With the second hag smote down from the sky, Niyut ventures near the river.
Niyut rushes forward and casts a spell of her own making, drawing the ethereal energy from the depths of the river. To her delight, and that of the group, five more ethereal essences coalesce along with a single life essence.
For several tense minutes the group slowly gathers watching the sky with great anticipation but no attack comes from the last hag. At last, everyone begins to relax and Garidan focuses in on the pool of water. At first he sees nothing. Then he begins to make out a swirling form within the water; nearly invisible it first seems. Perhaps a fish or some other aquatic creature swims about, hidden in the pool he muses out loud. Curious, Truk'tosh leaps across the river. His druidic instincts taking over. As the pair stares at the swirling pool, the water comes alive. Out from the muddy basin a small amphibious creature emerges and comes to the water's edge gazing at the half-orc with excitement. The tail of this shimmering, salamander-like creature is composed entirely of water.
At the western bank of the river, Niyut looks down at the hag in the icy waters. She senses ethereal energies, and the hungers she has felt for weeks spikes. Without a conscious thought, Niyut opens her mouth and inhales. Though her companions likely do not notice in the midst of battle, there is something unnatural in the way that her lower jaw hinges in this moment.
With a breath, power begins to flood to her.
When her brother comes close to the river, Niyut asks,
"Are you well, brother?"
Seeing his wounds, she asks her grandmother to heal him.
The worst of his wounds knit, as his ancestor reaches out from beyond the veil.
"Brother, will you brave the water and retrieve the body of the crone that fell in for me?"
Niyut follows her brother when he leaps across the river. Though she is drawn more to the dead hag with red scarf than to the water spirit that interests her brother.
Once across the river, she kneels next to the fallen crone and extracts her magic as well. She also peers into the spirit world to see if there are any bits of witchery to find on her fallen foe.
The stories that Niyut had learned at her grandmother's knee about the crone daughters of the Lost were that they were extremely magical. Their bodies suffused with arcane might. Her lore told her that the crone's blood, bones, and even eyes might have some dormant power. She wonders what lore the low landers have of such things, and checks the book she possesses on harvesting magic from the bodies of the fallen.
Looking at the unusual amphibian, and then at the focus of its attention, Garidan can't stiffle an amused snort, a smile growing on his face. "Looks like you have admirer there," he comments to the half-orc with a chuckle. Laughing softly, he leaves the small pool and wanders cautiously along the bank of the river, keeping a wary eye upward for signs of trouble while the others get pick over the fallen hags or recover their compusre after the short but nasty fight.
Truk'tosh marvels at the sight of the animated water spirit as it rises from its hiding place in the shallows of the river. Was this what the hags had been hunting? He'd seen plenty of similar spirits since he'd learned to communicate with them but never one so defined in its form. Slowly, he reaches out with one big hand. He knew from experience that spirits rarely appreciated the touch of mortals but, in this case, his wisdom gave out under the wonder and joy of the experience.
Waiting in relative safety while the audacious spirit-speaker stepped forward, the rogue was concerned danger was still out there. That last hag ... these visions ... and what's this? It seemed as though a new creature had come to them.
Truk'tosh had begun to approach a small creature, reptile from the looks of it, made completely of liquid. The hobgoblin walked up behind him to urge patience. Though his mind told him the thing was beyond a plain animal, Gruskorb's instincts screamed caution. "That could be a trap!"
No sooner had he spoken the phrase did his hallucinations come to bear again. The basin and river formed stalagmites of iron, the angles pillars of his creation on a much more minute, tangible scale. He'd reached forward to the muscled half-orc's shoulder to hold him back from folly, but he recoiled his hand faster than the crack of his whips with this new, yet familiar illusion - or what he hoped was an illusion. It has to be. They can't see it. They would say something.
The half-orc stretched his hand to the creature, and the rogue closed his eyes, hoping unreasonably both sources of fear would be assuaged once he opened them. Yet more unreasonable things had happened.
As if on cue, a cold wind whipped through mountain pass. It's howling voice echoing off distant rocky peaks and cascading down upon the group of reluctant explorers. While the half-orc, Truk'tosh remained gaze locked with the mamiwa, the hallucinations of Gruskorb intensified. Streaks of dark green flashed across the sky leaving a trail reddish stardust. And upon the wind, he heard the cackles of the missing hag.
