Again Otryggr swings, his fury mounting as the mephits laugh and taunt him.
Despite the freezing aura blistering his skin, Ramundr’s shield cuts upward, sending several mephits skyward before they fall lifeless into the snow . Otryggr’s swings, even with his great blade, are futile, as are Ragnar’s, Signe’s, and Thyrnir’s attacks .
Were their eyes not locked on the raging swarms, some might notice Ragnar’s shield, lying nearby in the snow, become coated in a strange layer of hoarfrost.
Again, the swirling snow acts as a balm on the wounds of many mephits, restoring their vitality . They fury against the Northmen, clawing and biting with rime-coated nails and fangs.
Overheard, two additional swarms appear to fight each other, hurling magically summoned ice at one another. They shy away from the sunlight, retreating back to the shadows of the valley and the cave, fighting from range.
Ragnar: 14/17, sickened
Ramundr: 20/22, sickened
Otryggr 17/24, sickened
Signe: 14/20 (1 NL)
Thyrnir: 10/16 (1 NL)
miss
miss
Blue: 16
Purple: 0
Chill metal (ragnar) round 2 (dropped shield)
Sickened round 3
Otryggr's on the verge of losing all self-possession; his futile swings at the hovering swarm are driving him into a fury, and with teeth bared he leaps and swings once more with all his strength.
Hægtesse cuts like the wind, sending the swarm of mephits breaking and scattering into the air! Above, their remaining companions must sense the change battle, buzzing with anger and frustration and diving down toward the group. Yet, something gives it pause, and the swarm instead retreats, singing curses in its unknown tongue as it flies back into the damnable ice crevice from whence it came.
The party is left alone in the snow, sucking in desperate breaths as their blood freezes upon the endless white. There is no sign of the others, not of the Long Serpent nor the huscarls who have traveled ahead of you. There is only the ice and snow, the frozen valley, and the spires of the mysterious fortress ahead.
Ramundr: 20/22
Otryggr 17/24
Signe: 14/20 (1 NL)
Thyrnir: 10/16 (1 NL)
Damnable swarm. Ramundr mutters through the chill. He goes over and picks up his discarded ashen spear. His gut still roils from the chill.
They seem to dislike the sunlight. Let us try to keep to sunlit areas as we make our way to find the huscarl who blew his horn.
Þyrnir stands breathing heavily, looking around at the aftermath of this strange battle. What creatures are these, seemingly made of ice and with such strange powers, commanding the elements themselves? He puts a hand on the shoulders of Signe and Ragnar, who seem to have suffered the worst of the attacks, speaking loudly to distract them from what he is actually doing.
"A fine thought, Ramundr. Let us press on and keep to sunlit areas. Our comrades should not be far off."
As he speaks, he invokes the blessing of Frigg, and his companions' wounds begin to knit over.
Even here, adrift upon the Great Ocean Ûthaf, Þyrnir’s prayers reach out beyond the sea smoke to incite the spark of divinity--a glim within the gloom. Yet, although the bleeding is stemmed, the crimson snow remains as a reminder of what is at stake. Yet with no other clear option, the party continues on up the slope and deeper into the valley.
Beyond the gentler slopes of the lower valley rises a hump of glacial ice that separates them from the middle reaches. Halfway across the glacial rise is a 30-foot-wide crevasse, its jagged walls filled with icy mist. The mist is dense, and obscures all beyond about ten feet down. The gap is broad and extends from one end of the glacial hump to the other, cutting into the valley walls for some distance.
Ragnar: 17/17
Ramundr: 20/22 (1 NL)
Otryggr 17/24
Signe: 18/20
Thyrnir: 15/16
Otryggr moves from one fallen mephit to the other, letting out sharp barks of rage as he grinds the small corpses into the ice beneath his heels, stomping on them and or cutting them in twain with his greatsword. This clearly provides no release: there's something inherently dissatisfying with mangling the small corpses, so that finally he picks one up and hurls it as far as he can before stalking off a short distance to stand, gasping for breath, staring murderously out over the ocean.
Five minutes he stands there, and when he finally returns, he stares past his companions, striding deeper into the valley, bronze blade still held in his hand. The numerous cuts and wounds across his body have frozen over, the blood like flecks of sapphire across his winter furs, but he welcomes the pain, allows it to keep the fire of his fury stoked.
When they reach the crevasse he finally sheathes his blade, and something about the scope and grandeur of the fissure finally seems to soothe him. He considers the depths, lower lip slightly stuck out. "Any of you bring climbing gear? Rope?"
Yes I carry rope. Ramundr looks about uncertainly.
