As soon as the cultists come into view, Signe releases a volley of arrows.
"They are sounding an alarm." Eldgrimr translates. "It seems you are earning a reputation among them." He then dashes forward, bringing his greatsword to bear in a full-throated charge!
Otryggr runs forth, snow bursting around his shins, eyes shining with that fevered hunger for conflict, for blood, for the final resolution that sets his soul to singing.
He closes in on the hound, raises his blade up on high, and then drops it like an executioner's ax upon the beast's nape.
Þyrnir is less hurried in his attack, but no less determined as he steps up to stand by their new comrade, covering his side with his blade.
It hurts his soul to see the dogs killed, the beasts likely have no part in their masters' corruption - they just don't know any better.
The savage bark cuts off with a dying yelp as Ramundr’s blade severs the animal's head with a spray of dark blood.
The tolling of Ragnar's shield echoes in the empty village, carrying its roar over the howl of the dogs. Stepping forward to stand at Ramundr's side, he nods as he brings his shield to bear the brunt of the attacks.
As soon as the cultists come into view, Signe releases a volley of arrows. Two trike the man’s torso, and one lodges through his throat. He falls to the ground, his jaw opening and closing, but only blood gurgles out.
"They are sounding an alarm." Eldgrimr translates. "It seems you are earning a reputation among them." He then dashes forward, bringing his greatsword to bear in a full-throated charge! His sword falls heavily onto the Ulnat man, who cries out in fear and raises his spear to protect himself, but Eldgrimr’s blade cleaves the spear in two and nearly severs the man’s arm.
Otryggr runs forth, snow bursting around his shins, eyes shining with that fevered hunger for conflict, for blood, for the final resolution that sets his soul to singing. He closes in on the hound, raises his blade up on high, and then drops it like an executioner's ax upon the beast's nape. Another beast is slain.
It hurts Þyrnir’s soul to see the dogs killed, the beasts likely have no part in their masters' corruption - they just don't know any better. He is less hurried in his attack, but no less determined as he steps up to stand by their new comrade, covering his side with his blade. His blade removes the man’s dangling appendage and sends both tumbling to the ground.
The cultist and Ulnat warrior charge at Thyrnir!
miss
hit
no
The Ulnat's sharp spear head catches Thyrnir in the side.
Reinforcements arrive, as a plethora of cultists and Ulnat round the bend, a shaman at their rear. The shaman lifts his skull-tipped staff, and a magical layer of hoarfrost settles upon you and at your feet, chilling you to the bone.
His allies surge forward to meet the Northmen. One finds a clear path to Eldgrimr and charges, avoiding the ice, his club crashing down upon the sage’s shoulder.
hit
Eldgrímr 33/42
Ótryggr 71/72
Ragnar 44/45
Ramundr 57/58
Signe 50/51
Þyrnir 32/44
A feast for Ravens! Come! You are most assuredly invited. Growling, Ramundr springs forth from the embittered earth bringing FelFrost up through an unwilling throat.
Signe focuses on the shaman in the back. Not wanting to be caught in an unnatural fog again, she decides to target the one capable of wielding magic.
"Wotan comes for your souls!" bellows Otryggr, breaking into another charge and throwing himself with a scream into the center of the oncoming enemies.
Eldgrimr snarls, trying to finish hacking down the man in front of him. The fates say we live...but is retreat a part of that?
Seeing the hordes pour forwards, Ragnar's spear darts towards the sky. "With the speed of Sleipnir!", he chants, as sparks appear to from his arms and legs. With a few impossible leaps, he crosses the icy ground, standing by Otryggr's side.
[ooc]Casting Allegro. AC now 24.
Conditions: Haste, Raging Song(15/16).
Þyrnir hisses in pain as the spear finds his side and pierces his armour. With a quick prayer he invokes the protection of Frigg, and a shimmering aura surrounds him. He then points a finger at the cultists.
"Your evil ways will bring you naught but sorrow!"
A mote of light arcs from the dark-skinned man's hand to land amidst a throng of the Ulnat, exploding in a burst of brilliance.
”A feast for Ravens! Come! You are most assuredly invited.” Growling, Ramundr springs forth from the embittered earth bringing FelFrost up through an unwilling throat. The scream of the Ulnat is literally drowned in the blood spurting from his neck.
