The stout man, his strength dwindling, reaches into his inner reserves and once again attempts to drive the things away.
"By Thor's will and valor, back to the realm of Hel with ye!"
Dorvarr's glowing hammer smites the shadow shattering its writhing form into nothingness. The cleric's voice booms a great curse and command upon the remaining two shades sending them hurling back to the end of the hall.
The twitching form of Egil lathered in blood, frost and the strange black fluid spasms. A flood of mephitic stench rises from the inhuman creature as it laughs madly in garbled sounds through the shattered remnants of the hersir's visage. Grinning it sprawls onto the ground offering itself up to your blades and speaking awkwardly in an alien, sibilant voice that rings with mockery. "Send us back, mortals, send us into the shadow. We have done with this one."
Standing over the grisly mess, Kveldulf raises both arms above his head and pumps both his shield and weapon above his head while cheering in exaltation. "Victory be to Odin!" exclaims Kveldulf loud enough to bring a shower of dust down from the thatch overhead. "Know today, spirits of Hel's realm, that the folk of Midgard are not easy pickings. We will fight you tooth and nail, blood and bone."
Ragnarr * ** spoiler omitted **
The twitching form of Egil lathered in blood, frost and the strange black fluid spasms. A flood of mephitic stench rises from the inhuman creature as it laughs madly in garbled sounds through the shattered remnants of the hersir's visage. Grinning it sprawls onto the ground offering itself up to your blades and speaking awkwardly in an alien, sibilant voice that rings with mockery. "Send us back, mortals, send us into the shadow. We have done with this one."
"Dorvarr... can you send the demons that possess the hersir back without us needing to slay the hersir...?" asks the man-beast, breathless and still shaking with rage, and clearly uncertain as to whether Egil actually does still live.
"By Thor's will we can banish these together. Come here friend. May Thor's will see to these wretches and empower the blade of this stout follower."
Wyrd:
"There lad, try the axe again."
Standing over the grisly mess, Kveldulf raises both arms above his head and pumps both his shield and weapon above his head while cheering in exaltation. "Victory be to Odin!" exclaims Kveldulf loud enough to bring a shower of dust down from the thatch overhead. "Know today, spirits of Hel's realm, that the folk of Midgard are not easy pickings. We will fight you tooth and nail, blood and bone."
"By Thor's will we can banish these together. Come here friend. May Thor's will see to these wretches and empower the blade of this stout follower."
Wyrd:
** spoiler omitted **"There lad, try the axe again."
Dorvarr
Heal DC 10
"By Thor's will we can banish these together. Come here friend. May Thor's will see to these wretches and empower the blade of this stout follower."
Wyrd:
** spoiler omitted **"There lad, try the axe again."
Ragnarr hesitantly stares at his axe, and then at the fallen hersir... "Shall I behead him... now???"
"Hold, Ragnarr. Allow me to be the one..." Vlad, still weakened from the shadow's attack, kneels at Egil's side, cradling the man's head, repulsive and horrific though his wounds might be.
"Egil, you and I were friends. I know that possession and madness drove you to this, not your own desire..." He draws the Hersil's sword from the dying man's belt slowly, and lays the handle in his hand. He brings his head close to whisper.
He stands and straightens, his eyes bright and hard, then draws his own sword and brings it down swiftly with both hands on the hilt, the point into the Hersil's heart.
He turns, the bloodied blade still in his hand, and levels it at those assembled.
"Egil died fighting these monsters. Let no man say it otherwise."
The bloodied face of the possessed hersir holds its obscene grin chuckling lowly until the young knight drives his blade through the heart of the thing that once was Egil, son of Thorolf, and hersir of Raudurfoss. A wretched gasp heaves from the man and the shadows dissipate around you faintly echoing that terrible mocking laugh. The dying man's eyes regard the adventurers standing nearby and in that instant an expression of gratitude flashes through them before their life fades.
For a long time there is only silence in the hall of the dead house. The Captain approaches Vladimir and nods darkly, "My men and I shall take care of the hersir's body."