"Here," says Otrygrr, extending his hand without looking. "Give it to me."
If Ramundr complies, Otrygrr ties it around his waist. Then he shucks his armor, draws his blade, hefts it once or twice, backs up, then sprints for the chasm's edge.
At the very last he gives a roar and leaps, out over the void. Hair streaming, legs and arms windmilling, he flies through the air.
He falls into the crevasse. At the very last moment, just before he slams into the undulating curtain wall of ice, he stabs with Hægtesse.
The blade pierces the ice with a sharp crunch, and the Vastaviklander crashes into the wall right after it. He bounces, but holds on. For a moment he hangs suspended above the darkness, and then, with grim determination, he climbs.
"As do I," says Signe, uncoiling a length of it from her person. "What do you propose?"
Propose? That man just does. as Ramundr watches the man leap. Ramundr calls out to him If you are just a hunk crushed meat now, its going to be a lot of trouble getting my rope back.
Signe and Ramundr stand off from the edge, gripping the rope in an effort to hang on to Otryggr following his mad leap. Otryggr jumps, his strength and momentum carrying him about halfway across the chasm before gravity takes hold and he begins to fall, disappearing into the mist. The rope uncoils at incredible speed before halting abruptly. A cry of pain is heard.
Although you fall, your momentum propels you ahead, and you slam into the wall on the far side of the crevasse, though by the will of the gods your sword impales the ice and you are able to hang on. Looking up, you can see that about ten feet above you there is a five-foot-wide ledge on either side of the canyon, reducing the span that would need to be crossed here to twenty feet. Ten feet below you, however, you can just make out a narrow ice bridge that crosses the chasm. It is only two feet wide, but would allow anyone to cross with relative ease. Below it, the walls continue on, still concealed by the mist. The sound of lapping surf is louder here, though there is no water in sight.
After the fight, Ragnar is quieted. The servants of the cold winter? Or merely the inhabitants of this place... He shivers at both his thoughts and the chilling wind, as he continues onwards, his spear trodding in the snow. "Thank you, Thyrnir.", he replies in kind as the follower of Frygg mends his wounds. "Though I'd wished I had the time to think on my wounds, there may be more beasts of blood or ice.", he says, picking up his hoarfrost-covered shield.
As Otryggr jumps into the crevasse, he shakes his head, before nodding in approval. It is rare that a hero hesitates. And it is his tale that may be the most interesting of all of ours., he ponders, before hearing the sword impaling the ice. "The Norns are kind today, it seems. Let's make most of it.", he harumphs, leaning over the ledge to look towards Otryggr. "Well spotted. Luck works in mysterious ways.", he chuckles in a surprisingly cheerful tone.
I was going to suggest we use Ragnar's sigils for healing, but I didn't have time this past couple of days.
Otryggr's laughter booms from the depths as he sees the bridge, but then he focus on the ledge above him. He climbs up and with a grunt slams his blade deep into to the ice. He then ties the rope around the hilt, tugs it once or twice to make sure it's secure, then calls up: "Slide down! I have it secured!
The group carefully scales down the southron wall of the ice chasm, finding that its jagged edges and uneven surface actually prove a boon for climbing. Moving slowly and carefully, each is able to descend about fifty feet, where they find a narrow ice bridge cutting the chasm's breadth, here now less than twenty feet. And although the sound of lapping surf is now much louder, there is still naught but mist visible beneath their feet.
Crossing the ice bridge is a harrowing experience, though no one slips and falls. On the other side, the ice wall's recurring physical irregularities provide a means to ascend back up to the glacial plane above.
The middle portion of this valley of frozen fears passes under an area where the canyon walls close together to only sixty feet apart at the top, and barely thirty feet apart on the valley floor. The walls are covered in layers of snow over the ice here. The snow packs the cave mouths in the canyon walls and piles in drifts on every ledge and along the clifftops. Icecicles droop down from the canyon's ledges, forming long, twisted spines that drip water on the sunny side of the valley. Humps of snow from which shards of broken ice protrude cover the floor of the valley.
Keenly remembering the ice creatures they had fought earlier, Þyrnir sticks to the sunny side of the vale, shivering after the harrowing chasm crossing. He wonders at Ótryggr's courage, to leap like this without knowing what was below. Was it confidence, or recklessness? Perhaps a bit of both, but he cannot help but admire the man's spirit.
As they ascend the slope, he keeps searching for tracks of the jarl's party, hoping beyond hope that they can be reunited.
"Look, there!" Signe calls, spotting a boot within the freshly piled snow. It is the boot of One-Eyed Sven.
