Despite his pain, Ordrud felt better than he had all day. His revenge finally sated by the successful application of the brutal Belkzen fighting maneuver. It had been more than a year, since he was able to finish his father's favorite strike. He had too much court attendance, training, and traveling for his brutal tastes.
Seeing the enemies of the lodge controlled, he turns to the merman and starts to stabilize his wounds. The strange physique and fatigue of his rage prevents his success. He is relieved when the necromancer arrives with a potion to pour down his throat. Odd, after Captain Gwynn, it’s this necromancer who has earned his most respect. He offers a toothy smile to the merman and necromancer as they all get to their feet to join in the clean up.
Teladons black blade rested against the hollow of Thuldrin’s throat. The man knelt before the elf. His sword and wand had clattered to the floor. He was at the elf’s mercy. This was the man that had prepared the black powder trap for the group. The one that had sent the hunters in the night, the one that had ruled over the weak and subjugated his will on the helpless. This one begged for mercy, when he had clearly shown none to others. He did not deserve mercy.
Grabbing the man’s greasy hair in one hand, Teladon leaned in close. I’m not Andoran, The elf whispered through the slit in his mask. Murmuring eldritch syllables, Teladons blade became red hot. Pressing the tip to the man’s forehead a black brand began to steam from the man’s skin.
Thuldrin screamed in pain and his skin became pale and drawn. For your crimes, you have been judged and found guilty. The sentence is death. Pushing his blade down with a hard thrust, the black blade sizzled as he ran through the man’s throat in a spray of arterial blood. The man coughed and jerked as he thrashed in Teladons hand. Jerking the blade backward he freed it from the man’s spine.
Turning his back on the man, Teladon whipped his blade around, slinging the blood off with a casual arc. The man was too dangerous to leave alive and he would not trust the soft heartedness of the group. The others might think him evil or foolish. He was niter. It was simply the law of the wild. You killed or were killed.
Thuldrin's gurgled plea for mercy ended much as those of the people he lashed on to building and burned alive did; without recognition. Teladon's judgement was swift, impulsive, and perhaps the most human thing he had done since he joined the group. Thuldrins lifeless body falls to the balcony floor, rivulets of blood soaking between the floorboards and dripping down to form in a pool nearby to where Talavuc stands.
Not far away, as she hesitantly rose to her feet, Captain Gwynn saw first-hand the elf's judgment too late, and her scream of, "NO!" came too late. Levering herself to her feet on shaky legs, Gwynn staggered over to the stairs, nearly tripping over the upturned bearskin rug as she did. Staring up the stairs with wide, blue eyes, Gwynn looked on hopelessly as Thuldrin lay dead at Teladon's feet.
The knight exhaled a breathless sigh, slumping to one side against the wall before sliding down to the floor on her knees. Her eyes shut, and with a weary voice she murmured, simply, "Crap."
Dann had been watching this scene play out, and only moves again once it looks like Gwynn has calmed. Moving over to the front doors, the burly man lifts the bar on the door and opens them, revealing the zombie on the other side. Beyond it, he can see the villagers, and as much as he wants to put the creature down, the last thing he wants is to perpetuate more violence tonight.
Pushing it aside with no resistance, the corpse staggers a few steps out of Dann's way and remains looming on the porch. "You four," Dann motions to some of the former conscripts standing around as if waiting for the other shoe to drop. "Keep an eye on the road in, I don't want any surprises. I'll relieve you as soon as I know what the hell is going on, you've worked hard a damn nuff'."
Back in the lodge, Gwynn finally looks up from the stairs after settling her thoughts. It's only then that she gets a good, clear look at Ordrud standing in the storage closet with Rasso. A look of relief spreads on the Captain's face, but relief tempered by worry. Not wanting to disrupt the team's dynamic and any plans set in motion, she waits by the stairs for aid or questioning. She couldn't afford another outburst like that, for their sake or hers.
__________
|
Styvanus was glad to hear the surrender of their enemy amongst the cries of his country. Thuldrin would no doubt be able to tell us a little more about the mysterious druid Halak. Styv's gut and all other signs pointed towards the stag-headed man as the orchestrator of what had been happening locally.
He caught Gwynn's slight smile and returned the smile in full. It wasn't conscious, but it was the first smile had appeared on his face since tapping into the Oldlaw whiskey on the ship with Rasso. Enraptured for a moment with the captain, he springs across the room when her legs give out.
"Knight-Captain!" He manages to catch her as she's falling, but before he can check on her state, she's springing back up with her eyes wide towards the stairs.
Styv turns just in time to see Thuldrin choking on the elf's blade. He sighs, and turns to see Ordrud and Fenyx helping the young bloodied Rasso. His head was swimming with fatigue and the weight of responsibility.
He walks into the room with Rasso and pats him on the shoulder." Looking a little undressed there friend." He jests. He knows that the all-night march had been the hardest perhaps on Rasso, and yet the summoner had Styvanus' back from the very beginning of the expedition. Although he wouldn't reveal it in so many words, he was relieved that his friend had made it.
He turned and moved swiftly up the stairs. He leaned in close to Teladon, speaking so that only the elf would hear his words."Your actions were brash. I hope that your sense of honor is fulfilled, keep in mind that it's at the expense of the knowledge he could have shared with us." He states flatly, looking down to the crumpled form of Thuldrin, his blood draining down the stairs."He was a despot, and deserved the fate that you delivered, but not without a chance to speak. I expect you to exercise some patience in the future, We're all in this together." He bends down and pick up the wand. Holding it tentavely he tosses it to Teladon." Help the others with identifying what's in the lodge, Start with this."
Styvanus gives no time for a retort, he moves quickly into Thuldrin's room, searching rapidly until he returns with the manacle keys.
He frees the Knight-Captian Gwynn from her shackles and gives her a warm smile. He holds up one finger, urging her to wait just a moment.
he reaches behind his back and pulls her revolver from where it was tucked into his belt." I believe this is yours."
As Fenyx pours the potion down his throat the worst of Rasso's wounds close, but he is still unconscious. As he's administering the healing draught, Fenyx spots two more of the healing potions in Rasso's bag, which had spilled open when he dropped it. Apparently the merman had forgotten them amongst the other potions he brought with him. The necromancer kindly opens another vial and pours it down the hatch. As it takes effect, Rasso sits up coughing and choking out a bit of potion-blood mixture. He takes in Ordrud, Fenyx and Styvanus hovering over him. "Thank ye Fenyx, Ordrud, I owe ye both. Big time." he says earnestly. When Styvanus comments about his lack of clothing he replies with a pained chuckle "Heh. Silly cap'n. Clothes are fer humans." It's clear that the merman is incredibly pleased that Styvanus at least is alive and well. "Take it we won then. Anyone die?" he continues to the necromancer and Ordrud as Sytvanus walks off.
_________________________________________
|
Having just gotten into the cabin finally to join the battle in earnst, Marcellano is disappointed when it's already over. "Well. That was easier than expected." He is drowned out by the cheers of the others, however. Bloody blue-coats, yelling their country's name all the time like it's going out of style. They'd think these bastards we're fighting didn't already know where they were. Seeing that Rasso is being tended by the others, Marcellano begins looking around, taking strategic analysis of the place, looking for the best defensive location, while simultaenously looking for loot and ammunition.
He returns momentarily to find Teladon having executed one of their remaining prisoners. "Well then, I guess we're not interrogating that one, eh? Bit rash, don't you think elf? Not that I didn't want to see the bastard dead, though. Would've just liked to rough him up a bit first for what he's put us through and then kill his sorry ass." Marcellano leans against his musket and sighs at the elf's actions, disagreeing with them. "At least we still have one hunter and a fey to interrogate, not to mention a defensible location."
_______________________________________
Crunching through the snow, the rune-scarred dwarf went over to one of the piles of firewood and gathered up a handful of logs in his arms. With a grunt Ar’Zarrcal stepped in through the broken door the Zombie had been pounding against, and re-entered the lodge. He looked around the chamber and stalked over to the fire place, without a word he dumped a majority of the wood he carried in his arms into the stone fireplace and then uttered a brief phrase in an arcane tongue and drew the Thassilonian rune for Fire in the empty air. The fire place once more glowed brightly, providing additional warmth to the interior of the lodge. Rubbing at his eyes, he righted one of the overturned benches and pulled it across the wood to stand near to the fire. He then allowed his heavily armored form to settle down on the bench, snow tracked in from his snowshoes and bits of frost beginning to melt from his sickly black beard.
