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Intending to only feel the kick of his rifle and hear the sound of a body falling in the snow, Marcellano is wholly unprepared for what happens next. As the fel magic pierces his chest and grips his heart, white-hot agony ripples through his very being, causing the marine to drop his rifle and crumple forward in the snow, his hat falling off and landing in front of him, upturned. As he lays there, writhing in a pain more real in his mind than his body, his armor rattles as if the marine shakes from the cold.
But the cold is not what causes him to shake. The visions racing through his mind are.
The sound of gunfire is heard off in the distance - innumberable shots, bouncing back and forth between forces hunkered down in trenches dug into the ground. Rows of spike-laden wires, sandbags, and corpses line the no-mans land between the trenches; the screams of the dying and the fighting fill the air, failing to be overshadowed by the repetitive thunder of artillery.
A charge. Men scrambling over their defensive fortifications, charging at the enemy line with guns and bayonets - they crawl, cut, and scramble through the wire, trudge through the blood-soaked mud, and trip over both fallen foe and friend alike - only to be mowed down by gunfire firing faster than what should be possible, incinerated by flame spewed from pumps, or choked, suffocated, and infected by various types of deadly gasses. None make it to the other side. Few make it back to their own side.
A hulking monster of metal, gears, and steam slowly forces its way along - barreling headfirst, if slowly, past the trenches, through the barbed wire, and into enemy forces. The tapping sound of gunfire against metal is drowned out by the occasional thunder of the beast’s cannon. The screams of its victims can be heard, chunks of their bodies launched from where the impact site was. The beast is stopped not from its enemies, but from the very ground - stuck in the mud. It dies from inside, as its internal organs suffocate and burn from its very source. It screams from the inside as it finally rolls to a stop - dead.
Coughing, choking, and spitting up blood and saliva into the snow, Marcellano finally comes out of his trance - his face is half-buried in the snow. His beard, and one side of his face is encrusted with snow - saliva is frozen at the corners of his mouth and beard, frozen snot clings to his mustache. He looks groggy as he peers around, dazed, not understanding in the tiniest what just happened.
What he does know, however, is that he now posseses a newfound understanding of firearms - his visions notwithstanding, he knows that firearms are the future - even if they lead to the very same future that which he saw.
Slowly coming back to his senses, Marcellano wipes the sludge from his mouth and nose, then picks up his hat - dusting it off of snow in the mean time. He then plops it back on his head, and lifts himself up out of the snow, shakes himself off, and grabs his rifle.
”What in the nine Hells was that?”
Ordrud overcomes his personal transformation and looks around to his team. Even in the heavy snow, he sees a crab-bear monster striking a horrifying pose where Rasso used to stand. With one hand on the hilt of Feyswatter, he asks "Rasso, is that you?"
Then, he looks at Teladon's new mask and leafy outfit, "Mask, is that you, too?" Ordrud starts to get concerned.
Seeing the necromancer, Cheliaxian, and Gwynn physically unchanged settles the orc's nerves a bit. Although he starts to examine his left arm and spiked gauntlet expecting it to somehow transform before his eyes.
Rasso charges Ordrud, roaring, his arms thrown wide. He impacts with the half orc as the cold iron blade of Feyswatter is halfway from it's sheathe, crushing the younger man in a bear hug. He plants a big sloppy kiss on Ordrud's cheek before putting him down and chuckling, "Aye, it's me bub. Looks like the elf is on fire though." Rasso waggles his eye stalks at Teladon. "You alright elfie?"
Rising once more to a standing position, Fenyx takes in fully the surroundings. It would appear he was not alone in whatever it was that had taken root in the fibers of his being. Powers spanning the cosmos, previously unknown and untapped, course through the necromancer's very life essence, anchored to powers and a destiny formerly beyond their ken. He flexes his hand several times, motes and wisps of dark energies coalescing along his digits. Though the transformation for him seemed to be one of inward manifestations, he notes that it is not so for some of the others. It would seem the Witch Queen's gifts were as varied as they were cryptic.
It is Rasso and Teladon that seem to have undergone the most significant metamorphoses. Fenyx observes the pair in abject silence, not yet wishing to divulge his own ascension to something more until he can find some measure of understanding of what the others themselves have endured. His brief glance of omniscience—or were they merely possibilities?—has left the ambassador from Xin-Shalast rattled. More desperately, he desperately needs to learn what the dwarf had seen. His own existence may well depend on it.
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The shock had knocked Gwynn completely off of her feet, by the time she's pulled herself up from the snow some unholy bear-beast and Ordrud are already engaged in some sort of ferocious battle of an embrace. The gunslinger reaches for her revolver, finding it not in its holster but down in the snow several feet away. She must have dropped it when the wave of energy from the rider hit her. Screaming, she rolls forward through the snow and grabs the gun, leveling it up at the creature's back before--
-- wait
"Rasso?" The voice, while distorted, was familiar enough to cause her to hesitate. At the same moment, Gwynn finds the butt of a spear tipping the barrel of her revolver down. Talavuc, already recovered from the surge of energy, gently urges the captain not to fire. Nearby, Naasvit is circling the corpse of the rider, nose twitching.
"What happened?" She wonders aloud, perplexed by the changes. Talavuc shakes her head slowly, looking to the body of the rider, then the portal beyond.
"Witchcraft" is a surprisingly succinct and accurate answer. Resting the butt of her spear in the snow, Talavuc braces herself against it. "Some of them changed more than others, but..." Talavuc's expression grows somewhat distant, "some changes are more internal than others, perhaps."
Gwynn picks herself up from the snow, dusting herself off before looking to Styvanus, laid flat out on his back in the snow. Hustling over to the Captain, she takes a knee at his side and looks to make sure he's alright. Though moving, Styvanus seems content to lay flat out for a few moments to process what just happened.
"I'm no' too certain what happened with the rider there, but I've been mullin' over this 'ere new suit fer ages. I just haven't had the umpf ter evolve until now. The black smoke-a-majig seems to have given me a boost. It's more than that though...I feel...powerful," Rasso responds to the two women. He is still staring at the newly red Teladon, who after uttering a cryptic phrase is just standing there melting snow. "Elf! Speak up man, I'm startin' to think yer possessed. That still you in there? Quick, tell us a xenophobic riddle so we know it's you." Rasso disengages from Ordrud, freeing his claws should the elf prove dangerous. "Hey Gwynn, is Styvanus alright? He don't look so good."
Ordrud wrestles with Rasso for a bit until separating. He appears nonplussed. Evidently, this is a common custom for him.
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Styvanus was indeed content to lay still for a moment. The cold of the compacted snow beneath his body hadn't went away, but the Captain found a new-found warmth from remnants of the surge of energy that came before.