Thyrnir sneezes. Violently. Too loudly. The noise echoes up the canyon, and small amounts of snow rain down from above while the icicles tremble.
The fury of winter is a terrifying sight indeed., thinks Ragnar as he puts a finger to his lips, then pointing at the snow banks hanging above their heads akin to an executioner's axe. He proceeds cautiously, making as little noise as he can, but as Signe points to the old huscarl's boot, buried in snow, Ragnar's frustration takes over for a single moment. "Bah! Curse this sno...", he blurts out, before putting a fist to his mouth, as his eyes open in horror, then turn upwards in expectance of the white death.
Otryggr trudges along with the others, bronze greatsword in hand. He's constantly sweeping their environs with his dour gaze, glancing behind them and even up into the peerless blue sky. When the valley walls close in, however, his gaze narrows as he considers the snow banks...
Quiet now. Move softly. The drifts are unstable upon the banks. Ramundr softly confides, pointing to the slopes.
"Sven!" Ramundr cries, no doubt intending to determine whether the old man yet lives. In his zeal he cries out, his voice bouncing up and echoing off of the edge of the ice valley.
ven-ven-ven-ven-ven-ven
It begins as a vibration in the snow. You can feel it through your boots, traveling up your legs and up through your face. Even your lips vibrate.
An icecicle breaks, falling from nearly one hundred feet overhead to spear the snow mere inches from Otryggr. Taller than a man, its broken root juts out from the ice like some great, frozen fang. And then another. And another.
Overhead, great wisps of snow begin to cascade down from the cliff-tops as the ground verily quakes beneath your feet.
And then you are running, blinded by the endless, wicked whiteness that cloaks the world, impeded by ice and snow, deafened by what is now the roar of a creature more perilous and more fearsome than any you could ever fathom.
It is the dread avalanche.
You are overrun from behind by the swell, struck by large chunks of snow and thrown forward. You are the lucky ones. Poor One-Eyed Sven remains buried within the unforgiving embrace of the white death.
At the first sound of the ominous rumbling Otryggr takes off, breaking into a blind sprint. Bronze blade flashing in the sun as his arms pistons back and forth, he lets out his stride, fighting for every yard as the world behind him erupts into that mad, rumbling roar.
The world turns opaque. Whiteness is all he sees, and as he sprints he can only desperately pray to Odin that no new crevasse or pit lies yawning open before him.
Something strikes his shoulder. The ground beneath his feet ripples, and then he's picked up and thrown as if by the hand of Thor itself. It's a miracle that he lands on his feet, momentum carrying him forward. He nearly falls, fights to regain his stride, then runs the last few dozen yards, to turn and survey the wreckage, panting in sharp barks, face slick with sweat, chest pumping like a bellows.
At the first echo of his voice, Ramundr launches his body forward. Icy death storms down with rolling thunder. A shard slices his cheek, and blood raises up. A scratch only. He raises his shield above his head, feeling chunks of the icy mountain slam into him, but continued to pump his legs. At a full sprint now, he dared not look back as ice his steps begin to be impeded by mounting ice and snow. He leaps, knowing that death was near.
Breathing hard and with his legs burning from effort, it took a moment before Ramundr realized he made it to relative safety.
idiot. Ramundr curses at himself. I knew the risk, but called for Sven anyway. He looks around apologetically hoping that his friend's deaths would not be on his conscience.
Ragnar is caught off-guard by the roaring avalanche, as his eyes are drawn to Sven's boot sticking out of the snow. He begins running, his feet carrying him as fast as they can go. A large ice shard breaks off a falling icicle, hitting the skald straight in the face, and a smattering of crimson dew begins trailing behind the young man as he begins hatefully ranting, his words drowned out by the wave of snow. He runs until he's out of breath, and trots the rest of the way, until he feels comfortable to turn around and see the outcome. A look of relief spreads on his face as he sees most everyone survived, with the exception of the old huscarl, denied the chance of a funeral.
He turns around, staring at the white grave, breathing heavily.
As the world starts to tremble, Þyrnir breaks into a run, scrambling down the slope and sideways, trying to get out of the way of the icy, blinding torrent. Chunks of ice and frozen snow thunk into the shield he holds above his head, almost tearing it from his grasp. He spies an outcrop of rock ahead and dives behind it as the avalanche roars past, half-burying him in powdery snow.
Signe stands, also apparently unharmed by the crashing snow . ”Ragnar, are you alright?” she asks, seeing the blood from his head wound.
After assessing your own status, it’s easily apparent that there is no feasible way to reach Old Sven’s body. At least, not without hours of digging. And the sunlight won’t last forever.