As the hobgoblin retreated to himself, Niyut and her brother went to work recovering the submerged corpse of second hag. After some time, they were able to successfully drag it to the icy shores although the ordeal took every ounce of strength of the druid. Niyut knelt besides the two hags and rummaged through their tattered robes but found other than a rusty shank caught in the red-headed hag's right sleeve.
Surveying the rest of the right bank, neither Garidan or Malthazir find any tracks or signs of life. It was anyone's guess as to the direction the hags had come from or where the last had retreated. Movement back across river caught the young swashbuckler's eye. Turning to the west, he saw the large form of Tacal among its way to the river bank. It's bruised and bloodied body clearly visible in the glow from Ruza. Tacal lets out single, low moan and stops at the water's edge.
Eyeing Tacal with some concern, Garidan looks at the riverbank until he finds a spot where it and the opposite bank are fairly close and then, with a running start, launches himself across the freezing water again. After landing, he makes his way to the wounded pack animal while withdrawing the silver flask tucked into his bandolier. After making the requisite toast to Mylesar's nethers, he tips the contents carefully down Tacal's throat.
Capping and storing the flask, the swashbuckler watches the wounded animal to see if perhaps Niyut or Malthazir might be needed for further treatment. Though using the flask's precious contents in such a fashion might be decried as wasteful by some, the missing third hag--to say nothing of the weather itself--means that Tacal might not have time to wait on the nauseating ooze to do its work in full. Comsidering the oxen, another thought occurs to Garidan, and he moves to round up the party's horses, gathering them close to the river's bank.
Niyut will feed the blood of the two hags to the Liber Sanguinem, though she also saves some of their blood so that she might learn their names. She wants to begin butchering the crones immediately, but that is impractical. Tacal was still on the wrong side of the river. Her brother and Garidan need to gather the oxen and horses.
"We should gather the horses and Tacal. It might be wise to find a place to rest. We haven't slept since before we met with the king of Haemil."
With a wave of her arm the bodies of the two hags disappear into her robe's sleeve.
Though he's loath to leave the curious water spirit behind, Truk'tosh attends his sister's suggestions. He returns to Tacal's side and quickly works to sooth the battered oxen's nerves. Once the poor beast has calmed, he guides it and the abandoned horses in wading the steadily-flowing river. From safely on the other side, he looks over Tacal's wounds to judge their severity. "Can you call on Grandmother's blessing again?" he asks of his twin. "He has scratches and bruises mostly but I wouldn't ask Tacal to bear our burden in suffering if it can be helped."
As Niyut offers the hags' blood to the Libre Sanguinem the faint words of a spell begin to form on the fine vellum pages. She looks with delight as she recognizes aspects of the spell and realizes that such a spell would allow her to bestow a hag's curse upon an enemy. Yet the spell only partially forms as the necrotic book demands more hag's blood to fully reveal the spell.
The furthering of his visions caused Gruskorb's nerves to quake his limbs ever so slightly. Yet for one as agile as he, the lack of control was extremely disconcerting. There was something beyond the material world at play here. Not being his forte, he began to panic; if it needs a magical solution, there's little I can do. Niyut was talented, but she seemed better with spirits than visions. She already knew of Querkus, yet this was another level of supernatural burden. And I cannot be cast out here. I'll die.
Resigned to let the macabre malady fester for a while, the rogue put his efforts into calming Tacal. He approached Truk'tosh and pat the beast, wounded as it was. "He's a hearty one. Might be the last one standing if we run into anything more dangerous." His jest came off flat, yet there was a kernel of truth in his diversion from despair.
As the party settles warily into what defenses they can arrange for a bit of cold, uneasy rest, Garidan takes the time to examine the pair of essences that had delivered themselves to him from the slain hags. If his limited education on such matters is accurate, then the number of essences the pair gave up was a pretty fair indication of just how powerful--and dangerous--those creatures truly were. On the one the hand, it makes Garidan just a bit proud at how well the party handled them. On the other, however, it reminds the young man that there is a third hag unaccounted for, who surely bears the party what is almost certain to be a grudge of considerable strength.