"Just another moment's rest." he heard himself think, but the words were distant and small, as if the reflections of a fleeting memory. These were the same words he spoke to his father in the early hours of the dawn as a child, pleading for a momentary reprieve before the day full of soot and heat assisting his father at the smithy.
Time and time again his father would reply the same. "Good men aren't born, they are made. And just like any thing else, they are made through hard work. And that's the price we'll have to pay to achieve that aim, same as any other.." The words were louder than his first thought, and much to his surprise, he realized he had said his father's words aloud.
Styvanus laid in the snow and chuckled as Gwynn gave him an odd look at his declaration, and he rose swiftly to his feet to denounce any thinking that he was out of commission. His eyes dart around to take in the changes, the most notable of which are the Elf, and the creature that was his friend Rasso. " On the contrary," The Captain begins with a smile. " I've never felt better."
Indeed the Captain seemed to have a new-found radiance after being touched by the energy of the rider. He seemed to move almost with divine grace. "I spoke with Talmandor." He stated calmly, looking mostly towards Gwynn and Rasso. " When whatever just happened...happened, he made himself known to me." He could hardly contain the excitement in his voice, but he made every effort to maintain his composure." I'm not sure what it all means," He admitted reluctantly." But I know that he'll have an eye on our efforts."
"Is everyone alright?...What's our next step?" He changes the subject, attempting to get the team on the right track.
Ar'Zarrcal recognized potent magic in place, his training in Xin-Shalast had fostered understanding of the arcane and the divine both and while intellectually he knew he could not hide behind an iron shield, instinct took over and he recoiled from the fey knight like a cat from freezing water. It was no use however. The haunting, six fingered hand of smoke and shadow passed effortlessly through the rune inscribed shield, snatching at the empty air before plunging forward gliding past armor and flesh to seize at the heart and soul beneath. Ar’Zarrcal froze in place. For a second in time he did not breathe, he did not shiver, he did not blink. The Thassilonian runes that were burned and etched into his flesh burst with a dazzling light that oscillated in color like the shifting and mesmerizing bands of the Aurora Borealis. The stillness that gripped him passes as the dwarf’s eyes wretch shut and he throws his head back and screams. A deafening thunderclap rumbles in the heavens seemingly in answer to his pain and the power being bestowed on all the others, followed by a flickering flash of lightning in reverse-order of the natural world.
The gift of the Queen of Witches was strange, fey and formidable but in Ar’Zarrcal it did not find a willing recipient, but rather a deviously engineered weapon. Those hundreds of runes and sigils covering his flesh were only the most visible of the marks that Karzoug the Claimer had placed on the dwarf, others were magically carved onto his bones and internal organs and even his soul. None were without a purpose. The magic of the Rune-lord of Greed acted like a siphon, drawing in power, trapping it and twisting it. Designed to aid Ar’Zarrcal in bending the ancient secrets of the dwarven runes, as well as twisting and harnessing divine energy – the design of Xin-Shalast now sought to imprison and absorb the weird mythic endowment of Baba Yaga’s messenger with mixed results. The Thassilonian magic had been modified from the sorcery that created the rune giants and enslaved the other giant races. It was meant to grow with Ar’Zarrcal’s own magical development. He was to be the stepping stone to both the enslavement of Janderhoff and the perversion of the dwarven rune magic. It was not meant to handle a sudden massive infusion of mystical power. On some obscure, esoteric level the mythic fey energy realized that prison it had wandered into and it struggled mightily to get out.
The rune-scarred dwarf fell to his knees in the snow and his arms thrust out to his sides, bent awfully as if his wrists were bound by invisible chains that were seeking to pull him apart. Blood began to trickle and leak from his eyes and nose, spilling into his frost covered black beard. He kept screaming as the mystic energies of Thassilon and Baba Yaga went to war with one another, caring nothing for the tortured and mutilated soul that first and original occupant of the fire-darkened body. Soon the muted voice of Einfar Yunst joined its voice to that of Ar’Zarrcal’s pain.
Ar’Zarrcal and Einfar Yunst continued to scream as the fey magic erased, altered or created new runes upon him – but another set of chains seeking to take hold of his soul. But he had screamed before. This too would pass. Having been subjected to the worst tortures Xin-Shalast had to offer for months on end, this was but a fleeting moment of agony. The creature known as Ar’Zarrcal was not easily broken. He had been built upon a foundation of torture and pain. They both resisted; one unwilling to be broken and forced to kneel again and the unwilling to be ended and seeing this gift only as power to be greedily seized for its own.
When the pain passed and the mythic power began to infuse his being images of the past and the future savaged his mind. One after another they passed before him, before sliding away like a panel in a dizzying kaleidoscope. The fall of Magnimar, his battle with the one armed giant, his education in Xin-Shalast. Shadowy vignettes of the past. The construction of a new citadel in the North, the Rebirth of a Rune-Lord, The battle between Karzoug and The Old Crone… possible futures he played a role in. The scenes were not only of his existence, but something about the mixing of opposing sorceries caused him to see the pasts and possible futures of Karzoug, the Midnight Rider, and each of his companions so gifted. In a blinding flash of golden light the visions were ended by the image of a golden, six winged woman with no mouth and the lower body of a serpent. A sihedron was emblazoned on her chest and spun rapidly, with each turn one of the seven virtues trumpeted forth. He knew her in an instant. The Lady of Fate. The Queen of Runes. The Mother of Virtues.
His scream ended and a barely heard word came from his hoarse throat. “Yunst.” Upon his brow the mark of the herald of Karzoug blazed brightly, flickering for a few moments, before guttering out and becoming dormant once more. For a moment the blood speckled eyes of Ar’Zarrcal met those of Feyronix Dagannauth. Was there stern judgment in his gaze? Anger and confusion? His eyes broke the contact too quickly for much to be read in a look. Ar’Zarrcal lifted himself to his feet once more. He was still bleeding from the wounds the troll had delivered upon him. The snow around him speckled and stained in shades of red. Greedily, Ar’Zarrcal scooped up some untouched snow and funneled it into his mouth, forcing it over his lips and down his raw throat.
Like emerging from the dwarven tunnels into the light of a midday sun it took a moment for everything to come into focus for Ar'Zarrcal, though it was more than just his vision that needed a moment, sound and smell, even his taste and tactil sense seemed off. He was not sure how long he had been staring at the Captain after he broke eye contact with Fenyx, but the first words he heard were 'I've never fealt better.' As the Captain related his encounter with the avoral saint of Andorran, Ar'Zarrcal began to ponder whether his vision was an actual divine visitation by Lissala.