“I have disabled the bridge. That should buy us time to secure this place. Where are all the hostages? Weren’t we told that more were kept here?” The question was one of mere curiosity. In truth he was thankful there were less people here. That meant less questions to answer, less people to coddle, and less distractions for the captain of this expedition. The Andorran’s were starting to outnumber the rest the expedition and that was an uncomfortable situation for the ambassador of Xin-Shalast. His pale blue eyes darted over to his counterpart, studying the necromancer for a moment, before he uncorked a bottle of whiskey from the town and poured it into his ceramic mug.
“Our prisoners have much to answer. We still do not know what has caused this unnatural freeze, what caused that elemental rift were crossed, or how the fauna has been altered so dramatically.” He was thinking back to the tazelwyrms that they battled in the snow and the ice sprites, as well as the ice elementals encountered when they tried to cross the frozen river.
He did not mention that he also needed sleep. Ar’Zarrcal would not be the first to mention that. He felt the pull of fatigue and the need for sleep as much as the others, but he would not be the first to call for rest. Let some other in the group bring it up. He’d not allow them to attribute him as a weak link to his expedition.
When the shackles come off Gwynn, she lets them fall to the floor with a heavy clunk of the metal on hardwood. Her wrists are chaffed and raw where the manacles had been in place. Rubbing at her wrists with bare hands, Gwynn stares down at her feet and exhales a wavering sigh. "I was prepared to die here," her voice is hushed, more to herself than the rest of those gathered. Exhausted. Gwynn takes just a few steps and sits down on the bottom of the stairs, paying no mind to the corpse at the top of it.
Seeing the revolver offered out to her, Gwynn reaches uot and takes the gun belt, laying it across her lap. She pushes open the revolver's chambered cylinder, notes that it's unloaded, and begins slowly reloading the six empty chambers. "Thank you," comes across a bit more hoarsely than she'd intended. While she could use a good meal, a bed, and some water her happiness right now is a warm gun.
Looking up to see Ordrud, a faint smile fleetingly crosses the Captain's face, and she raises one hand in a shaky salute to the half-orc, giving him the recognition of a superior officer to a subordinate of a job well done. Anything more sentimental may cause her stiffened exterior to crack again into joyful sobs, and it is neither the time nor the place for that.
Swallowing dryly, Gwynn takes a moment to assess the team that saved her. Two Andoran officers; she'd heard of Styvanus and Rasso by their noteworthy reputations. Marcellano was an unknown, but she recognized the Chelish uniform he wore and the importance of his presence became immediately impressed on her. Talavuc elicited a raised brow, as her ethnicity and attire didn't immediately jump out to Gwynn, nor did Teladon's masked form hold more meaning other than his obviously elven heritage poking out from either side of the mask.
It was Fenyx and Ar'Zarrcal that caused her heart to skip a beat. Once Fenyx dismissed the attire of Halak, the sihedron rune presented itself threateningly to her. She tried to stand, wavered, and places a hand against the wall. That Thassilon participated in the winter council comes back to memory, eases her worry, and allows Gwynn to sit back down on the stairs.
"There's no hostages, just me," Gwynn mutters in response to Ar'Zarrcal. "He shipped the sick off while Halak had most of them men away from the lodge so they wouldn't notice. They're-- probably dead now." The distaste in Gwynn's voice is venomous.
"That man you killed," Gwynn looks over her shoulder to Teladon, "was Thuldrin Kreed. He was the head of the Lumber Consortium, responsible for... allowing all of this to happen. He deserved to die, but he was also the only person at this lodge who'd gone beyond the ravine to the source of the storm and knew what was going on." Running her hands through her hair, Gwynn rests her head in her hands.
The sigh that comes next is shaky and weak.
He saved one. Besides himself, only the captain survived. He remembered the Varisian Kapenia scarf and silver holy symbol of Iomedae in his pack. The captain did not look strong enough for them yet. Give her time, he thought. Ordrud smiled a fatigued smile and nodded to Captain Gwynn in reply to her informal salute.
The dwarf's comments that he had secured the bridge comforted him. Between his earlier offers to heal him and the necromancer's earned tactical respect, Ordrud clearly aligned himself with these other two outsiders. Or at least, he felt more comfortable with their decisions and instincts than the Andorans, except for Gwynn.
Ordrud pulled himself up and sheathed his greatsword at his waist after wiping the gore from the blade. Like an automaton, he slowly busied himself with throwing bodies out of the lodge, setting a kettle to boil for the little luxuries, and covering the broken windows with blankets for insulation. Until they set piquets, he methodically soldiered on doing what needed to be done.
Teladon gave a small shrug to the weary and battered Captain. Your right, He whispered softly, the elven accent lilting on his tongue. He could have been useful. Or he could have said anything and his honeyed words could have led us into a trap. Teladon resisted a sighed. These people, these humans did not understand his logic. He could not blame them. Even then the act of killing Thuldrin had been an appropriate measure, at least to Teladon. If he had allowed the man to speak, what would he have said? Likely anything to save himself. And the others in their weakness would have been compelled to let the man live. It would have been a mistake. When Teladon had fought his dark kin in the forests and ruins of their abandoned homeland he had learned that lesson well.
::The Library of Dust.. The dark one hissed, as Teladon held a blade to the dark skinned elves throat. That is where you will find what you seek. There is only a small contingent there. It should be easy to take. Now please! Don't kill me, I have told you what you wanted to know. Nodding slightly, Teladon stepped back and sheathed his blade before glancing to his brother, Arylon. It was like looking into a mirror the way that their faces matched perfectly..
Arylon screamed as another flight of bolts flew through the window striking the Spire Defender next to Teladon. Through the window, Teladon could make out shadows of movement around the edge of the tower. Below them the door rattled and shook and the elf cursed, the dark kin had spitefully lied to them. His death didn't matter, only the death of light-kin. Shaking his head, Teladon stood up and quickly drew back an arrow and let it fly towards the horde of Dretches that were slamming themselves into the barred door. He should have known better.::
Gliding up to Captain Rozier, Teladon considered explaining his actions. But in hindsight he doubted the man would understand. I did what needed to be done. The elven warrior said at last through the slit of his mask. He was still a threat. Turning his back, Teladon made his way up to the top of the stairs and glanced back at the rest of the group. I will take first watch. Sleep. Someone relieve me in two hours.
|
|
Marcellano, standing near the stairs, steps in front of Teladon, blocking his path. He stands firm, the butt of the loaded musket planted on the ground in front of the stairs. "Nah, Elf. I'll take first watch. You need to regain your spells." Marcellano looks at Teladon with cold eyes, not saying everything on his mind. He's already blundered before by speaking his mind, this time he lets his actions speak for themselves. If anything, he seems as if he is regarding the elf's behavior being caused by his exhaustion.
"Captain - I'll take first watch up in the tower. Mind sending one or two of the peasants outside up there as well? I can only watch one direction at a time. Best we keep an eye on all angles approaching the cabin. Get them inside, as well - they're too vulnerable outside. Our casters need their rest, as well as anyone else who's exhausted." Marcellano speaks as if he himself is still ready and rearin' to go - in fact, he barely looks exhausted, despite the difficult treck. The warm interior of the cabin has already visibly boosted his spirits. "If you guys find any ammunition for that rifle we found earlier, bring it up to me would ya? I'll be keeping watch till someone relieves me."
With that, Marcellano takes one last look of disdain at Teladon, before turning and heading upstairs. Once up there, he drops his pack near the bed and opens up the window that aims towards the now-disabled bridge, and pulls a chair and sits in the dark of the unlit tower, keeping vigil.
____________________________________________
Seeing everyone walking about the cabin, Rasso no longer needs a response to his query about whether everyone lived or not. He grabs his bag off the floor and slings it over his shoulder. Missing his legs, and too tired to re-summon them, Rasso drags his fish-like lower body behind him as he crawls towards the bedroom on the northern side of the lodge . He's still very badly injured, and leaves a trail of blood and oversized fish scales on the floor behind him. He pauses to rest on the bearskin rug in the center of the main room. "Oi. Me better half's gone, me sh*t's broke, 'm hungover and spent. Three cheers fer victory, but I'll see yas in the mornin'." Rasso mumbles tiredly to anyone who bothers to listen. The gravelly voice sounds strange coming from the young pretty-looking merman. He drags himself the rest of the way to a bed, moving at the pace of a geriatric.
