Noticing Ordrud's momentary recklessness as he begins pulverizing the ice encasing his former ally, Fenyx approaches slowly, the crunch of snow beneath him the only sound permeating the clearing in the brief moment that the half-orc regains his composure. "Do not risk your finely wrought handwear on such an unworthy foe, Ordrud. One never knows when one might have need to wrestle with stunted dragons again, no?" The necromancer's hands rummage around in his bags for a familiar parcel, and he quickly maneuvers the array of slots and reliefs on the device until he is holding an ice pick in his hands. Proffering it to Ordrud, he nods and says, "Allow me to lend my assistance to you in this."
As the two work together to free the rime and ice swallowed form of Tycora, the anger simmering below Ordrud's surface that had previously flared is evident. Fenyx seems at first to let the matter rest, though as they finally free the Iomedaean pendant from its prison, he directs his cowled visage towards the massive warrior and more intones than speaks, "They who did this will know pain and a worse fate than your companions. This I can assure you." For one of the few times since starting this voyage, the necromancer seems to be speaking candidly and without motive. "Here—let's free the rest of her. We are pressed for time, but some of our legs could use the brief reprieve." The Shalasti man begins muttering an incantation, then places his hand on the ice covering the woman's abdomen. A few seconds later, small puffs of steam begin to appear, accompanied by small droplets of water.
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After a while of being in the clearing and scouting around, you see that there's broken branches on the northern trees. Closer examination reveals blood stains on the trunk of the pine trees in the shape of a hand print. Very hard to notice casually.
Someone fled this way... Recognizing the broken branches and blood stains as the telltale signs of someone having fled through the treeline, you could follow the path of flight to the north, away from the river.
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Styvanus scouts the outskirts of the clearing while Ordrud retrieves the holy symbol from his fallen comrade. He's a good soldier and a good man Styv thought to himself. We're lucky to have him along.
He continues his search after pulling himself back from his thoughts and he catches the unusual sight of some broken branches. As he closes in to get a better look, he can't believe his eyes when he sees a splash of red on the trunk of the pine tree. It's a hand-print! he realizes.
His eyes follow the trail past the pine , the blood stains and broken branches left in wake are a telltale sign that someone had been this way.
"There's blood here, and broken branches" He states, pointing to the north" Looks like someone fled north away from the river... And they weren't in the best condition. Perhaps an escaped prisoner from the lodge... I could follow the trail. Come take a look."
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Ordrud nods in appreciation to the necromancer's words and actions. He is not capable of speaking in his current emotional state.
Besides respecting the necromancer's words and comments, Ordrud is starting to like him. This is very unusual, because he has had very few that he would call friend.
He reverently handles the cleric's body.
Nodding abruptly, Teladon glides over towards the bloody hand mark on the tree, a slight tilt of his cultural iron wrought mask the only indication of agreement. Peering through the slits towards the snow shrouded tree a single puff of steam rises through the slit where the elf's mouth would be. Kneeling next to the old oak Teladon grips his fine elven bow and uses the tip to point toward a piece of disturbed and red-rimmed snow.
Rising smoothly the elf glances back toward Styvanus and cocks his head similar to an imitation of a raven inspecting a shiny object. Leaning forward on his snowshoes the elf seems tensed and preparing to move.
Captain Rozier and Teladon don't have to go far to find where the old trail ends. Through those trees hung with the skeletal carcasses of ravens the pair move through the snow, pushing hanging fir branches aside to reveal a small clearing just thirty feet off the logging road. Here, more shattered branches are partly buried in the snow.
Cast aside on the edge of the clearing is a seven foot long tree trunk with a gnarked ball of roots at one end. Both Teladon and Styvanus can see that the roots have been sharpened into the crude spikes of some sort of cudgel. Dark blood stains those pointed protrusions.
The snow in the middle of the clearing looks to have been disturbed some time ago, with furrows and ridges suggesting several people walked through here and trampled the snow down. Teladon notices something as he follows Styvanus, and the Captain sees it clearly after a moment of being in the clearing.
Sticking up out of the snow, glittering in the light, is the steel barrel of a revolver mostly hidden in the snow.
