As you prepare to sail the next morning, Signe explains that there are still several weeks of good hunting, but as summer fades to autumn that will fade. Provisions will be needed to last the long winter. This holds true for the cultists of Althunak as well as it does for the Ulnat. It is likely they will be out hunting the tundra as well.
Gualivik. The village is said to be the first place the Ulnat stopped when they fled Uln many generations ago. As such, it has always been the center of Ulnataland, even as the people themselves spread north along the Seal Coast. Now it rivals Alcanavt as the largest of the villages of the Children of Althunak.
The village, though larger than Laquirv, is similar in that is unwalled and composed of hide huts (twenty in all), has a large midden of refuse to the north, has ten sleds under hide tarps to the south, and has fifteen skin kayaks pulled up onshore.
From a distance the village seems peaceful. Smoke from fires swirls lazily into the air and mingles with the smell of ice and snow. You take to the shore some distance south. The crew departs the ship as quickly and quietly as it can, Ragnar leading many of the crew northeast along the shore. The four of you instead follow the treeline to the west, hoping to surprise the cultists. Yet, somehow, your presence has been detected. As you step out into a copse of trees, you find yourselves confronted with a group of thirteen cultists dressed in hide armor and carrying greatclubs and javelins. Many wear masks made from human skulls. Two are more elaborately garbed than the others and brandish sickles.
One elaborately dressed, likely a shaman, speaks: ”Ị biala ebe a, nani ịnwụ.”
The warriors advance, flinging spears, then gripping their greatclubs.
Initiative (bold may act):
Warrior cultists
PCs
Warrior shaman
Eldgrímr 42/42
Ótryggr 72/72
Ramundr 58/58
Signe 51/51
Þyrnir 44/44
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"Ndị enyi anyị agaghị anwụ taa. Enweghị m ike ịkwatu otu ihe ahụ maka gị."
To the side of the ambush, a man stands. Not one of the natives, but one sharing the blood of the Nords who have come to for vengeance. He stands tall and broad, braided beard and long brown hair whipping with the cold wind. He is armored but carries no shield, and his furs look far too thin for the harsh snow and ice. From his back he draws a large sword, resting it on his shoulder as he advances, pointing to the group that was just ambushed by the cultists. "Come, we are to fight together. This is the first battle of many against the followers of Althunak." His voice rings out richly over the snow, so deep it almost seems unreal. He begins walking forward towards the cultists, as casually as one might walk up to their front door. As his boots crunch into the snow, a deep base rumbles from his chest, filling the air as his blade gleams in the light.
Ramundr bashes the javelin aside with his shield, while another ripped into his thigh. Gritting his teeth, Ramundr hustles through the snow and wooden debris towards the shaman, who he'd kill first.
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The air is crisp, bitter-chill, and Otrygrr breathes forth great plumes of condensation as they draw near the village. As always, his heart begins its fell drum-beat as the prospect of a fight approaches, his blood racing through his veins as if bid by Wotan himself to course and surge.
Shoulders heaving as if from great exertion when they finally break into the clearing, he sees the massed ranks of the villagers and lets forth a cry that is part delight, part savage bark, and all promise of blood.
"Death! Death has come for you now! Wings of ravens about your eyes, death, death, death!"
Some part of him registers the appearance of Eldgrimr, but that same instinct evaluates and judges the Nord an ally. The man's deep voice washes over Otryggr, but the words are without meaning; there is only the rushing roar of his pulse in his ears, the desire to close with the enemy, the pounding of his furred boots in the snow, the heaving, mad rush as Otryggr throws himself full tilt straight at the closest foe.
"Death!"
Signe has no idea what is being said but the intent is clear. She takes a step forward and retaliates with a barrage of arrows in response to the javelins that are thrown at her kinsmen.
She nods at the newcomer before loosing one of her arrows. She recognizes him from the ship but cannot remember his name. Signe smiles at the deep bass of his voice and is grateful that there are no mountains about for the vibration may have triggered an avalanche. Even though she knows she needs to focus on the fight at hand, she cannot help but wonder how delightful it would be to have him and Ragnar sing together.