Signe focuses on the shaman in the back. Not wanting to be caught in an unnatural fog again, she decides to target the one capable of wielding magic. Shooting is difficult through the mass of bodies, but Signe’s aim is unparalleled, and two arrows impale the shaman. He doubles over in pain.
"Wotan comes for your souls!" bellows Otryggr, breaking into another charge and throwing himself with a scream into the center of the oncoming enemies. Haegtesse cuts armor and flesh alike, Otryggr’s swing so strong that Ragnar is sprayed with the blood of enemies.
Eldgrimr snarls, trying to finish hacking down the man in front of him. The fates say we live...but is retreat a part of that? His sword blade slams into the man’s skull, spilling brains and bone upon the stones.
Seeing the hordes pour forwards, Ragnar's spear darts towards the sky. "With the speed of Sleipnir!", he chants, as sparks appear to from his arms and legs. With a few impossible leaps, he crosses the icy ground, standing by Otryggr's side.
Þyrnir hisses in pain as the spear finds his side and pierces his armour. With a quick prayer he invokes the protection of Frigg, and a shimmering aura surrounds him. He then points a finger at the cultists. "Your evil ways will bring you naught but sorrow!" A mote of light arcs from the dark-skinned man's hand to land amidst a throng of the Ulnat, exploding in a burst of brilliance. The burning light scours their wickedness, searing their flesh and eyes.
fail
fail
fail
The shaman, still struggling with Signe’s arrows, clutches his eyes. Nonetheless, he utters words and shakes his staff, eliciting a roar from his allies.
miss
miss
miss
An ulnat jabs at Eldgrimr’s face with ferocity, but that face shatters into a hundred shimmering pieces, leaving Eldgrimr’s true, grinning face unscathed.
A series of spearhead and greatclubs strike at Thyrnir, but the protections of his armor and his wyrd deflect their blows .
A spearhead cuts Otryggr’s shoulder, while two cultists, one swinging wildly in a blind rage, clumsily miss.
Another cultist, also blind from Thyrnir’s wyrd, attempts to crush Ragnar’s skull but only pounds a stone further into the cold ground.
Two more blinded cultists swing futilely at the Long Serpent’s captain.
The creeping frost of the shaman’s magic invades your boots, crystallizing up your feet and legs.
Eldgrímr 37/42
Ótryggr 61/72
Ragnar 40/45
Ramundr 57/58
Signe 46/51
Þyrnir 28/44
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Otryggr doesn't even feel the blow; his fire is up, his laughter echoing over the screams and clatter of weapons, and as he swings his bronzed blade he begins to sing, a deep chant that promises death and slaughter.
"Wheat before the reaper's blade,
Chaff.
Darkness comes for your eyes,
Death.
Screams will drown in your throats,
Blood.
No other day shall you see,
Night."
As two cultists charge forwards, Ramundr brings Felfrost down onto a cultist's shoulder. Ymir's skull unleashes a thunderous bolt as Ramundr's shield slams into the man's chest. Felfrost joins again into the fury eager to strike at its long-dormant foe.
Eldgrímr flings the blood from his blade in a great arc, immediately bringing down the weapon to claim another skull.
Ragnar's spear darts in between the vicious blows of Haegtesse. The runes on the weapon glow in pale blue, as the wound-dew flows to the ground. Given to the Otryggr's chant, his own words stall, as he joins in the melody of death and spear-din.
Raging Song (15/16 remaining)
AC - back to 22.
Signe takes a step to the left to get herself out of the layer of frost that is intent on chilling her to the bone. Breathing in the cold air, she steadies her aim and once again targets the shaman with her arrows.
As the cultist in front of him falls to Eldgrímr's blade, Þyrnir steps over his body to escape the frost creeping up his legs. It is a risky move, and he is taking a leap of faith in the stranger to not abandon him in the midst of their foes. He looks Eldgrímr in the eyes before he swings his own blade at the Ulnat between them.
His strikes are true, but his seax does not find much purchase amidst the thick furs and hides on his opponent.
