No sooner has the web covered the party as Ramundr's spear sends the webs ablaze. "Your mongrels will not stop us, coward! Otryggr, come with me! You cut from the right, and we shall cut from the left!"
Sliding down the mountain with thunderous speed, Ragnar's feet race across the terrain, as he burries his burning spear into a beast's flank. "Death to the Winter King's lackeys!"
HP Current: 49/51 (as I am ANGRY)
AC: 22
Signe is suddenly engulfed in a sticky web of strands that hold her arms taught making it impossible to shoot her bow. She strains against her bonds, knowing full well what a spider does to a trapped fly and not wanting to share that fate.
Despite his best attempts, and a twist in the skein of his wyrd, Otryggr is also bound by the sticky threads, his arms lashed down and blade rendered impotent. Still, he struggles with savage ferocity to break free.
Þyrnir manages to twist out of the way of the sticky strands. Ramundr calls for arrows, while Ragnar hares off towards their assailants' dogs. Seeing the wisdom of striking from a distance and draws his own longbow, letting fly at the shaman on the ridge. He feels his pulse quicken at Ragnar's words, but forces himself to breathe calmly as he nocks, draws, and releases. Clarity and precision were required now, not fury.
Eldgrímr hacks at the burning webs, using Rangar's fire to burn them away.
Ramundr just manages to twist his body enough to avoid the sticky strands. Trusting his companions to hold the dogs of war from his flanks, Ramundr continues to aim arrows at their shaman.
Eldgrímr burns the web away, then holds his position, ready to prevent anybody from breaking the line to Signe. He begins to sing a bass harmony to Ragnar, complimenting his song.
Otryggr leaps free of the burning strands with a roar of anticipation, and runs hurtling down the slope toward the slavering pack of hounds, his own baying as loud if not louder.
Ragnar’s very words set their weapons ablaze, and so the Northlanders tear free of the shaman’s ensnaring web and bring the razor edge of their fury to the enemy’s throat!
Sliding down the mountain with thunderous speed, Ragnar's feet race across the terrain, as he burries his burning spear into a beast's flank. "Death to the Winter King's lackeys!" The dog yelps and falls unconscious to the ground. .
Signe tears the last webs from her bow, releasing a series of arrows aimed for the shaman’s black heart.
Otryggr leaps free of the burning strands with a roar of anticipation, and runs hurtling down the slope toward the slavering pack of hounds, his own baying as loud if not louder. He strikes the animal down with a heavy, clean sweep of his blade.
Þyrnir manages to twist out of the way of the sticky strands. Ramundr calls for arrows, while Ragnar hares off towards their assailants' dogs. Seeing the wisdom of striking from a distance and draws his own longbow, letting fly at the shaman on the ridge. He feels his pulse quicken at Ragnar's words, but forces himself to breathe calmly as he nocks, draws, and releases. Clarity and precision were required now, not fury. His arrow flies high, just over the head of a cultist.
Ramundr just manages to twist his body enough to avoid the sticky strands. Trusting his companions to hold the dogs of war from his flanks, Ramundr continues to aim arrows at their shaman. Both strike the foremost cultist, causing him to double over and nearly tip into the water below. Nearly..
Eldgrímr burns the web away, then holds his position, ready to prevent anybody from breaking the line to Signe. He begins to sing a bass harmony to Ragnar, complimenting his song.
Another shower of spears flies from above! The captain is struck twice!
miss
miss
miss
miss
miss
miss
miss
miss
miss
miss due to PfE
miss
miss
hit
miss
miss
miss
miss
hit
miss
no
no
The dogs, snarling and vicious, circle the invaders and snap at their legs in an attempt to pull them to the hard ground.
The cultists draw fresh javelins, prepared to throw again…
Eldgrímr 42/42
Ótryggr 72/72
Ragnar 45/45
Ramundr 31/58
Signe 51/51
Þyrnir 44/44
No more magic, no more preparations to make. Now only he, the enemy, and the steel between them. Eldgrímr cuts at the dog before him, his swing echoed by his base notes.
Seeing the shaman crumple to the ground, Signe turns her attention to one of the cultists. Trusting the others to deal with the dogs, she lobs arrows at those on the cliff.
Wishing Signe had aimed for the dog hovering over his sword and shield, Ramundr steps back 5 feet, and fires arrows into the beast.
Nock, draw, release. He is not nearly as practiced with the bow as Signe is, and he watches her out of the corner of his eye as her arrows speed one after the other towards the cultists. How can she do it so fast? He is certain that he would impale his own foot if he tried. He sends one arrow flying, not bothering to aim very much, such is the press of bodies among their enemies that he is near certain that it will strike something.