By the time he flops onto one of the itchy straw-filled mattresses, he looks down and reminds himself of a day old bucket of chum on the piers of Augustana. He fishes the last of the bottle of Karsgard Vjarik that Fenyx had given him out from the bag, and takes a couple of swings. The cold kraeuterliqour burns as it passes down his throat. But in a few seconds it takes a little of the pain away with it. First the man gives me liquor, and now his face is the first one I see when gettin' revived from near death. Fer a monkey mindslave he's really not half bad. I'll have ter make sure he and Ordrud know I 'ppreciate them in the mornin'. As his thoughts drift to his new companions, and possibly budding relationships with them, his hand drifts slowly towards the wooden floorboards the bottle of Vjarik still in it. The thunk of the glass hitting the wood is the last thing Rasso hears before drifting off into the deep sea of sleep.
Some time after Rasso passes out, Ordrud passes by him and saves what he can of the bottle of liquor. Alcohol abuse, he thinks of the wasted liquor and picks up the bottle. He takes a swig, stoppers it, and sets it next to the merman.
He then returns to his mindless tasks securing the campers and lodge. The pain of his wounds keeps him awake and moving. Lack of anyone telling him to sleep keeps him working. His mother beat him if he slept with work to do, and he has yet to unlearn that brutal lesson.
Popular myth among the other races was that elves did not sleep. That was not precisely true. Rather the long lived race practiced a deep form of meditation. During these times Teladon could ruminate over his past memories, consider the future or reenact important events that had crystallized in his mind over the nearly two hundred years that he had been alive. It was both refreshing and exhausting at once. To an outsider they might see Elsir sitting cross legged on the floor of the wooden lodge, his sword drawn across his knees. The rise of the slight elf's chest would breath in and out. His eyes through the slit of his mask remained open, yet also flickered to and fro as if seeing things that others could not.
He breathed slowly. He could feel the grip of his sword in his hand. The outside world was like shadows and mist to the elf. He allowed himself to let go of the recent events. The forced march had been difficult and tiring. He had not let it be shown to the others. That was well. The past few weeks too had been hard, though not any more so than the other battles he had been in. This however was becoming more of a war and less of a skirmish. Their goal had been met. They were to rescue the captain. But the other team had been lost. It would fall on them now to continue on the mission. That was acceptable.
Teladon let his mind wander. It was well that his people surrounded themselves with a aura of mystery. Others assumed strengths of his people where none might be found. They would misjudge him, account for things that were not there. All war was misdirection.
Elsir drifted on a cloud of thoughts and memories.
|
|
Styv could do nothing but hang his head as Gwynn confirmed what he had suspected, that Thuldrin was the one and only man in the lodge who might have truly gave them some information on the mysterious Druid who seemed to be the root of the problem.
He stood by stoically as Teladon did his best to explain himself and nodded knowingly. He could understand the elf's motives. Any who dropped their guard was inviting trouble, and at least he acted in defense of the group, or perhaps in defense of himself. No Matter.. he thought. He had pressed the group into an all-night-march, and he would not press this matter now that they had came thus far. Kain's tone and choice of words with the elf came off as a bit of a scolding, and Styv took note to be sure to watch for any conflict between the two that would put the expedition at risk.
"Keep a sharp eye out there Kain, Big Dann, could you have one of the villagers help keep watch? Wake me when you need to switch, I can take the next watch. Give me a hand with these casualties" With that he instructs the villagers to help in moving the dead outside, then makes certain that the live hunter is in the manacles that were on Gwynn.
Once things look secure he finds a way to throw togeter a pallet on the floor and is off to sleep before he can say"Andoran"
The pantry is the first thing that Talavuc raided following the battle and cleaning of her quarterstaff. I didn't expect such a long march, but going without rations... Foolish! Her stomach grumbled as Naasvit clawed at one of the cabinets and she made her way over. Naasvit barreled in before she had it fully open. She shook her head as he emerged with a mouthful of dried meat. Not the best for him, but we're both hungry enough... Damn, I want something raw myself. She sighed and continued to dig through the stores, pulling what she could from them.
After making what meal she could from the cabin's stores, she made her way back to Styvanus. "I'll need rest, but it doesn't need to be uninterrupted. Wake me for whichever watch you desire." She smiles softly at him and starts to head off, but pauses. "Naasvit noticed something by the bridge, although I'm not sure what. Whatever still lurks in these woods may know about our attack on this place." She thought about the fairies. I doubt that man could've commanded them himself. She shook her head and made her way to where the mink had already curled up for the night. The nearby window would hopefully provide some light to wake her in the morning. She stroked Naasvit's head softly before laying down beside him, resting her head on him like a pillow. A slow smile spread across her face at her friend's warmth as she drifted off to sleep.
_____________________________
RPG Superstar 2014 Top 4
|
It had been more than a day since Styvanus' team had slept; even longer than that since Talisa Gwynn had had a good night's rest. For the conscripts forcibly enslaved to the will of the winter witch Nazhena, it had been months since they had any sense of peace. Now, with an Andoran-led team come to liberate them, they -- like their reascuers -- can finally rest easily.
Two people, however, will find no ease in their rest. The hunter that survived the battle at the lodge and the winter-touched fae that was spared in the darkmoon wood both spend their morning confined to the basement, buch as Gwynn had been. One shackled to the same hook on the wall she'd managed to get free from, the other tied upside down in a tiny burlap sack with his body bound for good measure. For everyone else, though, the rest was welcomed.
The long march to Talon's Hill has distorted the sense of time for Styvanus' team. Marcellano's watch in Thuldrin's old bedroom in the lodge tower winds up covering most of the day. Less than an hour after he sets up in his perch with a loaded rifle, accompanied by Tyne , Marcellano sees the sun rising and the hazy gray of day come across the forest. In the daytime so much of the forest is visible from this perch, and while the snow hides much of Falcon's Hollow, the glow of lights from the Red Wraith can still be seen during the early dawn hours.
That violent, twisting storm to the north looks even more oppressive at night. A cyclone of arctic cold, whipping snow up in a funnel and spreading it into the clouds. Flashes of what looks like lightning flicker in the forest floor where the storm meets the ground, but the tree cover conceals what's going on down there. No other visible structures can be seen through the trees, though the distant northern mountains loom like an icy wall, dividing the northern border of Andoran from its neighbors in Druma.
Eventually replaced from his watch by Teladon, neither Marcellano nor the Mordant elf see any signs of danger from this vantage point. While the forest floor is obscured, the largely deforested trail leading to the disabled rope bridge ahead, and the logging trail behind, both look clear. While neither man is under any allusions about their seige of the camp going unnoticed, both are thankful to see no sign of retalliation yet.
By early afternoon, most of the weary members of Styvanus' team and and conscripts are waking throughout the lodge. The bodies of the dead have been stacked up like cordwood outside in the snow and while blood stains on the floor are a reminder of the violent events of recent days, the sounds of laughter are an unusual noise within the crowded dining room and around the fire-pit outside.
The conscripts have taken the initiative to prepare a proper breakfast for their liberators from Thuldrin's stores of food; fresh slab bacon cooked black, warm potato and leek stew, fried eggs and even hot coffee imported from Katapesh. Thuldrin had spared no expense when he looted Falcon's Hollow, and much of the reserves here came from the taverns and inns in town that catered to the wealthy of the Lumber Consortium. Now, it belongs to the liberating forces.
During breakfast, Captain Gwynn has the conscripts clear out of the dining hall, save for Dann. Styvanus' team is brought together and, over breakfast, Gwynn outlines everything she knows from the moment her and Ordrud were separated to the time when the liberation began.
The story is a worrisome one. Thuldrin was, as Styvanus and the others had believed, implicitely working for the white witch Nazhena Valisovna, a woman who Gwynn believes is a member of the Jadwiga, the ruling family of Irrisen and is likely a direct descendant of Queen Elvanna herself. Gwynn, however, discovered that Thuldrin was worried that Nazhena would eventually find no more use for him. Her protege, Halak, is a winter druid from Irrisen and the primary power in this region, commanding all of the winter-touched fey and other monstrosities that have come through a portal from Irrisen to Andoran.