He was getting surrounded by the Ulnat, and their new companion was deserting his side. Þyrnir could hardly blame him, he could feel the biting frost all too well, even through his thick clothing. If he stayed in one place, he would quickly be overwhelmed by both spell and blade, so he follows Eldgrímr, although that opens him up to retaliatory attacks.
Otryggr doesn't even feel the blow; his fire is up, his laughter echoing over the screams and clatter of weapons, and as he swings his bronzed blade he begins to sing, a deep chant that promises death and slaughter. His sword opens a gash through a cultist’s armor and cuts his belly open . His second swing cuts into an Ulnat’s shoulder, cutting flesh and bone alike . His sword swings wide in a cleave, aimed at a blind cultist. The broad blade severs the man’s head at the shoulders and sends it tumbling through the air, where it bounces lazily off of the shoulder of another before landing on the rocky soil. .
As two cultists charge forwards, Ramundr brings Felfrost down onto a cultist's shoulder. Ymir's skull unleashes a thunderous bolt as Ramundr's shield slams into the man's chest. Felfrost joins again into the fury eager to strike at its long-dormant foe. His shield slam crushes one’s nose, causing the man to collapse, choking on his own blood. His sword skewers another’s neck, racking against the bone.
Eldgrímr flings the blood from his blade in a great arc, immediately bringing down the weapon to claim another skull. He buries his blade between an Ulnat’s eyes.
Ragnar's spear darts in between the vicious blows of Haegtesse. The runes on the weapon glow in pale blue, as the wound-dew flows to the ground. Given to the Otryggr's chant, his own words stall, as he joins in the melody of death and spear-din. On jab strikes deep past a cultist’s armor as he staggers to his knees, spitting blood. The next cuts an Ulnat’s thigh, but he remains standing.
Signe takes a step to the left to get herself out of the layer of frost that is intent on chilling her to the bone. Breathing in the cold air, she steadies her aim and once again targets the shaman with her arrows. It takes three more arrows, but at last the man falls silently to his knees before crashing face first into the dirt.
As the cultist in front of him falls to Eldgrímr's blade, Þyrnir steps over his body to escape the frost creeping up his legs. It is a risky move, and he is taking a leap of faith in the stranger to not abandon him in the midst of their foes. He looks Eldgrímr in the eyes before he swings his own blade at the Ulnat before them. His quick jabs both pierce the man’s hide armor.
miss
miss
miss
miss
miss
miss
miss
The remaining cultists, some blind, fight savagely but are unable to breach the practiced defense of the Northlanders.
The creeping frost of the slain shaman’s magic invades your boots, crystallizing up your feet and legs.
Eldgrímr 37/42
Ótryggr 52/72
Ragnar 36/45
Ramundr 57/58
Signe 46/51
Þyrnir 28/44
Ramundr steps over the fallen in relentless pursuit for victory. The blaze in Ramundr's eyes imparting a strange counter melody to the icy sheen of his sword and shield meet the cultist's placid face.
Eldgrímr swings again, another enemy destined to fall beneath his blade.
Bashing his fallen foe forwards the moment he retracts his spear, Ragnar advances to the flanks. Seeing Ramundr's unrelenting assault at the foe to his side, he roars at his own foes as his spear erupts in lightning. "The wicked tide of Althunak has broken against our rage! Push forth, and let the ground drink its fill!", he roars as his spear rends at his foes' flanks.
Signe nods in satisfaction as the shaman crumples to the ground. She draws and loads another arrow, turning her attention towards the cultists that are harrying Thyrnir and Eldgrimr.
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Enemies were falling like grass before the blades, spears and arrows of his companions. A strange elation begins to fill Þyrnir. He had never been a blood-thirsty one, and ever refused to speak anything but plain about such things. But the skill and fury of his shield brothers and sister was something to behold, a force of nature almost, obliterating all that stood in its path. He would like to stop, to show mercy, to give the Ulnat and the cultists a chance to throw down their weapons and surrender - but his arm moves and his seax flashes in the frosty air. Blood spatters the already crimson-soaked snow.
With the shaman slain, the course of battle becomes clear, and the feckless cultists and their wolf-hearted slaves are cut down .
You find the village nearly empty, the cultists and their slaves either slain in the battle, fled, or, presumably, out hunting. Only a handful of those too weak, unable, or unwilling to fight remain. One Ulnat woman attempts to stab you with a jagged piece of flint, while a young boy attempts to flee out into the plains. Another, a girl named Siku, merely hides inside what might have once been her family’s hut. Now, it is just her. .