Battle-dew sprays. Otryggr laughs, and turns to strike down the other dog.
Ragnar's spear darts into the dog's back, rending deep into the creature's flesh. The blade darts in once more, as the skald roars. The beast cries in pain, as Ragnar braces his shield towards the cultists standing at the cliff. "To victory! None can stop us!"
No more magic, no more preparations to make. Now only he, the enemy, and the steel between them. Eldgrímr cuts at the dog before him, his swing echoed by his base notes. Another dog falls
Seeing the shaman crumple to the ground, Signe turns her attention to one of the cultists. Trusting the others to deal with the dogs, she lobs arrows at those on the cliff. Her first target is the central cultist. As two arrows are buried in her chest, she falls forward into the pool of water with a splash. Signe’s third arrow strikes the southernmost cultist, one who is closest to her allies.
Wishing Signe had aimed for the dog hovering over his sword and shield, Ramundr steps back 5 feet, and fires an arrow into the beast.
Nock, draw, release. He is not nearly as practiced with the bow as Signe is, and he watches her out of the corner of his eye as her arrows speed one after the other towards the cultists. How can she do it so fast? He is certain that he would impale his own foot if he tried. He sends one arrow flying, not bothering to aim very much, such is the press of bodies among their enemies that he is near certain that it will strike something. Thyrnir follows Signe’s aim, also hitting the nearest Ulnat.
Battle-dew sprays. Otryggr laughs, and turns to strike down the other dog. It falls with a yelp, then Otryggr is running, navigating the stones and trees to reach the wall.
Ragnar's spear darts into the dog's back, rending deep into the creature's flesh. The blade darts in once more, as the skald roars. The beast cries in pain, as Ragnar braces his shield towards the cultists standing at the cliff. "To victory! None can stop us!"
The remaining dogs surround Thyrnir, trying to bring the godi to the ground. Though his battle garb is strong, one dog’s teeth catches his forearm, producing a river of blood.
hit
miss
miss
no
fail
The Ulnat and remaining cultist drop their javelins, instead clutching their spears and swarming down from the wall! One reaches Otryggr in strikes down at him from above, but Otryggr agilely twists away from the speartip.
miss
Eldgrímr 42/42
Ótryggr 72/72
Ragnar 45/45
Ramundr 31/58
Signe 51/51
Þyrnir 37/44
Otryggr snarls at the indignity of being attacked from above, and so, ignoring the spear tips that dance about him, hauls himself the cliff to leap amongst the enemy.
That done, he laughs, swinging his bronze blade in a great, glittering arc through the ranks before him.
Eldgrímr feels as Þyrnir is bitten into, his blade flying up from the snow and the previous corpse to defend his ally reflexively.
Eldgrímr continues to hammer at the canine threats, protecting his archer as the fiercer members cut into the enemy ranks.
As the dog drops, Ragnar turns around to see Otryggr's blade bloodied with the beast's wound-dew. Roaring in approval, the skald points his spear at the wall, and leaps with crashing speed. The battle-din trembles before Otryggr as Haegtesse's vicious swings cleave the wolf-hearted cultists. Swings from the spears above don't deter him, as Talersvar bites into a man's thigh, blood seeping down the hills and into the lake.
Ramundr drops his bow and pulls the masterful longspear from his back and spears at the dog that threatened Signe.
Hoping that the Ulnat would be more inclined to drop their weapons if the cultists were dead along with their shaman, Signe targets the remaining cultist.
Taking a small step to the side to get a better angle to shoot from, she releases her arrows at the incoming wave of people.
The battle was fragmenting, and while some of his companions were far away, the cultists and the Ulnat had also splintered and were much less of a cohesive mass. Things could still go either way, as Þyrnir and his friends are greatly outnumbered, and as mighty as their weapons and their spirit is, a pack of wolves can bring down the mightiest elk.
Dropping his bow, he grips his seax and aims two quick swings at the furry bodies crowding him and those of his companions around him. He was less inclined to be merciful towards the creatures after one had taken a bite out of his arm.
Otryggr snarls at the indignity of being attacked from above, and so, ignoring the spear tips that dance about him, even one that cuts a wide gash on his face, he hauls himself the cliff to leap amongst the enemy.
That done, he laughs, swinging his bronze blade in a great, glittering arc through the ranks before him. The first Ulnat is struck down where he stands. The second, a female, catches the blade with her shoulder, but remains standing.