The portal, Gwynn believes, is the storm that churns to the north. Having overheard Thuldrin and Halak's arguments, Gwynn believes that either Nazhena or Queen Elvanna herself are trying to stage a global ice-age in order to spread the influence of the Kingdom of Irrisen to other nations, and that there may already be entire armies marching on border kingdoms to the land of eternal winter.
Thuldrin's role here was to set the stage for a full-scale invasion of Andoran through the winter portal. However, Halak had been increasingly demanding of Thuldrin for "offerings" of the living that he could turn into the frozen dead. Thuldrin was running out of people to send to Halak, and when a plague swept through the camp he feared Halak may have done it on purpose. Gwynn knows that a few hours before Styvanus and the others arrived, Halak had taken all of the sick men from the camp and escorted them across the rope bridge to the heart of the forest. Thuldrin feared that if he were to fall sick, Halak would take him too and had been secretly curing himself of ailments at the expense of the others' lives.
However, Gwynn knows that Thuldrin was privvy to secret information regarding Nazhena's plans through Halak, and that knowledge it appears Thuldrin has taken to his grave with him.
Overwrought with the knowledge that all of her team -- save for Ordrud -- were slain by Nazhena's followers, Gwynn has agreed to turn over leadership fo the expedition to Styvanus Rozier as he has been able to turn this mission from a failure into a rousing success. Furthermore, Gwynn has shown her dedication to the cause and will accompany the party to the mission's conclusion or as long as they will have her with them. She refuses to stand isly by and allow the people who butchered her unit still draw breath.
She would accept nothing less than to ensure they never harm anyone ever again.
<< | | | >>
Running one hand through unshowered, blonde hair, Gwynn looks down into the still-steaming mug of coffee on the table. The weight of recent events visibly presses down on her, and while the young Captain would try to put on a strong face for others, she appears to be finding it even more difficult as of late. "There's no way the sounds of all that gunfire didn't make it down to the portal. Any other man that Halak has here are likely to be on high alert. We're going t'be facing some stiff resistance from them."
Cradling her hands around the ceramic mug, Gwynn looks up and around at the team. "I don't know much more of what to expect out there, 'cept that the mossy troll that knocked me out is likely still 'round somewhere. Probably more'f the wintry dead and faeries too." Taking a sip of the coffee, Gwynn grows silent. In that silence, Dann grumbles frustratedly.
"These men aren't fit for fighting what's out there. Not enough of 'em to hold this place from a devoted siege either,' to which he motions to everyone in the room, "like we saw." Looking down to his plate of bacon and eggs, Dann contemplates his words while chewing.
"You have a ship," Dann states flatly, stabbing at some of his eggs with a clink of metal on ceramic, "we could probably hike back there, hold up for a little while until you've cleared things out?"
There's a lot to consider.
Rasso emerges from one of the bunk rooms with the smell of food. His Eidolon had been resummoned, but is looking paper thin, and underneath he still appears to be badly wounded. His red eyes are bleary and unfocused as he begins shoveling pincer-fulls of food down his throat. He half listens to Gwynn's story between huge greasy bites of bacon and noisy slurps from his bowl of stew. He's brought out some of the hard tack from his trail rations, using it to soak up the grease and clean off each platter as he finishes them. By the time Gwynn and Dann turn the group's attention to business matters, he has long since finished wolfing down his share of the prepared meal. He sips his coffee as he listens, wincing at every marginally loud noise.
"I'm gonna need another day 'r two before I'm in troll fightin' shape. I'm still hurt ter all hell. Even if I expended all o' me magical mojo on healin' meself, I'd likely still be hurtin'. We got a good position here." He pauses for a sip of the imported delight in his cup. "Might not be perfect, but it's high ground. We could board up all the ground floor windows ter make it stronger as well. They cain't ignore us forever, and we got better chances facin' whatever they be from in here. No offense Dann, but we're professionals, not starving, tired freemen being forced ter fight against their will."
Rasso reaches into his bag and fishes out his last healing potion. He rolls it across the table to Ordrud. "Ye saved me arse yesterday. Thanks mate." Pulling out a small sack of gold he tosses it to Fenyx, saying "You too runeslave." He grimaces briefly before continuing, "Grates me tongue to say it, but I'd be dead without ye. Wish I was thankin' a free man, but thank ye none the less."
Ordrud led the securing of the lodge last night. He organized and piled the cord of bodies. He invited and settled the campers within the lodge beds. He covered the windows with furs and blankets to restore the warmth in the lodge. He stored his sack of frozen meat from the village in the lodge’s cold store. After enjoying a hot tea and watching Gwynn and companions take beds, he took off his armored kilt and curled up with his cloak with his back against a wall near the fire on the floor of the common room with a couple of the campers without beds.
The first awake starts Ordrud who clenches his spiked gloves before realizing his safety. Beneath his breast plate armor, his body feels like one whole bruise instead of two with minor bone fractures where Payday hit him. The short distances within the lodge somewhat disguise the significant pain that alters his every movement.
His morning small talk with the campers is monosyllabic but enough, with his actions last night to settle them in the lodge, to reduce their natural intimidation of the huge 6-foot 10-inch half-orc. They reward him with several enormous plates of their celebratory breakfast that he devours with relish. He tries the coffee but sticks to the tea that grew habitual in Lastwall.
After Gwynn finishes her story, Ordrud contributes quietly in his deep bass voice, ”Valisovna is certainly the name of a Jadwiga family, meaning Nazhena is definitely a daughter or grand-daughter of the Queen of Irrisen. This also means she has significant power as a winter witch and influence in Irrisen. If she is or was here, the events transpiring are of personal interest to Queen Elvanna.” He continues his breakfast as if someone else had said something.
Later in reply to Rasso, Ordrud rolls the potion toward the necromancer. ”It was his potion that woke you. And save me next time, mate,”[b] He says with a toothy grin continuing with a nod. [b]”And I’m not leaving here either until I’m healthy. I was already dropped by that f*&*ing troll once. He would have killed me if I wasn’t healthy.”
|
RPG Superstar 2014 Top 4
|
"Just grand," Gwynn grouses on Ordrud's confirmation that Nazhena is in fact a Jadwiga. "I'm worried about waiting here for another full day. If Nazhena is involved in this somehow and she is a Jadwiga we may not be able to stop her if she decides to directly intervene again. She decimated my entire team in the last encounter, and I refuse to allow that t'happen again."
Wringing her hands around her mug, Gwynn tries to get an assessment of Styvanus' team and their capabilities. "Talavuc, was it?" Blue eyes alight to the erutaki woman, "If you devote all of your power to healing, along with," she motions a hand to Ar'Zarrcal, "the emissary of Shalast," her attention turns back to Talavuc, "do you think it would be enough to get us on our feet?"
Gwynn interjects in her own thoughts, looking apologetically at Rasso. "I'm just-- I'm worried. If we wait, it'll give Halak time to call reinforcements. They've already had eight hours, but another eight... and then the trip out there?" Given her encounter with Nazhena in the woods, Gwynn seems to be allowing that defeat to color her decisions; whether that's right or wrong is yet to be seen.
"I almost died yesterday, and I'm still almost dead. Orc's right, we aint going nowhere for at least a day. Right decision or not, I won't be throwing me life away on another forced march inter a pitched battle. That won't solve anythin'" Rasso's tone is firm while still maintaining some level of respect. She does outrank me, and so does Styv'. But I'll be damned if I die 'cause they're impatient. I'd rather be AWOL and alive than dead and useless.
Their brutal march over, Fenyx is glad to finally be afforded the opportunity to rest. His interest in the settling affairs of the lodge seem to be waning drastically, and he does not react to the accusatory look flashes in his and Ar'Zarrcal's direction by the recently rescued Gwynn. Surrounded by so many beds and the relative warmth of an enclosed sanctuary complete with fireplace, the necromancer's resolve wavers then dissolves. "I retire now. Goodnight." Recalling that a well isolated bed yet remained in the window he and Dann had entered through, the darkly robed man silently exits the common room and begins unpacking his belongings in the lonely room, taking particular care with an immense, crimson tome bearing glyphs and runes of Thassilon upon its cover. Outside of the window, Yvonne maintains a tireless vigil at her new master's behest. The blanket covering the window yields mixed results, and a steady stream of chill wind manages to creep its way into the small bedroom. The cool draft is welcome from the confines of Fenyx's bundle of warm blankets, and soon he drifts off into sleep.