At last, you have a chance to examine the horrific ice “sculptures” on the western border of the village. Nine Ulnat are positioned facing out toward the western horizon, their bodies encased in prisons of ice. Although their faces and forms are frozen in terror, their eyes still move, following your movements.
Eldgrímr 35/42
Ótryggr 50/72
Ragnar 34/45
Ramundr 55/58
Signe 44/51
Þyrnir 26/44
Unless any here give sign of foul dwimmer, bind them. Let the Ulnat preside in judgement over their own people.
Ramundr walks over to Ragnar. Are these, even the little ones, Althunak's forever, or can his influence wane?
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Ragnar nods, the din of battle quieting in his head. As the group marches in the village, he stays silent, merely pointing his weapon at those who would attack them. Peering a long glance at the statues, he shakes his head, not being able to comprehend the wyrd in front of him. Following the rest into the village with a steady gait, the skald walks alongside Ramundr.
"Hrmph.", the single sound the only answer to Ramundr's question for a while. "Hrmph. I know not, Æiþorn. Yet I wish I did.", he sighs once more, his hand rubbing across his patchy chin, giving the warrior a look of a man who's lost. "The yoke of foresight is a heavy one, is it not, Eldrgrimr?", he turns towards the chosen of the Norns, as he stops in the centre of town.
Clearing his throat, he slams his spear in the ground, as a reddish light emanates from his chest, pulsing its way in runes towards his mouth. "Alcanavti!", he barks in the local language. "We are warriors from the south. A summer and winter back, our leader came to this land to search for the servants of Althunak, the wicked lord of frost.", he says, his tone carrying notes not of accusation, but patient explanation. "In the cover of night, the warriors here attacked them, and were repelled at a great cost to us and them. We marched here today to bring vengeance to the warriors who bore blades against Jarl Olaf Henrikson, and vengeance we have brought." He slams his spear into the ground once more, the blood drops on its fierce tip frozen in the chill air.
Beginning to walk around, he glances around the village. "Northmen do not kill the old, the poor and the innocent. And we attack not from the cover of night. Consider your wound-dew debt to us repaid, but pay heed!" He raises his voice, pointing his spear at the skies. "We have came to tear out the taint of Althunak. The fallen heroes of Heroes' Rock spoke to us, and of your choice to submit in time most dire." The look in the skald's eyes betray understanding, but his pursed lips deny forgiveness.
"Today, you may choose. Deny the Winter King, and receive our aid and our support. Stay on your course, and your liege will lead you to the cold embrace of death itself, whether by our blades or his unending winter." The spear cracks the ground once more, as Ragnar points towards the pillars of frost, encasing the Ulnat people.
"Your answer I'll expect until we've broken the wyrd of frost."
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"Hrmph.", the single sound the only answer to Ramundr's question for a while. "Hrmph. I know not, Æiþorn. Yet I wish I did.", he sighs once more, his hand rubbing across his patchy chin, giving the warrior a look of a man who's lost. "The yoke of foresight is a heavy one, is it not, Eldrgrimr?", he turns towards the chosen of the Norns, as he stops in the centre of town.
Eldgrímr says nothing, his gaze shifting up to the sky. A mass shared wyrd, but with various ending paths. They are all destined upon one of them. But if we do not judge them fairly, our own paths are tainted. Sisters, grant me your insight. He closes his eyes, taking in a long, slow inhale through his nose. He exhales, his gaze coming down to meet the Ulnat.
But as he opens his eyes, there are no pupils, no color. Only stark white, otherworldly and unnerving, brutally piercing in their gaze.
"Ask your questions." Eldgrímr says to Ragnar, his gaze locked hard on the Ulnat. As Ragnar speaks he walks through them, withering look piercing over them one by one.
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Otryggr emerges from battle clothed in sheets of blood. His visage is limned in gore, his eyes bright and blank amidst the crimson, his braided hair rendered thick and clayish from the drenching.
Still, not all of the blood is that of his enemies: he walks with a limp after the others as they quit the field where the sword-din had rung true, and a deep cut in his side sees him hold his left arm protectively close.
