our healing capabilities then waste it on an enemy we will kill exterminate afterward." He knew it might not make him popular to question the orders of the charismatic Andorran captain, but this seemed a foolsih expenditure of resources.
Ordrud nodded in Ar'Zarrcal's direction knowing that complete healing has been kept from him since they met due to limited resources.
Rasso also looks at Styvanus apprehensively. He doesn't want to question his friend in front of the rest of the group, but his face is a poor attempt at hiding his feelings. The wee bugger'll just go invisible and fly off ter warn whoever's up ahead. Bad idead Styv! Rasso sidles closer, ready to eat the fairy should anything go awry. He alternates between looking at the dying fey in Odrud's palm, and scanning the deathly still frozen wood around them. He remains unconvinced that another horror is not going to erupt out of this hyperborean hell.
A puff of smoke streaming from his mask, Teladon studies the interaction of the humans with interest. While not speaking, the elf quietly listens to Fenyx as he begins his dissertation on the various uses of fey as material components. Nodding along at the necromancers words the elf silently agrees. The first world was inherently bound into the life blood of such creatures. To Teladon there was nothing inherently wrong with using such items in the casting of a spell. Perhaps other, more narrow minded people might see something wrong in the remains of an intelligent humanoid, but magic in and of itself was a neutral force. It was how it was used that made it for good or evil. It would seem that this was another facet that Teladon shared with the austere wizard.
So odd to find someone with so much farsight among the young lived. Mused the elf. And that he has served as a retainer of the the reborn Runelord. Sniffing in disgust, Teladon turned away. At least he bears none of the fanaticism shown by the Dwarf... I supposed that it something to be thankful of.
Taking the necromancers words to heart, Teladon knelt next to the body of the first winter-touched sprite he had felled with his arrow. Taking forth another vial the elf carefully harvested several drops of blood and then plucked the iridescent wings from the body of the creature. The blood of dragons and fey, all within a day of each other. An excellent start to journey.
After plucking the wings and harvesting the blood, Teladon slowly rose as his keen elven ears picked up the command from the human war-leader to heal the fey. Listening to the wind, Teladon paused, blinking in thought. Is there any others among us who speak the tongue of the first world?
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"Tongue of the what? Bah, I doubt this little bugger would know anything anyways. Little sod's just a primitive tribal, barely smarter than an animal, just like the primitives we'd encounter in the Shackles.. living in mud and dirt."
Marcellano walks over to where the little fey lays dying and sighs in frustration. "Instead of using what precious little magic we have left, let me take a shot at the little bastard.. I'm sure I can stop the bleeding.. can't be too different than staunching the bleeding from a bullet wound, even if the little freak isn't human."
He kneels down and examines the little fey, before quickly taking a piece of cloth and bandaging the sprite, while simultaneously binding it's wings with the makeshift bandage. Despite his harsh words, he is surprisingly gentle with the little creature, but it is more out of a sense of duty to keep it alive than any care for the thing.
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For Marcellano, bandaging and staunching the fey's wounds is a lot like trying to staunch an improbably arterial wound on a pinkie-finger. The frustratingly small fey thankfully has equally small veins, and a liberal application of two fingers is enough at times to keep him from bleeding out until Marcellano tear off a strip of fabric from his clothing and bind the wounds in impromptu fashion. Without even dipping into the reserves of his healing kit, Marcellano manages to stuff the wound with some batting and fur from his cloak and bind it with a four inch long strip of fabric.
It's enough to keep the fey creature alive, for what good it will be worth. The sprite's recovery from his injuries to consciousness may take hours yet, but now they have a captive of some sorts.
Ordrud sees everyone mobile and the surviving fey immobile. "Is everyone healed that needs healing? Yes? Let's move." He scoops up his discarded musket. He attempts to dry it off with his cloak and loads it under the watchful eye of Marcellano. He has given up the thought that he would be completely healed today.
Offering to take the fallen fae, Marcellano tosses the bound creature into a small bag, tied off to his belt to ensure he is aware of its every move. With the other fae dead and the last of the zombies ensnared by Fenyx's necromantic power, the group returns to their formation and continues the march through the snow. Naasvit pauses, once, and looks back into the woods with a twitch of his nose, then bounds through the deep snow to fall in at Talavuc's heels.
