There is much we need to tell you, and soon, Jarl Olaf, of signs and portents of war. Þyrnir or Ragnar may best relate the Wyrding we witnessed.
"Althunak is a name with dark wings. Dark wings, indeed. My jarl, the wytch spoke this name afore she died. As I am sure you know, that is the name of the demon-god who sought to cover the world in ice and snow. He has been defeated before by gods and heroes, but wicked men always seek to make use of dark powers beyond their ken . . . And your daughter, Runa... When we were in the meadows, just before the girls were snatched... She spoke words that sounded like, like a vision. Or a prophecy. She spoke of a storm coming, and - forgive me - of your death by bloodied ice."”Ha!” Jarl Olaf balks. ”I’m sure this witch told many a fortune, all of them foretelling my certain doom. But here we stand, and it is she who feeds the ravens, not I! I am loathe to hear tales of doom just now. We shall return to Silvermeade, feast, and then talk of these things at another time. Come. Bring my daughters. We ride for Silvermeade!”
With the jarl and more than a dozen of his huscarls and finest warriors (yourselves included) in tow, even the horde of undead seems not insurmountable, though the warriors eye the surrounding Barrow Lands nervously as they wait for dawn before attempting to head out. The girls are mounted on fresh horses, and the jarl orders you to stay with them and finish your oath to see them safely home.
The coming dawn glows pink over the endless field of barrows that surrounds the Tor. Jarl Henrikson has decided to make a break for the forest to the south to try and get out of the accursed Barrow Lands as quickly as possible and risk the forest eves rather than the unquiet dead. The troop gathers at the foot of the causeway preparing to make a fighting retreat as the forms of scores of skeletal remnants of the ancient Andøvan still shuffle about dimly visible in the half-light.
The hordes of shuffling, undead part at the base of the causeway, however, and one dead warrior steps forth in front of the others. The rotting silks and fine cloth still covers his cuirass of bronze below his hollow-eyed skull, though now in the early light you can see that traces of ancient dye still show where his raiment was once of the finest fabric. And he still carries that massive bronze sword of magnificent make, now point down toward the earth. It is the barrow king who first allowed you to pass to reach the Tor, and he seems to want to parley.
The undead creature makes no harmful moves. Instead, he lifts his hand to mimic the shape of a necklace and then holds his hand out, waiting.
Ragnar threads the road in silence, his eyes glancing at the stars amongst the sky above the barrows, his memories taking him back as he clutches his spear with whitened knuckles. He doesn't pay heed to the warriors' jovial exclamations and praises, nor does he speak out to praise the skill of his comrades. Instead, his mind circles the thoughts of eternal imprisonment under the barrows, death in the cold, Althunak and his dream, all of them bringing an even dimmer shroud over Ragnar's face.
His dark-minded trance is only broken by the sight of the long-dead Andøvan king, still a grand figure in his dilapidated state. Ragnar's eyes widen open for a moment, until he realises it isn't a dream anymore, as he breathes out a breath of relief. Rustling through Sibbe's pouch, careful to avoid the venomous knife, his fingers close around the bones of the necklace. What sin have they done to be cursed to roam those lands forever?, he asks himself somberly, before placing the necklace in the king's awaiting hand. There is no knowledge too dark for Wotan, yet I find myself dreading the answer to that question may come soon.
This king of undeath met us at the entrance to the burrow lands. He allowed, perhaps required us to continue to face the witch. He has not seemed to wish us harm, and may be that we should speak. Ramundr advised Jarl Henrikson
The barrow king accepts the necklace and holds it near his chest, regarding it with empty eye sockets. Then he looks between Ragnar and the magnificent bronze greatsword he holds. He holds the blade out, pommel extended for the skald to claim.
The brow of the skald hesitates for a moment, as he rests his hand on the sizeable greatsword's hilt. "May rest befall you after your enemies.", he says after a moment, before pointing towards the mountaintop, the skies. "The order of these lands is maintained, but not by my blade." His words are simple, yet the tone suggests respect, gratefulness, and commiseration. His hand gestures towards a stain of drying blood on the necklace, and towards the Vastavikslander, lost in his thoughts, urging him to come forwards to meet the skeleton. Am I doing this right? Does one correct an Andovan king? I do not know, but I feel like I shouldn't be the one to accept this gift for all of us.
Nodding respectfully once more at the king of kingdom long forgotten, he steps back.
The silence grows as Otryggr stares in incomprehension at Ragnar, and then, brow lowering, he moves forward through the ranks of the huscarls to stand beside Ragnar, unsure but trusting the godwytch.
I trust him now, realizes the Vastaviklander, almost in surprise. He calls me to deal with a dead king, and I trust him and do so.
Unsure of what's needed of him, still half submerged in his own melancholies and exhausted rage, the large warrior reaches out to take the dead king's sword.
The barrow king, endued with the patience of a grave’s long sleep, stands silent, unstirred by Ragnar’s hesitation. And when Ótryggr claims the sword’s tang, he releases it with a sigh that carries the weariness born of unfathomable time. ”Hægtesse.” The word, barely perceptible, swims within it.
The sword is clearly a relic of the ancient Andøvan. Forged from bronze, it nonetheless bears the hardness of steel and, despite its great age, is still a weapon of some power. It is truly a weapon of heroes.
As one, the undead horde turns away, dragging themselves back among the barrow mounds from which they so recently emerged, and fading away within the morning fog. All of the householders, even Hauk Arinbjornson, look on in awe at this exchange, newfound respect in their eyes for the one who carries such a weapon of legend.
Otryggr's eyes go wide as he closes his fist about the greatsword's grip and lifts it from the dead kings' hands.