Ar'Zarrcal caught note of the trail of broken tree branches and scattered snow. He stooped to examine the area, only following when the Captain began to make his way in the same direction. The main focus of the rune-scarred dwarf's investigation was trying to determine how long ago this trail was made and by who or what. Was this the last of Ordrud's companions or even the passing of Ordrud himself previously or was this some new trail.
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Styvanus crouches and pulls the revolver from the snow. He looks over his shoulder at Teladon and then back to the gun, and tilts his head to one side." I wonder if this belonged to the Knight Captain... Let's go see if Ordrud recognizes it."
With that he stood to his feet and made his way back to the main group. "Ordrud, have a look, is it Gwynn's?" He handed the gun over to the orc and glanced back at the bloodstained tree trunk." I'd be nice if we could figure out how fresh that blood is. Talavuc, think you could see what you can find?"
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Having been relatively quiet lately, thinking about how much he hates the snow, Marcellano is awakened from his thoughts at the sight of the revolver that is discovered.
"This expedition was well armed, if they had all of these more advanced firearms.. a masterwork custom rifle and now a revolver of equal quality? And here I am still using this musket, old in comparison.. were you able to find any ammunition for that one?"
"Yes, that's the captain's." Ordrud replies. "Where'd you find it? Any sign of her?"
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" It was in a clearing not far from the pine with the bloody hand print." He states, tucking the revolver securely into his waist line. " Out of ammo." He replies to Kain.
" The blood and broken branches led us to it, our Elven ally can attest to that. The clearing was thoroughly trampled as if many men had came through the clearing some time ago. The revolver was half buried in the snow." He rubbed the nape of his neck and continued. "The curious detail is that cast aside at the edge of the clearing there was a tree trunk taller than a man with a gnarled mess of roots at one end..." He paused, considering the forthcoming detail. The roots were sharpened into crude spikes stained with old blood."
" I know we've been going all night but we need to scout out the encampment and determine if we can make an assault with some of us at half strength or if we need to bide our time and recover our strength. If they have something that wields seven foot trees then we shouldn't rush in lightly, element of surprise or not."
Commenting on the tree trunk, Ordrud replies, "I'm familiar. The troll killed the dwarf and dropped me with it. Hopefully, the troll hasn't found something worse."
Talavuc nods to the Captain, moving over to the tree trunk and examining it as best she can for clues as to the time frame that the print was made. Afterwards, she begins to look around, trying to make out patterns in the snow that might indicate recent traversal.
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As Talavuc inspects the blood, she finds little evidence that this happened recently. Crystals of ice and windblown snow freckle the top of the frozen palm print, indicating the passage of time. Furthermore, the snapped branches that broke in Captain Gwynn's passing are not fresh breaks, and ice has collected in thin sheen inside the pulp of the tree exposed by the breaks. With a shake of her head, Talavuc wordlessly conveys that this was merely a part of the scattering of Gwynn's team that occured during that fateful ambush.
The wind picks up some, blowing sharp across the clearing and kicking up eddies of powdery snow. With nothing more to go on here and the river not far away to the northwest, Styvanus marshals the group back into formation after one last look to where Gwynn had been, in all likelihood, Captured. As the expedition team reforms, joined once more by the shambling carcass of a dead villager from Falcon's Hollow, Styvanus takes the lead and begins treading over the deep snow further into the wood...
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Coming through a line of pine trees, Styvanus is the first to see the river spread out before him. Now officially further than the first expedition, he comes out on a rock outcropping that protrudes from the snow as the trail slopes downwards on a gentle hill towards a completely frozen river lightly dusted with snow. There's something wrong about this place, that much the Captain can decide, as there is a palpable barrier of wind blowing along the river's length, a howling edge of some sort of furious storm that whips snow up off of the ice and keeps it relatively clear.
As the others march through the woods and emerge on the other side to the hill overlooking the river, they see the same sight. Beyond the river across its western banks the terrain slopes back up gradually, leading into a deeper forest area. But beyond that howling wall of snow and wind, the forest looks noticeably different. The branches of the trees are weighed down heavily by long sheets of ice in dangling icicles. It looks -- it feels -- colder here, but beyond the river it looks absolutely frozen.