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Snow whips blindingly across the rolling field of ice. The frozen lake bristles with burrs of frost and hairline fractures, while the dusting of snow on its surface whirls upward, moving with the grace and fluidity of flames around the woman that commands it. A long, flowing robe of black cloth is embroided with ice blue sigils that radiate freezing light and mist. A mantle of white fur is wrapped around her shoulders, trimmed with long, black feathers that form a high collar around a slender neck where long, white hair flows wildly. Concealing the witch's face, a mask of darkwood with two antler-like branches protruding from the brow creates a scowling countenance of an ancient crone.
"" The witch shouts, pointing a slender wand of twisted ice towards her foe, ""
Through the biting blizzard, the witch's foe becomes momentarily visible. As darkly clad as she, but in armor of pitted iron, black fur and a great horned helm with the same stag-like antlers, but these forged of the same cold iron the rest of his armor is. Blood stains the snow around this black knight, blood coming from inside of his armor and draining out the gaps in the plates, staining dark chain links.
"You are a worthless whore," the knight rumbles, his voice so deep that the ground shakes, "and you serve an honorless whore-queen." His words are nearly as sharp as the jagged sword of black ice clutched in one clawed, gauntleted hand.
"" Walking across the ice, the witch motions with her wand to the right with a flick of her wrist, and the rider lets out a scream of pain as blood sprays in a fine mist from a joint in his armor into the snow. ""
Dropping to one knee, the black rider braces himself with his sword driven tip-down into the ice. A gout of blood sprays out of the holes in his visor, running in drooling streams to a pool. He coughs, gags and chokes as the winter witch continues her confident stride forward, the wand of ice resonating with a whining hum as she draws closer.
"" The witch demands to know, closing in on the rider. But as the witch gets close to the wounded rider, she allows herself to be drawn in by her own arrogance and pride, presuming the black rider to be weaker than he truly is. With one swift motion, the black rider brings his jagged blade of ice up in a single-handed grip and cuts through the witch's right arm at the elbow. An explosion of cold erupts from the stump along with frozen blood raining like snow. The blizzard ends the moment the severed arm falls to the frozen lake, the wand of ice in its now limp hand rolling away.
"Does it hurt?" The rider rumbles, before swinging his sword around in another brutal arc. But as it connects to the recoiling witch, she blasts apart in a flock of ravens that swarms around the rider pecking and clawing before funneling up into the cloudy sky in a stream of batting wings. Wheezing, the rider staggers as he watches the ravens fly away. His sword arm drops swiftly from fatigue and agony, the heavy blade's tip striking the ice.
Breathing a few more wheezing breaths, the rider lifts his free hand and curls his fingers skyward. Ice from the surface of the lake begins to melt, forming rivulets of water that swim through the air like serpents. These slithering masses of water quickly form into the shape of a mighty steed. Once its liquid form has been made, it freezes, and then with a mighty neigh the ice shatters away like a shell from around a powerful black horse. It rises up on its hind legs, kicking its hooves in the air as gouts of cold blasts from its nostrils.
The horse stamps the ice as it lands, then looks over to the rider with glowing blue eyes and presses its brow against the front of his helm. The rider, tiredly, lays a hand on the side of the horse's face, feeling for reins, then guides himself to the saddle and struggles to pull himself up into it. With a tired, pained groan, the rider takes a hold of the reins and urges the horse ahead.
Blood runs in rivulets down the saddle and the horse's flanks as it starts to ride off into the distance.
Droplets strike the ice and freeze.
<< | | | >>
It must be nearing midnight, given how long they've been walking. The winding logging trails have seemed much the same for the last few hours since the fey ambush. Intermittent drifts of snow in large clearings followed by stretches of easier depths to traverse where the canopy gets thicker. The bone fetishes in the branches have become more common, dangling bits of crow bones and feathers tied together by sinew, crusted with ice. The sky overhead is a pitch black when it can be viewed, only the light of orbiting lampstones and sunrods give any illumination in this dark place.
Flickering, Styvanus' sunrod he'd scavenged from the corpse of one of the raiders seems to be going out. It gutters once, then twice, then finally dims leaving a glowing orange tip like a cooling ember, rapidly fading. The other lights still illuminate the trail, though not as well now. Ordrud recognizes this bend in the trail, the group is perhaps an hour from the river, maybe less, which means the lodge won't be much further than that. But this also means they'r rapidly closing in on the site where Ordrud's team was first ambushed.