"Hægtesse," he whispers, turning it too and fro, and something within the blade calls to him, and Otryggr feels his soul respond, feels a savage joy that is cut through by a bitter awareness that this blade is both a blessing and curse. That it will lift him to greater heights even as it draws out the darkness in him to his eventual doom.
The Vastaviklander lets the sword drop by his side as he watches the dead return to their barrows, then turns to regard his jarl, one eyebrow raising to see if Olaf will contest his right to the blade. Then, he bows his head gratefully to Ragnar, and moves to resume his position in the retinue, ignoring the stares and whispers as he holds the greatsword in both hands, examining its pocked and pitted length with reverence and subdued fascination.
Suits you. Ramundr says simply of the bronze greatsword.
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Inwardly breathing out a sigh of relief, Ragnar gives the barrow king a final nod as the long dead ruler marches his armies towards the place of their unrestful slumber. "Hægtesse.", he whispers after Otryggr, nodding thoughtfully. He raises his head to speak to the raven-haired man, but something stops him. Fury is a weapon, indeed. Should you warn him against this, Ragnar? You who arm others with the Valfather's rage? He pauses, then lets the man inspect the sword, saying nothing as his spear monotonously thuds in the mud. Away, malaise!, he nearly roars in his own head as he shakes it vigorously a minute after, before slowing down his pace to catch up with the rest.
"Brothers! Sisters!", he looks at his band of companions. "On the dawn before this dawn, we set off with the Olafsdottirs to gather flowers.", he taps his spear down, throwing a vicious, furrowy-browed glance at one of the soldiers' snicker, then snickering back with a wink. "Today, we rescued maidens, slaughtered wolf-hearted fiends, felled a wytch, and were rewarded richly by rulers of this world and beyond!", he bows down respectively at Jarl Olaf, turning back once more. "And tomorrow, we regret how much we drink tonight!", he shouts, raising his spear in the air, then bringing it down with a clash over the dented barrow shield, then again, in a tune of an all-too-familiar song for the road.
Ramundr listens to Ragnar speak, power rolling out in waves over the the men and women. He feels their spirits lift and finds himself joined hurrah hurrah hurrah!!
He wanders over to Inga, who is staring off northwards. He wondered how her capture and ordeal had changed her. He doesn't speak, just stands with her, looking northwards letting his mind peer through the barrow-lands and forest into the northern wastes and Odin's promise.
Signe watches the scene unfold before her with awe. She understands that this is truly a once in a lifetime occurrence that needs to be properly appreciated.
As they begin their journey back through the Forest of Woe, Signe remembers about the signs of a possible bandit camp. Seeing it as a chance to assuage some of the guilt she still felt for letting the girls be taken and traumatized, she moves up beside Jarl Olaf.
She waits to be acknowledged before speaking. "My jarl, I thought you should know that we came across signs of a bandit camp while we were pursuing your dottirs. We couldn't spare the time to investigate then but maybe you wish to send some of your people to do it now on the way home."
Jarl Olaf merely nods his head at Otryggr, obviously at a loss as to what, exactly, should be said in a moment such as this.
Once the undead and their king have gone, the jarl approaches Otryggr. ”Glad I am to have seen this thing, and to know such a warrior walks my halls! Let us be off!”
Ramundr finds Inga, lost in her thoughts. Although she has been given a gray fur pelt for her shoulders, her fine dress is muddied, and her golden braids, now loose and falling around her shoulders, sway in the wind. ”She meant to kill us, Ramundr.” she says softly, not looking at him. ”Why did she want to kill us? Why did she want to kill me?” She turns and buries her head in his chest.
"My jarl, I thought you should know that we came across signs of a bandit camp while we were pursuing your dottirs. We couldn't spare the time to investigate then but maybe you wish to send some of your people to do it now on the way home."
Hallbjorn, who is riding near, draws up his horse. ”My jarl! It would do us great honor to fulfill our oaths to you. Allow me to take Kraki and Young Ljot, Berg and Hauk, and we shall show them what we make of oathbreakers. We shall deliver them unto the Corpse-ripper!”
The jarl accepts, and Hallbjorn leads his men deeper into the wood in search of their own glory this day.
The return ride goes well, as it seems the Forest of Woe has had its fill of tricks for a night, and you return to Silvermeade with three tired-but-safe young girls in tow. All three girls are taken by their female kinfolk and tended to, healers are brought in to tend to Signe’s and Ramundr’s wounds, and a small impromptu feast is thrown in your honor. After a time of feasting and drinking, Jarl Olaf calls on Ragnar to tell your tale, a cry that is quickly picked up and reverberates through the hall for the story of this latest deed of valor.
You learn that Runa falls into a sort of coma, sleeping for two fretful days before awakening on the third, seemingly her normal (if unusual) self.
The day after the feast, Hallbjorn, Hauk, Berg, and Young Ljot return with Kraki Hallason, who is wounded but alive, having taken a spear from ”that wolf-blooded drinker of Loptr’s mead, Styr! May he and that wytch-wench of his never see the gates of Valhalla, nor the golden fields of Fólkvangr!” He delivers their heads to the jarl.
”I knew this would happen to me…” the ever-morose Kraki moans, whether asked or not. He is swiftly delivered to Odi, the hall’s cunning woman.
In the following days, a gift from the Henrikson family is sent to you: for Ótryggr, Ragnar, and Ramundr, handsome long spears; for Signe, an elegant longbow; and for Þyrnir, a sturdy new seax. The weapons are finely crafted from local ashwood, bear engravings of a boar’s head, and are of exceptional quality .