By Talavuc's best assessment, the group is no more than two miles as a bird flies from the heart of the forest where that supernatural tornado of wind and ice churned. While the logging trails may take them on a more circuitous path, they're still closer than anyone else has ever been to this location, and hopefully the answers they need to bring about the end of this eternal winter.
Coming down off the rock outcropping, Styvanus lands down in the snow and continues ahead some. The remainder of the team filters down out of the woods, circling around the exposed boulder and descending down the hill towards the frozen river. The air becomes noticeably cooler the closer they get to the frozen river, even through the protective warmth of the team's cold-weather outfits, the air feels breathlessly cold and prickling with supernatural chill.
It's eerily silent here, save for the roar of the wind.
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This wind must be conjured from somewhere, judging from how it seems to follow the river to some extent it may be a purposefully placed barrier of some kind. It seems similar in effects to a wind wall spell, but one a much more massive scale. The kind of power necessary to conjure an effect like this is almost unfathomable...
This wind is conjured in some fashion, by a spellcaster of power nearly unfathomable. It is a far greater version of wind wall and appears to cover miles with its effect, a feat impossible in Fenyx's understanding of magic. A wish perhaps, or a miracle brought on by the direct intervention of deific powers. This is something akin to the breach of the Worldwound or the Eye of Abendego, a magical phenomenon beyond the power of mere men. The level of supernatural cold forced through the wall of wind is enough to flash freeze some men to death. The group will need to move as fast as possible through the wall or risk death.
Never have you experienced a sight like this, the wind seemingly sculpted by some magical force to create a barrier of cold. If the morozkas are indeed present this far south, then someone capable of commanding the wind to a magnitude like this must surely be able to command them as well...
This is... this is unbelievable. This wind isn't -- couldn't possibly be -- natural. No, someone willed this to be here, sculpted it to their desires. The force of power necessary for this is so far beyond Teladon's understanding that it is staggering. The Runelords, the eldest of all the Mordant elves, Treerazer; these are the sorts of powers that could accomplish this task. But a mortal? No. Impossible.
Ordrud comfortably marches the rest of way down to the river proud to push beyond the extent of the first expedition. The feel of the holy symbol of Iomedae and Varisian Kapenia scarf fuels his revenge.
In the eery silence after the captain climbs down from the rock, Ordrud steels himself. He sets his musket and backpack down. He pulls out 50-feet of hemp rope and a potion of endure elements. He tucks the potion in a ready outfit pouch in case he breaks through the ice. He starts tying one end of the rope to his waist and hoops the rest of the coils over the handle of his greatsword that is scabbarded at his waist. He shoulders his backpack and musket to have both hands free. He looks around the group waiting for consensus to cross the river.
"As cold as it is, don't imagine we need ter worry about teh ice breakin'. Looks windy tho'." Rasso mutters to no one in particular upon reaching the river. After a moment's consideration of the icy wind he says resignedly, "I'll scuttle across, probably some kinda of horrible ice storm elemental goin' ter bend over teh first fool ter step foot in thar."
"A moment, gentlemen," Fenyx begins, pausing for a moment to regard Talavuc as he continues, "and m'lady." Fenyx steps closer to the front of the group, alongside Styvanus, before crouching down to gather a handful of snow. Packing the white fluff into a tight ball, he underhand-tosses the thing across the river. As expected, the projectile catches in the unceasing tide of air and sails away at incredible speeds. "This storm is not produced by the labors of mortals. I'll wager this is beyond even the immeasurable talents of Runelord Karzoug himself—perhaps even the Whispering Tyrant." Fenyx swivels around his hood to peer at Teladon, then Ar'Zarrcal. "You see, do you not? Not even with the entirety of my colleagues and their masters could such a thing be wrought. This is something different... something more. Something of a scale that has not been witnessed since Aroden, the God of Men, disappeared from Avistan. Much as the fabric of our world was torn and rent asunder at the Worldwound, something of unspeakable power gives life to this anomaly." His face, though firm of resolve as he spoke, now washes over with a concerned humility, bordering on timidness.