The length of the journey is starting to wear on everyone, and the end feels so much further away yet.
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A character can walk for more than 8 hours in a day by making a forced march. For each hour of marching beyond 8 hours, a Constitution check (DC 10, +2 per extra hour) is required. If the check fails, the character takes 1d6 points of nonlethal damage. A character who takes any nonlethal damage from a forced march becomes fatigued. Eliminating the nonlethal damage also eliminates the fatigue. It's possible for a character to march into unconsciousness by pushing himself too hard.
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Marcellano trudges on, checking on his captive every once in a while by poking the sack with his finger. He's not taking any risks with the little bugger, so that they can interrogate it when they get the chance.
During the forced march in the dead of night, Marcellano's stomach begins to growl noisily, and he pulls out a ration of wandermeal, in all of its bland, cakey goodness, and eats it as he walks. Due to the extreme cold, the cake is hard to chew, and it reminds Marcellano of the old biscuits that were often served aboard ships; that being said, even those biscuits tasted better than what he was eating now. The wandermeal is not only barren of most nutrients and flavor, but also quite dry, causing Marcellano to wish he had something to drink with it that wasn't frozen.
Luckily, at least, the cake can be eaten with one hand, his other hand carrying his musket. The march itself bears no ill effects on Marcellano, who keeps trudging on as if it was just another day.
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Ordrud's mind wanders to pass the time. What has learned about his new companions? What does he know of the enemy? What would he do in the enemy's position?
His body automatically walking with a comfortable load. His instincts aware of his surroundings. Soon we will arrive at the ambush point. Who will do the surprising this time?
Before he enters the kill zone again, Ordrud silently halts the progression and quietly informs them of where and how they were ambushed. He hopes to find any more clues of his previous companions' fate.
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Talavuc reached for the wand at her belt, but hesitated after Styvanus' order enough for Marcellano to reach the fey first. That should be fine enough. I don't want to use more of what little magic remains in the wand on an enemy... She sighs and keeps to herself while the group readies to get underway again.
Talavuc trudges forward in the snow, Naasvit close on her heels. While the hunger pangs in her stomach are bothersome, the fatigue creeping into her limbs and mind are more concerning. It reminds her of the time she had spent in the wilderness, having to sleep in short shifts and stay on the move constantly. It wasn't the animals in the wilds, but the monsters that provided the worst threat. Too much risk for too little reward when you're living like that. Being injured while alone can be a death sentence and almost was a couple of times.
She looks up and around, gazing at her companions, especially the giant mink with her for a few moments. We seem to work well together. Will it last? She gives Naasvit's head a quick rub. Her eyes return to scanning the tree line, trying to keep a watchful, if drained, eye on the woods surrounding them.
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Placing one foot in front of the other, Teladon keeps his bow in hand and his black scimitar at his side. Howling wind and freezing snow left tiny drifts against the recovery team as they trudged through the snow. Between the wind and snow, the ground was constantly shifting. One moment the trail would be clear and the next it was calf high. Cursing to himself at the ungainliness of the human snowshoes Teladon nonetheless kept his discontent to himself his was not the place to visibly complain, it served no purpose and put his people to shame.
Internally Teladon felt that it had been a mistake to take the winter-touched Unseelie with them. The humans likely had little dealings with such creatures before, but the elves had a longer memory. When the gods created the world, they had not started with Golarion. They had started with the First World. The fey had and always would be untamed and uncontrollable. Much like the scathing winds and freezing snow, they were an elemental force. Cruelty was in their nature. The humans would learn. Hopefully they did not suffer too harshly in this bit of education.
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Rasso trudges along in silence. It is quite draining to maintain his Eidolon for this long without sleeping. The merman himself is tough as nails, but in this case his magical battle suit is a liability. It is also rare that he goes this long without several stiff drinks, and he can feel the edges of his nerves fraying. It's all he can do to stay alert to the dangerous taiga surrounding them. Don't lose it now Rasso, Styvanus is countin' on yer. He begins snapping his claws open and closed slowly in time to the others footbeats, giving himself something to focus on other than his aching...well, his aching everything.