Eldgrímr feels as Þyrnir is bitten into, his blade flying up from the snow and the previous corpse to defend his ally reflexively. The dog yelps as it is cut down. Eldgrímr continues to hammer at the canine threats, protecting his archer as the fiercer members cut into the enemy ranks. He spears another in the chest, killing it swiftly.
Ramundr drops his bow and pulls the masterful longspear from his back and spears at the dog that threatened Signe.
Hoping that the Ulnat would be more inclined to drop their weapons if the cultists were dead along with their shaman, Signe targets the remaining cultist. Taking a small step to the side to get a better angle to shoot from, she releases her arrows at the incoming wave of people. One, two, three arrows strike the cultist, who falls to her knees before collapsing face down in the mud.
One Ulnat grabs another by the arm and gestures to the fallen cultists and shaman. The two of them break from formation, retreating back into the trees. Another sees them and runs after them, but to join them or to stop them?
The battle was fragmenting, and while some of his companions were far away, the cultists and the Ulnat had also splintered and were much less of a cohesive mass. Things could still go either way, as Þyrnir and his friends are greatly outnumbered, and as mighty as their weapons and their spirit is, a pack of wolves can bring down the mightiest elk.
His arrow strikes the Ulnat in the chest, but the huntress appears crazed and races forward, spear raised....
...impaling herself upon Ramundr’s icicle of blood. The Ulnat to the north race down the hill to avenge their slain sister.
To the west, the battle rages as the Ulnat warriors spar with Otryggr and Ragnar...
miss
miss
miss
miss
miss
hit
miss
One spear passes through Ragnar’s shield, slicing the arm that bears it.
Eldgrímr 42/42
Ótryggr 62/72
Ragnar 42/45
Ramundr 31/58
Signe 51/51
Þyrnir 37/44
Surrounded on all ends, Ragnar feels the Ulnat's spear rend through his side. Feeling the others land on his shield and armour, he lets out a laugh. "The gods are on our side today, dogs!", he raises his spear in the air, before bringing its rune-covered tip into the shoulder of the man to his side.
Status
Otryggr sings a dirge as he hews at the men before him, blood spattering snow and over his form, deep in a trance of fury and abiding satisfaction.
Here, in the thick of combat, surrounded by overwhelming numbers, is where his doubts and fears and concerns fall away, and he is left alone, himself, in his truest form.
Signe sighs resignedly as the Ulnat continue their advance instead of fleeing like the others. Drawing another arrow, she attempts to wound as many as possible before they break on the blades of her allies like waves against a ship.
Eldgrímr disposes the last of the dogs, then steps over and bolts forward, blade hungry for more human prey.
And on they come, to their deaths. Þyrnir wonders what they have been told, what they have been promised, to make them so blind and deaf to their own destruction. A matter to consider later, for now close battle is being joined, and the former thrall steps in front of his comrades, raising his shield and swinging his seax in a quick crossing pattern in front of him.
Ramundr threads his way north after the retreating cultists, slashing at one that impaling a man impeding his path.
Surrounded on all ends, Ragnar feels the Ulnat's spear rend through his side. Feeling the others land on his shield and armour, he lets out a laugh. "The gods are on our side today, dogs!", he raises his spear in the air, before bringing its rune-covered tip into the shoulder of the man to his side.
Otryggr sings a dirge as he hews at the men before him, blood spattering snow and over his form, deep in a trance of fury and abiding satisfaction. Here, in the thick of combat, surrounded by overwhelming numbers, is where his doubts and fears and concerns fall away, and he is left alone, himself, in his truest form.
Signe sighs resignedly as the Ulnat continue their advance instead of fleeing like the others. Drawing another arrow, she attempts to wound as many as possible before they break on the blades of her allies like waves against a ship.
Eldgrímr disposes the last of the dogs, then steps over and bolts forward, blade hungry for more human prey.
And on they come, to their deaths. Þyrnir wonders what they have been told, what they have been promised, to make them so blind and deaf to their own destruction. A matter to consider later, for now close battle is being joined, and the former thrall steps in front of his comrades, raising his shield and swinging his seax in a quick crossing pattern in front of him.
Ramundr threads his way north after the retreating cultists, slashing at one that impaling a man impeding his path.
On both sides of the pond, the Ulnat drop their spears and fall to their knees, pleading. ”Biko! Anyị na-adịghị efe anụ iri Chineke! Ha na-eme ka anyị lụọ ọgụ!”