Unn stands clutching her knotted stave visibly shaken by the ordeal while the comatose Earl stares up at the rafters with empty eyes.
Outside, the sound of shouts and men in anger can be heard. It would seem Bjalfi has arrived with armed men from the village.
Panting heavily, Kveldulf hoists himself upon one of the great tables, head between his knees catching his breath. Uruz nuzzles his left hand and licks it gently, but only once. The barbarian absently strokes the hound's head. You did a fine job, lad. A fine job indeed. He reaches into his pouch and retrieves a dried strip of meat. He gingerly hands it to his companion, who cheerfully gobbles it down.
Kveldulf _cocks_ his head slightly at the noise outside and turns to his head to face Vladimir. "By the signs of it, there be an old fashioned riot brewing. Let us hope we are it's benefactor and not it's target.
Ragnarr exhales deeply, trembling feintly. Only now does he become aware of just how weakened the touch of the shades left him. "Please, Thor, give me back my strength." He leans heavily on his great axe, looking towards the entrance and ready to defend himself again, looking at the old woman with concern. "Unn... are you well? Who now heads this way? Friend or foe?"
Vlad heads out to confront Bjalfi, cleaning and then sheathing his sword.
"The matter, my friend, is dealt with. We must help Unn to heal the Earl."
His expression is grim.
"He shall be remembered.", says Ottarr after he picks up his dagger.
There is the sound of angered confusion and cries from outside. Gathered on Thorolf's property ten or so men led by Bjalfi brandishing spears, blades and torches are massed scowling as they face the visibly fearful clan elders and the remnants of Egil's men who they curse as dogs and cowards. Shouted questions of Unn and Egil's fate rise up amidst the rancorous din. The big figure of Bjalfi bellows at his men to hold their tongues as he sees your band and the old crone step out from the hall. The uneasy mob of townsfolk hold but it is plain from their eyes that many are hungry for blood as they stare hatefully at the clan leaders and the remaining few of Egil's guards. Not a few suggest aloud that such dogs should be hung from the nearest tree. A cold tension hangs in the night air.
There is the sound of angered confusion and cries from outside. Gathered on Thorolf's property ten or so men led by Bjalfi brandishing spears, blades and torches are massed scowling as they face the visibly fearful clan elders and the remnants of Egil's men who they curse as dogs and cowards. Shouted questions of Unn and Egil's fate rise up amidst the rancorous din. The big figure of Bjalfi bellows at his men to hold their tongues as he sees your band and the old crone step out from the hall. The uneasy mob of townsfolk hold but it is plain from their eyes that many are hungry for blood as they stare hatefully at the clan leaders and the remaining few of Egil's guards. Not a few suggest aloud that such dogs should be hung from the nearest tree. A cold tension hangs in the night air.
Ragnarr comes up behind Vlad, towering over the knight, and stares grimly at the mob, his cold stare, low growl, and massive axe promising the villagers pain of a kind they have never felt before if they should engage in violence against anyone...
[
Ragnarr comes up behind Vlad, towering over the knight, and stares grimly at the mob, his cold stare, low growl, and massive axe promising the villagers pain of a kind they have never felt before if they should engage in violence against anyone...
The sight of the man-beast, his sharp axe and the unmistakeable menace in his growl quickly cools the ardour of the troublemakers. Closing their mouths they wait sullenly. Bjalfi breathes a sigh of relief and asks the news.
Vlad gathers himself and spreads his hands.
"Peace, friends. Today's terrible deeds lay at no man's feet- not even the Hersil's. He was enspelled by dark spirits, and died fighting their possession. The Earl lives, and, I hope, will regain himself soon. Unn has been released. Though these men followed the Hersil's orders, they did so out of love and loyalty, and I'm sure that even they regret the battles they fought." He sighs before continuing.