There remains, then, the matter of Runa to settle. It is obvious that she was under some foul influence of Sibbe, an enchantment possibly laid upon her at her birth. That fact that you saw her demonstrate sorcerous powers is a matter of some import, yet given the jarl’s reluctance to speak of such things, it may be the wiser course to keep the matter secret and simply keep an eye on the girl to see what develops.
Six months have elapsed since the events upon the Tor. Runa, though still peculiar, has not exhibited any supernatural abilities. It is possible that whatever magic she possessed died with Sibbe, or that the trauma of the experience caused her to place a mental block on her strange abilities. Perhaps with time they may emerge again.
You find yourselves again at Silvermeade Hall, at a time that would normally be spent collecting on the summer’s harvest and preparing for the coming winter. Once again, you are summoned before the seat of Jarl Olaf. He sits alone, sipping from a horn of ale.
”I am a troubled man. The whale and seal hunting has been poor this year. Adding to this, the harvest is expected to be well below average, for it has been a cool and wet summer. If provisions are not laid for the winter, or at least something that could be traded for grain such as walrus tusk or seal skins, things are looking to be grim for Halfstead. It is true that in our wisdom we have kept a well-stocked granary, but I am loath to draw from it unless absolutely necessary.”
”I am also growing older, and I dare not let the skalds sing of Jarl Olaf, who sat upon his chair in comfort. No, if something is to be done, I shall do it myself, in a manner fit for the sagas. And so, I have decided to take my best sea-steed, The Long Serpent, on a voyage upon the whale road, farther north than any Northlander has ever sailed, far up the coast of Nûkland and into the mythical land of the Far North.”
”I am assembling a crew of huscarls, favored sailors, and other householders, over sixty men with you among them. Make whatever preparations you wish. I have already provided supplies for the voyage and loaded them onto the ship. Dress warmly, for winter’s bite has sharp teeth.” He laughs. ”We sail tomorrow.”
Signe is still riding on an emotional high from the feast thrown in their honor when there is a knock at her door a few days later. Her face can't hide her surprise when she opens it to see Fastvi with a huge grin on her face who proceeds to thrust a package at her. "Open it! Open it!" the youth demands. Not really understanding what was happening, Signe obeys.
She gasps as she unwraps the most beautiful longbow she has ever seen. Fastvi starts pointing out the engravings excitedly, "This was made especially for you as a thank you. My family's gift to you for what you did. I asked if I could deliver it."
Signe runs her hand almost lovingly over the ashwood and stutters out, "Thank...thank you. This is so generous. I will gladly use it to serve your family."
Fastvi hands a bag of coin over to Signe. "I was also told to give you this as your earnings." She pauses before clapping her hands together and giving Signe a mischievous smile. "Now, I am sure you want to try out your new bow. And what better way to do that than to show me how to use your old one!" Signe smiles and sighs, "How can I argue with that?"
It's only later that evening, after spending the afternoon with Fastvi, that Signe remembers about the bag of coin she had received. She opens it and stares for a moment in disbelief at the number of coins. She had never seen so many at once. She's about to call for her mother when she decides instead to buy Merethe a few gifts to present to her along with most of the money. Signe had a few items she had been thinking about for herself as well.
Over the next few months, Signe busies herself as a member of the jarl's household. She always seems to be doing something because she finds that she can't say no to anyone. She helps with the planting and maintenance of the crops and gardens. She also continues with hunting and trapping. Her previous experience with fishing becomes known and she is put to work on a boat which hones her sailing skill. As if she isn't busy enough, she spends almost every free moment with Fastvi teaching her the things that had been taught to her. The ranger has barely the time to sleep but keeps telling herself that she can finally rest when winter arrives.
The spring and summer months are quite busy for Þyrnir; his new position in the jarl's household means more responsibilities, but his old ones are not forgotten. He insists on continuing to serve the jarl's family as he had before - partly out of habit, partly to better keep an eye on Runa. Aside from that, he trains every day with the other warriors, slowly building up his fighting skills. He is deeply grateful to the jarl for his generosity, and daily he renews his vow to fight for him and his family to the end of his days.
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Þyrnir smiles fondly at the jarl's words. Others may take them for boasting, or recklessness, but he's known Olaf Erikson for many years and it warms him to see the man's fighting spirit still alive. It was that spirit that led his followers to win great prizes in the south, and it will do so again.
The next morning, many men and women are gathered on the beach, preparing to embark. Each is assigned a small chest that will both hold their possessions and serve as a seat within the boat. The sky is overcast, but the wind is calm and the ocean placid. The Long Serpent awaits upon the beach. It is a majestic oaken longship, a skeið warship consisting of more than thirty rowing benches. Over thirty meters in length, it can easily carry eighty people. Its long, serpentine head figure is carved in the stem and stern posts.
A cry from Jarl Olaf sends the crew to pushing the ship into the water. In less than a minute, sixty-five bodies and their gear have fit inside, and somehow the massive boat floats and bobs even in the shallow water. Callused hands seize their oars and, as one, they slice into the water as the the Long Serpent strikes out upon the North Sea.
The longships have two methods of propulsion: oars and sail. At sea, the sail enables the ship to travel faster than by oar and to cover long distances overseas with far less manual effort. Sails can be raised or lowered quickly. Oars are used when near the coast or in a river, to gain speed quickly, and when there is an adverse (or insufficient) wind. In combat, the variability of wind power makes rowing the chief means of propulsion. The ship is steered by a vertical flat blade with a short round handle, at right angles, mounted over the starboard side of the aft gunwale. The average speed of longships varies, but is in the range of 5–10 knots (9.3–18.5 km/h) and the maximum speed of a longship under favourable conditions iss around 15 knots (28 km/h).