Silently standing as snow gusted around him the elf... glanced down at his sword as it sizzled in the freezing cold wind. Snowflakes fell around him but the elf did not feel its icy chill. Snow melted away from his armor and his body felt hot... hotter than it had since the party had left the Red Wraith. Teladon felt the sudden mercurial urge to laugh. The urge came from a strange place, an untouched place. It felt wild and untamed. It called to him to sound the horn and call the hunt. To drive his foes before him, to breath in their fear.. to leave a bloody wake behind him so all that would know him.
Shaking his head, the elf tried to center himself. To remember the stoic strength and ironhard discipline that he had forced upon himself since his brothers death. The two sides warred inside of him. One side freedom, the other control. One side life... one death.
The others from the group clustered around him. It had been several moments since Rasso and Ordrud had asked about him. The elf closed his eyes, flicked his blade around and slid it into its scabbard. The heat retreated. I'm fine. Teladon opened his mouth to say.. but the words would not come. No... there was a second set of words... words that he would be known by. Words that needed to be spoken. With the death of one, came the life of another. Teladon was not sure how he knew such things, but the truth was like stone in his mind. Both solid and weighty.
Glancing at Rasso, Teladon nodded. Teladon announced, his voice echoing along the ruins, as he felt a shutter run though him and he barely stopped himself from falling to a knee. Steeling himself, Teladon nodded. The queen has made her will known and the winter portal awaits. Walking forward, The elf approached the whirling portal of snow and ice. Glancing back to the rest of the group, Teladon nodded firmly. And my name is Teladon. Teladon announced with finality before stepping through the portal.
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As Teladon steps into the swirling haze of snow and ice, there is a surge of light that rockets upwards into the storm and then pulses into the sky like a beacon before diminishing back to the eerie water-like glow that has been swirling at the center of the cyclone this whole time.
"Damnit!" Gwynn shouts, holstering her pistol. "I-- Captain," resting a hand on Styvanus' arm, Gwynn offers a quick shake of her head. "We can't all go through. Someone has to stay behind and secure the location from hostiles. There's two dozen or more civilians back at the lodge, not to mention the crew on the boat."
Looking back over her shoulder, Gwynn's brows furrow. "I-- I don't know what's going on, Captain. I thought I was ready for this, but I'm--" there's hesitance in her eyes. "I don't know." Looking to Ordrud for strength, then back to Styvanus, Gwynn steadies her jaw and straightens her shoulders.
"I'm volunteering to stay on this side of the portal and establish a fallback position for you, should things be too much on the other side. I can get the others back at the lodge rallied together and can try to send message back to Almas on the Wraith, operating on the assumption that the scrolls that were taken are lost to us." Trying to seem in control, Gwynn is clearly both out of her element and stricken with unease from her exposure to the Rider and his power.
"I have enough food and endurance to make it back. Sir," Gwynn finally defers in both title and judgment to Styvanus. "This is your operation now. But that's my recommendation."
"S*#*! Elfie...Teladon, wait!" Rasso cries out. Can't let him go in there alone. Grabbing the as of yet unused snowshoes off of his pack, Rasso charges through the portal after Teladon. "Se yas soon!"
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Marcellano walks over to Gwynn, sticks the butt of his rifle down in the snow and looks at her straight in the eye. "What, backing out now, Knight-Captain? No. I cannot allow that. I may not be particularly fond of you Andoran types, but we have a mission to do. You were there for the passing of the Black Rider. You recieved his gift - his mission. Perhaps I was the one to accept it for the group, but you are a part of that group now, whether you like it or not. There is but only one direction to go, now - forward."
He pauses, continuing to glare at Gwynn, not taking his eyes off her as he speaks. "Captain Styvanus was the leader of our expedition to discover the fate of the forward expedition and to figure out how to shut down this portal. However, I was the one to accept this new mission - for all of us. Once the portal is shut, I will be taking charge in leading us to victory in the war. We must end this Reign of Winter once and for all. We have been given the information we need to do so. The peasants we left behind can handle themselves. Or not. It does not matter. Our job is more important than saving their pathetic lives - we are to save the entire thrice-damned world. You are coming with us, Knight-Captain. That is an order."
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Fenyx ceases clenching and opening his hands as his eyes follow the path Marcellano takes to the nearby forms of Gwynn and Styvanus. Just as the marine's rifle butt digs itself into the snow with a crunch, the necromancer bends over and retrieves his own implement: Dirge. Quietly and passively, he approaches to Marcellano's right flank where he begins studying the pair of Andoran Captains intimately, to the point of being unnerving. It is as though the sin mage has been granted a new pair of eyes with which to observe the world. Colors seem more vibrant; the subtle nuances of a glance more pronounced. Even the haze of the storm yet raging above the portal, awash in a pale blue glow, seems an altogether different entity. Fenyx is forced to admit that he is different. The toll of The Rider's boon would likely not be fully realized for weeks, if not months, to come—but whatever the Varisian-turned-Shalasti man had been, such a being no longer existed.
Lending the weight of his own voice to Marcellano's reprimand and demand to Knight-Captain Gwynn, Fenyx is surprised at his own tone. It is even and calm, spoken as though voiced by one for whom the frailties of life held no jurisdiction; untinged by self-motivation and self-importance. No longer were his words carefully crafted towards the end of eliciting a desired response. Instead, his words stood on their own merit. Words borne on the wings of what was necessary; borne on the weight of what would be, despite the misgivings of any present. His wonder at his own sense of purpose is washed out by an inward knowing of what must be done. Despite Gwynn's desperation, her lot would be no different. The die had been cast.
"The Chelaxian speaks truly, as you well know, Gwynn. Failures of the past shall not serve as inhibition to the path forward. The misgivings and hesitance of a girl from Andoran are too paltry a shield to earn you respite from this task. Acknowledge now what you are: not a child, not a mere soldier. You now share of the same font of power that emboldens us all; that compels us all. Do you think such offerings are given to suffer use at our leisure—our whim?" Trudging several steps forward to stand beside Marcellano, Fenyx surprises himself once more in that it is not a glowering condemnation that chokes his glance down at the woman, but a sympathetic visage. "Closing the portal is no longer a priority, but one step of many on a far reaching course to right the wretched state of this world. Andoran is not the only nation to suffer, and Andoran is not alone in cleansing the world of such malignance. As such, your insistence on remaining alone has no bearing on our shared fates."
Placing one foot forward and shifting the haft of his scythe to his left hand, Fenyx extends his right hand down to Gwynn. An offer not only to help her to her feet, but a sought confirmation of her own resolve to see her duty through. Both the duty assigned her of Andoran, and the implacable will of Baba Yaga assigned them by The Black Rider's passing.
Teladon? I suppose it’s better than Mask. Ordrud wondered as he watched Rasso follow the enigma through the portal.