"I myself owe the Earl bloodprice for a man slain, and it's a price I shall pay gladly, though with a heavy heart, for I owed no rage or ire to this man- he merely served a master felled by dark spirits, and I think no man can begrudge a man who dies serving his rightful liege. Even I might be persuaded by, Odin will it never be so, Halfdeane if he were filled with the evil that Egil struggled against."
His case made, he motions to Bjalfi to lower his weapon, and gazes around the crowd, letting each man see his honesty and earnestness.
As the majority of Kveldulf's new found companions exit Thorolf's hall to address the commotion brewing outside, his breathing finally slows and though still weakened greatly from the shade's touch he decides to right himself off from the hall's table.
He then takes purchase of the wounds inflicted upon him by the possessed hersir. Not as bad as they look. He thinks to himself and searches the hall for three items common in any mead hall: a drinking bowl, fresh water, and the Earl's supply of mead.
Utgardr steps from the dark hall and in front of Unn to deter any would be attackers, head high, eyes full of malice and spear gripped tight and at the ready for whatever may come. he leans in a bit and says to Vlad
"Soothing words lad, lets hope they not fall on deaf ears,........ or ones possessed."
As the rest of his party exits to deal with the mob, the stout moves over to the Earl's prostrate form. He has a thorough look over the unconcious figure in an attempt to see if it is within his power to help the man.
Kveldulf rummages through Thorolf's hall and finds the object of his search as easy as finding a flagon of mead in a Norvanbarder's house. With said flagon the barbarian gulps a hearty sip hearing Vladimir's words to the gathered crowd.
The tension fades as the knight's words tell tale of fell sorcery and black deeds. The men shift uneasily and nod grimly. One senses embarrasment and shame at their earlier rages. The guard Captain, Thord, steps forward and replies to the knight, "I will not allow you to pay the bloodprice for Eirik, the guard you slew. As Egil's lieutenant it was I who was at fault for following these orders from the hersir who was not acting himself. Your band have saved us from a black menace and I would not have you take this burden. I will pay the recompense to Eirik's kinsmen and I will also see that you are rewarded as Egil promised for securing the ingredient's for Unn's cure."
With that, many of the folk in solemn mood begin to clear out back to the village. In light of these ill omens, the celebratory feeling of the villagers earlier today is vanished replaced by a dread of unseen forces at work. One can sense that many are eager to be away from the site of such cursed magic.
As the rest of his party exits to deal with the mob, the stout moves over to the Earl's prostrate form. He has a thorough look over the unconcious figure in an attempt to see if it is within his power to help the man.
Kveldulf drinks deeply from his drinking bowl, letting the sweet ichor warm his gut. He belches softly and raises the drinking bowl high above his head.
"Glory be to Odin, it is your will that I see another day. I am your son born in battle. May you own my death until the wolf runs free!" He then pours a generous draught of mead from the ancient bowl into the now restored fire. Hail the All Father! Hail Odin!"
"It is said from the oldest of times that to honor the Father you most also honor the one who is sworn his brother in blood. The Trickster, Laufrey's son of Jotun blood, whose change brings pain and wisdom." Mirroring his previous offering he pours a portion of mead from the bowl. It hisses and the fire flares as the flames drink the libation. Hail the brother of Odin!"
"Let us not forget the glory won in the name of the friend of man today! He who wards both Asgard and Midgard. Red bearded Jotun slayer, we give honor to you, may your wyrd always be entwined with that of man, until the serpent blinds your eyes." He then raises the horn again and pours an excessive amount of mead from the bowl until there is but little left. Hail to he who drank the very sea, Hail to Thor!"
"Glory to the spirits of this place, the wights of this land be at peace and frithful." He says in a low whisper and then pours the rest of the mead into the fire.
He then turns aside to face Dorvarr and the unconscious Egil. "You're a worthy opponent, Hersir, and your mead is sweet. May your death be as satisfying, or may you triumph over your travails.
Then, most unceremoniously, he plops himself back atop the halls table resting his legs atop the well worn bench and produces a wad of cheesecloth containing a roll of wool bandages. He fills the now empty drinking bowl with fresh water. He then cleans his wounds and bandages them to the best of his ability.