After climbing on, up through the valley, the canyon opens up on the high plateau of snow and ice on which the the frozen palace sits. The plateau is empty of any features and windswept for nearly an entire square mile, with the strange citadel of ice sitting in the center of this expanse. Cutting across the plateau is a deep, 300-foot-wide gash in the surface of the ice, a crevasse that makes the previous one look like a mere crack.
Traversing this chasm is a high, narrow bridge of ice, barely three feet wide with no handrails or guards. The ice bridge arches high above the chasm in a graceful curve before reaching down and meeting the ground on the other side. Just beyond this bridge of living ice is the palace itself. There are no visible means of going around the chasm; the massive crevasse runs the breadth of the plateau. Strong winds occasionally whip across the plateau, blowing plumes of snow into the air, including across the chasm and the sky bridge.
Signe strides boldly out toward the bridge. ”Let us not fear the cold air. It is no colder than what we know!” With that, she crawls--slowly but with apparent confidence--on all fours, making steady progress.
Until she crosses about two-thirds of the bridge. The vast emptiness below her, the jagged rocks of ice that rest three hundred feet below, the whipping wind that threatens to rip her from the bridge, combine to send her world spinning and knot her stomach. She falls flat on the bridge, gripping it with her hands. ”I-I c-c-cannot!” she screams. ”I can’t!”
Ragnar: 11/17
Ramundr: 20/22 (1 NL)
Otryggr 17/24
Signe: 18/20
Thyrnir: 15/16
before
after
after
after
after
Ramundr was not afraid of heights but neither did he enjoy tempting the wyrd. He proceeded cautiously and kept his mind on Odin and his body on the bridge of ice. He swore he could feel hands bracing him against the winds, and so he stepped forward with assurance.
Once he was across he turned and called out earnestly Odin is with us. Be not afraid. He will lead us across.
Ragnar stares at the snow banks, the final resting place of Old Sven, then sighs, deeply, blood still trickling down his face. "It is a wound that will heal, in time.", he says to Signe with a nod, as he raises his hand. "May you feast in the Hall of Wotan, Old Sven. May you fight with legends, and feast with legends, until the End of Times.", he says somberly, before turning. "This wound I'll carry for a while, to teach me.", he says, as he ventures towards the others.
As he's put in front of the bridge, he stares forwards, unbending. He pauses for a moment, staring at the crevasse below, then closes his eyes and takes a step. It is our fears that we must conquer, is it not?, he asks himself, as he continues onwards. Passing Signe, his eyes stare at her, as he glares down. He bites his lips, then takes a step over her back. "Is this how you would lead others? Like you lead yourself?", he asks, the words biting even as he reconsiders them. He turns around to apologise, but his pride takes the better of him, as he quietly crosses the bridge, looking at Signe. Is this how a Godi would act, Ragnar? Or a skald?, a voice crawls in the back of his head, as he stares at Signe gripping the bridge. Be still, now. Let others wield the words that I should've beared.
Otryggr stands at the foot of the sky bridge and sheathes his bronze blade over his shoulder. Hands on his hips, he gazes across the vasty expanse, and then slowly shakes his head.
"Tis folly to cross such a construct. That bridge leads to Hel."
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Yeah, but it doesn't look like Valhalla over where you stand either, Otryggr. Ramundr calls from the far side.
"Ha!" Otrygrr's bark of laughter echoes in the ravine below. He crosses his arms and leans back on his heels. "I'll take this shoddy Valhalla to the depths that await me."
Ramundr frowns and squats in the snow, letting his boots hang suspended over the chasm. He squints at the sun, judging the remaining sunlight. Fading. Eh Ragnar, who knew it would be us rotting over here in Hel.
Þyrnir was starting to really, really hate ice. The bridge looked treacherous at best, deadly at worst. If not even Ótryggr would cross it... But Ragnar and Ramundr had already crossed, and he could not see another way. Gritting his teeth, he first removes his snowshoes, then gingerly lowers himself to the slick surface, arms stretched to the side and gripping the sides. He starts pushing with his feet and knees and pulling himself along with his arms in a strange, shuffling crawl. It was anything but dignified, but Þyrnir cares very little about that at the moment and instead focuses on not falling into the chasm.
He goes like this for only a couple of minutes before his curiosity gets the better of him and he leans to one side to peek down. "ooOOOooOoohhh, gods above and below..." he moans, voice quivering, eyes squeezed shut as he hugs the bridge fiercely, his cheek pressed to the ice. "I cannot do this."
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Odin guided me, let Frigg guide you warpriest. Somehow it comes out condescending and he quickly looks at his boots over the expanse.