Longships are not fitted with benches. When rowing, the crew sits on sea chests (chests containing their personal possessions) that would otherwise take up space. The chests are made the same size and are the perfect height for one to sit on and row.
When five days out of the North Sea and into the embrace of the Great Ocean on your journey, Young Ljot yells out that he has spotted land. A small glint of reflected light can be seen on the horizon. Jarl Olaf orders that a course be set toward it. As the longship approaches, a huge iceberg comes into view, less a floating block of ice than an island--a full glacier perhaps--of ice drifting through the sea. Such a large iceberg has not been seen in generations. As the Long Serpent sails around the iceberg, you can see that it is easily three miles in diameter and has a gentle slope from the water line that abruptly becomes a jagged wall of ice cliffs hundreds of feet high.
Jarl Olaf has the ship brought to within a short distance of the shore, nearest where the valley lies. Ordering the oarsmen to backwater to hold the ship steady, he addresses the crew. ”Hold her steady Old Ljot! This sight is strange to my eyes, and I desire to learn more about it. Is this unnatural thing a threat or a boon? In my father’s father’s time, a great fortune in gold and silver was found on a city of ice afloat in the sea, blown across the whale road by forces unknown. Does any here have the mind’s-worth to explore this palace of ice with me?”
Before you’ve even time to react, four huscarls, One-Eyed Sven, Berg Geirson, Young Ljot, and the surly Hauk Arinbjornson volunteer.
Ragnar's winter and spring blur in one, as the skald frequently ventures to the barrows during days and nights. Often remaining to spend the ever-shortening nights under the winter moon, his calm, methodic pace through the barrows could easily be noticed by those foolish enough to venture there, as he studies gravestone after gravestone.
One night, as he lounges half-asleep on Ole's roof after a long day of hauling planks up, Ragnar wakes up from loud tapping on the chimney. Dismissing it as another dream, he curls deeper into his new thick cloak, the fur of an unknown beast lining the edges. "Hey! You! Lazy bastard!", an old voice, the edge sharpened by a hearty helping of mead, roars through the chimney, followed by a coughing laugh. "Get down here, you're scaring the birds with your crazy magic.", he continues, tapping on the chimney twice more for good measure.
Ragnar shuffles slowly down from the roof, muttering to himself in annoyance at the old man as he makes his way in the door of the cluttered house. Sitting on the chair farther from the roaring fireplace, he stares at the table, pointing at the hnefatafl table. "Was it like this when I went up?", he asks with tones amused suspicion. "No, no, no. I finished the game. You won.", a dismissive voice carries from the other room, followed by the rustling of crates and boxes. "Ha!", the voice triumphantly exclaims, as it makes its way to the other room and attaching itself to the body of Ole Olafson. Ole is an impossibly ancient man with a pair of surprisingly youthful eyes, measuring no more than five and a half foot height even when not leaning on his cane, carved from wood as black as coal. A cherry-coloured nose pokes between the twin forests of his eyebrows and his beard, as he holds up a shimmering shirt. "See! Told you I'd found it!", he says, before moving into the room and sitting on his chair with surprising speed.
"Now, Ragnar, my boy.", he starts saying with a tone of regret. "This I've been meaning to give to you since you returned from the barrows.", he quickly removes the hnefatafl board and placing the chain shirt on the table, pointing towards it with a crooked finger. "I've been meaning to give that to you, since it does no good rusting in my house, and I'll be damned if I sell it!" He shakes his head and closes his eyes as he runs his hand over the armour, memories taking him back decades as he grins. "I wanted you to grow a beard first.", he cackles once more, poking the skald with his crook in the ribs. "But seeing as we'd all be feeding the ravens by then, I figure now's the time." He holds the armour at Ragnar, whose eyes are wide open. "Now, for this gift, I ask only one thing.", he says as he holds the armour out. "When you return from your next adventure, if Hela isn't chewing on my bones, you tell your tale to me first. Before you tell it to the Jarl himself." The old man's eyes glitter with devilish sparks as he holds out his cane once more, then puts the game back on the table. "Now! Order them!"
Ragnar's vigil on the deck of the ship doesn't yield much, as he's mostly focused on keeping away the shearing sea winds. Hands crossed under his thick cloak, he's roused from his thoughts as the Jarl himself shouts. As the four volunteer to join Jarl Olaf, he thumps his spear on the deck. "It seems as if it was sent by Njördr himself.", he says as he slowly makes his way to the Jarl's side. "And nothing raises his ire like indecisiveness.", he reasons as he points his spear to his chest, where amongst other things lies his sack of rune carvings. It's almost like it was made for us to climb its slopes..., a thought crosses Ragnar's mind as he straps the satchel of runes to his belt. "Though all of us should be wise. For if he rewards the bold, he punishes the foolhardy. A tribute to Njördr is wise in times like these, Jarl Olaf.", Ragnar suggests, indicating that a horn of wine overboard might be a good idea regardless.
It takes time for their experience on the Tor to settle with Otryggr. Time for him to process the walking dead, the possibility of having encountered Odin himself, of having killed a giant and slain a wtych. To wrap his mind around it. Toward that end, the Vastaviklander spends many an hour seated by himself in the woods, finding a hollow amongst large roots or an outcropping over the ocean with his bronze greatsword across his knees. A frown mars his expression as he considers it. As he dreams of the strange eons it has seen, the untold life threads it has severed, the glories and ignominies it has caused.