Grunting unhappily, he resumes his examination of the faintly glowing crystals, wondering how best to use them. A tentative effort to introduce them to his rapier does nothing, and his sister's vessel draws a similar lack of response after she volunteers to try by giving one a cautious nudge. "I could try to stick them into myself," he muses silently. "But that might be a bad idea. The last few essences I did that with always seemed to give me a bit of whatever creature they came from, along with whatever power they possessed. Don't know that I want hag residue in my head." As soon as that thought completes, another follows close behind as his eyes briefly track to where Niyut sits.
"Besides, she's been absorbing most of the essences she's gained hold of, and each time she does, her behavior gets just a bit more... off from what it was before. Could be the stress of what we've been facing, but somehow, I really doubt it." Staring at the essences in his right hand, Garidan chuckles mirthlessly. "No, I think I'll try not to travel too far down that road just yet. Not until I absolutely have to." After a bit more contemplation, Garidan groans softly and brings his empty hand to his face. "I'm a fool, I really am. I completely forgot that I have one other thing in my possession that could receive these," he thinks to himself as his eyes drop to take in the armor he's wearing. Before he can think twice, he slaps the palm of his essence-carrying hand against the surface of the breastplate, the crystals disappearing into the metal with no resistance.
With a frustrated growl, Garidan glares at the formula that stubbornly resist his efforts to decipher it. A part of him knows that he could--and should--ask Niyut or Malthazir for aid in this, but the majority rejects that idea as soon as it occurs to him. No, he will solve this, no matter how long it takes him. This is his magic now, and having the others patiently explain to him what it does, as though he were a helpless, ignorant child is unacceptable! Mustering his concentration as best he can through a distracting haze of frustration and anger, he tries again. And again. And again. And yet again. Until, at last, the formula is coaxed into revealing its secrets to the stubborn swashbuckler: a spell that will render him unseen! With a triumphant grin, Garidan pats the formula almost as though it were a pet that had just performed a marvelous trick for him.
Buoyed by this success, Garidan eventually works out some of the other little changes wrought on his armor by those essences. Foremost is the subtle alteration in his armor's appearance. Before it showed as unblemished metal, but now the surface is faintly mottled with slowly-shifting patterns and colors that Garidan is startled to realize are quite similar to that of the snow blowing past him in flurries. And when he shifts the ioun torch to get a better look, the armor darkens ever so slightly in response. After a bit experimentation--which probably makes him look quite silly to his companions--Garidan figures out that the armor is actively trying to make itself less noticeable to both sight and sound. A curious feature, to be sure, but not one he'll complain about!
And that experimentation gradually reveals another ability that Garidan can readily appreciate, as he feels the armor moving ever so slightly against him in ways that it shouldn't be doing. While he can't suppress the reflexive, sphincter-tightening thought that the hags have somehow possessed his armor, he keeps calm and works out the mystery carefully. And the reward is worth it, as he comes to discover that his breastplate now acts of its own accord to serve as a counterweight to his movements, sharpening his already-impressive sense of balance just a bit beyond what it usually is. With the memory of his incredible--and incredibly insane--leaps across the river, and how he almost didn't make the first one, Garidan quite approves of this. Even if the way in which it occurs is somewhat unnerving; he may accept Malthazir's odd pet moving about on its own, but he's not wearing the damn thing next to his own personal self either, which has a marked effect on Garidan's ability to tolerate it. Having his armor potentially acting in a similar manner is not a comforting idea to the swashbuckler.
Having spent a fair bit of time on his own concerns to the exclusion of all else, Garidan finally turns his attention back to the members of his party as he wonders what they've doing during his state of distracted obliviousness.
After the camp is set up, Niyut spends a few moments doing exactly she see Garidan doing across the fire: trying to discern the nature of their essences they gained from those two crones. The young oracle seems to have a quicker time of it than her masculine counterpart.
She thinks that essences respond to both will and unspoken desire. Previously, when they or their possessions had absorbed essences, the abilities granted by those essences had been in keeping with what they had wanted but not specifically shaped the essence towards that purpose. Now, Niyut tries to shape these essences to her will.
The life essence of the hag had shown a greater affinity for her than it did for her brother. This did not surprise Niyut. The essences of hags is a powerful feminine magic. Her brother is many things, but he is not particularly feminine. She hopes to incorporate some part of the crone's witchery into her own magic. Witchcraft at its core are magical secrets bartered, gifted, or seized from spirits. This similarity makes her hopeful that the crone's power can augment her own magic of breath, blood, and bone.