Then, he could not believe his ears. Gwynn had truly hit the bottom of her confidence. She stood there as a pale shadow of the grit-filled captain who was Andoran’s first choice to lead an expedition. While her tactical reasons to remain behind had some merit, her rationalizations to take the less challenging path were crystal clear. She also severely underestimated how much that she imperiled her soul by not accepting the responsibility of the Black Rider. These thoughts shown through his eyes and set of his toothy maw as he returned her gaze.
”Gwynn,” he starts, because she needs to work to restore her title of captain. ”The decision to go through the portal has already been made. You received the mantle of the Black Rider and accepted fealty to Baba Yaga, or you would be dead. I will not let you throw your life away. Now, get going before I either carry you or throw you through that portal.”
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"Teladon" Styvanus mouthed wordlessly as he met eyes with the elf who had been nameless to him as of yet. A smile crept upon the man's wind-kissed face and he patted Rasso on his equal-parts furry and spiny back as he made his way to the portal." I think he's warming up to us, Keep him company, we're right behind you." He assured Rasso.
The Captain too took a step towards the portal before being halted by his fellow Knight-Captain. Gwynn's words were met with a a concerned look from Styvanus. "Gwynn.." He begins, his tone as soft as the snow flakes drifting in the air. Before he can formulate a response, he finds himself flanked by Marcellano, Fenyx, and Ordrud. Although he can see the merit in Gwynn wanting to tend to the villagers, he agrees overall with the trio's sentiment.
"Easy now killer," He begins at Marcellano." I'm not ready to give up command just yet...But we all have a role to play in this." He states, his words directed at all who would listen.
" We all have a job to do. Every one of us here have been through enough hell for an entire tour but we aren't done, not by a long shot. Every man, woman, and child has a responsibility to step up and help one another get through this damnable cold. That's from Almas to us to every soul on Golarion!" He snaps out the words, before his gaze turns soft and looks back to his fellow Andoran. " You are strong enough." He states assuredly."As are Dann and the survivors of Falcon's Hollow. Andoran was founded on the principles of Independence. We all must stand to our feet at times and when those at the lodge realize we won't be making an immediate round trip Dann will have the strength of will to lead the hike back to the ship." He states, readying himself for whatever was on the other side of the portal.
" And Fenyx is right, the entire world is working to stop this thing, and we're a big part of that. We must stand together, or we'll fall separately." He finishes, practically pleading with Gwynn. Swept up in the moment and the desperation of the environment, Captain Rozier pulled his fellow Captain into a tight embrace and firmly planted his lips upon hers. Despite the chill across their skin and the snow upon the land, there was a moment of blissful warmth in the kiss and Styvanus was happy to linger in that embrace for several all-too-brief moments.
Stepping back and regaining the posture of a Captain, he smiled knowingly."We can do this. We must do this." The words resounded with a divine calm.
A moment later, The Captain had taken the step through the portal and was gone from sight.
Ordrud grins at the Captain and says to Gwynn, "I'll kiss you too, if you don't follow him through the portal."
He waits to be last through the portal. He'll pick up and carry the troll's spear if it appears to be left behind. Giving the area a last once over, before trudging through the portal.
Though the path ahead remains clear, Fenyx allows his nerves and mind to settle that he might afford himself clarity and focus. These next steps would likely prove a trial taxing beyond the wildest dreams of any present. He must be ready; cautious, prudent, and steadfast. His eyes rise to view the portal ahead, the vortex of wintry energies coalescing and shifting above in a maelstrom of frigid chaos. The necromancer closes his eyes and presses a thumb to the center of the sihedron rune upon his brow. It begins to shimmer and shed a faint glow, an undulating eye of azure hue projected before the Shalasti man's forehead.
His gaze directed before him, he takes a look at the portal and the area once more: a full, careful sweep. The others plunged ahead without heed, but he would be certain.
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"Elves, ever mercurial." The dwarf commented after Teladon ventured forth into the breach in space that was the winter portal, disappearing from sight behind of curtain of snow carried upon freezing winds. "They are as fickle and obstreperous at forty years as they are at four hundred." When Rasso charged in after the masked ambassador of the Mordent Spire, the dwarf grumbling to himself added a few choice words on merfolk apparently being equally capricous.
Blood stained Ar'Zarrcal's face, but he did not seem otherwise outwardly changed by The Rider's Gift. Those truly observant might have noticed some alteration in the runes and sigils that crisscrossed his form, though most were currently hidden behind armor and heavy winter furs. As the interplay between Marcello, Fenyx, Ordrud, Styvanus and the Andorran woman took place Ar'Zarrcal merely watched them. Drinking in the words as he let out a few ragged breathes. It was clear he had not yet had a chance to heal from the savage attack inflicted on him by the troll.
Much like the other Thassilonian, the dwarf's Sihderon rune upon his brow shed an awful fungus green light. A third eye was opened through that rune allowing the dwarf to draw in the magical energies of the surrounding area, then filter and analyze them. The winter portal though no longer fully a mystery was still a work spectacular work of mystic engineering and Ar'Zarrcal desired to know more about its functions before stepping blindly into hostile territory. It would be necessary to eventually close these portals and discover a means to prevent them from opening again.
He cared little whether Gwynn accompanied them or not, but did find it interesting that she did not seem as changed nor as fully bound by the vow to the queen of the witches as many of the others. Had the current of mythic energy bestowed upon his companions ignored the rescued andorran? If they convinced her to come along, he decided she deserved further observation.
Not yet moving to study the Winter Portal, Ar'Zarrcal crouched down near the burned hacked body of the massive ice troll. Wretched creatures were ever a plague upon the growth of dwarven settlements in the Northwest. Letting his eyes trail over the boar spear, he deciphered the magical aura that infused the weapon quickly, though he did not take the weapon himself. When Ordrud took the weapon in hand, Ar'Zarrcal uttered a few quick words.
"It is enchanted, Ordrud. It is a weapon designed to catch and hold humanoid prey. Should you land an expert blow with the weapon it will paralyze the target and hold them fast as your prisoner so long as the spear remains in place." His voice was still sore, but it did not prevent him from speaking with a precise crispness. He did not expound in further detail about the exact details of the enchantment knowing that what he said was more than enough for the Orc.
Soon he joined Fenyx in examining the area around the Winter Portal itself, sweeping snow off of rock to look upon the repurpsoed azalanti device.
Please note that due to the level increase I now read/speak Azlanti in addition to Thassilonian. This may impact research on the Winter Portal.
Robert a few questions: what are my current hit points? I suspect the troll did a number on me. Do I add my new level HP and Mythic HP on top of that? Did the mythic energy heal us all? I assume we are still down all our spells? What time of day is it / will I get a chance to rememorize? (I want some of my level 2 spells to boot).