Yet his grim expression is one of disapproval, not pain. Moving through the village, he keeps his bronzed blade in his right fist, and levels a near primitive glower at any who dare threaten the skalds.
At the last, moving to stand close to the icy statues, he waits, both hands on the pommel of his blade, its tip lost in the snow, his own figure seeming indefatigable as he watches, silent and as forbidding as a tomb.
For now, Þyrnir leaves the skalds to their wyrd, relieved that the bloodshed is over and hoping that those who cannot, or will not fight can yet be turned away from Althunak's terrible path. He does have some sympathy for them and the hard choices they had to make to survive, but for the moment his skills are needed elsewhere. Like the Vastaviklander, he hasn't come out of the battle unscathed, and he invokes Frigg's powers in closing the wounds of himself and his companions.
Ramundr walks among the slaughtered. Those that twitched, he unceremoniously gutted. He methodically searches for anything of worth, either in silver, magic, or in intelligence about their enemy.
At the command of Ramundr, the pillaging is kept to a minimum. The captain searches the slain , while Thyrnir tends to those still living. Those who openly attack the crew are beaten unconscious and tied, while those more complacent are lined up for interrogation by Eldgrimr and Ragnar.
It is immediately clear these are different from their counterparts in Gualivik. Their minds are dark, withered shells full of fear and pain. Whatever “conversion” the faithful of Althunak have devised, it is tortuous and extremely effective. Most of them speak Loptr’s mead when asked about the location of other cultists, but Eldgrimr’s dwimmer reveals that there are more cultists, men and women, including Ulnat, are out hunting on the tundra at this moment, and that sister villages up and down the coast have fallen under Althunak’s grasp.
The minds of the villagers open before him, and the skald draws forth the threads of truth...
In Alcanavt, here is a special place for the faithful of the Winter King, for this is the birthplace of Elvanti, the High Priest of Althunak. Elvanti was a cruel and haughty man who quarreled constantly with his elders and fellow villagers. His family was wealthy, and he lusted after the most desirable maiden in the village, but was rebuffed by her and the village elders. In anger and shame, he journeyed out across the tundra ten years ago to prove himself in their eyes, all the while cursing them for failing to recognize his great worth. And prove himself he did, for in his quest he traveled farther than any of his people before him had in living memory, crossing the Wailing Mountains and the great fields of ice that lay beyond. The wind tore at him, and the cold seeped through his furs and sealskins, until he was at the point of death from exposure. It was then that he stumbled upon the ruins of a terrible city, opening the great doors of its temple for the first time in centuries, since the days of Hvram the Half-Born, and discovering what lay within.
The following spring Elvanti returned to Alcanavt, now ablaze with power. He struck down those who opposed him, taking the maiden as the first of his Snow Brides. Outside the village, still, stand the frozen remains of Elvanti’s parents, the former elders of the village, and the parents of the woman who spurned him. But ruling one small village was not enough for Elvanti or his god, however, and so he began a series of conquests and forced conversions until he ruled all but one of the villages of the Ulnat: Laquirv. Leaving his most loyal follower, the High Priest of the Coming Winter, in charge of finishing the conquest and constructing a new, second temple to Althunak, Elvanti the Chosen of Althunak returned across the Wailing Mountains to attend his fell master. And into this sailed the Long Serpent and Jarl Olaf, chasing the dream of good sealing and a profitable voyage.
Yet, outside this village, the magically frozen prisoners remain. Nine long years have they stood, their souls encased in ice, slaves to the will of Althunak.
Eldgrímr 42/42
Ótryggr 71/72
Ragnar 44/45
Ramundr 58/58
Signe 51/51
Þyrnir 36/44
Signe waits quietly with her bow at the ready while the villagers are questioned. If trouble befalls them, she is ready to defend.
"Has it been revealed whether the people encased in ice can be freed or not?"
For each piece of ice chipped, a new piece grows in its place. When fire is brought near it, the ice does not melt. It is clearly a vile dwimmer.
After a period of sleep, you set sail once again. Travel by sea is swiftest and avoids the cultists no doubt roaming the vast wilds surrounding the villages.