The smell of bacon and coffee greeting him in the morning leaves the necromancer dumbfounded. Tossing his blanket off of him and rising to his feet, he nearly forgets to right himself before joining the assembled team at breakfast. He traces arcane gestures through the air with a practiced hurry before setting to smoothing out the wrinkles in his garments. A flick of his wrist finds a slough of the drool that had collected and mostly dried on his chin flung across the room and onto the floor. That would have surely impressed your new peers, yes? You represent the rulers of Thassilon, Feyronix; do not let something as trivial as the stench of bacon—delicious, succulent, bacon—steal your grace from you. A quick once over of his belongings finds Fenyx retrieving his tome and backpack and making to join the others in the lodge's common room.
Fenyx listens passively to much of the conversations, thankful for the continued respite affording him an opportunity to enjoy a veritable bounty of a feast by his current affair's standards. Despite his hunger and the unceasing tide of salivation that accompanies it, Fenyx remains as dignified and prim as ever. He nods in thanks to the gestures from both Ordrud and Rasso, stowing the coins away in in the folds of his robes before clearing his throat to speak to the pair. "I've yet one of Andoran's boons remaining, and seem to have less call to use it. Perhaps this particular vial of restorative nature would best serve those valiant enough to stand between me and they that intend us harm." Fenyx slides the potion back across the table to Ordrud. A brief, quiet sip of coffee yields a pause before he continues speaking. "If permitted, I would be willing to tend to your injuries more fully today and on through the night. Though my experience in the medical fields is accompanied with regrettable limitation, I believe the meager means at my disposal will suffice in seeing us returned to fighting form with more haste than would be realized without said aid." Fenyx seems to be evading the implications of his enslavement to the Runelord of Greed.
Finally turning his attention to the discussion at hand, Fenyx fixes steady eyes on Gwynn's face as he addresses the woman. "The efforts and sacrifices of you and your team have afforded us much, good woman. Though the high price paid is regrettable, it falls now on we to take advantage of all that is available to us in order to conquer these threats. I... understand your misgivings about resting on laurel while these foes marshal their number, but I fear rushing headlong into a prepared force while we ourselves are decidedly not prepared would be a foolish venture that could very well replicate the regrettable result of the former team." Fenyx tilts his bowl of soup and drains what little remains of the dish's contents. "Would it not be a disservice to your team's sacrifice to yield to impulse when careful planning is called for? Let us regain our bearings that we might formulate a point of approach that may yet play to our advantage. To that end, I would like for you to describe in intimate detail all of the sorceries this Jadwiga had at her disposal. Perhaps between our elven companion and myself, we may find means of overpowering the tide of Irrisen's witchcraft with a combined acumen born of both Azlant and Thassilon."
Teladon rose from his meditative posture, the world snapping back into focus. The minor wounds he had suffered during the battle for the lodge were largely healed. The others looked far worse for wear. Logic dictated in battle that there was some degree of variance based on luck, but luck could be overcome by planning and preparation as Teladon had already shown.
Quietly, the elven warrior listened to the exchange between the merfolk, half-orc and the ambassador of Thassilon. It would be a mistake to rest as the necromancer said. To do so would invite death. It would allow their foes to take the initative, and if the lady captain was correct and the tornado of snow and ice did in fact act as a portal to Irrisen then they could not allow their foes the chance to gain reinforcements. In the same thread they would lose precious days trying to make the trip back to the Red Wraith while protecting the humans. Besides, Teladon callously thought. There were quite a few humans in this world. They bred like rabbits. They were not nearly as bad as orc’s, but the way the burned the land and felled the trees in the name of progress left a poor taste in the elf’s mouth.
Raising his mask slightly away from his mouth, Teladon quietly chewed on a bit of wayfar bread. He would regret the day that his supply ran out. Taking a single sip of water, Teladon lowered the mask and then glanced at Gwynn and the others.
My peoples ancient texts speak of the situation we find outsells in. ”If quick, I survive. If not quick, I am lost. This is death. They also state that you must: ponder and deliberate before you make a move. And that those skilled at making the enemy move do so by creating a situation to which he must conform; they entice him with something he is certain to take, and with lures of ostensible profit they await him in strength.
Shrugging Teladon withdrew a whetstone from his pouch and ran it along the blade with a hiss. We must force them to come to us. We have barrels of oil, gun powered and a defensible position. We draw them in. They know of the combat that happened here. What we cannot allow is for them to make the battle on their terms. We must create a situation that they must react to.
_______________________
|
RPG Superstar 2014 Top 4
|
Looking stressed by the conversation, Gwynn takes a drink from her mug while the others talk. Eventually, she sets it down and wipes at her mouth, brows furrowed and eyes focused on the steam rising up from the dark brew. "I don't know much about witches," Gwynn laments, "more local legends than anything. I-- actually grew up in Irrisen, on the southern border. My parents took me away when I was very little."
Breathing in deeply through her nose, Gwynn looks over to the busted window Ar'Zarrcal had come in through earlier, the sound of hammering there drawing her attention. Outside, some of the conscripts work to nail boards over the broken windows to better insulate and protect the lodge. "I know a couple more names, I'd heard Thuldrin mention them. Someone named Teb, who I think might be the troll. And a creature called Izoze that came to the cabin once, but refused to come inside. I couldn't hear much through the floorboards, but Thuldrin didn't seem to like either of them much."
Breathing in deeply, Gwynn exhales a sigh and lifts up a hand to touch at the large bruise still on her forehead from where the troll knocked her unconscious. "This lodge won't withstand a sustained battle. We won't be going up against conscripted villagers... if there really is a portal to Irrisen out there, we'll be overwhelmed by undead and fae in service to Halak and Nazhena, if the witch doesn't come here herself."
"Thuldrin was terrified of Halak bringing a fight here," Gwynn notes in a quiet voice, "he-- interrogated me about the ship we'd arrived on. Asked when it would be coming back. I think-- I think Thuldrin wanted to run. I think he knew he'd been in over his head." Closing her eyes, Gwynn worries at her bottom lip with her teeth.
"Staying another night, or-- even another eight hours? Fine." Gwynn's hands start to shake, but she grips her mug tighter to quell the nerves. "But trying to defend this place like a redoubt? No. That's a death sentence."
Ordrud shrugs and stows the potion of healing tossed around the table like a gaming chip. Then, he quietly replies to the necromancer, "I know more about the winter witches if you want. They universally grow immune to the effects of cold as they gain power. Some are able to walk on icy surfaces no matter how steep, even ceilings or vertical surfaces. They cannot cast spells that use fire and typically try to use magic to protect themselves from it. They all have a familiar that is the source of their powers. If the familiar is ever killed, it is sort of like destroying a wizard's spellbook. Like all witches, they can hex people, as well, with curses of varying duration and power."
Sleep was rarely a respite for the dwarf called Ar’Zarrcal. It had become little more than a necessary biological function that he attempted to put off for as long as was possible. Exhaustion forced him to sleep and with sleep, to dream. Ar’Zarrcal did not remember even a single pleasant dream. On most nights Ar’Zarrcal had nightmares, which led him down twisted paths into his subconscious mind littered with broken memories, half-remembered tortures, and frightening aspects given primordial shape. The night he slept in the Talon Hill lodge Ar’Zarrcal was gripped with night terrors and woke with a strangled cry. His eyes adjusted to the darkness instantly and he saw the crowded room once occupied by hunters. It was light outside and with a nod Ar’Zarrcal reminded himself that it had nearly been dawn when he and his allies finally went to sleep. Touching his face, his fingers came away wet and with no small degree of annoyance he realized he was covered in sweat, though one could hardly notice due to the accumulated filth brought on by the sea journey and then the hike through the frozen wilderness.