When Ordrud announces that up ahead was where his group was ambushed Rasso stops numbly, and waits for instructions. Wonder what's going ter pop out ter kill us this time?
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Fenyx watches from his half-crouch, still grasping the haft of Dirge as he shakes off with finality the numbness the Unseelie's arrow had inflicted. Even throughout his lecture on the properties of First World inhabitants, he notices the merman's newfound dilemma. An uncomfortable weight in his backpack helps decide the necromancer's plan with haste, as Fenyx recalls the boon bestowed upon him by what remained of the spirits found in the Goose 'n Gander. He fetches the decidedly ordinary looking bottle of Karsgard Vjarik and gives the thing an appraising look. Scant seconds pass before he uncorks the bottle to give it a brief smell. Judging from his expression, the stuff is potent indeed. Given the situation, something this strong is warranted, I think. He utters a low phrase in an arcane tongue borne of Thassilonnian study before placing a hand on the bottle and concentrating momentarily. As the bottle grows warm to the touch, he takes a small swig of the stuff. Warm, spiced, and stout. This will do..
Fenyx calmly approaches Rasso as Marcellano trudges along prodding their newfound prisoner, and proffers the bottle to the eidolon encased summoner unceremoniously. "I did what I could for the taste, but when dealing with liquor from the Linnorm Kingdoms, even magic has its limits."
Fenyx passes most of the trip in silence. The dull ache climbing up his ankles and legs is evidence enough of how hard they are pushing themselves. Necessary or not, his body cried out for reprieve that would not be granted—not yet. This is a choice. You have labored under the whips of rune giants and magisters and worse. What awaited you beyond was worth far more than the toll exacted on your mortal coil. This is no different. Pain is fleeting. What lies beyond is no less important than it was then. Master yourself, Fenyx. It will not be those of Shalast that wilt before this storm. Fighting on through the forced march, Fenyx does not complain or give voice to his aches.
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Rasso accepts the bottle from Fenyx, he looks surprised that such a gift is being offered, but not unhappy. "Errm...thank ye." He daintily removes the cork from the bottle and takes a sip. "Not half bad." After another drag off the bottle his smile is genuine if tired. "Aye, that'll do."
As the troupe carries on through the deep snow and the dark of the forest, their light sources glitter off of something up ahead in the middle of the trail. Half obscured by a waist-deep snowdrift, a humanoid figure stands upright with arms raised to shield her face, fingers splayed and mouth open in horror. Feathery strips of ice stream away from her body, like horizontal icicles. It's clear that she was flash-frozen by some intense cold. Bits of armor visible beneath the crust of ice encasing his body show the same stylings as the other eagle knights that have been found dead. Another face that Ordrud recalls, this one is Tycora Sandein. Glittering around her neck is an ice-encrusted sword shaped pendant, a holy symbol of Iomdeae.
Not far away, another body is clearly visible. Slouched down and with his back to a tree, this cold corpse is pinned to the trunk of a darkwood tree by a six foot long spear of ice that penetrates his chest. Breastplate armor is caved in around the ice spear, a shattered tower shield lays partly buried in the snow at his side. His scabbard is empty, weapon looted by his killers. Ordrud recalls that this is Bradin Tavel, another member of the team he was with. Not far from Bradin is the frozen corpse of a winter fey, nearly split in half by a sword strike, face contorted into a look of horror.
Seeing Bradin's frozen corpse left to the elements, his eyes wide open in the moment of shock that accompanied near instantaneous death, Ordrud is left with yet another reminder of the cruelty of his enemy and their disregard for the sanctity of life and the dead. The shambling, frozen corpse walking beside Fenyx is another all together.
Being back, here, at the ambush site is succinct reminder of the immediacy of the danger everyone is in.
...and how close payback is.
Trudging through the snow was an unpleasant experience and rather tedious, but the rune-scarred dwarf had endured much, much worse. His remaking at the hands of Karzoug and the others in Xin-Shalast made this frigid, exhausting march seem like a idle walk on the beaches of Varisa.