Any man wishing to avenge Jarl Olaf was a friend as far as Þyrnir was concerned, so he salutes the Nord's appearance with a grin and a nod. Momentarily distracted by this unexpected ally, he doesn't manage to call the goddess's protection upon his friends before they all scatter in their thirst for cultist blood. So be it, Frigg had bestowed other blessings on her faithful servant.
Taking a step forward to shelter Signe from incoming attacks, he tosses a small polished stone towards the incoming wave of enemies, time seemingly slowing as the stone spins in the air, the sunlight glinting off it... bursting into blinding radiance.
The newcomer, a man unknown but clearly vested with magical gifts, joins in the fray and imbues his unexpected allies with Wotan’s might!
Ramundr bashes the javelin aside with his shield, while another ripped into his thigh. Gritting his teeth, Ramundr hustles through the snow and wooden debris towards the shaman, who he'd kill first.
Otryggr throws himself full tilt straight at the closest foe. His thirsty blade cries out for more blood, even as it is quenched in the battle dew of his foes.
Signe has no idea what is being said but the intent is clear. She takes a step forward and retaliates with a barrage of arrows in response to the javelins that are thrown at her kinsmen.
Taking a step forward to shelter Signe from incoming attacks, Thyrnir tosses a small polished stone towards the incoming wave of enemies, time seemingly slowing as the stone spins in the air, the sunlight glinting off it... bursting into blinding radiance.
The cultists cry out in pain as their evil souls are judged unworthy by Thyrnir’s goddess.
One of the shaman lifts a stone fetish, chanting. An enormous web of sticky silk, large enough to encompass many men, springs into existance and threatens to trap Ramundr, Eldgrimr, Thyrnir, and Signe.
The other shaman steps closer to his allies and lifts his own stone fetish. He speaks in a harsh tongue and a cloud of fog magically appears, swallowing up nearly all of the cultists. Obscuring mist.
The warriors retreat into the center of the mist, but not before two of them launch their own spears at Otrggyr.
Initiative (bold may act):
Warrior cultists
PCs
shaman
Eldgrímr 42/42
Ótryggr 58/72
Ramundr 51/58
Signe 51/51
Þyrnir 44/44
We cannot see them, but now they cannot see us. Ramundr growls into the air contemplating a stratagem.
Ramundr prided himself as a cautious fighter. His experience as a soldier told him that foolish bravery was as dangerous as any spear. Ordinarily, he might have advised stepping back and letting arrows do their work. Obscuring mists only made that stratagem more prudent. But he was fearful of the evil dwimmer being worked. The longer the shamans yet breathed foul, the more evil dwimmer they would work. Ramundr wades through the snow, then the mists blanketed the world around him. Into the spear din, Ramundr swung his frosted blade cross-wise as an evil face lurched appeared suddenly before him.
Eldgrímr continues his deep singing, marching forward, not even attempting stealth. Why would one need to hide from the enemy when the outcome is already determined?
As he moves forward slowly through the webs and branches, it seems like he is both ahead and behind of himself at the same time, a trick of the light causing double vision around him.
No longer being able to see any targets, Signe nocks an arrow to ready it and then makes her way out of the area affected by the giant spider web.
Wary of hidden foes striking out at any moment, Þyrnir calls upon Frigg's protection. Damn cowards, hiding in the mists even when they outnumbered their foes two to one!
Otryggr bares his teeth in something akin to an amused snarl as the foes recede into the mist; bloody blade in hand, knowing that it hungers for the lives of those who have evaded him thus far, he stalks forward into the fog like a wolf after straying lambs.
The mist swirls about him, creating hints and whorls of tortured faces, but Otryggr ignores such images; his burning faith in Wotan shields him, his might is a mantle that fills him with righteous certainty, and he can hear - somewhere up ahead - his foes.
Should a shape loom up out of the shadows, he lets out a bark of delight and surges forward to chop with his blade, as if the foe's face were a cutting board covered in roots and his sword an eager cleaver.
Ramundr prided himself as a cautious fighter. His experience as a soldier told him that foolish bravery was as dangerous as any spear. Ordinarily, he might have advised stepping back and letting arrows do their work. Obscuring mists only made that stratagem more prudent. But he was fearful of the evil dwimmer being worked. The longer the shamans yet breathed foul, the more evil dwimmer they would work. Ramundr wades through the snow, then the mists blanketed the world around him. Into the spear din, Ramundr swung his frosted blade cross-wise as an evil face lurched appeared suddenly before him. The cultist’s blood steams within the cold mist, but she remains standing.