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Gwynn attempts to steady herself, mentally, against the counter-points to her desire to shore up the group's rear defenses. Whatever happened to her at the hands of Thuldrin Kreed had certainly changed the once tough-as-nails gunslinger, broken her will and left her a doubting shell of her former self. While rebuilding the confidence and command she once had will be a long-term development, the reassurance and tough-attitude given by other members of the expedition build a foundation of both self-examination and support that she needs to press onward. Swallowing noisily and squaring her jaw, Gwynn gives a nod of recognition to Styvanus and Ordrud, then a wary look to Marcellano before she turns towards the portal to follow in the wake of Teladon and Rasso.
As she moves into the ancient Azlanti ruin that contains the whirling storm, followed by Marcellano, Styvanus, Talavuc, Fenyx and Ar'Zarrcal, the latter of the two cannot help but pause even if just momentarily to consider the ruins they are passing through. Somewhere in the depths of Ar'Zarrcal's mind he knows that the tongue of the Azlanti was not one he had mastered before setting out on this expedition, and yet now this dead language feels familiar to him. The writing and markings on the pillars and support structures the dwarf passes by seems to be indicative of some sort of map, a lattice-work of magical currents that spread out from this point -- perhaps the ley lines they had discussed previously.
Studying a ruin like this would be a monumental task that could take week, months, or even years. Unfortunately, given the others' haste, he only has a scant few moments to inspect the writings and symbols before pressing on to the outer edge of that whirling cyclone of freezing wind and watery light.
As the group reaches the edge of the cyclone, the furrows in the snow made by Teladon and Rasso go straight into the heart of the storm. The wind is ferocious, enough so that Styvanus leads with his shield raised to block some of the driving wind as ice encrusts its cold surface. As they enter the portal, following Teladon and Rasso in, there is a sudden feeling of movement and a rush of weightlessness. Then , as they enter the watery light that spins in a column at the center of the storm, there is the sensation of being rocketed upwards towards the sky at speeds no man has flown.
Miles away at the Talon's Hill lodge, the rescued townspeople of Falcon's Hollow gather on the north face of the hill, looking out at the dark skies with awe and worry. Big Dann, standing head and shoulders above the others, narrows his eyes as another pulse of light comes from the winter portal, disappearing as a thin stream of light into the heavens...
"Godspeed."
<< | | >>
"Incompetant!" the scream reverberates through the icy hall, accompanied by the crack of wood on flesh and a yelp of pain. Reeling back against the floor, the cobalt flesh of Izoze is streaked with bright azure-colored blood that glitters with shards of ice. Looming over the ice mephit, the black-robed figure dispensing his punishment is shrouded in tattered linen of night-black hue, his face obscured by the yellowed bone of a dire stag's great, horned skull.
Hefting his gnarled, wooden staff up, the skull-adorned figure slams its butt down on the floor with a resounding thunderclap that sends a circle of snow dust out from him across the floor. "M-Master Halak," Izoze stammers, clutching his bloodied face with one spindly hand. "They were too powerful, we were not prepared for the Andorans to send reinforcements of their calibre. They-- they had a Sin Mage with them!"
Once more the staff comes sweeping down to strike Izoze, batting the fey across the smooth ice floor and straight into a frost-encrusted stone wall. "Excuses!" Halak's voice booms in the chamber as he strides forward, his eyes shedding an unnatural and sickly green glow in the shadow of his stag skull helm. "Lady Vallisovna brought you, Hommelstaub and Teb from Taldor because of your successes, not for your ability to beg!" Before the mephit can crawl to his feet, Halak presses the end of his staff down against his chest.
"I-- I will lead a hunting party to find them!" Izoze rasps, reaching up towards Halak with a feeble, clawed hand. What the imp fails to see, are three young blonde women emerging fromt he stairwell behind Halak. Each one moves with an unnatural grace across the ice, their curly blonde locks and icy blue eyes showing blood-heritage of Jadwiga. Vicious gashes cut from ear to ear across their throats, where steaming breaths emerge instead of their pallid lips.
Halak is cognizent of the girls' approach, and it informs his decision in regards to Izoze's request. "No," he intones, and yet releases Izoze from beneath his staff all together. The imp lets out a ragged gasp, clutching his chest as he sits up, struggling to get to his feet. It is only then that Izoze sees the three girls behind Halak, and any words he had planned to speak are swallowed by a mournful scream. He knows what they are.
"NO!" Izoze howls as Halak steps back, "No, please! No!" The doomed imp scrambles back against the wall, then all too late tries to fly up into the air, only to be snatched by one of the girl's bare hands as they suddenly burst into superhuman speed. The mephit's wings flutter wildly as he stares into the girls' eyes; red with ruptured blood vessels. His screams as they drag him to the floor pierce the icy walls of the pale tower, and his gurgling, pleading cries for mercy are ignored as Halak turns his back on the imp...
...and the girls take their time skinning him alive.
REIGN OF WINTER
Part IV: The Land of Ice and Snow
Thousands of miles, traversed in the blink of an eye. It is hard to understand the concept without experiencing it first hand. When Rasso comes exploding through the Winter Portal in pursuit of Teladon, he emerges with a sense of freefalling, though his movement is entirely horizontal. Thrown with a violent force three times greater than the speed at which he was moving when he entered the portal, Rasso tumbles and rolls through the snowy ground on the other side, caking white into his thick, brown fur. As he comes to a stop and the world stops spinning, he can see a starless night's sky overhead and the eerie watery glow of the winter portal cast across the snow.
Sitting up slowly, the summoner can see that the other side of the winter portal is nothing like the one he'd arrived from. Here, seven pillars of ice rise up thirty feet in the air in a circle around a vertically oriented swirling portal of ice and snow that is sucking air into it like an all-hungry mouth. Ice rimes the border of the twenty foot tall tear in space and the interior of the portal is a vortex of clouds and snow. The pillars of ice each flicker and sputter with an internal light at seemingly irregular intervals.
Amid one flash of the pillars, Rasso catches glimpse of a humanoid silhouette nearby -- Teladon. The transfigured elf stands just beyond the ring of icy pillars, his back to the portal, staring out over snow-covered, rolling hills that stretch out as far as Rasso's darkvision spreads in every direction. There are no trees here, just snow-covered rock and hills.
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The portal emits a series of soft rumbles of thunder, one for each of the travelers it disgorges into the snow. Styvanus lands with more grace than Rasso, though his walking pace is hastened to that of a charge when he emerges on the other side, flung into a leap to land in ankle-deep windblown snow. Behind him, Ordrud, Gwynn, Talavuc, Naasvit, Fenyx and Ar'Zarrcal arrive, each heralded by a low rumble from the arcane structure. The pillars each flicker and sputter with light, the wind howls inward towards the portal's churning opening, and the dark of night refuses to reveal its secrets beyond the portal's watery glow.