The remains of Intulvik suggest that it has suffered greatly under the cruel tyranny of that dark cult. Nothing remains here but a few scattered bits of debris, a large trash midden, and the obvious signs that there having once been fire pits and huts.
The farthest north of the Ulnat villages, Hranavik is the latest to fall to the Children of Althunak. It contains a partially completed wall that encompasses most of the village within a three-foot high mound of carefully fitted, undressed stone. The crew spreads out, attempting to surround the village, but as you draw near, the dreaded baying of dogs shouts in Old Uln ring out through the trees. Ahead, a wall forms a small dam overlooking a pond fed by a glacial stream. The Children of Althunak gather.
Eldgrimr frowns heavily at the foul ice. "This is not normal ice, but a vile dwimmer. This is beyond my power." He says with a deep note of sad acceptance.
Eldgrimr frowns at the debris and destruction present at Intulvik. He kneels, feeling the ashes and snow mixed together, then rises with a human bone in hand. "Teeth marks." He notes, setting the bone back gently where it was. Knowing the souls may be unrestfull in their demise, but knowing he cannot hope to give them all their rites, Eldgrimr says a prayer after following the others.
As the Children of Althunak gather, Eldgrimr stares at them with a hard expression. "Beli trilvol." He does not hide his magic, cloaking himself in images in preparation for battle.
A foul dwimmer. Ramundr mutters. Turning to the villagers. I would take these to the Ulnat and let them sit in judgement of their own people. Ramundr lets his voice reveal his earnestness. Letting them free is dangerous, and truly, their fate should be the decided by those they betrayed.
--
As the evening set, and the Northern wind dies down, the baying of sled dogs floats across the Tundra. Ramundr quickly raises an alarm, while Signe and several others scouted the perimeter. No threat emerged, though they waited with blades drawn through the night.
--
Ramundr nods at Eldgrímr. By wolves or by ghouls? Then he remembered the grissly depictions of cannibalism in Althunak's temple and he blanched.
--
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As the ship approaches the far northern village, Eldgrímr moves to the bow of the ship. "The idea that some are touched by magic and others are not is but an illusion. There is only those who it is channeled through, and those it does not. But it affects us all."
"Those without it will have it for this fight." He says with a nod, saying 'fight' as if it has already been decided that battle is imminent.
One by one, the mysterious skald calls over Ramundr, Signe, and Ótryggr.
"Ramundr, may the spirit of heroes be with you. Navnik di seiani."
"Signe, may the vision of heroes be with you. Jillepse di seiani."
"Ótryggr, may the might of heroes be with you. Janik di seiani."
Although there are no flashy or radiating effects from the magic, its effects are felt from those experiencing it. Confidence, assurance, bravery and morale. It would be a good day to bleed.
Ragnar's feet had traced not one or dozen circles around the ice, as he glances up to meet the eyes of those entrapped within. He lays his hand on the ice, before bowing his head. Should the wytch die, his wyrd should die with him., he says to himself, though even so he is not sure.
Walking his way into the village, Ragnar slams his spear into the ground. "The time has come. Those who wish to join us truthfully, step forth. Those who stop them will be cut down.", he nods. "And to those who join and pour us Loptr's mead, his favour awaits." Slamming his spear into the ground, he watches the couple solitary villagers who join the crew with piercing gaze.
"There is something we can do, Thread-Seer.", Ragnar puts a hand on the man's shoulders. "To let them be carried by flames away from the grasp of our foe is reward enough."
Ragnar stares at the walls of Hranavik, fury bubbling beneath his concentrated gaze. Raising his shield, he nods at Ramundr, then at everyone else. "The ravens hunger today. And a feast they will have! Til bardaga!", he roars out, his voice carrying over the walls.
Signe watches in disbelief as the ice grows back and nothing is able to free the prisoners. "Let us hope that defeat of Althunak will free them from their icy prison."
After the remaining Ulnat are questioned she asks, "Not all who denounced Althunak will be able to come with us and they will not be safe on their own. Who will stay behind to make sure they get safely to the others?" The ranger couldn't help but think of Siku and her fate.
Signe takes the bone from Eldgrimr and studies the teeth marks.
Emboldened by the words spoken over her by Eldgrimr in the boat, Signe does not flinch as the followers of Althunak gather before them. Instead she nocks an arrow and studies the group in order to target any shamans who may be present.