"I admit great hesitation at even approaching such a place. Could the witch possess this much power? I will press on, as is my charge, but I urge caution as we proceed. Best we make use of the vials we were provided, I think. The cold that whips through that lane will freeze you solid in mere moments, and this is no exaggeration. , my friends, else our journey will end here in abject failure." Fenyx bundles his robes about him, reaches into his backpack for the aforementioned potion, and drains the substance in its entirety.
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"And here I was hoping all we'd have to fight are some men with guns and a big stinkin' troll. Instead we're facin' something that's makin' you s~+* your britches?" Marcellano snorts, before continuing, " It's just wind, magical or not. Ever been in a tropical storm near the Eye of Abendego? Ever been in the Eye herself? This ain't got nothin' on that, excepting the cold. I don't want to test just how cold it is, but wind is wind."
Marcellano sticks the butt-end of his musket into the snow before examining the river and storm in more detail. "Still.. firing a musket in such wind is all but impossible.. I'd hate to see this kind of wind the entire way going forward." He speaks in a lower voice than before, as if he's talking to himself outloud, before speaking in a louder voice, "Captain, since we don't know whats exactly on the other side, I'll volunteer to go first. I may not have been trained to face the cold specifically, but I'm used to such wind, at least. If we end up facing an ambush on the otherside, I should be able to hold them off long enough for you guys to arrive. Unless, of course, whatever is creating this is awaiting us, in which case we're screwed no matter how ya look at it."
Patting the rope he has, Marcellano continues, "I've enough rope to get across the river and tie one end of it to a tree on the other side; We can use a tree on this side as an anchor, and once we've got both ends secured, the weaker members of the group can use it as a guide to get across quickly. The last person across ties their end of the rope around them while we hold it tight for 'em. If I put my cleats on, I can walk across the ice easier than in these snowshoes; might only be a short distance, but at least the wind'll have a harder time pushing me around if my feet can dig into the ice."
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"I'll go with yeh. I'm already magically protected against the cold, and if the ice breaks, well, I'm a merman. You'll be a little faster'n me with them thar cleets, but I'll guard yer rear."
The Priest of Lissala stared at the miles long wall of freezing wind for several long minutes, barely even listening to the words of his companions after his fellow ambassador had finished speaking. He walked carefully over the snow, pacing back and forth as he considered what could have created an enviromental disaster of this vast scope. It was clearly beyond the works of men as Fenyx had said.
"It similarities to the Eye and the World Wound may give us an inkling to its true nature. Perhaps the power is not conjured forth by an arcane particioner or divine vessel, but rather is merely leaking free from a realm where such cold and wind is natural? Could it be possible that we are encountering another dimensional wound? A scar which has breached our existance, but rather then bleeding forth the chaotic horrors of the abyss, it is leaking the frigid cold of an elemental realm?" The dwarf was speculating aloud, his gauntleted fingers combing through the half frozen beard which clung in disarray to his face.
Shaking from the supernatural cold, he snorted aloud and took a step toward the icy wind with obvious defiance. Placing his hands about the cold iron Sihedron he wore about his neck, he issued forth a prayer in the tongue of old Thassilon. The runes scarred into his flesh began to shed a brief glow, sizzling in the cold air, before reverting to their normal blackened appearence. While Ar'Zarrcal now seemed undaunted by the cold, he still gave the river and the wall of wind some berth.
"While the frozen corpse could be a useful method to test the wind, I do not believe that it will be able to provide us with much information. We could provide it with a line and have it tether the rope across, which could provide more stability on the ice and against the wind."
Frowning thoughtfully behind his steel mask, Teladon felt the wind whip up the snow around his feet, howling and keening in an ever-present shriek. The wind hungered[/i. Perhaps his was his imagination but Teladon sensed a feral awareness all about them. He knew nature. His people had spent a thousand, thousand lifetimes molding and shaping it to their will. This wind was no natural thing.
Rocked back on his feet by another gust of arctic wind, Teladon smiled. It may have been a grim smile, but it was a smile. One unforeseen benefit of his mask was that it had protected his face against the worst of the wind. Quietly staring at the others Teladon could see the blood rising to the surface of their skin, cheeks and noses pink and rosy from the cold. Pulling the ermine lined cloak tighter against him with one hand the elf kept the other gripping the nalwood carved bow. He [i]would remain vigilant.