As the hag's life essence merges with her own, Niyut is not disappointed. This hag knew the secrets to trapping the knowledge of an incantation into a temporary charm. The wizards of the lowlands were infamous for their scrolls. Parchment and vellum were luxuries that they could not hope to find in this ruined world. Luckily, the hag had not used parchment or vellum. She had made her charms from root, stone, and bone. While Niyut is intrigued by the idea that the crone had known some root magic -- a magic Niyut does not understand -- the vague recollections of the hag were no insight. However, she does understand bone magic. For the first time, Niyut sees the method for how can be shaped bones to hold power.
This is not the crone's only gift. Niyut senses that if she calls the winds, then they will hold her aloft for a time. In this moment, Niyut feels satiated, relieved momentarily of the hunger that had been kindled within her.
Next she focuses the on two ethereal essences: Hide me. Veil me. Make the darkness my ally. Niyut lets out a small yelp as her silken dress becomes less silken and more roiling shadow and darkness. Briefly, her entire form disappears in a mass of deep shadows. Quickly, she realizes that she can control these shadows which she pulls from her face and smooth down the front of her dress.
She looks up to see Garidan looking at her. He has a considering look on his face.
Before she had always felt some heat of his desire with such long glances, but she feels no such heat now.
Who knows what secrets he holds? I have seen such glances before. He is likely wondering when I will become a danger.
She tries not to think about how the only man who had shown her any consideration or interest since the world ended is likely afraid of her.
Abruptly, she stands. "There are rites I must attend to. I will not go too far. If there is trouble I will return."
They would likely not thank me for butchering the hags in the camp. The smell alone would be vile. And perhaps by splitting off, I can draw the final hag from hiding.
All the while she keeps an eye out for the final hag of that coven.
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
Huddled about the campfire, the companions tend their wounds and marvel as the essences from the storm hags imbues themselves to various pieces of their arms and equipment. With each one, the fire seems to cackle at the adventurers as embers burst and dance within the flames. Rising on the warm air above the flame and smoke, the glowing embers ascend into the blackness of the night, then fade as they are overcome with the chill that has become the constant reminder of the world's destruction.
Great care is taken to keep the group safe as they take turns scanning the darkness for any signs of an ever-growing list of enemies. Malthazir's pseudo-dragon periodically takes flight and circles the encampment being mindful of the hidden forms that magic can conceal. But with every patrol, he returns to the elf with no report of sightings. No news is good news... you think to yourself.
When Niyut announces her intentions to attend to the supernatural, the mood intensifies as they all know that with her eyes fixed upon the dead hags' corpses, her sharp senses will be lost to group greater protection. As necessary as her actions are, the added risk is clear. Even Oseja is agitated but followers the oracle into the night. Circling Niyut as a predator stalks their prey, the familiar watches intently as she builds a fire and sets the pot of water to boil. As the oracle's work continues into the night, Oseja grows tired and nestles in close to her master, taking warmth from the fire. Studying the ancient blood book, Niyut comes upon a passage discussing the Rites of Converto Elementis. ...and I placed a piece of bark of an ancient oak tree in to the silver bowl and the essence took the form of earth having once been fire. In time, I confirmed that such a reagent would cause all elemental essences to take such form and would be as acid... Not until later, when I acquired her Wand, did I know that such conversion could be enhanced with the Primum Vinculum.
Later, as the companions took shifts through the rest period, each one noticed, in turn, that the winds velocity has increase and the snow has begun to fall. Before the final shift is through, a storm has descended upon all of you. Although you are protected from the elements, the way will be difficult today. The wind is howling and visibility is poor.
Niyut absent mindedly strokes Oseja as she reads. The more I learn, the more I learn that is much more to learn. She wryly thinks there was a time that she believed that her lore was deep, but she realizes that she barely has scratched the surface of the lore of her own people let alone the lore of the lowlanders.
The Liber Sanguinem slips easily into her sleeve, when it comes time to draw the hags from her pot. The irony of hags ending up in her cauldron is not lost on the young oracle. I am preying upon those horrors that my grandmother used to frighten me. Will one day old women tell their daughters' daughters stories of me? As she dismantles the crones' bones and waxes them she notices Oseja eating one of the hag's eyes. She is a predator and scavenger. Meat is meat to the hungry and desperate.