Eldgrímr continues his deep singing, marching forward, not even attempting stealth. Why would one need to hide from the enemy when the outcome is already determined? As he moves forward slowly through the webs and branches, it seems like he is both ahead and behind of himself at the same time, a trick of the light causing double vision around him.
No longer being able to see any targets, Signe nocks an arrow to ready it and then makes her way out of the area affected by the giant spider web.
Wary of hidden foes striking out at any moment, Þyrnir calls upon Frigg's protection. Damn cowards, hiding in the mists even when they outnumbered their foes two to one!
Otryggr bares his teeth in something akin to an amused snarl as the foes recede into the mist; bloody blade in hand, knowing that it hungers for the lives of those who have evaded him thus far, he stalks forward into the fog like a wolf after straying lambs. The mist swirls about him, creating hints and whorls of tortured faces, but Otryggr ignores such images; his burning faith in Wotan shields him, his might is a mantle that fills him with righteous certainty, and he can hear - somewhere up ahead - his foes. Should a shape loom up out of the shadows, he lets out a bark of delight and surges forward to chop with his blade, as if the foe's face were a cutting board covered in roots and his sword an eager cleaver.
Otryggr’s blade splits the cultist’s skill in two. A wet gurgling sound issues as bits of brain and bone splatter those around her body. Otrgyrr places a boot on the body to wrench his sword free.
A shaman steps on the corpse of his fallen sister, reaching out to clutch at Otryggr’s neck with a hand of preternatural blue, though the Northlander easily avoids his cold grasp.
Flying up over the shaman’s shoulder, a tiny ice mephit snarls and casts a spell of its own.
From within the mist, the voice of the other shaman rises as he casts a spell.
Drawn by the bodies of their fallen allies, the cultists surround Ramundr and Otrggyr, bludgeoning them mercilessly with their massive greatclubs.
miss
hit
hit
hit
hit
miss
Initiative (bold may act):
Warrior cultists
PCs
shaman
Eldgrímr 42/42
Ótryggr 38/72
Ramundr 25/58
Signe 51/51
Þyrnir 44/44
Eldgrímr cares not about the spells of his enemies. He marches forward, his form melting into the mist as he follows Ramundr's wake. He comes to stand next to the huscarl, his resonating base flooding throughout the mist. As he sees one of the vile cultists he doesn't hesitate, his blade flashing with light as it comes down.
Confident in Frigg's protection, Þyrnir rushes forward into the mist, stopping only when he comes up against a foe. The mist muffles sound and tricks the eye, shapes looming out of the pale vapour that rests unnaturally upon the land. The pounding of his blood loud in his ears, the godi seeks the comfort of his companions' presence, straining to hear Ótryggr's roars, the whistling of Ramundr's sword or even the stranger's singing.
The blows bite deep.Attacking the whose blood he'd first spilled, Ramundr hammers down with his iced blade. Turning to the others, Ramundr's foot gives way in the snow, his arms flailing as tried to deliver blows to the cultists that appeared on his flanks. The strange new viking comes along side and Ramundr is grateful for the man delivered a mighty blow.
Otrygrr's mighty blow barely misses the mephit, causing the mist to swirl in distracting curlicues as he hacks at the very air. With a growl he feels the hilt of his bronze blade turns chill, but such is his rage that he disregards the cold, instead counting on his innate fury and resilience to withstand the freezing burn; a moment later the cold does indeed fade away, and is forgotten.
Snarling, the sound akin to something a beast might make, Otrygrr once again hacks the flying imp, desiring nothing so much as to turn it into a spray of crimson in the air.
The blow delivered, the barbarian allows the force of his swing to carry him around, so that with a roar he seeks to sink his blade into the closest foe beside him.
Eldgrímr cares not about the spells of his enemies. He marches forward, his form melting into the mist as he follows Ramundr's wake. He comes to stand next to the huscarl, his resonating base flooding throughout the mist. As he sees one of the vile cultists he doesn't hesitate, his blade flashing with light as it comes down to crack open the human skull like a walnut
Confident in Frigg's protection, Þyrnir rushes forward into the mist, stopping only when he comes up against a foe. The mist muffles sound and tricks the eye, shapes looming out of the pale vapour that rests unnaturally upon the land. The pounding of his blood loud in his ears, the godi seeks the comfort of his companions' presence, straining to hear Ótryggr's roars, the whistling of Ramundr's sword or even the stranger's singing.