Eldgrímr 42/42
Ótryggr 62/72
Ragnar 42/45
Ramundr 31/58
Signe 51/51
Þyrnir 37/44
Eldgrímr brings his base harmony to a halt, turning to open his voice to both sides of the pond. "Enough! They have surrendered and claimed no loyalty to the dark god!"
He addresses the Ulnat. "Debe aka gị n'aka ngwá agha. Ọ bụrụ na ị naghị efe onye na-eri anụ, anyị ga-emere ebere."
Signe may not understand the words but she understood their action of surrender. It is the only thing that stays her hand from releasing more arrows even though she keeps one nocked just in case.
"Can someone ask them if reinforcements are coming? Are there more shamans or cultists?"
Eldgrimr translates Signe's words.
Otryggr wrests control of himself from his inner beast with great effort; panting for breath, eyes blank as he glares at the Ulnat before him, he stands like a bear freshly emerged from the frost-bound woods; looming, massive, and promising endless peril.
He doesn't put away his blade. One sign of treachery and he'll hurl himself back into the dark butchery that he'd lost himself in.
I will decapitate the shaman and crush its skull.
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Hranavik consists of thirty hide huts, nine dog sleds to the south under a hide tarp, and twenty skin kayaks pulled up onshore. There are twenty-one slaves remaining.
Through their conversation, the survivors explain that the village was quickly taken by the cultists. It has gotten over its initial shock and has begun to resist its conquerors in small ways. Most of the villagers are slaves and began to intentionally fall short on their duties. Stews were over- or undercooked, clothes were washed then rubbed with nettles, and mending was done in a haphazard fashion so that items quickly came unraveled. The cultists took draconian precautions such as increasing physical punishment and decreasing rations, but this only encouraged the people of Hranavik to further heights of resistance. Several harpoons, spears, and war clubs are carefully hidden under the dog sleds, secreted there by the slaves.
One of the loyal villages of the Children of Althunak, Norvagak willingly gave itself over shortly after Elvanti returned from beyond the Wailing Mountains and demonstrated his might at Alcanavt. The village is home to eight cultists, two shamans, as well as fifteen sorely treated and nearly dead slaves. The cultists have been working them non-stop in order to preserve enough food for the coming winter, which they hope will be long and brutal. In their depravity, the elders of the village, all Children of Althunak, went so far as to have the bodies of dead slaves smoked and salted.
The village is like many of the Ulnat villages, it is unwalled, consists of a dozen hide huts, possesses a long trash midden to the north, and is guarded by dogs. To the south is a pile of sleds covered by hide tarps, and skin kayaks are lined up onshore. Of special note, one of the huts is used for smoking and preserving meat, and inside you find three human corpses hanging up alongside the more prosaic elk, seal, and fish. Presumably in light of your invasion, most of this “food” was charred or otherwise ruined.
This is the village that the crew of the Long Serpent attacked and burned in retribution for being ambushed. The few survivors fled and haven’t returned to their ruined homes. Nothing remains but charred ground and unburied bodies…
Ramundr looks among the Ulnat To the strong people of Hranavik, I swear we will not pillage of your fallen, save from those that perpetuated the tyranny of Althunak upon you. Keep your axes and spears at your side; do not let the cannibalistic demon demons regain dominion here again. For now you know, bitterly his yoke. We will, cleanse each Ulant village of the taint of Althunak, and offer mercy to all those that resist him.
The gathering chill of winter is upon us. We and the Ulnat have great need for food.
Such villages are often placed near good hunting grounds, are they not Signe? This village has been abandoned for a good while, but the grounds remain, replenished of their stock. Let us hunt! If we are able, we will bring this food to each of the villages in great feasts, and muster their able warriors for war!
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Ragnar whips his spear towards the pond, the droplets of blood forming clouds of red amongst the calm surface. The unnatural celerity around the man seems to recede as his rhytmic shield toll seizes. His face, a moment earlier wrapped in wrathful glee, sombers, as he nods.
"To rescind your god, even in lies, are words of note.", he nods. "Though wolf-hearted they are, we should listen. Drink not Loptr's mead, though hope that there will still be humans left in these lands after we've torn the cult of Althunak."
As the warriors rescind their lies, Ragnar stands in the centre of the village, thudding his spear to the ground. Unfurling a rope, he gestures for his comrades to come to him, gesturing to them to tie the rope loosely around their wrists. He raises his spear towards the villagers, the tip glowing for a brief moment.