They had all come so far, and now it feels like there is an even greater journey ahead.
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Marcellano stood, alone, near the portal. He was the last one to go, covering the rear, much as Gwynn intended on doing. He stood there for a moment, thinking about his visions.. about his past.. about his possible future. As the portal's gale wind cakes snow onto his coat and hat, he simply stands there, unaffected by the cold thanks to the potion he had downed not long ago.
"Well, Uncle.. I've come quite a long ways from the crybaby you thought of me back when you first took me under your wing, eh? All of those years.. all of the discipline you drilled into me.. it seems to be finally paying off. Here I am, apparently set out to save the world, working with former enemies against a mutual foe. Strange, isn't it? You would probably have cut me down in an instant if you had known that I was allied with the Andorans, wouldn't you? You would call me a coward and a weakling for even accepting their help - you would likely have called me that regardless. Well.. you're wrong. They may be our nations' enemies, but right now, I need them as much as they need me. Perhaps.. when we meet again in Asmodeus's realm.. then you will understand. I am no longer who you thought I was. I am my own man now. And I am going to show you what I am made of. I will show you all who Marcellano Kain really is."
Speaking this thoughts out loud for once, now that he was alone, Marcellano seems to be talking to his deceased uncle, Commander Kyan Kain, former Bosun aboard the Dominator. Marcellano looks behind him one last time, looking back towards the cabin, towards those they left behind. You'll be fine. You are strong men - stronger than I will admit outloud. You've survived this long - you Andorans are tougher than we Chelish would ever admit. We'll handle it from here, though.
He turns back towards the portal and, without further adieu, gripping his hat so it doesn't get blown off his head, walks into the portal, leaving the nation of Andoran - his enemy, or so his superiors would say - behind. Forever.
For his real journey had just begun. Theirs all had.
"It would appear," Fenyx begins dryly, "that we are not in Almas any more." Gaining his feet and dusting off clumps of snow from his robes, Fenyx turns his attention to his surroundings. It is too dark for his eyes to behold much of note. Snow. More snow in all directions. Unbroken or marred by the appearance of forest, mountain, or civilization. The sky affords little illumination to the landscape, so bereft is it of constellation to serve as guide. Only the undulation of energies within the spires surrounding the portal and the thrum of the portal itself deign to bless the sin mage with some limited stretch of vista. He would like very much, even now, to plant stakes and render the meticulous scrutiny the portal deserves—such a conduit along a current of ley-lines would earn him much infamy back in Xin-Shalast were he to document and publish his findings on the phenomenon. Unfortunately, even such pursuits as this are frivolous at best in the face of the path forward that demanded their attention.
The necromancer's eyes once more find the form of his dwarven companion and fellow ambassador. What had he seen; experienced? Were his visions the same? The curiosity and worry were beginning to gnaw at Fenyx's conscience. He had always thought Karzoug unassailable—a living legend for whom the limits of mortality and the possibility of defeat did not apply. His visions, however, painted different pictures—murals. Thousands of them beyond reckoning. Such an onslaught of possibilities could not help but have a profound effect on the man's own truths and views. Could he truly rise to such heights as to rival and surpass a Runelord? Then there were the visions of Fenyx garbed in whites and grays, holding a title of virtue mage. For so long, Lissala had been corrupted. Could such a transformation be unmade? Mended?
Mind racing and struggling to come to terms with what could be, Fenyx finds himself equally wondering at what should be. His eyes linger overlong on Ar'Zarrcal. Ar'Zarrcal? Could he be...? How ironic. Before him stands a repurposed Forgemaster, rune-scarred and twisted to the will of another. Just as the goddess whom the dwarf serves now had once been a being of purity—of virtues—twisted by the design of the Runelords of old, Ar'Zarrcal had once been another person entirely. Could he shed the shackles of his own corruption? Could he be the instrument of Lissala's cleansing? For the first time since having met him, Fenyx begins to wonder who the dour-faced dwarf had been prior to his binding to The Reclaimer's will. His wondering would not yield answers itself. Perhaps it was time to press the dwarf for answers directly.
Crunching and displacing snow announce Fenyx's approach, his strides coming to a stop just beside the shorter, squatter man. Leaning on his scythe, much as he always has since the unnatural winter has taken hold on the world, he allows several wisps of breath to kick up before he musters the words to break the awkward silence.
"During my transcendence, in that brief instant following The Rider's passing, I... saw a great many things. I experienced a great many things; lived them as if I had truly been there, as surely as I stand before you now. Thousands of lifetimes all experienced in a fraction of an instant." Fenyx studies Ar'Zarrcal's face carefully as he speaks, hoping to gain some indication of the dwarf's own experience. "A great many of these possible lives seemed to imply some level of involvement with the Lissalan faith itself. Virtue magic." At this last bit the necromancer falls silent, his focus now solely on his companion's own thoughts and reaction.
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Rasso gets up and shakes himself off like a wet dog, sending clouds of snow puffing out from his body in all directions. Looking back and seeing that everyone had come through the portal behind him, he smiles, or what serves for one with his new beastly maw. He reaches down and slides the snowshoes onto his new feet, flexing them experimentally.
It seems that everyone else is more put out by their transformation than he is. Perhaps he's just used to changing into something that he's not. Perhaps he's just used to pain, which was the main feature of his transformation. Oddly enough he doesn't have much desire to drink anymore. For the first time in years, he feels like all the fighting is actually accomplishing something. He's a herald of Baba Yaga for Besmara's sake. Rasso wasn't sure how he felt about that part yet, but as long as he got to save the world it would probably be fine.
He trundles over to Teladon standing in between the pillars. "Hey, bub....er...I mean Teladon. You alright mate? See anything out there?"
Standing just beyond the ring of icy pillars, Teladon stood straight backed and silent. His cloak of leaves fluttered in the wind, drawing off autumn beech, dogwood and maple leafs, spinning them away from the elf and towards the portal like bits of a crimson dandelion seeds being blow away in a turbulent wind. The air felt mournful here, snow and rock covered the ground for as far as the eye could see in the darkened light of the portal. Teladon took a single deep breath and breathed out. Both odd and troubling was the fact that no puff of hot steam slipped though his mask and more-so when he breathed in, he did not feel the sharp sting of cold air against his throat. Sighing, the elf resisted the urge to shake his head. The mantle seemed to have affected each member of the group differently and Teladon was still adapting to the changes... whatever they were.