The worst part of the trek was trying to keep up with the rest of his group, though now that he had proper snowshoes it seemed that it was the merman that was constantly slowing the progression. A wary look was given to Rasso. It was clear that the merman would have been far happier had Ar'Zarrcal and Feyronix Dagannauth not been included in this expedition. Caring little about making friends, Ar'Zarrcal made no attempt to change the merman's mind through conversation, keeping quiet until they came to the clearing where two of Ordrud's former companions remained in a frozen mockery of their last moments of life.
When enough time had passed in what seemed a decent and respectful silence, Ar'Zarrcal spoke. "We should take their armors. They appear to be of good make and I can repair them easily enough or repurpose them with enough time and a proper forge.
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"When this is over, they deserve proper burials with honors." Ordrud solemnly responds to the the dwarf while surveying his previous companions. "Until then, I'll carry enough mementos for their spirits to know revenge." Using his spiked gauntlets, he starts chipping the ice to release the silver holy symbol of Iomedae. This white b#&$~ is dead when I find her, runs through his mind while his ice-chipping becomes more and more violent. Suddenly, he realizes the brutality of his strikes imagining the winter witch where Tycora Sandein is. He stops taking a deep breath. Then, he slowly continues until he can wear the symbol around his neck.
Rasso appears to just be happy for a rest. He didn't know the dead, and he's too tired to care about them much. He takes another small sip from the bottle that Fenyx gave him, and then begins a watch over the group as the others work. He keeps his red eyes scanning the forest around them, waiting for what feels like the inevitable attack to come.
Ar'Zarrcal leaves it to their mission leader to make the call whether stripping the corpse of the woman of her armor is worth the time or not. While he awaits that decision he begins working on the unfortunate remains of the human male, stripping him of his armor and then searching for anything of value.
Once the armor was fully removed, he uttered secret words in the language of the dwarves and mixed the runes of old Thassilon with that of his ancient dwarven ancestors, drawing them upon the broken armor. Soon after the metal began to knit itself, the steel undenting and hardening into its once mint condition.
Staring down at the bodies frozen solid at the ambush site, Teladon gave a small internalized shutter. Any of his people that had fought alongside the Mierani elves during the battle for Celwynvian had seen far more terrible and gruesome sights. The dark-kin were not merciful to their captives. Any yet somehow, the cold endlessness that swallowed up everything in its freezing grasp seemed worse. At least with his peoples shame there was a method to their madness. Hate, rage, and lust fed and nourished them. But the endless drifts of snow and ice continued to spread outward, seeming unstoppable and irreversible. It was cold and dispassionate, it cared nothing for life. It was silent and still.
Blinking behind his mask, unmoving and thoughtful, Teladon frowned. There was nothing wrong with dispassionate, thoughtful logic and with silent stillness and yet being surrounded by a world that held its breath the elf felt a sense of unease. This is not the same. Teladon thought to himself as he watched the others spread out among the bodies of the ambushed team. Observing the dwarf tending to the armor and the young half-orc attending to the dead cleric, Teladon turned his back to the group. A team had already been ambushed here once. What was to say that it would not happen again? Besides the others had begun drinking again and he would trust no one that would willingly imbibe a intoxicant while the threat of death loomed like a spectre.
Peering off into the woods and keeping his bow ready, Teladon quietly spoke to the half-orc survivor, careful to remain quite so as to not have his voice carry far. Ordrud, We were told that your team had been given several sending scrolls. We have found all of your team aside from Knight-Captain Gwynn. Was she carrying the scrolls?
"I guess. Wasn't told." Ordrud calmly replies without looking while finishing up retrieving the cleric's necklace.
Talavuc's eyes widen slightly as she enters the clearing with the rest of her companions, but rather than taking interest in the corpses with the others, she paces slowly, keeping a watchful eye towards the edges. In her mind, the thought of a momentary rest is discomforting, a reminder of what she and her mink are being denied at the moment. Movement is life, stillness is death, she tells herself, glancing at the bodies. If they were sneaking upon this place, it would be different, but the open march lends to her a different thought process. Naasvit, however, seems to have other ideas and quickly finds a place to curl up in low place in the snow. She's glances down at him with a bit of worry evident in her eyes.
As she paces, she takes a look at the frozen bodies. A better fate than that one. She frowns as her gaze shifts to the animate corpse that's following them. A useful tool... She shakes her head, hardly able to believe what she's agreed to. She refocuses her thoughts outward, though, and turns back to look towards the forest.