The blows bite deep. Attacking the whose blood he'd first spilled, Ramundr hammers down with his iced blade. Turning to the others, Ramundr's foot gives way in the snow, his arms flailing as tried to deliver blows to the cultists that appeared on his flanks. The strange new viking comes along side and Ramundr is grateful for the man delivered a mighty blow.
Snarling, the sound akin to something a beast might make, Otrygrr once again hacks the flying imp, desiring nothing so much as to turn it into a spray of crimson in the air. . The blow delivered, the barbarian allows the force of his swing to carry him around, so that with a roar he sinks his blade into the shaman.
The shaman screams in pain, shouting out through teeth slick with blood. ”Kwuonụ onye ji mma agha ọlaedo!”
The shaman again reaches out, and this time his frozen grip secures Otryggr around the throat. The Vastaviklander can feel the ice-magic as is flows like an ice river into his heart.
Another shaman emerges just before Thyrnir, his hand also glowing blue.
Tactical fighters, the cultists continue their assault on the already-wounded Ramundr and Otryggr.
miss
miss
hit
hit
Initiative (bold may act):
Warrior cultists
PCs
shaman
Eldgrímr 42/42
Ótryggr 13/72
Ramundr 25/58
Signe 51/51
Þyrnir 44/44
Ramundr turn to the man next to him and unleashes a flurry of icy death and shield slams.
Eldgrímr flings the blood from his blade, stepping over the corpse and moving further into the fray. "Ị na-atụ egwu ihe ọjọọ ahụ. M ga-abụ ọgwụgwụ gị!" He shouts as part of his song, fearlessly wading behind the enemy ranks as his blade flashes painfully bright.
Holding his shield up against the cultists looming from the fog, Þyrnir turns to hack at the one caught between himself and Ótryggr, hoping to at least distract the man and free up the warrior's flank.
Signe's eyes may have been blocked by the mist but her keen ears allow her to pinpoint her targets. She lets arrows fly towards the foreign words and unfamiliar voices.
yep
Ramundr turn to the man next to him and unleashes a flurry of icy death and shield slams, literally bludgeoning the man’s head into a pulp.
Eldgrímr flings the blood from his blade, stepping over the corpse and moving further into the fray. "Ị na-atụ egwu ihe ọjọọ ahụ. M ga-abụ ọgwụgwụ gị!" He shouts as part of his song, fearlessly wading behind the enemy ranks as his blade flashes painfully bright.
success, dazzled.
Holding his shield up against the cultists looming from the fog, Þyrnir turns to hack at the one caught between himself and Ótryggr, hoping to at least distract the man and free up the warrior's flank.
Signe's eyes may have been blocked by the mist but her keen ears allow her to pinpoint her targets. She lets arrows fly towards the foreign words and unfamiliar voices.
The shaman lash out with their blades, leaving to steel what their magic has been unable to achieve.
hit
miss
The cultists go for the kill.
miss
hit
hit
miss
miss
A club catches Otryggr’s jaw and sends him reeling. Another smashes his knee and brings him down onto the ice.
”Ọbara nke na-eme ka snow na-eti mkpu maka ihe ndị ọzọ!” crows one of the shaman, the face behind the skull mask turning to glare at Eldgrimr.
Initiative (bold may act):
Warrior cultists
PCs
shaman
Eldgrímr 42/42
Ótryggr -4/72, bleeding out
Ramundr 25/58
Signe 51/51
Þyrnir 44/44
Eldgrímr continues to match words with the shaman. "N'ikpeazụ, ihe anyị kwenyere!"
He moves to strike back against the shaman who cut Otryggr.
Ramundr launches forward onto the fury of battle. He catches a glimpse of a man before him, and he makes a quick cut at him before he disappears again in the deep unnatural fog. He is unsure of whether his blow landed, but Ramundr was a patient man.