Glancing back, the magus watched as Rasso shook himself like a dog, or perhaps a bear awaking from a long hibernation. I'm fine. The elf said quietly. As fine as I can be at least, after reliving the death of my brother. Turning back towards the desolate, snow blown landscape, Teladon waved his hand. What do I see? I see a killer all around us. It stalked us at first. Once I could feel its shivers down my back... now, I'm not sure. Letting the words hang in the silence, the elf kneels and taking off a glove runs his delicate fingers though the snow. He lets the fine powder run though his fingers. It does not feel cold. Before you know it, you wake up and it is there. Coldly killing all life it surrounds. Winter, Rasso, I see a land crushed by winter. Standing up the elf tugged on a leaf tooled glove. And more importantly, I learned that in the depth of winter there lay within me an invincible summer.
"Yeah, ye're way better this way. Ye actually talk. That and ye're all warm looking. Not much o' that these days," Rasso replies. "So what's next? Ye any good at lookin' fer tracks or the like? Seems like if we find some it might lead us ter where Halak went." Rasso is eager to confront their next foe in the war against eternal winter. His new found power seethes in his muscles and tendons, begging for release.
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After Ordrud’s stomach catches up with his body, he slowly stands up dusting the snow from himself. He surveys the territory while his hands verify all of his weapons and equipment with well-practiced ease. He notices the two Runelord devotees comparing experiencing and Rasso chatting up Teladon. Teladon. Don’t bear hug that prickly one, Rasso. He thinks to himself with grin. When he confirms that his gear is all accounted, he begins to walk a perimeter of the pillars looking for tracks, trails, or anything that looks like a Pale Tower on the horizon. He wonders where he is but not too deeply. He knows he is where he is supposed to be, where Baba Yaga wants him to be.
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The landscape that Ar'Zarrcal looked upon was not one that offered the promise of a grand future, but rather revealed on the bleak and troubled situation they now found themselves in. If his eyes were to be trusted, this was a land that had long ago succumbed to an eternal winter. Was this what their enemies planned for the rest of the world? Not a tree was glimpsed for as far as his vision extended. Just hills, rocks, and always snow. In the cold frost of the starless night his companions stood out starkly under the stare of his dwarven minesight.
Though he could find no stars in the sky, he searched the heavens for a moon by which to commune with his goddess. It had been too long since he offered proper prayer, though he wondered whether the Captain would allow them time to rest or would press them ever onward into danger. He pulled his eyes from his upward gaze at the snow crunching approach of his fellow Ambassador of The Reclaimer. Ar'Zarrcal scratched at his cheek beneath one of his eyes, scrapping away some blood that had frozen in place. He noted a curiousness mixed with concern in the other ambassadors usually composed features. For his own part Ar'Zarrcal did nothing to dispel the awkward silence that took place between them.
"It would seem that Lissala granted us both visions of many possible futures yet to be assigned as fate. Yet I would be hesistant to name them all enduring possibilities..." Ar'Zarrcal clearly picked his words carefully, but whether or not he wished to hide something remained unclear.
"Unlike your experience it seems mine held some differences. I did not experience these futures, I only witnessed them, jumbled and fleeting as if from the circular window of a fast moving carriage. The visions were not merely futures either nor were they mine alone, but I.. I glimpsed days since past as well." He did not meet Fenyx's gaze at first when he chose to speak these more revealing words, looking up and making eye contact once again only at the end.
"The magic built upon the foundation of the Seven Virtues of Rulership are the keystone to the future. Lissala has made this clear. It should come as no surprise to you Feyronix Dagannauth as a practioner of Thassilonian magic." He halted his words there. Was he trying to be deliberately vague? Ar'Zarrcal's hot breath was expelled from his nostrils, steaming in the air as he broke eye contact with his fellow ambassador and set his gaze instead to the snowy ground, searching in particuar for any tracks which might have belonged to the troll before it passed through the portal into the Andorran side. He gave up quickly however, for it seemed snow and his companions had destroyed all evidence that he could pick up with his limited experience following a trail.
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RPG Superstar 2014 Top 4
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Surveying the land, Ordrud finds a sole set of tracks speckled with blood leading towards the winter portal. The tracks clearly belong to a horse and is presumably the trail of the Black Rider on his way into the portal. Though, Ordrud only barely discovered them, as the windblodn snow is rapidly concealing them. If Hommelstaub and the others fled this way, they likely continued their journey by flight, meaning tracking them to wherever they retreated to is a doomed endeavor. Following the rider's tracks out from the portal and away from its watery glow, Ordrud spots lights on the horizon to the east several hundred feet lower in elevation and a little more than a mile away. They are the lights of a town or village, likely no bigger than Falcon's Hollow judging from what little illumination can be seen. The rider's tracks go in the opposite direction, west, away from the portal and higher into the hills.
More urgently, Ordrud hears something on the wind; metal clashing with metal. There is a distant grunt and cry of pain, followed by a bestial roar that sounds part avian and part ursinal, along with the shouts of men. There is a battle happening nearby. Turning towards the direction of the sound, Ordrud jogs through the snow a quarter-circle around the ring of pillars and can more clearly hear the confrontation happening in the same direction the rider's tracks disappear off to.
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Over the howl of the wind entering the portal, you hear the sounds of shouting, weapons clashing, and a horrifying, bestial roar somewhere nearby to the west.
If you succeed on the above check, you may attempt the below check to identify the animal shriek. Ordrud is already considered to have succeeded.
Ordrud marks the direction with two points: one at the horizon and one of the stone pillars, so he can return in case the snow covers his trail. He then starts to jog back toward the group waving Feyswatter to silently get their attention. When they notice, he slowly returns to where he marked the direction of the battle, so the team can attack as one.
Rasso, seeing that the young half orc has found something taps Teladon on the arm and nods in his direction. He then hustles over to Ordrud as fast as he can. "What've we got?" he asks quietly when he catches up to the barbarian. Rasso's ears are amongst the worst in the group, and there is no chance of him hearing the sounds of battle on his own, or spotting the tracks.
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"There's a battle over there: men and monsters. If we wait much longer, there will probably only be one side alive."
After a pause, Ordrud impatiently continues to talk, "it also happens to be the same direction the Black Rider came from."
"Lets go then. Lead the way keenears," Rasso says, waving the others over vigorously. He crouches down, assuming an almost quadrupedal gait as he waits for Ordrud to lead the way.
Straining his ears above the sound of the howling wind, Teladon listens for the tell-tell sounds of battle, but is unable to make anything out beyond the mournful gusts. Trusting his instincts, the elf, nods towards Ordrud before drawing his sword and dashing after him into the snowy expanse.
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Fenyx chooses to trust in Ordrud's observations. That Rasso and Teladon are of similar disposition only reinforces the notion. Keeping pace as best he can, the necromancer says quietly as they hustle along through the mounds of snow, "What madness do we chase at this juncture?" A hint of a smirk works its way onto his face as he awaits answer.