Before she cleans out her cauldron, Niyut takes some of the blood she collected from the hags before and lets it rune down her lion-bone handled knife. She slings droplets of blood on the snow as she sings an incantation. These hags could do her one more service: they could tell her who they were. Perhaps she can divine their purpose in these mountains. Draconic runes form from the blood as it hisses and sizzles on the snow. Niyut is careful not to have tasted any of the hags' blood. However dilute, she has no intention of being changed by the blood of Zamaz.
Finally, after all her chores and down and her implements cleaned, Niyut returns to camp and to sleep. She is disappointed that the remaining storm hag had not come to challenge her. When she awakens she clutches her shawl tightly around herself as her brother renews her weather ward.
"Is this storm natural or is it a working?" Niyut murmurs speculatively.
When they are ready to break camp, Niyut continues to lead them higher and higher into the Iron Mountains. She does not trust the balance of her horse so she leads it.
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
As the hags' blood spills upon the frozen ground and shrill cackle startles the young oracle. She spins to locate the source of the laughter but her dark vision is spoiled by the flurries of snow that surround her. Oseja hisses and clings to her adoptive mother. Niyut draws her power to the tip of her wand, ready to strike at the hag should she show herself, but she finds nothing but the howling wind. The cackle returns louder but this time Niyut casts her eyes upon the blood-soaked snow. The red liquid separates, spreading out across the river bank. A second cackle is heard and the twin voices laugh in harmony at the half-orc. She shrieks at the blood and watches it form draconic runes. Death awaits you, half-orc, she reads. With a final roar the laughter ceases and Niyut opens her eyes. Kneeling upon the ground with her hands clasped about her ears, Niyut looks up to see Oseja purring before her. The black cat rubs against the oracle's thigh and purrs sadly.
Looking at the snow fall about her, Niyut guesses that something more than nature is behind the storm, but nothing she can sense proves her correct.[/ooc]
Throughout his watch, Garidan can't stop poking at his breastplate as he struggles with the urge to use that spell. He doesn't give in, though it's a close-fought effort; only the thought that he might end up wasting the spell on nothing restrains him. Come 'morning', and the fouler weather that heralds the resumption of their journey, and playing his new spell is the last thing on Garidan's mind, occupied as he is with staying in the saddle, keeping his beleaguered mount on the path, and making sure that he doesn't lose the others in the blowing snow. The ioun torch is tucked safely out the wind's icy grasp and shining at full intensity to provide a beacon for the party. Aware that other things might be interested in the light as well, the swashbuckler keeps eyes and ears open as best he can to warn of trouble.
Niyut avoids the light that Garidan's stone emits. She makes sure that the pace she sets lets her walk in shadows.
Truk'tosh spends the latter part of the 'day' playing with his new companion. The tiny spirit was curious and lively in a welcome way that raised the big orc's spirits. It was a welcome reminder that there was still much left in this shattered world worth saving.
"What should we call you?" he asks the mamiwa as it slithers among his meager belongings. Truk had never named his pets before but he'd never had a living spirit as a companion before. It seemed appropriate to honor such an occasion with a new tradition. "Niyut should name you", he concludes as he picks up vaguely serpentine spirit. "Her lore is deeper than mine and a mighty river spirit needs a worthy name."
***
Truk'tosh laughs quietly as the mamiwa darts through the air snapping up snowflakes in its toothless maw.
Niyut eyes her brother as he comes to walk besides on the winding trail. Snow kisses her face, but she isn't cold. His weather ward shelters her. She doubts that Truk'tosh even feels the cold. There is a permanence and substance that Niyut sees in her twin that she herself lacks. I am like mist and shadow easily blown away. He keeps me here. I could survive in this new world, but were I to do it alone I would be more likes those hags and less like a daughter of the Firebird.
With the storm skirling about them, she cannot see the light of the stars. In the icy darkness, the only light spills forth from Garidan's sister-stone. The light dapples Truk's face.
"Yes, my brother?"
Her hulking brother responds, "The river spirit needs a worthy name, Niyut."
She turns her eyes to watch the spirit swim through the air around her brother. Though it was a small thing and weak in comparison to the Primogenitors or the great spirits who have spoken to her, it remains ancient. Likely, it had been in this world since the Veil between the worlds of flesh and spirit were first established.
"Brother, this river spirit is intelligent and far more ancient than we. Even the oldest child of Chana is a youth compared to it. It is not a beast to be named, but an ally to be honored."