As the big warrior falls, Þyrnir lets loose a cry of agony and fury and smacks his shield towards the face of one of the cultists hacking at Ótryggr. Perhaps not all was lost, but in order to get to his fallen comrade, he had to go through this foe first. Flurries of snow and the unnatural mist send his swings astray, or perhaps it's the tears blurring his vision and freezing on his dark cheeks.
Eldgrímr brings his blade forward again, trying to finish off the shaman.
Signe takes a breath and closes her eyes so that her hearing becomes sharper. She shoots another round of arrows into the same area as before as she hears grunts of pain and unfamiliar cursing from the mist.
EDIT:
Forgot perception for targeting:
Eldgrímr continues to match words with the shaman. "N'ikpeazụ, ihe anyị kwenyere!" He moves to strike back against the shaman who cut Otryggr. He cuts hard across the man’s back, eliciting a scream of pain.
Ramundr launches forward onto the fury of battle. He catches a glimpse of a man before him, and he makes a quick cut at him before he disappears again in the deep unnatural fog. He is unsure of whether his blow landed, but Ramundr was a patient man.
As the big warrior falls, Þyrnir lets loose a cry of agony and fury and smacks his shield towards the face of one of the cultists hacking at Ótryggr. Perhaps not all was lost, but in order to get to his fallen comrade, he had to go through this foe first. Flurries of snow and the unnatural mist send his swings astray, or perhaps it's the tears blurring his vision and freezing on his dark cheeks.
Eldgrímr brings his blade forward again, trying to finish off the shaman. His weight of his sword cleaves his blade down into the shaman’s neck and torso.
Signe takes a breath and closes her eyes so that her hearing becomes sharper. She shoots another round of arrows into the same area as before as she hears grunts of pain and unfamiliar cursing from the mist. Despite her best intentions, all three arrows fly through the mist without hitting her target.
miss
The shaman tries to flee Ramundr, only provoking the Northlander into further violence. His sword removes the shaman’s left arm at the shoulder, the magic of his blade coating the bloody stump in a coat of ice.
The cultists scream at the death of their mystic, turning to slay Eldgrimr in return.
miss
miss
hit, subject to mirror image
miss
miss
One of the club strikes shatters Eldgrimr’s mirror image, but leaves his physical form unharmed.
Initiative (bold may act):
Warrior cultists
PCs
Eldgrímr 42/42
Ótryggr -5/72, bleeding out
Ramundr 25/58
Signe 51/51
Þyrnir 44/44
Ramundr moves forward to claim the victory that now seemed inevitable.
Two cultists appear before him. He thrusts his blade at the man to his left, but his form melted from view as the mists swirled.
Eldgrímr holds his arms wide, welcoming the attacks on his form as one of his mirages is struck. He returns one swing in kind, moving to shatter their ranks. However despite his viewing of fate it sometimes works against him, and he nods in acceptance as the swing bites into the snow.
Feeling that she is being ineffectual with her bow and not knowing what is happening to the rest of her allies, Signe makes the decision to wade into melee. She begins to move towards the mist, stowing her bow and drawing her brother's battleaxe.
She takes a step into the mist and swings at the closest foe.
Some had fallen, but so many of their foes were still standing. Curse this mist! Frantic to get to his fallen companion, Þyrnir forsakes battle and moves around the cultist, lunging for Ótryggr's still form.
"By your power, goddess!" he shouts as he wills his patron's restorative energies to course into the body and pull it back from the brink of death. He breathes in relief as he sees the faint plume of breath rising from the warrior's lips.
Ramundr moves forward to claim the victory that now seemed inevitable. Two cultists appear before him. He thrusts his blade at the man to his left, but his form melted from view as the mists swirled.
Eldgrímr holds his arms wide, welcoming the attacks on his form as one of his mirages is struck. He returns one swing in kind, moving to shatter their ranks. However despite his viewing of fate it sometimes works against him, and he nods in acceptance as the swing bites into the snow.
Feeling that she is being ineffectual with her bow and not knowing what is happening to the rest of her allies, Signe makes the decision to wade into melee. She begins to move towards the mist, stowing her bow and drawing her brother's battleaxe. She takes a step into the mist and swings at the closest foe, but her blow is blocked by a greatclub.