Getting to his feet, the herald of the Rune-lord of Greed went through the comforting repetition of armoring himself for the day. Beneath his armor he wore a set of stinking garments fashioned from an otter pelt, the material especially useful in keeping both his sweat from damaging the underlying mesh of chain links which lay beneath the heavy metal plates, and preventing said links from chaffing. Interlocking plates of deep gray steel that sculpted to his squat form went over an underlying mesh of chain links. Over the chain his armor incorporated several sizable plates of deep gray steel sculpted with an eye toward protection over fashion. He dipped his fingers into a little grease and slicked back his hair and pulled his ragged beard hair into a sharp point. Drawing a two quick glyphs with his fingers upon either side of a wooden bowl caused the vessel to fill with water, which he proceeded to splash onto his face. Unwilling to look in a reflective surface, Ar’Zarrcal assumed he looked presentable and finished adjusting his armor. He pulled his helmet down onto his head, reaching up to touch the serpent bodied, many winged icon of Lissala that topped it. He felt no breaks or chips and let his fingers slide away. Gauntlets of hardened leather and chain were pulled onto his hands and a white tabard with the Sihedron and a set of heavy furs were pulled over his armor. For now he left the snowshoes off his boots and stomped his way into the breakfast area to hear the breakfast conversation.
He joined the group but did not contribute to the conversation. He stabbed greedily at the slaps of bacon and slurped down the leak stew. Only the coffee did he seem to genuinely savor. He had traded his own store away to the Captain of the Red Wraith and found Thuldrin’s supply a more than adequate replacement, he only wished he had some cream for it. A wicked little smile creased the rune-scarred dwarf’s lips while he listened to the conversation between Captain Gwynn and the awake members of the rescue team over his second mug of coffee. Despite her claim to have given up leadership to Styvanus Rozier, in reality it became clear she did not so easily discard the reins of command.
Having ignored the somewhat insulting words of Gwynn earlier, Ar’Zarrcal decided to address the situation now that he had finished his second mug of coffee. “Despite the rash actions of the ambassador of the Mordent Spire, we still remain in possession of two prisoners who have yet to be thoroughly questioned. The information they possess could be valuable. The Andorran female however does have a point. The barrier of glacial wind we earlier encountered would have required a monumental amount of arcane power. The longer it stays open the more danger we are in. If it is indeed a portal to Irrisien, there is no telling how many enemies could come through. To have created a rift of that size would likely have required the full power of the Queen of that cursed fey land in addition to much more…” Ar’Zarrcal let his words trail off as he drummed his fingers across the surface of the table. Could the witches of Irrisen truly possess such vast magical might? Were they more formidable than even the Rune-Lord Karzoug? “Our recent success was the result of catching the enemy off guard. I have no desire to huddle behind wooden walls and wait for a combat with spell-casters who have prepared for battle here at the lodge.” He said the word wooden as if it were a curse.
“I understand that many of our number have not fully recovered from our ordeals. While I can knit and close the wounds of the members of this task force with thread and needle, any magical healing I deliver requires devotion. I can only perform such miracles by the blessing of Lissala and the secrets of her rune magic. She does not grant her gifts to nonbelievers and some present have had issue with accepting the power of Lissala into their body and soul.” Ar’Zarrcal looked most pointedly at Rasso, but then spread his hands and produced a crooked smile of coffee stained teeth. “I would be willing to instruct any who wish to call upon Lissala and her blessings in the proper method of worship.”
Ordrud shrugs at the dwarf's comments and replies, "Gorum has many mistresses and is not a jealous god. Your Lissala can succor my wounds without issue." While Lastwall may have affected Ordrud's vocabulary and ethics, it certainly has not altered his father's faith in Gorum.
Ar’Zarrcal looked up at the face of the half-orc warrior. It was no easy feat considering Ordrud’s size, but he tried none the less. He had witnessed the savagery of Ordrud’s orc blood, but it was apparent that the first steps toward controlling the wild impulses and violent tendencies of the Orc race had already been made years ago. “Then we are in agreement. The seven virtues of rulership are highly compatible with the martial prowess of the Iron Lord. Though my people are your own do not have a history of cooperation, under the wisdom and guidance of the ruler of Shalast, this divide has begun to be bridged. You have heard of the Sihedron clan? Or the fearsome warlord Krun Thuul of the Black Sun Tribe? They have found strength in mingling the two faiths and continue to reap much praise and glory in their battle against the Lich King.” He said with a proselytizers zeal. “Come, let us offer prayers onto the Lissala and beseech her for the rewards of well-deserved rest.”
Provided Ordrud was willing, Ar’Zarrcal led him over to the fire place and instructed him to wait for a moment. The heavily armored dwarf then marched back into the room he had slept in and returned with his pack. Setting it down on the ground, he reached inside until he got open his cleric’s kit and fished out a wooden Sihedron – the holy symbol of Lissala. Offering it to Ordrud, he solemnly recited the Seven Virtues of Rulership. Wealth, Fertility, Pride, Abundance, Eager striving, Righteous anger, and Well-deserved rest. It was that last one he called upon again, offering words to his goddess to accept the prayers of Ordrud and take the offerings of anger and wrath that he will unleash in the coming conflict. Ar’Zarrcal guided Ordrud through a few simple words and then slipped into his own strange melding of Thassilonian and the ancient language of the Dwarves.
Scooping up some of the soot from the fire, Ar’Zarrcal traced a rune etched symbol over Ordrud’s heart and then stepped back, allowing the power of his rune magic to take effect. Ordrud would likely feel his blood heating, his heart thumping in his chest and his wounds beginning to heal at an accelerated rate. Given the situation, the Rune-forger did not invoke the an instant curative, but instead called upon restorative powers of her more fiendish servants.
Ordrud shrugs in agreement and replies, "No." to the two questions. He lets the dwarf lead him. He had a tremendous amount of practice at blind following in Lastwall. They wanted to teach the orc from him, so they reminded him daily. He repeated the dwarf's words not really feeling much of anything until the warmth and surge began. It felt like a battle rage, but he was at complete rest. A toothy smile crept onto his grim face. One of his bruises and rib fractures healed like new. He slowly waved his arm enjoying the freedom from pain. He smiled and nodded to the dwarf. Then jovially thumped him on the back. "That felt great! I'm sure Gorum would love your Mistress making him feel that way away from battle. Let's have another!" He exclaims like he was ordering another round of drinks.
Frowning from behind his mask, Teladon carefully set his pack down. The woman seemed to speak from experience and Teladon after a brief moment of consideration decided that her words held merit. Reaching into the leather tooled pack with stitched scenes of waves crashing against a ship, the elf withdrew a carefully packed ivory and black wand. Much of the black had faded from the two foot long rod and the colors seemed to swirl inside of it ever so slightly. Sighing deeply, the elven warriors shoulders heaved. The wand he carried was a previous gift bestowed upon him by the elders before he departed. He did not want to waste it. Still, if it allowed the team to press on and take the initiative perhaps it was worth it.
Holding the scrimshawed jut of ivory up for the group to see, Teladon raised a hand to earn their attention. This will be of use to us. The elf said. The words were a statement, not a question. But I am not willing to use it unless we agree to press on. I will not waste what precious resources we have only to squander the advantage that using them would earn. This will allow me to heal you. It will not however be pleasant. Understand that this wand was to be used in an emergency only. It will bind your wounds and knit them as if they were never there. By doing this I will nearly exhaust its capacity.
Showing it to each of the group, Teladon by way of explanation gestured to it. We captured this years ago during the battle for my peoples homeland. It was carried by one of the dark-kin. It enchants the bestowed with the regenerative abilities of a deamon for a short time. It will not cause harm... but it can be.. unpleasant. Rasso, do you accede to this?
"Unpleasant aint ever somethin' I've been afeared of. I'm pretty sure I use the same spell on meself regular like. If I can get healed up pretty good I'd be willin' ter march now, sure." Rasso stands up and hobbles over to the elf, standing with his arms spread open at his sides. "Hit me."
|
|
Styvanus stands from the feast and offers a small bow of his head towards the ones who had made said meal. " It's settled then. Once we're all feeling up to speed, we'll move. Begin gathering what you need. Dann, It's a cold hike back to the ship, and the Captain isn't the friendliest sort. You and your men stay here for now, you have enough to stay here comfortably. When we return, we'll escort you to the ship." He moves about the lodge as he issues his decision, making himself busy with gathering supplies and suiting up. He secures the shield on his back and tests the weight of Andis' spear. It would prove useful when they inevitably ran into more of the winter touched fey.