Otryggr unclasps his bear cloak so that his chainmail gleams in the harsh sunlight. He takes a deep breath of air, eyes closing, a slight smile curving his wide mouth as if he were stepping out onto a balcony in spring, home in Vastavikland without a care in the world.
But the din of battle draws near, and when his eyes open there burns within their depths the madness that his friends have come to know so well. Foam flecks the corner of his mouth, and he hunches his shoulders as his muscles swell, his whole body shaking as if with mirth or terror.
It is neither.
"Oh but it is glorious to spill the battle-dew of our enemies without need for doubt or remorse," he growls, his voice growing louder by the word.
"Come to me, you Althunak whelps. Come to your true master. Come meet your wyrd, come meet your death."
He is no skald. No orator born. But his words are imbued with a potency born of savage passion and a craving for violence.
"Death!" he barks, and then again and again, ever louder, until he is bellowing it at their approaching foe, bronze blade flashing in the light.
"Death! Death! "
Pain and frustration is evident in Þyrnir's face as he doggedly chips at the ice encasing the villagers. These must have been those who did not join the Children of Althunak willingly, he thinks, all the more reason to try and free them. But such a deed, alas, is beyond their power. As his companions one by one voice their powerlessness against this terrible wyrd, the godi finally relents and abandons the futile work.
Helping Ragnar put together a funeral pyre is the least that Þyrnir can do, although there is not much fuel - anything useful has been carried away.
As they approach the village and gather their strength for the inevitable confrontation, Þyrnir thinks on Eldgrímr's words. With a light touch of his hand, he channels Frigg's protection towards his companions and friends.
Following the slaying of most of the survivors, those whose wyrd has led them to the dark worship of the Ginnvaettir who dwell in the Ginnungagap , many of the bodies are loaded into the village’s skin kayaks, set ablaze, and pushed out onto the waves. The others are burned in large funeral pyres upon the beach. Two children, Siku and Miki, are kept away during this time, then loaded into the Long Serpent to be delivered following the return journey to Laquirv. Their fear is palpable, but their wyrd will see them back to their own people.
Eldgrimr does not hide his magic, cloaking himself in images in preparation for battle, and invoking the spirit, vision, and might of heroes to bolster his new allies.
As they approach the village and gather their strength for the inevitable confrontation, Þyrnir thinks on Eldgrímr's words. With a light touch of his hand, he channels Frigg's protection towards his companions and friends.
The cultists and converted Ulnat warriors crack their javelins against their melee weapons, spears and greatclubs, in time, making no effort to conceal their large number.
”Anyị anụwo akụkọ banyere ike gị, ma ọnụ ọgụgụ anyị dị ukwuu!” cries a voice from behind the wall of cultists. ”Ụmụ Althunak na-ezukọ. Anyị ga-eri nri ndị nwụrụ anwụ!”
”We have heard tales of your strength, but our numbers are greater. The Children of Althunak gather and will feast upon your dead!”
Eldgrímr 42/42
Ótryggr 72/72
Ragnar 45/45
Ramundr 58/58
Signe 51/51
Þyrnir 44/44
It was clear that they needed all the help they could get against such number of foes. Another whispered prayer invoked Frigg's blessing upon the party, and Þyrnir smiles in his short beard at the cultists' and the Ulnat's eagerness. The slaughter they had undertaken in Alcanavt still weighed heavily upon his soul, but this was clean battle - iron against iron, muscle against muscle, will against will. Any who willingly served Althunak did not deserve mercy.
"Ndị dike nke oge ochie hà na-atụ egwu ụdị ahụhụ ndị na-agbapụ ụkwụ na ụkwụ ha? Ugwu ahụ ọ ga-ada n'ala dị arọ nke ọtụtụ akwụkwọ? Bịa, ihe ga-adakwasị gị."
"Kihlek di apzen...kihlek di apzen...kihlek di apzen!" Eldgrímr roars the last word, and another indescribable wave of energy pulses out from him. Their footing would be sure in this battle, the fates are in their favor.
"Nautkynir cayosin." Eldgrímr passes a hand over Ótryggr's weapon, making it flash brightly in the sun. "When you will it, this weapon shall blind your opponent in battle."