Some had fallen, but so many of their foes were still standing. Curse this mist! Frantic to get to his fallen companion, Þyrnir forsakes battle and moves around the cultist, lunging for Ótryggr's still form. "By your power, goddess!" he shouts as he wills his patron's restorative energies to course into the body and pull it back from the brink of death. He breathes in relief as he sees the faint plume of breath rising from the warrior's lips.
The shaman tries to flee Ramundr, only provoking the Northlander into further violence. His sword removes the shaman’s left arm at the shoulder, the magic of his blade coating the bloody stump in a coat of ice.
In desperation the cultists seek to slay Eldgrimr.
hit, subject to mirror image
One of the club strikes shatters Eldgrimr’s mirror image, but leaves his physical form unharmed.
A few moments more, and the Northlanders manage to overcome the cultists.
Eldgrímr 42/42
Ótryggr 2/72
Ramundr 25/58
Signe 51/51
Þyrnir 44/44
Hide armor x11
Mwk greatclub x11
50 javelins
potion of cure moderate wounds x2
Mwk leather armor x2
Light wooden shield x2
Mwk sickle x2
Stone unholy symbol of Althunak x2
Said to be the first place the Ulnat stopped when they fled Uln many generations ago, Gualivik is the center of Ulnataland, even though the people themselves spread north along the Seal Cost. The village is unwalled and composed of about twenty hide huts. Just south of the village rest ten sleds under tarps and fifteen skin kayaks pulled up onshore. There is a large midden of refuse to the north. Inside the village you find thirty-five slaves, twelve of whom are capable Ulnat combatants.
The slaves are glad to be rescued from the cultists. Their mistreatment at the hands of the cultists is clear, as they appear malnourished and beaten. They indicate that Heroes’ Rock is found on a small tree-covered island one mile off shore. It is there that the first Ulnat buried their most-honored dead, a tradition that disappeared a generation after they arrived in the Far North.
The battle with the cultists had been unnerving, the unnatural mist making them seem more and less in number, at the same time. The thick, freezing fog had separated his companions from one another and had made it difficult to fight effectively. As a result, one of them had almost died. The cultists were mere mortals, no doubt about that, yet it would behoove them to not underestimate their opponents in the future. mundane weapons could kill just as well as ancient wyrd or cursed creatures.
Otryggr rises to his feet, head groggy with pain, but does his part in dispatching the last of the cultists. When the last of the supernatural mist disappears, he searches out Pyrnir, whom he clasps on the shoulder in silent gratitude before turning to regard the new skald.
He doesn't speak, letting the others - perhaps Ramundr - do the talking, but instead studies the stranger, examining him slowly from head to toe, only to give a final, grudgingly approving nod at the very end.
Still wounded despite Pyrnir's extra healing, he brings up the rear of the group, and is a silent, predatory presence in the village, bringing no comfort to those they liberate. Instead, he moves to stand on the shore and gaze out at the Heroes' Rock, shielding his eyes with one hand as he studies the distant island.
Signe puts her battleaxe away once the cultist threat is exterminated. Once they arrive at the village she feels badly for those who had been enslaved in Gualivik. Slaves were often a part of one's culture but to beat them and not feed them was deplorable.
She helps in whatever way she can in the healing of others. She may not have the skill of the others but she is willing to do whatever is asked of her, whether it is getting water or providing food or fetching needed supplies.
Eldgrímr lets out a final low note as the cultists stop moving. He whips an arc of blood across the snow, then plunges his blade into the white powder to cleanse it. "As it was foretold." He turns to look at the hulking wild man, nodding as he rises. "Alive."
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As the party descends down to the village, a rustling tune is heard from beyond the hill.
...From far we all have travelled, aye,
and further will we go,
with steel and pride and blood and might
we march upon the land...
The clash of shields and spears rumbles, as the remainder of the forces appears over the horizon, led by a young, bare-faced man, holding an Andovan shield and a dark-wooded spear.
"Those dark of heart and dark of mind
we'll roar away in turn
for noone can withstand the might
of Northfolk when it burns."
Seeing the party already on their way, the young man turns towards the troops, screaming out. "To glory together!", bursting into a sprint, carrying the verse with rhytmical shield bashes.
"To strike against the Coldest One,
our path and fate is clear,
No more will his ilk scorn the land,
for Northfolk hold no fear!"
With the final stanza, the troops follow into the village.