She turns her gaze to the river spirit. "Spirit of the waters, what should we call you?"
A liquid, sibilant voices emerges from the tiny spirit. "I am Nethuns. Once I was a well. Then I was part of a river -- a stillness amongst tumbling waters."
"You honor us Nethuns", Truk'tosh answers with a bow of his head. "The Firebird welcome all spirits that come in peace. Will you be traveling with us long?"
The spirit slows its antics long enough to consider the question.
”After the sky split open, I was lost. My form was whole but my thoughts were scattered, split like the river on a great stone. Being near you beings of flesh helps me feel... more complete. I would stay by your side as long as you would have me.”
Worrying for his sanity - and uncharacteristically, maybe other people - Querkus formed a mental query for Querkus:
Can you see these visions I'm having, Querkus? What are they? It seems they are no longer just about me, but they are bending the world to fit into them. People say you spellsages have a way of knowing things, reading dreams and signs in the world. What do these mean for me? For us?
The expansion to a more encompassing pronoun was not an afterthought for Gruskorb, yet it was so common of him to put himself first, his question finished itself. In a moment of self-reflection, he considered his habits. Yes, it's selfish, but that's the only reason I've lived this long.
Doubt crept into his mind as he listened for the party members he was with. The truth of that observational search ran contrary to his thought-out statement; were it not for them though, I also wouldn't be here. It looks like both are necessary. Maybe it was fate that put him here with them. Maybe their paths were entwined. Yet regardless of what actually was the case, the cagey Gruskorb was convinced beating himself up over moral dilemmas probably wasn't the best use of his time alone during the watch.
Instead, he focused his thoughts on the foil to the trap, the bane of his visions; his whip at his side, an heirloom of a sort now, had a certain connection to him. He could call it to his hand with just a thought, and he had a hunch more potency lay in wait for the item. Yet the story of how it came to be was of interest to him again. Maybe it is the counter to these nightmares. Maybe I can pit one vision against another.
He thought back to his days in the quarry as a slave. Odd, but the details were more elusive than he remembered, few as they were. Most of the life of a slave was very simple. Few names were mentioned, few complexities considered. Basic survival was key. Yet the environment itself seemed to wash-out when he forced it forward in his thoughts. It was like trying to remember a dream later in the day. Gruskorb was certain he'd had near-perfect recall of the events previously, yet now his main antagonist and escape were all that seemed concrete. The bear trap's turbulence to his mental stability had already emptied him of fear. He became angry instead.
Querkus, are you stealing my thoughts? Is you being in there ruining my head?!
The questions were clearly out of frustration, but the limited formal education Gruskorb had didn't include anything about spirits, the psyche, or enchantments. And that damned elf is colder than a snowball.
Maybe revisiting the site would cause some clarity that could help the situation. They were a far way from the region though. He put his hand around the whip at his side as if for support. He put his other on his necklace. I've beaten these foes. I can beat an imaginary one.
+11 with familiar
+19 in dim light or darkness
No, responds the distant voice of Querkus. But I feel you grimace and become rigid when they come. The visions make you uncomfortable, don't they? As if waking from a long, sleep, the druid comes to the front of Gruskorb's consciousness. Hearing Querkus' voice as though he was whispering right into the hobgoblin's ear, Gruskorb stares straight ahead almost expecting to see the druid for the first time become corporeal. He moves a hand to his ear to swat the druid away, but feels nothing but the biting wind.
Gruskorb looks up ahead and sees Malthazir trudging along in the snow atop his horse. The beasts are beginning to struggle with the elements. Yet, they still climb the mountainous trail that follows the Great River into the snowy peaks above. Further ahead, he can see the half-orc twins on either side of Tacal, encouraging the massive oxen to continue as well. Still further ahead and above, the faint light of Garidan's ioun torch signals the group to not give up and to keep moving.
The never ending night holds nothing back during this march. As the group climbs higher into the mountains, the snowfall continues to worsen. With no more than twenty feet visible ahead, everyone begins to feel the heaviness of the darkness about them. The wind blows down from above. More than once, each of the group stop sharply having thought they heard a cackle upon within the constant howl of the winter storm. Even the keen eyes of Malthazir cannot discern anything within the storm. And although his ears alert him to danger, it is Niyut who calms the elf with a shake of her head. There is no enemy to fear other than the storm.