He makes his way to the bear skin rug and kicks it aside. Styvanus brought butt of the spear down heavily upon the trap door once...twice...three times."It's time we speak with the hunter and then the fey. Ordrud, Gwynn, Fenyx; give me a hand."
_________________________________________________________________________
Ordrud shrugs and stows the potion of healing tossed around the table like a gaming chip. Then, he quietly replies to the necromancer, "I know more about the winter witches if you want. They universally grow immune to the effects of cold as they gain power. Some are able to walk on icy surfaces no matter how steep, even ceilings or vertical surfaces. They cannot cast spells that use fire and typically try to use magic to protect themselves from it. They all have a familiar that is the source of their powers. If the familiar is ever killed, it is sort of like destroying a wizard's spellbook. Like all witches, they can hex people, as well, with curses of varying duration and power."
Fenyx nods as Ordrud speaks on the subject of Irrisen's fabled winter witches. "I have learned much of the winter witches from afar. One of my forebears even dabbled in Irrisen's arts many centuries past—a practice that began and ended with that very same fool. My curiosity lay specifically with what dweomers this witch Nazhena has at her disposal. Unfortunately I have been able to glean little in that regard, though I will strive to make this information turn to our advantage, such that it is."
At Styvanus' urging, Fenyx rises from his chair and approaches the Captain obediently. The good captain no doubt wished for him to apply the weight of Thassilon to the interrogations. Thus far, the truth in and of itself had served well to loosen tongues and elicit cooperation from formerly conquered villagers. Fenyx hopes it will be enough to bring their current prisoner around to the cause as well, though he doubts severely the man has any information worth depending on. Fenyx nods low to Styvanus and steps back to accommodate Gwynn's passage, offering an outstretched left hand and lower bow as the woman steps beyond. "To what I must assume is the matter at hand, I profess I would be better served dealing with Thuldrin's man. I'm afraid I have little to offer in the way of coaxing an unseelie of the First World into cooperation. Perhaps a showing of sheer power and hands unafraid of bloodying themselves would suffice in twisting the fey's tiny arm, though even that is a poorly informed guessing on my part. At any rate, as ever, my services remain at your disposal, Captain."
_________________________
|
RPG Superstar 2014 Top 4
|
Fire is the most terrifying thing to winter-touched fae of all kinds. Threats of it will work wonders for intimidation. Beyond that, these particular fae you have discovered respect strength and intelligence. Showing that you have a plan to deal with Halak/Nazhena could win him over to your side. From your knowledge, these fey are slaves of Irrisen.
Rising up from the table and leaving a drained cup of coffee behind, Gwynn picks up her gun belt from where she'd let it rest atop a nearby barrel. Swinging it around her hips, she tugs the belt tight and checks that her revolver is secure. She runs a through her hair, sweeping it back from her face, then turns to look at Styvanus.
"Remember who we are,' Gwynn recommends, "we may be surrounded by foreign faces, but we have Andoran in our hearts and under our feet. We are not monsters." Flicking a look to Dann, Gwynn gives a nod and then moves to follow Styvanus to the basement, prepared to interrogate the prisoners while the others prepare for the journey to the heart of winter itself.
The road would be a long and dangerous one yet.
Longer than any of them could have imagined.
<< >>
Through a haze of snow, a pair of wings beat feverishly. Buzzing through gusts of powerful wind, driving sleet and flakes of razor-sharp ice, a small cobalt-colored creature comes to perch on a windswept tree branch. Hunched over, the emaciated being huffs and puffs from exhaustion, turning beady, coal black eyes to the flickering glow of azure light below the cliff the tree is perched on. A cyclone of snow rises up from over the edge of the cliff, emanating from the flash and flicker of lightning and tall spires of jagged shape like that of icicles rising up from the ground.
Groaning exhaustedly, the creature alights fromt he branch, spreads its wings and soars over the edge of the cliff, drifting on the wild winds before tucking its wings close to its body and plummeting down the cliff face as fast as it can. Hammered by the wind, the creature struggles to retain control, finally opening its wings again when near the snowy drifts at the bottom of the cliff.
The creature's bat-like wings catch the wind, and as it is pulled towards the cliff by teh hurricane-force gale, it seems to be ready. Dipping down at the last minute, the winged creature flies straight into the cliff face through an obscured cave opening. It's wings flag wildly, arms windmill and it steadies itself. The wind in here howls, but is nowhere near as strong as outside.
"Hommelstaub!" It calls out in a shrill, raspy voice, clawed hands cupped at its mouth to magnify its tiny voice. There is a scraping sound of metal on stone, followed by a dim blue light and the buzzing of insect wings. Fluttering into view is a diminutive little old man, with a broad face and shaggy white hair. Its tiny dragonfly-like wings give it perhaps a six-inch wingspan and its body is barely the size of a leaf.
The tiny fae lands in front of the being that called it, looking up with a smug expression. "Izoze, you sad sack of mephit flesh, what in the name of the crone are you doing here?" Izoze snarls and stares down at the comparitively smaller form of Hommelstaub, then rolls his eyes and sweeps a hand over his bald head.
"Thuldrin's probably dead," Izoze explains off-handedly, "I figure you heard the gunfire." Snarling again, the mephit stomps a few paces away, hands wildly gesticulating. "We need to warn Teb."
Hommelstaub's eyes narrow, his thin lips purse and tiny arms cross over his chest. "I knew we couldn't trust those humans to hold up their end of the bargain," Hommelstaub grouses, spitting a frozen piece of saliva onto the floor of the cave. The atomie rubs one tiny hand against his forehead and looks over his shoulder to Izoze.
"If we're lucky, Thuldrin will have bought us some time and delayed them until dark." Hommelstaub looks to the entrance of the cave and wrings his spindly hands together, his too-large mouth turning into a gigantic smile. "Oh and Izoze," the winter-touched atomie begins, looking side-long to the mephit.
"Tell Teb dinner is coming..."
REIGN OF WINTER
Part III: The Winter Portal
|
|
Gwynn's words rang true to the ears of young Captain Rozier, albeit for a different reason than she might expect. "Remember who we are."He thought to himself and couldn't help but smile. He was glad to see that despite being captured and facing unthinkable treatment, Gwynn had not let her heart harden with hate. Styvanus had feared this from the moment the team had been informed of the situation and it had weighed heavy upon him throughout their travel. It was a burden he carried alone in his mind; a burden that he was happy to see removed with Gwynn's recommendation to remember who we are.
"Do not fear Gwynn. I will never forget." He says reassuringly to the fair-haired woman with a slight bow of his head. Too many Andorans had abandoned the philosophies of the Common Rule. Styvanus carried it like a torch-bearer, and he felt comfort in sensing Gwynn's like-mindedness.
|
|
________________________________________
Having had the entire day to himself as he kept watch from the tower, Marcellano took the time to think of the past - to remember his training aboard the Dominator that seemed so long ago. Many a time he had stayed up throughout the night, keeping watch on the crows nest, musket in hand. His uncle, Commander Kain, the boatswain, drilled discipline into him during his childhood and into his early adult years. He had stayed up for days at a time in the past - this was no different. The only difference was the cold of this land, in stark contrast to the warm, humid temperatures of the Shackles.
He would endure, as he always had. Endure and thrive where others perish. He would not let anything in this forsaken, frozen wasteland take him down - so many things had already failed to do so. He would try to make sure his allies lived, as well. They were softer than he was. Less durable. They needed their rest. It had been a long day for them, he could see it in their eyes and actions. Even the elf had acted rashly.. something that surprised Marcellano. If anything, he'd have figured Ordrud would've been the one to lash out and execute a valuable prisoner. Apparently he didn't know them as well as he had figured.
His thoughts were interrupted by Teladon relieving him of watch - though not yet tired, he was glad to be able to get up and move around. For one, he was hungry - sleep he can do without, but Marcellano hated the gnawing pain of hunger. Luckily, he is able to avoid taking food from his own stores when the others begin waking and they are able to cook breakfast.
While the others cook the bacon, stew, and eggs, Marcellano prepared the coffee - his love of the stuff showed at how well he was able to brew the mixture, warming everyone's bellies and awakening their senses. He himself is rejuvenated by the strong drink, and washes down the rest of the food with a few mugs of the stuff.