Slowly, carefully, Teladon eyed the river as he had the gunpowder hidden ambush site. His elven sight had failed once before, he had missed the carefully dug pegs, but this time he would be more cautious, he would allow his sight to tease out each and every detail of the ground, ice and rock that lay before him. He would be a statue in the ever shifting wind and snow strewn riverside.
Watching each gust of wind as it moved the snow drifts and across the ice like sand over a mirror, Teladon blinked slowly so as not to miss anything. This wind was not natural. As the others spoke of the Eye of Abendego or the Worldwound, Teladon nodded to himself. Treerazer curse his name, lord of the blighted forest might have been able to do something of this magnitude, or of course the Mordent Elders working together in ritual could have as well, but the sheer, raw power was more than mortals were capable of channeling. Even attempting to master such power would have been folly. A twig cannot support a house, so too could a human bear the weight of what power lay ahead. It was impossible.
And yet here, before his eyes he saw it made real.
Giving an involuntary shutter, and one not caused by the cold Teladon waited. Let the others speak and plan. They would do what they will. They were quick to talk when they should have listened. Quick to act when they should have watched. So Teladon listened and watched, as patient as the frozen ice below.
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As Teladon surveys the riverside, vigilant against the traps laid by the hunters that had caught the team off guard once already, his wariness and vigilance is rewarded this time. Through the wind-blown snow he spies something out of the ordinary on the other bank of the river. Straight lines in nature are uncommon, especially in wilderness environments where shearing stone is not prevalent. But a straight line is exactly what Teladon sees. A straight line crossing between a fallen tree and a splintered log -- a frosted length of rope. The rope hooks upwards around the trunk of a tree half submerged in the frozen river, then travels upwards at a 45 degree angle into the treetops on the other shore. There, hanging some twenty feet up in the air is a fifteen foot wide log bristling with sharpened stakes and dangling with bells, pots, pans and other metallic noisemakers.
Not only wound it sweep down to impale those who triggered the tripwire, but it would also create such a ruckus that those at the camp would undoubtedly hear it.
Fool him twice, perish the thought.
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Like a statue coming alive Teladon shifts from his still and studious pose to regard the rest of the group as they make plans for how to best cross the river. Walking over towards gathered members of the expedition, Teladon raises a hand to stall the conversation and then points towards the frost covered edge of the rope that lays hidden in the snow.
Captain, last time you allowed the mindless undead to spring a trap you regretted it. Teladon half-whispers in his oddly lilting accent. Rather then extrapolating on his statement, Teladon choose to let the others draw their own conclusions. Wisdom could not be explained, it needed to be learned. The humans seemed to be at least above average in their fields of expertise. He would stop them from making a foolish blunder, but it would be best if they learned to consider all possible outcomes first rather than blindly charge ahead. Shaking his head sadly, Teladon mutely waited for the first of the others to see what Teladon had seen.
Perhaps they rush so much because they are so short lived. Teladon mused silently. It would be the only explanation for why they were always in such a hurry to move forward.
"Aha! Not some icy demon then. A mere rope." Rasso says with more than a hint of sarcasm. "Unfortunately, they can be just as deadly. Not that you've spotted it, we've no need ter trip the bugger. We should be able ter walk right over it."
Ordrud nods to respect the elf's discovery of the trap and continues nodding in agreement with his words. That trap probably means no other ambush awaits us on the other side, he concludes to himself; however, the magic wind and maybe frozen river still need to be traversed. Ordrud waits for the coordination of the captain.
Ar'Zarrcal snorted in distaste as he picked out the rope within the blistering wind, obscured more fully to the humans by snow and the darkness, with his eyes it was not difficult to pick it out once the masked one gestured in that direction.
"We either advance further up river to find an area untrapped or we need to disarm that trap." Ar'Zarrcal pulled at his beard as he stepped closer and tried to study the full scope of the trap. Where it was tied, how it was triggered, and the best way to disarm it. "Unless perhaps we can have the trap disarm itself..."