After a brief stop for a bit of food and water to rekindle their spirits, the group climbs back aboard the horses and continue onward. Gruskorb takes the lead this time as Garidan falls back and rides along side of the elf. After several hours, visions begin to play with the hobgoblin. Flying creatures dance within the snow and ice that ride upon the winds. Ghosts! come to his mind more than once. Do I hear their moan upon the wind? his mind wanders as memories of the catacombs beneath the Tower of Necromancy become real again.
A flash of lightning and a clap of thunder rile the horses. Grasping for his steed's mane, Gruskorb looks up to see his masters whip unfold above him in the snowfall. It recoils and he feels the grumble of the master straining to unleash the whip upon the lowly slave. Gruskorb tenses and turns his head down and away, ready to absorb the blow as he had done hundreds of times before. It is not real, Gruskorb... Querkus' soft voice reminds him. Gruskorb removes his hand from his face, having not felt the familiar pain of his master's blows. Nothing is there. Just the snow and ice... and the wind.
Niyut finds the storm less oppressive than her fellows. What would it matter if these peaks were haunted? She had been haunted by spirits her entire life. She felt more concern that the surviving crone had found two other sisters. Hags require a coven to perform their most powerful workings unless they were a power in their own right. Given that they had smote ruin on the crone's first coven, it makes sense to Niyut that the crone would use an indirect attack before coming with greater force.
No matter.
More than once Truk'tosh closes his eyes to enjoy the howling wind and claps of thunder. Even as a child, the chorus of the storm had been like a battle cry to him.
"The storm is a good omen", Truk'tosh shouts over the wind. "My sister and I were born in a storm like this. My first hunt was in a storm like this."
Niyut smiles at her brother. "From danger and adversity, strength and victory."
She knows her words are likely lost on the wind, but again her brother reminds her of joy and happier times.
Having mostly heard Truk'tosh's words, Garidan can't help but snort dryly and call back to the half-orc, his voice pitched to carry over the storm.
Initiative
+8 with swashbuckler initiative
Domain power use.
Perception
+11 with familiar
+19 in dim light or darkness
The group presses onward with Gruskorb at the lead. The hobgoblin urges his steed to keep a steady pace as the snow deepens and the Great River begins to fade from sight under the massive drifts of snow and ice. More than once, Gruskorb shouts an alarm and steers the group to one side or the other, having realized that he had led them directly over the water and only a thin sheet of ice kept them from plunging into the icy currents.
For another two hours the group slowly made their way into the mountains. The wind was howling and the snow piling upon Gruskorb's fur-matted head. Shaking the frozen flakes from his mane, the hobgoblin stops and listens sharply. A low rumble can be heard. Images of a cave-in in the mines race through his head, yet he knows that cannot be. Gruskorb shifts in his saddle, looking back at the others. Niyut's eyes grow wide as she begins to feel the vibration that synched with the low tones of the rumble. Truk'tosh whispers, "What is that?" He too has heard the harmonic bass that vibrates the mountain. Even Malthazir pulls back his hood having sensed a disturbance. Only Garidan, slogging at the back of the train, fails to notice it. The horses begin to shine and struggle against the reins, frantic to turn south and head down the mountain. Tacal comes to a halt and refuses to move. The oxen pulls at Truk'tosh as the druid works to calm the beast.
Gruskorb looks back to the north as he feels the wind rush upon him. The rumble becomes a crashing noise, growing in intensity. Then he sees the wall of white rapidly coming down upon him. He looks back desperately at the twins. A voice inside of Truk'tosh yells, "Avalanche!"
Truk'tosh looks around and notices a small rocky outcropping twenty feet to his left. Quickly sizing it up, he realized that the natural terrain would likely shelter only 2 people or one beast.
"Malthazir, use your flight of charm on Tacal! Then ride him to safety! Gruskorb, Truk, abandon the horses to their fate and get on Tacal!!"
Niyut then leaps into the sky like the hags did many hours before, she then flies towards Garidan and drags him into the sky.
Truk'tosh does as his twin suggests and scrambles onto Tacal's back alongside the equipment. He extends a hand to Gruskorb.
Caught by surprise, Garidan can only gape in horror for several precious moments as the devastating wall of snow rumbles down to sweep them from existence. He's dimly aware of the others scrambling into action, and of Niyut calling out to him, but he just can't move!