He doesn't relish the praise or the tales as he thought he would. It's not that he's bashful, or scornful of the recognition; more that it feels distant, unimportant, as if the songs or the cheers in the jarl's greathall don't touch at the essence of what was done, don't recognize the importance of what transpired. He sits through much of it, grim and acknowledging the praise, but more often than not slips out early into the night, leaving the festivities behind.
Luckily there is much work to be done. Otryggr's not too good for hard labor; in fact, he relishes it, volunteering for the hardest and most grueling of work. Cutting peat, raising new homes, helping brace a new ship, felling trees: the months go by and he finds that the best way to handle his dark thoughts is by losing himself in brutal labor.
He does venture out into the barrowlands with Ragnar. He's a silent companion, comfortable with the godwytch's tales but not feeling much need to do more than grunt or make the occasional observation. Out there in that strange land he grows at once tense, hand on the hilt of his new blade, and strangely at peace. It is here in this twilight realm that he feels truth resides. Where the bitter, cursed nature of the world reveals its face. Each time he returns to the town he feels as if he's stepping back into a dream, a dream of tamed fires and tamed animals, of laughter and camraderie that exists only because the true dangers that lurk in the shadows are being willfully ignored.
There's no question of his joining the jarl when the mission north is planned. He uses his hacksilver to purchase adequate winter gear, a thick coil of oiled rope, and a few other necessities, and is seated amongst the other northlanders when the time to row north befalls them.
At the sight of the great iceberg he feels his heart begin to sing, his nerves grow taut, and a sense of fatalism embraces him. The world of the wyrd reaches out to infringe itself upon his mind, and he thinks that he hears a raven caw, even this far away from land.
He's calm when he rises to his feet, lifting his greatsword to sling it over his shoulder, opening his chest to grab his pack. There's no question that he'll follow the jarl out onto that ice. Silently, he moves to stand behind Ragnar. The godwytch speaks, and his advice is sound. Otryggr finds himself nodding even as he gazes down at his hands. They're shaking, he sees, though he feels no fear; gritting his jaw, he curls them into fists.
"That is a thing of wonder, my jarl." Þyrnir breathes as he glimpses the icy castle through wind-blown snow. Him, too, steps at Olaf Henrikson's side, to accompany him on the ice. The structure is certainly not natural, but who or what forces may be at play here?
He bends to retrieve his gear from his sea chest - furs and snowshoes and other things needful in the harsh cold of this place.
Ramundr gives the iceberg floating mountain a long wary look. He had heard that the ice could be treacherous; of men who fell into a snow covered crevasse never to be seen again. He had heard tales of ice fae that haunted the shorelines..of starving polar bears who attacked in madness.
Try as he might, all he sees is white glare and high cliffs. Why they'd want to explore was inexplicable to him. Gold? In a bunch of ice? He'd heard a number of tales from seaman the last season... A lot of lies and exaggerations, more like. This sounded like one.
Still...Þyrnir decalred it a wonder, and there was no way he was not going to stay on board. Ae. Let us go. Ramundr, stands from his chest, and pulls out his snow gear.
He chooses two spears, his master crafted spear gifted to him by the Jarl, and one made of cold iron. For the ill-fae
Signe looks on as they approach the supposed iceberg. As it comes into view her keen eyes can tell that this is no natural formation. "My Jarl, there appears to be a structure of some sort on this floating island of ice. I would wish to accompany you and serve you in any way possible."
She makes herself ready and gathers her gear, making sure her weapons are easily at hand.
The jarl nods in approval as some of his most trusted warriors, old and new, rise up for the task he sets before them. The other men are, of course, known to you.
One-Eyed Sven is a thin, older man and a noted warrior who lost his eye in battle long ago. He is genial and open, and even mischevious in a friendly way. He carries his hunting horn and battle axe.
Berg Geirson is a laconic and sour man. When he does speak, it’s usually a pronouncement of impending doom or to point out how bad the situation is. But, although he seems to always want everyone to know how bad things are, he generally soldiers on without fear or trepidation. He carries a longsword instead of an axe.
Young Ljot is not related in any way to Old Ljot, and the two don’t even like each other, in fact. He is shy and unassuming but courageous, and carries a longbow.
And then there is Hauk. Once openly hostile toward Otryggr, time and a fractured jaw have taught him patience. Still, he is wild and given to impulse, as so many Vastaviklanders are, and like Otryggr carries a greataxe.
”Though all of us should be wise. For if he rewards the bold, he punishes the foolhardy. A tribute to Njördr is wise in times like these, Jarl Olaf."
"Ragnar speaks true!” bellows the jarl. He calls for mead, and empties a horn over the side of his ship. ”Hail to Njördr, Master of Ships, Lord of Vanaheim!” Great cheers follow.
The ship has been brought in as close to the ice shelf as she can. Still, the gap between the ship and the ice is at least seven feet wide, and the frozen shore looks slippery. Jarl Olaf orders the oars on the landward side of the ship extended and held steady by the oarsmen. This then allows the shore party to “run the oars” from the ship to the ice shelf. The four huscarls, Sven, Berg, Young Ljot, and Hauk, all do so easily, not even bothering to remove their heavy mail, to the cheers of their crewmates.
All eyes turn to you expectantly.
Ramundr tentatively steps onto the oar. Perhaps I should have removed my armor. Almost immediately his foot slips, and plunges into a bitter salty sea. Perhaps I shall swim.
With powerful strokes he reaches the shore and pulls himself up. Now I shall freeze and die.
Otryggr is hot on Ramundr's heels, leaping up with the same casual disdain for the danger. As the other man slips, however, Otryggr feels a lurch of adrenaline and panic - he snatches out a hand to grab at the other warrior and try to use his momentum to bull rush the other man to the far icy shore.