The gift of Fair Eyes. Oh, you foolish man, if you'd only studied its wyrd. Ragnar's rage appears to center around the man, as he sees the spears ready to bite into their flesh. "Let's hold the line, Ramundr! Together no spear will bite our flanks!", he grits his teeth, beginning to bash his shield faster and faster. Nodding at Eldgrimr, his spear begins to crackle with lightning.
Otryggr's gaze flickers over the battlefield, taking in the host that has appeared along the ridge. He does not seem cowed. Instead, he spends a moment trying to figure out the safest path toward the foe, one which will allow him to close as quickly as possible once he sets himself upon it.
Heroism: gain a +2 morale bonus on attack rolls, saves, and skill checks for 1 hour.
Bless: +1 morale bonus to attack rolls and saves versus fear
Raging Song: Adopting Elemental Rage, Lesser for +1d6 fire damage.
Signe. Let us fling arrows into their midst. In particular, at their shaman.
Ramundr drops his shield and sheathes and sword, drawing his longbow.
Pulling the string back, he aims up at fires at the shaman.
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Signe nods at Ramundr, her fingers already moving as he draws his bow.
Knowing precisely who to look for, she immediately spots the shaman and releases the arrow she already has loaded, closely followed by two more.
It was clear that they needed all the help they could get against such number of foes. Another whispered prayer invoked Frigg's blessing upon the party, and Þyrnir smiles in his short beard at the cultists' and the Ulnat's eagerness. The slaughter they had undertaken in Alcanavt still weighed heavily upon his soul, but this was clean battle - iron against iron, muscle against muscle, will against will. Any who willingly served Althunak did not deserve mercy.
"Kihlek di apzen...kihlek di apzen...kihlek di apzen!" Eldgrímr roars the last word, and another indescribable wave of energy pulses out from him. Their footing would be sure in this battle, the fates are in their favor. "Nautkynir cayosin." Eldgrímr passes a hand over Ótryggr's weapon, making it flash brightly in the sun. "When you will it, this weapon shall blind your opponent in battle."
The gift of Fair Eyes. Oh, you foolish man, if you'd only studied its wyrd. Ragnar's rage appears to center around the man, as he sees the spears ready to bite into their flesh. "Let's hold the line, Ramundr! Together no spear will bite our flanks!", he grits his teeth, beginning to bash his shield faster and faster. Nodding at Eldgrimr, his spear begins to crackle with lightning.
Otryggr's gaze flickers over the battlefield, taking in the host that has appeared along the ridge. He does not seem cowed. Instead, he spends a moment trying to figure out the safest path toward the foe, one which will allow him to close as quickly as possible once he sets himself upon it.
”Signe. Let us fling arrows into their midst. In particular, at their shaman.” Ramundr drops his shield and sheathes and sword, drawing his longbow. Pulling the string back, he aims up at fires at the shaman. The arrow is lost in the branches of an evergreen. Nonetheless, the shaman shrieks in pain.
Signe nods at Ramundr, her fingers already moving as he draws his bow. Knowing precisely who to look for, she immediately spots the shaman and releases the arrow she already has loaded, closely followed by two more. The shaman’s threats transform into a yelp of pain.
In response, the cultists and Ulnat heft their javelins and throw them with force. A rain of sharp-tipped weapons assails the group! Both Ramundr and Eldgrimr are struck, though it only Eldgrimr's dwimmered reflections that are hit.
miss
miss
miss
miss
confirmed
miss
miss
miss
miss
miss
miss
miss
miss
miss
miss
hit
hit
no
miss
miss
The shaman cries out, his voice wet and gurgling. A giant web of stickly silk springs into existence, threatening to trap the entire party.
The cultists draw fresh javelins, prepared to throw again…
”Kwuo onye na-agba akụ! Hapụ nkịta” The shaman commands through clenched teeth.
The Ulnat motion and whistle, and the dogs race down from the sides, jaws snapping and mouths foaming. Several of them reach the edge of the web, halting to bark and threaten any who manage to escape.
Eldgrímr 42/42
Ótryggr 72/72
Ragnar 45/45
Ramundr 45/58
Signe 51/51
Þyrnir 44/44[/b]
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