"I'll hazard to repeat meself. We kin just step over the rope. That way if someone comes by to giv 'er it a gander they'll see the trap still here and unsprung."
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Styv pushes forward onto the frozen water with dogged determination. He halts at Teladon words. The statement was brief but it left a bitter taste in the Andoran Captain's mouth. He glanced over his shoulder at the elf and followed the tilt of his head to the trap. He edged closer to get a better look, he had always had a passing interest in trapmaking, it would likely serve invaluable in warfare in this age.
He stepped back and held up his shield. " Step over it, use extreme caution." He warned, stepping back and turning to face the Chelish Marine.
"Good plan Kain, Cross the river and tether the line, Take our Elven ally with you, We need his eyes front and center in case there are more of these little surprises up there. We should have enough rope to secure two lines. Rasso, hang back for now."
"Yessir." Rasso says, nodding that he heard Styvanus's order.
"Step over? You daft? Go around the stupid rope over there." Ordrud spews frustration pointing away from the rope.
If the marine joins him, Ordrud will had the free end of his rope that is tied to his waist to the marine.
He then hustles across the river .
The wall of wind surprises the druid. I've not heard stories of this with the morozkos, but how many have survived such storms? Most strange... Who commands this storm?
Talavuc eyes the trap to the side. "I'm with Ordrud on this. The trap isn't even in front of us. Let's just go around it." She pulls the wand from her belt and holds it ready, letting her weapons hang at her side and back. Naasvit stirs restlessly, obviously wanting to find a place to sleep for the moment. She pats him on the head, providing the mink a reminder of the situation around him.
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"We don't know if there are other traps that the elf may have missed. I'll go down the middle and step over the trap, while Ordrud and the elf go where they will. We should probably go over the ice in different areas as who knows how thick it is. Ordrud and I aren't featherweights, afterall, and we shouldn't concentrate our weight. The elf's scrawny ass probably won't have an issue, though."
Marcellano takes a moment to walk over to Talavuc and hands her the sack with the captive Sprite he was carrying. "You druids have a link to these kind of creatures, right? Keep an eye on the little bugger, in case something happens to me. I'd rather us not lose potentially valuable information if I get taken out. I'll take it back after we get across."
Marcellano then finds a rock to sit on while he takes his snowshoes off and puts his cleats on; afterwards, he secures the former onto his backpack and stands back up. He has a difficult time moving around in the snow with the cleats on, but his movement over the ice will fare far easier, at least.
As he's already had one end of his rope tied to him this entire time, he takes a moment to loop around the other end of the rope, the end with the grappling hook, around a tree and secures it tightly, using the grappling hook to make sure the rope is secure. With that, he easily has enough rope to get him across the river and to secure it around a tree for the others.
"Each of us should use a separate line of rope, so we don't drag each other down in case one breaks through; The others can haul us out if necessary. I just hope that the trap and wind is all we have to worry about here."
Finally, Marcellano slings his musket over his shoulder and pulls out his boarding axe. The small, light axe has a spike on one end that is normally used to assist with climbing wooden objects, while the flipside of it is a normal axehead, used for quickly cutting boarding lines - or enemy boarders.
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Ar'Zarrcal glares at his companions for a moment, a deep frown forming on his bearded face. It is clear he is not overly fond of this plan. Three seperate lines meant three seperate chances of springing some sort of danger, be it from the ice or the wind or the trap.
"Do not let the wind push you into the trap."It did not need to be stated, but he said it anyway. Knowing his crossbow would be useless on this side of the wall of wind he merely kept near to the other ambassador of Thassilon as the three prepared to cross. His dwarven eyes surveyed the darkness, searching the distant tree line for any threats.
Obviously displeased with the marine not taking his rope, Ordrud motions to the woman. He wraps the free end around the tree trunk , and hands it to Talavuc. He doubts she could pull his weight, but the tree should allow her to hold him. Then, he could pull himself.
At least removing his snowshoes was a good idea, so he follows the marine's example and stows them.
On second thought, he decides to run across . He fingers his potion of endure elements and goes when the marine goes. If he starts to fall, he plans to jump or dive for the shoreline.
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