Signe knows that this is not the time to hesitate. If she does, she will overthink what she's about to do. Not wanting to let down her jarl, she scampers down the oar after the others.
These warriors were mad, to run along the oars like this, and fully geared! His mind filled with images of himself plunging into the icy brine, he puts a tentative foot on the oar in front of him, arms held out for balance. He plans to advance carefully, sliding his feet along the rounded wood, but at the last moment he loses his composure and, like Signe, scurries along the length of the spear, jumping the last few feet onto the shore, arms windmilling for balance.
Ragnar also sprints across the oars, using his weight to propel himself recklessly over the water and stumbling onto the ice beyond . Ramundr, however, manages to just barely make it across, slipping on an oar and thumping his chest hard against the edge of the ice before dragging his legs in the frigid water. The cold is unforgiving, and although Otryggr is immediately there to aid him out of the water, Ramundr’s skin has paled and he trembles visibly.
Gasps and groans ring out from the others, followed by quiet murmers as they wait to see Ramundr’s reaction. They know that in these elements, the icy embrace of water can spell death for any man.
Like every other Norseman, Ramundr knows that he is in danger. He immediately works to remove excess water from his clothing and hair. He calls over to the long-ship for someone to retrieve and throw over his water-resistant cloak he'd left in his chest. Violent shivers erupt, and he does not try to suppress them. Instead he begins to holds a plank, letting the continued strain on his core generate heat. Once his cloak was thrown over, he strips his wet gear. The icy wind nearly stalls his heart, but it was good to cover his skin in the dry water-proofed material. He again puts on his wet cold-weather gear, hoping that the cloak would keep him dry. He begins to feel marginally warmer.
Ahh! Refreshing! Now the wanton women held in that high castle won't wrinkle their noses at me Ramundr tries for humor.
Barely holding onto the edge himself, Ragnar hears the heavy splash of Ramundr just in time to see Otryggr grabbing the man's arm out of the water. His gaze glances to his side, to the bag of rune carvings. The bite of winter is one wound I can not mend., he thinks as he leans over to the soaking wet man. "We are too close to the edge to start a fire. You will hold, Ramundr.", he says in a voice, both an encouragement and a challenge, as he points inwards. "Only where the ice is thicker can we ask for Frigga's greeting." He stifles a shiver in his thick cloak, as he wait for Jarl Olaf to lead the way.
Ramundr manages to brace himself against the worst of the cold, and after a few moments is able to regain the feeling in his legs. Meanwhile the jarl and his personal guard prepare to run the oars themselves.
Yet, before the jarl and the other men can cross over, a sound like the Horns of Hel suddenly blasts through the still air. All eyes turn toward the great ice massif in the center of the berg as the braying blast sounds again, echoing off the surrounding waves. A great mist of ice crystals has arisen from the ice cliffs from the force of the horn blasts and drift in shimmering clouds around the cliff. Suddenly, the ice crystals begin to swirl and are picked up and swept along as if by a heavy wind that is suddenly issuing over the tops of the cliff and down toward the edges of the berg. The clouds of glittering ice descend toward you like a rapidly lowering veil, obscuring all in their path.
In moments, a gale-force blast of wind strikes you, carrying the fog of ice crystals. Visibility is reduced to only a few inches and even the loudest yells are drowned out by the howling blast. Ragnar and Thyrnir are both knocked prone by the force of it, joining Ramundr on the ground. Signe and Otryggr manage to claim their footing, but all are coated with a layer of snow and fine ice.
The gale lasts for a full fifteen minutes, what surely must feel like hours to those trapped within it.
Just as suddenly as it arrived, the wind disappears. The glittering blanket of ice and snow slowly settles to the ground, providing visibility once again, but the sight that it leaves is heartwrenching. The gaunt ice cliff and its descending vale stands as it did before, and the strange ice spires still rise high atop it. Of the huscarls who came ashore with you, however, there is no sign. Looking seaward provides even more anguish. The ocean is a flat blue mirror, even the normal waves stilled in the wake of that hellish blast, and the Long Serpent is nowhere in sight.
You are alone on the sea and trapped on this island of ice.
You stand upon a short but wide beach of ice and snow that runs inland on a gentle slope for about seventy-five feet. The most perfunctory surveillance of your surroundings indicates that the iceberg creates an ice shelf on all sides that towers over the surrounding waves and calves off smaller ice floes of its own from time to time. Even these are the size of a feasting hall. At the southern end of the berg, this ice shelf is lower to the water and forms a beach of sorts that leads inland from the ice shelf, where rise the steep ice cliffs of the central plateau. These are cracked and broken but are otherwise sheer cliffs over 400 feet high. The climb would be treacherous . Visible atop them are the spires of some sort of castle, or palace. Straight ahead, however, is an opening to a moderately steep valley that cuts through the glacier to the plateau high above.
After a few moments, you hear the sound of a war horn echoing down from the entrance to the valley ahead--it is the call of One-Eyed Sven’s hunting horn.
"Hel's fury!", Ragnar barely has time to shout before the razor-sharp winds and ice drown his voice in their fury. Feeling cold unlike never before, Ragnar leaps up, before remembering an old tale of Ole's. While hoping that this one won't end up with him having to tackle with a bear, he sits on the ground, covering himself completely with his cloak and hugs his knees, the howling winds' screech the only sound in his head.