"Those of you who wish to fight alongside us, to tear out the taint of Elvanti and his seven-cursed god, step forth!", he shouts out in a ceremonial voice. For every volunteer among them, he ties a loose loop on the rope, placing it on their wrist, then putting his hand on theirs. "We are now brothers and sisters in cause. This cursed winter will soon end! The Ulnat will once again be free! The Winter King will lie forgotten!" Thudding his spear in the ground once more, flame bursts at the tip as Ragnar stares at the heavens.
Huddled in his thick black cloak, Ragnar nods. "It is true. To march on empty stomach is foolish." He sends a rare smile at Ramundr, then the wise Godwytch's face rescinds to the bare face of a young man. "Although, I must confess. I've never been out on a real hunt.", he continues, his sides and ears reddening from more than the biting cold.
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Ramundr nods in remembrance. We missed you brother on our last hunt. I recall a morning spent in the longboat with your arse over the side. I learned that day that even the Godwytch Ragnar Hedefødt may fall by the way with an illness of the gut.
Signe has been hunting all her life and is no stranger to butchery and preserving meat. But seeing three humans strung up like just another animal, knowing that followers of Althunak had every intention of eating human flesh, turns her stomach. Covering her mouth, she quickly leaves the hut. She moves a small distance away and bends over, hands on knees. She takes a few cleansing breaths, relishing the cold in her lungs. "Such depravity must be stopped."
Such villages are often placed near good hunting grounds, are they not Signe? This village has been abandoned for a good while, but the grounds remain, replenished of their stock. Let us hunt! If we are able, we will bring this food to each of the villages in great feasts, and muster their able warriors for war!
Grateful to have a purpose to focus on, she answers, "Your reasoning is sound. I am more than willing to scout the area to see if I can find food to sustain us and the villagers."
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In Hranavik and Norvagak, Þyrnir does his best to care for the former slaves, sharing Frigg's blessings freely and speaking to them without judgement. What a fate they had endured, to be forced to toil and bleed and die for those who had enslaved them. He knows that ache all too well, even though over the years he had grown to genuinely respect and care for Jarl Olaf, he still remembers the wild little boy straining against his bindings, eyes white with fear and full of tears.
Later, the talk of hunting has him prick up his ears and grab his longbow eagerly. "Yes, we need more food. I'll help you, Signe."
The barbarity and horror of what they witness only drives Otryggr into greater spells of silence. He gazes upon all with an unflinching stare, but often spends hours alone after, staring out over the pounding surf, ignoring the countless seagulls that wheel and shriek, the seals that edge away, the calls and shouts of the sailors and his companions.
Still, when there is killing to be done, he does his fair share, and more.
Finally when Ramundr suggests a hunt, he shakes himself free of the depression into which he seems to have sunk and gives Signe a rare smile, thought it remains a wolfish one.
"Lead on, great huntress. My blade will fall where you will it."
Ragnar's mouth forms its almost signature line as Ramundr reminds him of the last hunt. Blinking a couple of times, the skald shrugs, a biting comment at his lips, but he chooses to hold it. Truth is truth, regardless the messenger.
As Signe leads the hunt, his attention is mostly aimed at holding himself from humming, singing and chatting. Managing to remain surprisingly quiet, even for himself, he follows the huntmistress' orders, spear at the ready.
Signe and her band set out to survey of the surround tundra, anxious for the rare opportunity to hunt the exotic game of the Far North--the musk oxen, the caribou, or even perhaps the fabled herds of wooly mammoth… Eyes peeled for sign, the frozen landscape nonetheless proves a challenge even to the seasoned Signe and Ragnar.
In about two hours, however, her diligence is rewarded. Across the field, near a cairn of stones, stands a large woolly rhinoceros with a shaggy pelt of long, brown fur and a row of immense horns on its snout and brow. It must catch your scent, for its massive head turns in your direction and it issues a cautionary snort.
Eldgrímr 42/42
Ótryggr 72/72
Ragnar 45/45
Ramundr 58/58
Signe 51/51
Þyrnir 44/44
Eldgrimr begins his basso chant, a growl that rivals that of your prey. He draws his throwing axe and positions himself near a tree trunk.
Otryggr breaks into a loping run, not bothering to hide his approach as he circles out wide, bronze blade flashing in the sun.
With a mix of excitement and fear, Þyrnir shades his eyes against the snow glare to examine their quarry. What a magnificent beast! If they slay it, not only will they have meat for many days, but that shaggy pelt can be made into warm cloaks. With a hand on Ramundr's shoulder, he whispers a prayer to Frigg.
Ramundr hustles to the fore, remaining just behind a tree, legs and arms pulsing with a newfound strength. For this hunt, Ramundr chose his spear, leaving shield and ice blade behind.