Throughout the breakfast, however, he stays quiet, listening to the others talk and laugh. Though he considers them allies, he has a much harder time fitting in with them - they are not his friends, nor would they likely ever be. Marcellano was never good at making friends - nor did he care to. He was here by duty, and nothing else.
After breakfast, he looks around at the supplies the group has managed to find and takes his pick of the loot - Twelve cartridges for his new rifle and the black laquered masterwork agile breastplate with the Eagle Knight's symbol boldly presented on the front.
Well.. its the right color at least.. Lets see.. Marcellano grimaces that he has to done the armor of an Eagle Knight, and ends up covering the front of the breastplate in his tabard. It's a tough fit, but in the end, the symbol of the Chelish Marines covers the Eagle Knight's symbol. The armor itself fits well, and he greatly enjoys his newfound mobility.
When the others go down to interrogate the prisoners, Marcellano heads back upstairs to keep watch, relieving Teladon. He was never very good at interrogation. He always saw himself as more of an executioner than interrogator - he wasn't good with words, but he was good with weapons. He'll let the others handle this.
__________________________
|
RPG Superstar 2014 Top 4
|
The work that needed to be done in the cellar was unfortunate. Interrogations are never easy, let alone ones done in such an environment. Dividing up the prisoners was the easy part, the fey trapped in Ordrud's bag could simply be carried out and questioned outside, away from the human prisoner. But it was Styvanus' boots stomping up those stairs that was the most difficult for Fenyx, the largest moral compass of the expedition going off to handle his own questioning, leaving an emissary of Xin-Shalast behind.
Fenyx had felt differently about things since working with the Andorans to form this team. He had felt differently this morning, and had been feeling increasingly detatched from the doctrine of Karzoug every day he spent away from more learned Shalasti taskmasters. Ar'Zarrcal was the only tether to his runescarred path, a constant reminder of what the mark branded on his brow means.
The man in the basement knows what it means. The terror in hs eyes explains so, even as the gag over his mouth prevents him from screaming obsceneties, answers, or perhaps pleas for mercy. Fenyx doesn't even need to threaten violence for the hunter's mind to imply it; Xin-Shalast's reputation preceeds it.
But when Fenyx opts for the honey rather than the vinegar, it is all the more shocking to the prisoner.
<< >>
Situated on a mound of snow, surrounded by Styvanus, Ordrud and Gwynn the tiny winter-touched fey known as Shor looks like little more than a grieving child. Tears are frozen in streams down the fey's pale blue face, glittering with all the colors fo the rainbow from within. He sobs, hands cupped over his mouth and head down, tiny shoulders and dragonfly wings trembling. In the interrogation, Styvanus and the others had learned that Vossi and Pym -- the other two winter-touched fey they had killed -- were Shor's brother and sister. Shor's emotional breakdown came following the interrogation, such as it were.
The three had been conscripted by a powerful Atomie assassin named Hommelstaub, a grim and murderous fey with a blinding hatred of humans. Despite being forced into service byt eh Jadwiga Nazhena, Hommelstaub refused to see her as a human, but instead views the children of the Queen of Witches, Baba Yaga, as something more entirely -- children of the First World, the land of the fey.
Shor and his siblings were press-ganged into fighting alongside Hommelstaub and had been told that the invasion into Andoran was in vengeance for Andoran's long-standing war with the fey of their northern reaches. This much rings true to the native Andorans, for there has long been conflict between the fey of Andoran and the humans that reside there over lumbering and natural resources. A conflict that has raged for generations in small, scattered conflicts on the nation's border.
Misled to believe that the Andorans had butchered an ancient treant and dryad living in the Darkmoon wood, the three were riled up and ready to fight the human oppressors, even if they as a people were largely non-violent. Having been set straight by Styvanus, Shor is now overwhelmed with grief not only for the people he killed on Hommelstaub's orders, but for the deaths of his siblings.
The "interrogation" as it were, goes to prove that not all enemies in war are equal, nor deserving of death. It also shows how powerful propaganda is as a weapon of war, and when wielded by a cruel hand can cause more damage than any sword or spell.
From Shor, Styvanus, Gwynn and Ordrud learned much more about the heirarchy of Nazhena's followers and their operations. Halak is, most certainly, the dominant force in this region. He is Nazhena's lieutenant and a powerful arctic druid who resides in Irrisen at a place called the Pale Tower, an artifice of ice and stone constructed by Queen Elvanna for reasons unknown to Shor, which lies several miles from the other side of the winter portal.
Halak's direct report in Andoran is an ice-mephit by the name of Izoze, a malicious and bloodthirsty creature that has brought Hommelstaub the atomie and a winter-touched moss troll named Teb Knotten to serve as enforcers. Teb is a brute, a cannibalistic troll who has feated on the flesh of the Andoran villagers who fought back against Halak's word of law. Izoze is an infiltrator, who -- once the Lumber Consortium was brought to heel -- served as a go-between.
Shor knows that Halak rarely comes into Andoran and typically lies beyond the way they had all arrived here, the doorway to Irrisen known as the winter portal. Shor does not know how the portal was made, nor was he aware that it is causing the weather here. Shor, naively, believed it was always wintry in Andoran.
One piece of news from Shor is that he does not know how Halak creates the zombies. From Shor's perspective, he has seen Halak round up human slaves and march them to Irrisen through the portal and bring them to the Pale Tower. They enter alive and leave undead, and are then marched back out and ito the wild to wreak havoc on the land. There are rumors about the tower, terrible ones, that a spirit of some kind is bound to the structure -- a violent and vengeful thing -- and that its malevolence is somehow connected to the whispering and howling Shor could hear within the storm at times. However, Shor has never been inside the tower and cannot say any of this as fact.
According to Shor, there is an Irriseni village within just a mile of the other side of the portal, but he has never been there. He knwos that they have no involvement in the attacks, however, like most people or Irrisen are merely servants of the Jadwiga and the Queen.
By the time Shor calms down, he has made it clear that he is willing to help however he can to make amends for his misdeeds and clear the ill name now attributed to his blood for what he had done in Nazhena's name. Shor is afraid to face down Teb, Izoze and Hommelstaub, but will do so if asked. Alternately, he can assure the villagers safe passage through the Darkmoon wood back to Falcon's Hollow.
He will follow orders, regardless of the choice made, if Styvanus will have him.
<< ... >>
Fenyx's interrogation of the hunter provided little additional information. By the time the meeting was adjourned, the hunter -- Merkas -- was expecting to be executed, and found the lack of a finishing blow more terrifying than the honeyed words Fenyx chose to use to ask his questions.
The sole bit of useful information gleaned from Merkas was that the scrolls taken from Gwynn were taken by Halak into the deep heart of the Darkmoon wood. This means, unfortunately, that there will be no way to contact Calisaria Reinn and the main force back in Andoran until Halak has been dealt with.
|
|
Despite having a new, more agile suit of armor, Marcellano has been thinking about his current situation with all of the equipment he has been carrying. In his current situation, his massively loaded backpack - complete with food, extra ammunition, and tools - has been a serious drawback in his overall mobility. He can carry it fine without exhausting him, that much is certain - but in combat, having gear that isn't directly useful in combat is a liability. Marcellano does not like liabilities.
His backpack is very well made - masterfully crafted out of supple but hardy leather of an animal he is unfamiliar with, the backpack is designed to better balance itself allowing its user to hold more gear more efficiently. While packing and preparing for this journey, Marcellano loaded it to the brim with anything and everything he could think of - spare winter clothing, weeks worth of dried food, medical equipment, a tent, and even a few pounds of coffee and something to brew it in. He had planned on an endurance test, and the trip has thus far proven to be such, even if supplies have been readily available in certain spots.
Now, however, is the pressing concern of his gear slowing and weighing him down. So, as he keeps watch, Marcellano puts his rifle down near the window overlooking the bridge and uses what tools he has available to modify the backpack's straps, allowing a quick-release of sorts. Though by no means an expert at leatherworking - in fact, he barely knows what he's doing in this regards - he is able to successfully jury-rig the straps to allow him to quickly drop his load in case of combat. With time, money, and proper know-how, he could improve on his makeshift design, but now is not the time nor place to do so.
______________________________________