As the wind blast stops, Ragnar bursts out of his snow bank, spear raised and shimmering. Roaring, he looks around, seeing nothing but his comrades. And yet, when he turns around, he fails to see the longship or the Jarl. Foolish we were to go on this land of ice., he thinks, as he shakes off snow from his shoulders. Yet the path before us is clear. "The Norns have made this easy for us, it seems.", he says, the tip of his shaking spear pointing towards the spires, and One-Eyed Sven's horn, as he sets forward in the snow.
He could do nothing but huddle with his companions at the great winter gale. This is not a normal storm Ramundr thinks as his teeth chatter. Then it stopped as suddenly as it began, and he stretched himself and stood. Perhaps inoculated by his wintery swim, he felt fine. Nevertheless, the whole venture still seemed foolhardy. He suddenlty noticed that their longship was no longer floating near the shore. abandoned to freeze or starve. Maybe this was he home Odin had planned to give him.
Hearing the horn, his heart began to race. They were not alone, and there was need. Ramundr, unslings his shield, and moves into the valley.
The winds sweep down with the roar of a dragon, and Otrygrr pulls his cloak around his face and ducks his head, bracing himself for the blow. It could be fifteen minutes or an hour that the wind rages; in that white blindness, Otryggrr cannot guess the passage of time. Though the cold stabs at him through his winter gear, it doesn't numb or otherwise shock him; too many winters spent high in the mountains of Vastavikland have inured him to the worst of this cold.
Still, he knows better than to try and find the others; one misstep might send his foot down a shaft and twist or shatter his ankle. Worse, in this blindness, he might fall into the very sea. So he grits his teeth and waits, praying to Odin that his friends and jarl are kept safe.
When finally the storm abates, Otryggr lowers his cloak and gapes. The Long Serpent is gone as if it never was. With a cry he staggers toward's the ice's edge, gazing up and down the coast, then even into the watery depths - had it been sunk by the storm?
Shaken, he turns to his companions, but before he can speak he hears One-Eyed Sven's hunting horn.
"The fool," he whispers. "Does he want to start an avalanche?" But he cannot truly fault the man, and when Ragnar sets off toward the spires, Otryggr falls in step with him, hand resting uneasily on the hilt of his greatsword, heart pounding thunderously within his deep chest.
Signe pulls her heavy cloak around her face as the sudden wintry blast threatens to drown them in snow.
The storm seems to last for an eternity. Just when she thinks that she's going to die on this iceberg, everything stops. She wipes the snow from her face and looks around. A gasp escapes from her before she can stop it. They were utterly alone. "What happened? Did the Long Serpent sink?"
Their conversation is cut short as the hunting horn sounds. "More survivors! Sounds like they may be in trouble. We must investigate."
Signe readies her bow and follows the others, keeping an eye on signs of a potential ambush at the entrance to the valley.
Thyrnir climbs out of the snow, shivering and dusting the ice crystals out of his eyes, hair, and beard . Together, the party turns toward the only clear path: up.
Along the lower part of the valley, the valley floor is fairly clean of debris and slopes gently up to a large hump of glacial ice in the middle valley zone. The walls of the lower valley are pierced with an abundance of caves, most of them fairly large--cave mouths more than a dozen feet in diameter. None of the caves is less than fifty feet up sheer cliffs of ice. The sunlight has shifted throughout the morning, casting you in shade and bathing only the eastern canyon walls with light and warmth. The ice around some of these caves is a different color than the rest, running from the deepest blues to dark purples and showing no signs of melt in the sunlight.
A low buzzing noise is heard from one of the western cave mouths. A swarm of flying creatures, buzzing and blue, fly out of one of the larger openings and descends! A glittering cloud, like floating shards of ice, swoops toward you. Only as it nears can you make out the thousands of tiny winged humanoids of ice with feral claws and fanged maws that comprise it.
Both swarms buzz through the air, bound directly for you . And while neither reaches you before you react, one gets close enough that you can feel the magical cold aura it exudes, one cold enough to burn your skin!
To the east, high up in another cave, an additional swarm has appeared. It buzzes menacingly but does not leave the safety of its cave, perhaps deterred by the sunlight. Instead, the creatures in this swarm merely pelt tiny snowballs down upon you, creating an effect similar to sleet.
Ragnar: 17/17
Ramundr: 22/22
Otryggr 24/24
Signe: 20/20
Thyrnir: 16/16
Blue:
Purple:
avg 17
avg 12.8
Ramundr's face and skins become frostbitten as the swarm unleashes its frozen aura.
Ramundr could not imagine spearing the icy demons. He runs forward, dropping his spear into the snow, grabs his shield with two hands and bashes at the creatures.
As Signe enters the valley, she immediately looks for any sign of the other huscarls - of signs of who blew One-Eyed Sven's horn.
The appearance of the tiny blue creatures is baffling to the ranger because they are nothing normally found in nature. Signe braces herself against the blast of cold from the creatures and manages to protect her vulnerable skin from the worst.
"How do we fight these things? They're not natural!"
Having an arrow in her bow, she takes a step backwards and fires it at the swarm 30ft away.
Otryggr goes to yell a challenge to the twisted mites, only to deeply inhale their burning cold. He feels his lungs desiccate, a stab of pain like a knife being driven into his head through his sinuses, and his eyes tear up as he gasps as if thumped in the gut.
Still, though is roar be muffled in his chest, he swings his greatsword in a vindictive sweep through the swarm.
As the furious winds bowl him over, Þyrnir stabs his knife into the ice and holds on for dear life, his head burrowed between his arms. The white hell seems to last for an eternity, and he is close to panic as the winds cease as abruptly as they started. Climbing to his feet, he looks around, his heart sinking as he notes the absence of the ship. Running to the edge of the ice shelf, he starts shouting.