As the villagers are freed, Ragnar quickly leaps to rejoin his comrades. The young man seems in unusually high spirits, even if the cold of the land paints his cheeks crimson. "Hah!", he laughs out, tapping the ground with his spear. "You almost left the warriors without glory!", he laughs out, before his eyes narrow on the new arrival, a man with a heavy sword. "Hail, warrior!", he greets. "You seem like kin, and not like Ulnat. I am Ragnar Marshborn, the Godwytch of Halfstead. Any who have shed blood alongside my friends should count amongst them.", he extends his hand forwards.
Oncet the mist lifts, the source of all that bellowed singing is revealed. An unexpected ally in this harsh land, and they would be fools to turn away help. And a friend of the Nornes, it seemed, for here he stands untouched, sword red with battle-dew and the foes dead at his feet, speaking bold words. Not one for boldness like his companions, Þyrnir keeps his distance from the newcomer, studying him from behind lowered lashes.
Ragnar's return is greeted with gladness, but what they find in the village makes the former thrall's heart heavy. The weak serving the strong is in the nature of things, and Þyrnir is grateful to Jarl Olaf for his fair treatment of him and the chance to grow stronger. But mistreating your slaves is dishonorable, what a small man would do. He shouldn't be surprised, with all that he has heard of these cultists, but it still pains him, and he does all he can do ease the spirit of the freed villagers.
Falling hard to a knee, Ramundr Æiþorn lets his weary head gaze at the field before him. The foul dwimmer mists were now riven, as slushed ice and heart's blood combined in the crisp air to form spiraling tributes, announcing to all of Ymir's skull the glorious harvest that had been prepared. We bring a new season to the wintry north. For, I tell you! No demon shall reign in tyranny upon any field on which Northlander sons and dóttirs yet wield shield and spear. Straightening Ramundr lifts his head and calls Wotan’s children! Come. Feast! Gorge upon the first of many fields.
In short order the ship is ready to sail to the island, a mere speck on the horizon. When you cross the mile-long span, you find a steeply sloped island. Dwarf firs shaped and stunted by storm and wave cover it. The island presents no serviceable landing, but a small cove on the leeward side allows enterprising folk to clamber out of a boat and up a twenty foot cliff . The men, a superstitious lot who know well the dangers of the Barrow Lands near Hjalfstead, offer to keep watch at the boat.
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Signe lends her aid in getting the ship on course to Heroes' Rock. During the short journey she engages the newcomer, Eldgrimr, in conversation. "Your help was invaluable in our fight against the cultists. How was it that you knew of our need? One rarely wanders alone in unknown wilderness."
Upon securing the boat in the cove, Signe gets out her bow. She is unsure what might wait for them on the island and the others would be vulnerable while climbing. She waits with an arrow nocked until the others are safely on solid ground before attempting the climb herself.
The rock proves to be harder to climb than she first anticipates and it takes time for her to gain purchase and so she makes no progress at first. Signe then begins to see a pathway of handholds and footholds up the cliff and is soon making slow but consistent progress until she's about five feet from the top. It appears like she's stuck when she doesn't move for minutes on end. Just when she's about to call for someone to lower a rope, she spies an indent in the rock she had missed which she uses to propel herself the rest of the way up.
There was nothing for it but climb, Þyrnir thinks to himself as he grabs on to whatever footholds and handholds he can find. The going is rather easy, but he gets stuck in a couple of spots until Signe, standing guard below, calls out pointers to him.
Otryggr is a grim presence by the rudder, not guiding the ship but looming over the man who does so, arms crossed over his bear of a chest as he stares at the approaching island.
When Signe asks her question of Eldgrimr, however, Otryggr perks up; such had been the events since the battle that there had been little time to talk. Now, as the waves slap spray across the deck, the Vastaviklander leans forwards to listen in on the newcomer's reply.
When the ship docks, he's amongst the first to step up onto the wooden railing, and after a moment of scanning the rocky cliff face leaps, hands outstretched for a likely ledge.
With powerful athleticism the warrior muscles his way up the cliff, not pausing, not hesitating, till at last he gains the top where he immediately draws his ax to cover the ascent of his fellows.
Ramundr follows after Ótryggr Grímsson in a determined if unhurried climb.
Falling and cracking his skull on the rocks below would not be the end of this son of heroes.