Signe, what if I just start shooting this bow at you. Would you stop clinging to the ice then?Ramundr growls half-in-jest. That was non-productive. I mean erm.. He gives up on her for the moment.
Otryggr.A lot of people are afraid of heights, but not me… I'm afraid of widths. His jest falls flat..probably because the three foot width of the bridge was well..scary.
Ragnar sits idle for a moment, listening to Ramundr's attempts at encouragement with a face trapped between desperation and surrendered amusement. "Bah!", he shouts at the end, a smile crawling on his face despite his best efforts, hitting the ground with his spear. "I ask again, cross the chasm. Every step on that bridge is a step on fear's neck!", he roars vigorously, raising his spear in the air. "And, because otherwise, if Ramundr and his witticism are my only companions for the rest of this road, I'll see how long it takes me to get to Hela down there!", he shouts across the chasm, before grinning at Ramundr. "Perhaps you should try convincing them to remain where they are, oh, wordsmith?", he chuckles despite himself and his still bleeding head wound.
Otryggr steps up to the base of the bridge and stares at the expanse of ice. A band of muscle flares across the joint of his jaw, then disappears. He flexes his hands, but still he doesn't move.
With difficulty, he lets go of the bridge and gets up on his knees, then shuffles forward until he meets Signe. In a low voice, he murmurs to her. "I am right here, huntress. Let us cross this trial together. I will steady you, should you need it." He would not do as Ragnar, and walk over the woman, leaving her behind. They would cross together or not at all.
At Thyrnir's gentle words, Signe finds some courage left in herself. Climbing back up on her hands and knees, she shuffles awkwardly across the remaining distance. "Shoot me with an arrow and you'll find my boot in your rear!"
Ragnar: 17/17
Ramundr: 20/22 (1 NL)
Otryggr 17/24
Signe: 18/20
Thyrnir: 15/16
Ragnar greet his companions, smiling a bit apologetically at Signe.
deeds. Ramundr grumbles to himself. He crosses back over to Otryggr. Dear Odin, Imma gonna have to do that again?
Hmm....You are right. It looks like Hel.
Unable to move the big man across, Ramundr sighs and moves across swiftly, having gained a bit of expertise at it.
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I have treat for you if you cross.
Ramundr and the group begin to walk away trying to trick Otryggr into thinking they were abandoning the man.
Ramundr sings a song of bravery, but a bit off key.
Ramundr spends five minutes cursing.
Ramundr gives the Hel up and eats a bit of dried fish.
Ramundr howls at the moon...a moon that is surely rising soon to their frozen corpses.
Ramundr slaps himself. Hard.
Harder.
Oh you like that?
I hear a polar bear coming your way. Better cross.
I'm the polar bear. Cross.
Bah...Ragnar. Sing him tales of brave mountain goats.
I bet there is a great ale house over on this side near that castle
Ramundr gathers snowballs and tries to pelt Otryggr across the chasm.
Ragnar says you are the only one that can stop me talking.
The only one.
Facing the sky bridge and the yawning chasm that cuts across the high plateau is a palace of three soaring spires made of solid, opaque ice--like a great, jagged, tri-pronged icicle inverted and set on its base. Fronting the palace is a long, statue-lined processional and a broad plaza--all paved with slabs of ice, blown clean by the constant wind. The palace itself is composed of three spires like giant inverted icicles: a tall central spire that tapers up to a point nearly 300 feet above the ground flanked by two matching towers that are more than 200 feet high. The western spire is partially collapsed, with only the first 100 feet still standing. The entire area is windswept and clear of snow. It is also unnaturally quiet, not even the crash of the endless breakers reaches these heights of the iceberg.
A 10-ft-wide, 80-ft-long processional leads from the bridge to a broad plaza. The processional and the plaza are paved in windswept blocks of ice 10 feet square and fitted together with amazing precision. The edges of the processional are lined with disturbing statues carved from solid blocks of ice that blend man and demon and often feature brutal depictions of slavery, violence, or cannibalism. Where the processional meets the plaza, it splits into two branches, one heading to the base of the eastern spire, and one to the base of the western spire. These side branches are similar to the main processional, complete with horrific statues of carved ice.
As you reach the halfway point of the processional, voices ring out from the statues flanking the path:
Round 1
Ragnar gazes up towards the palace, and the horrid statues. His face turning paler at the horrid sounds and sights, he draws a carving from his bag, and squeezes. "Valfather, grant me your ear.", he whispers, as the runes glow a dark green. Ragnar's eyes close for a moment, as he begins looking around the ominous processional. "This place... This is a place of evil.", he whispers warily.
Move action to draw a scroll, Standard action to cast Comprehend Languages.