"Jarl Olaf! My lord, where are you!"
He is growing frantic by the time the hunting horn is heard. What had happened? Did the ship sink, like Signe suggested? Was it blown away from the ice island? But could it have been blown so far that they couldn't see it?
The others were heading inland, so Þyrnir intends to follow them, but not before making a few preparations. The biting, bitter cold here makes him glad that he had traded for those furs back in Silvermeade Hall. He puts them on, sliding his head through the opening cut in the middle and letting the furs fall on his back and chest, while leaving his arms free to move. The snowshoes go on next and he is finally good to go.
⊕⊕⊕⊕⊕⊕⊕⊕⊕⊕⊕⊕⊕⊕⊕⊕⊕⊕⊕⊕⊕⊕⊕⊕⊕
The attack of the tiny glittering creatures takes him by surprise, as he had been trudging at the back of the column, worrying over the jarl's fate. Reflexively, he raises his shield as the blue cloud swoops in, sweeping his arm in an arc.
Ramundr and Thyrnir swing wildly with their shields in an effort to smash the foul creatures from the air, but the sinister mephits only shriek and scatter . Signe’s aim is true, and she delights in seeing her arrow strike one of the creatures directly; however, the the arrow bounces off of the creature’s rime-coated skin! Otryggr’s swing is more successful, felling several of the swarm down from the sky. His greatsword seems to shine where it strikes, though perhaps that is some trick of the light .
”Dwimmer-blooded, they are!” barks Ragnar. ”Their skin is tough as stone ‘gainst all but godfire used against them!”
At his command, Ragnar’s shield glimmers . He too swings with it, but the mephits zoom away, screaming in rage and joy.
To his great dismay, Otryggr sees the sheared ice he cut away from many of the creatures reform, as though they are remade from the moisture in the frigid air. Like a heavy stormcloud atop the Tor, the swarm descends upon the group, ice claws and fangs tearing and biting at warm flesh.
Ragnar, standing adjacent, is again assaulted by the supernaturally cold aura emanating from the mephits.
The second swarm, still nearly twenty feet in the air, hovers over the group. It emits a pale blue flash. Suddenly, Ragnar, Otryggr, and Ramundr begin to feel the cold of their armor and shield...
Ragnar: 16/17, sickened
Ramundr: 21/22, sickened
Otryggr 21/24, sickened
Signe: 18/20 (1 NL)
Thyrnir: 14/16 (1 NL)
Blue: 6
Purple: 0
Chill metal (ramundr, ragnar, otryggr) round 1
With a sputtering roar Otygrr lashes out with his bronze greatsword, feeling its urgings that he let slip his control, that he burn away these mephits with a fury all of his own. Still, he grimly holds back that anger, knowing that he might need it against greater foes. His blade flashes in the bright light, cutting through the cloud.
His armor grows chill, but the Vastaviklander shrugs off the ice cold; instead, he bellows his defiance and frustration at the swarm once more, swinging with all his might at the hovering cloud.
Þyrnir opens his mouth to shout some challenge or defiance at the swarming creatures, but the cold bites the back of his throat and the inside of his nostrils, so he shuts it again. Let the skald wield words, he'll be wielding iron and wood. He does say a brief prayer in his mind though, and the runes on his shield start glowing with a warm yellow light as he punches with it on his arm.
Ramundr who had stumbled blindly realizes in retrospect that it had been the right thing to do. Scatter! Do not stay near each other. It will have a harder time attacking all of us at once.
Signe is surprised that her arrow does absolutely no damage to the creature but doesn't have time to think about a different plan of action. However, she sees the others trying to bludgeon the creatures so she draws her brother's battleaxe. When they come into reach she tries to smush them with the flat of the blade.
Then she pivots and tries to smash them again and fails miserably.
As Ragnar's shield grows colder, he discards the ancient bronze to the side with a roar. His fists grab the spear, handed to him by Jarl Olaf, as the spear's tip bristles with a bright spark, and a wild swing impales a mephit onto the blade. Exhaling a victorious shout, he stares at the others. "Will you take the wrath of Wotan?", his shout rings through the storm.
Otryggr, long accustomed to the chill of metal, ignores the ice magic and swings savagely with Hægtesse, though even the might of the blade cannot cut that which flies so errantly . Thyrnir again struggles to make contact, though the grace of the gods is on his side, and his consecrated shield strikes down many of the mephits with a solid swing . Ramundr’s will also overcomes the deadly chill of the dwimmer used against them, though he is unable to deliver a solid blow . Signe’s arrows fly straight through the swarm, landing somewhere far off in the snow . Despite the frostburn against his skin, Ragnar is able to draw his spear and impale one of the mephits, which shatters into countless crystalline fragments .
A substantial number of mephits of the swarm have been scattered to the wind. Still, snowflakes flurry through the icy air, regenerating some of the wounds they have sustained . The remaining mephits continue to buzz and attack, clawing at ears and eyes.
The second swarm finally takes notice of its rivals high up in the cave mouth, those that have been pelting the group with miniature snowballs. Shrieking what must be curses, they zoom away, up and eastward, toward their foes.
Ragnar: 15/17, sickened
Ramundr: 21/22, sickened (-2)
Otryggr 20/24, sickened (-2)
Signe: 17/20 (1 NL)
Thyrnir: 13/16 (1 NL)
Blue: 14
Purple: 0
Chill metal (ragnar) round 1 (dropped shield)
Sickened round 2
Ramundr peers through the blizzardy aura, finds a clump of the little devils, and heaves a mighty swing of his shield in a giant arcing uppercut.