Not one to rush into a nest of hungry and agitated Owlbears, Ar'Zarrcal made a more cautious approach, following behind those companions that rushed forward. He tried to warn those who were up ahead of what they might face, even as he once more glanced to the moon. He needed to restore his divine blessings, it had been too long.
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RPG Superstar 2014 Top 4
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Yvonne stares blankly into the distance, her ice-crusted face still a picture of her once warm life dappled with signs of gore and violence, too cold to decay. Her milky white eyes unblinkingly peer into the night with vacant absence of free will, only jerking to movement at her master's call.
As the members of the group gather together on hearing Ordrud's warning, Ar'Zarrcal was already aware of the potential danger. He could hear the bestial cries above the wind and the harried calls of the men's voices. Two different languages were at play that he could recognize, one the elven tongue and the other a barked Skald. No full words of either language could be understood over the roar of the wind, but they were angry and in counter to one-another. Worse yet, Ar'Zarrcal recognizes the animal cries as something terrible and ferocious.
"Owlbears," the dwarf sturdily warns as they rally towards the nearby sounds of combat. Stealth winds up being not in their favor, too much crunching snow and clattering armor announces the group's arrival in formation just a few hundred feet away from the portal. There they come upon a striking sight, as a lone hooded figure in brown furs and winter clothing wielding what resembles an enormous scimitar stands bloodied and in battle with a foe that appears to be getting the better of him.
The opponent is indeed what Ar'Zarrcal warned, but more than just one owl bear it is a pack of the creatures. Three owlbears stand six feet tall at the shoulder, covered with snow white plumage flecked with black. Worse, one of them is plated with black leather armor and a riding saddle, upon which rides a blonde-haired Ulfen man with a bow, firing down at the bloodied man in the winter gear.
"Escravo sen valor," the hooded man spits out the words, whirling his enormous blade around in one hand before gripping it firmly in two. "Vou enviar-lle de volta a súa bruxa Raíña anacos!" Teladon recognizes the inflection of the elven tongue. Not that of Mordant dialect, but the -- in this age -- rarer Kyonin inflection. The blade, too, is a recognizably elven weapon -- a curveblade.
The mounted owlbear rider draws back his bow and scowls, training his arrow down on the hooded figure.
Now or never.
<< | | | Hunting Grounds >>
Huffing breathily, Gwynn takes wide strides in her snowshoes, breaking away from the group the moment the bears come into view. With the snow slowing her down, she puts all of the effort she can into maneuvering in to a close enough range to get a good shot off, trudging up behind Rasso as she unholsters her revolver. "Go show'm what a real bear-crab-thing's all about," the blonde notes with a grimace to the horrifying-looking summoner.
The owlbears are already in the process of attacking the elven warrior as the group approaches. One lunges at the blonde-haired swordsman, finding its first raking paw batted aside by the flat of his curveblade, the second strike hits the snow as the swordsman leaps over the attack, landing down in time to duck below the incoming bite with the feathered bear's horrific beak. Blue eyes scan to the side, and the elven man barely manages to dodge another raking paw from the second bear, and finds himself grabbed by its other paw, dragged in towards it as its ferocious beak digs down through his protective clothing, eliciting screams and blood.
Struggling to break free of the bear's hold on him, the elf batters at the creature with the pommel of his sword, but all he can feel is the creature's immense weight bearing down on his chest and its beak tearing at the soft flesh of his shoulder.
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Fenyx spares not a glance for the owlbear nearest to them. Seeing the form of Ordrud's back between he and the creature's path is all the reassurance he needs that his attention is best invested elsewhere. As he steps forward beyond the form of Ar'Zarrcal to stand beside Teladon, the necromancer begins withdrawing his the left sleeve of his robe up to the elbow, revealing once more the necrophidius tattoo that coils about the length of his forearm.
"Бул дос авторитет фарси пого: венеат."
It begins shedding a sickly, green glow, growing in strength until it begins scintillating brightly. In the span of scant seconds, the energies drain from the tattoo and into the waiting grasp of his right palm, coalescing into a writhing orb of necromantic energies awaiting the direction of he who commands it. Noting the elf's predicament, Fenyx prepares to give the man a fighting chance against his much larger foe.
"Венеат сега, и се откажува од вашиот каменолом, ѕвер."
"Wither now, and relinquish your quarry, beast."
As Fenyx's right hand lashes out, the energy takes on one more the form of the tattoo that birthed it—a skeletal serpent with a human skull at the fore, streaking across the air to impact the owlbear in one of it's enormous haunches. The poisonous veridian serpent disappears into the owlbear, washing the creature briefly in its dark energy.
Meanwhile, Yvonne begins trudging through the snow slowly but steadily towards the same owlbear.
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Even with his new snowshoes, the snow is incredibly difficult to navigate. Rasso tries to go charging forward to engage the owlbears, but he only makes it a paltry twenty feet or so by ploughing through the several foot deep loose powder. He leaves a wide shallow trench behind him, and soon his new fur in completely encrusted in snow dingleberries. He vents his frustrations in a series of ursine roars, which match the owlbears in volume if not depth. "C'mon ye foul beasties, I'll tear yer feckin' beaks off!"
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The air gusted around the strike team made up from the best that all of the world could still provide. Ahead of them riders mounted atop beasts that were amalgamations of owl and bear hooted and squawked in animistic fury. Taking a step in the snow, Teladon's snowshoe sunk down in the white thick powder, the elf grimaced. He would know who this elf was that was so far from home, standing his ground against the riders.
The wind gusted hard against his cloak, and Teladon became wrapped in a whirling nimbus of orange, yellow and red leaves. Bring fear to the hearts of men, my champion.. let them them be reminded why the dark places of the night are still feared. Be my herald and let none stand before you. The hour approaches.. An ancient voice cawed out to him from the dark place in his own heart. It was the same place that carried with it the onus of responsibility to whatever power had so recently claimed him.
Touching that part inside of himself, Teladon drew his blade forth in one hand. The black scimitar FLARED into a life of its own. Color the hue of a bloody sunset arched around his blade, hissing and sputtering. Pushing himself though the snow the blades radiance grew brighter and brighter as he pushed his way towards the owlbear's. It sang to him, cried to him, begged him to sound the horn and call the hunt. He was the stag and the forest was his domain. Gathering his will, a wellspring of joy, anger, pain and pure unbridled life flooded though him from the part of himself that was not his own. Gathering the power and energy, the wind sucked in towards him. He placed his right hand on the ground and squatted before EXPLODING upward into the air with a furious yell. Sailing like a leaf upon the wind, Teladon jumped thirty five feet toward the southern most owlbear. The blade in his hand contained to pulse with light, growing brighter and brighter.
Leaping over the snow in an arc nearly ten feet high, Teladon roared in power and fury as he landed behind the owlbear.
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