"So, now what?" grumbles Ragnarr as the villagers disperse. "We go home, and that's it?"
He looks back into the hall, and then again at Unn. "Why have these black spirits returned to possess the souls of men, Unn? Have we more to fear? Is it safe for any of us to sleep?" Although he tries to sound brave and unconcerned, worry clearly tinges the man-beast's voice.
"So, now what?" grumbles Ragnarr as the villagers disperse. "We go home, and that's it?"
He looks back into the hall, and then again at Unn. "Why have these black spirits returned to possess the souls of men, Unn? Have we more to fear? Is it safe for any of us to sleep?" Although he tries to sound brave and unconcerned, worry clearly tinges the man-beast's voice.
The old crone looks thoughtfully before speaking, "Thanks to you and your comrades the danger would seem to be over for now... Yet I fear this is only the beginning. A terrible force is awakening again in this land. The fiefs are divided and distracted by this war between Halfdeane and Sihtric while a greater menace readies to move. But perhaps that was their design all along... Harald's mysterious death too much resembles the horror we saw in that hall... My son I do not have the answers you seek but I think Lord Halfdeane should be notified of these dark tidings.
In Halfdeane's court in Brattahlid, is the blind skald, Bragi Boddason, The Old One. He is wise in the elder ways and in his youth he travelled inland and spoke with the Jarls of Valka and Jotun, old giants that remember the days of the sceadugenga and of Symorga. Speak with Boddason he more than any is like to know the face of our enemy.But it is late and you suffer from your wounds. You should all rest and regain your strength. I believe that in the days to come we may need the strength of all of you. I will see that you are not unrewarded for your valor. Bjalfi can see to putting a watch about the town.
Then, most unceremoniously, he plops himself back atop the halls table resting his legs atop the well worn bench and produces a wad of cheesecloth containing a roll of wool bandages. He fills the now empty drinking bowl with fresh water. He then cleans his wounds and bandages them to the best of his ability.
Kveldulf's honouring of Odin strengthens his will as he shakes off the dreadful memories of the writhing whispering shades.
[ooc] Heal check successful. Regain Reserve points 2x normal rate. 2 ability points for 8 hours of rest or 4 for a full day's rest.
"Halfdeane's court? I have not been there for many years, and it may not be the wisest choice for me to return. Still, I shall accompany you there, if only to meet the greatest mortal skald that has ever been."
"Halfdeane's court? I have not been there for many years, and it may not be the wisest choice for me to return. Still, I shall accompany you there, if only to meet the greatest mortal skald that has ever been."
Knowledge(Nobility) Halfdeane's Court
5
8
12
Finally, the skald, Bragi Boddason makes his home in Brattahlid though he is often away from the court. Bragi is a famed skald who has travelled far and wide through Norvanbard and even to the lands of Thule. Through his journeys he has acquired much lore of the gods, fey spirits and the giants of the Blackstone Mountains. His skill in composing drapa is well known. Bragi lived in Thorvann Haraldson's court until the war where he fled to Brattahlid. Since he has been seen only rarely.
Vladimir
Utgaror
The stout man begins to see to Halfdeane, setting his place to make him as comfortable as possible, before returning to his home for the night. He intends to check back on the Earl in the morning, but there is little else to be done tonight.
Ragnarr decides that before turning in to rest for the night, he will poke his head in the mead hall... just to see if Ragnhild is there...
Dorvarr
As you leave your workshop heading out into the street you are greeted warmly by passers-by who thank you heartily and promise to quench your thirst this eve at the Alf. You espy Vladimir standing over two men crouched on the side of the street. One appears greatly wounded with a vicious cut and a bloody hollow where his eye once was. Next to him is a wild haired man who is aiding him in standing. Adjacent to Vladimir, a young dark haired man in a chain shirt also speaks with the wounded warrior.
** spoiler omitted **
So, is the offer of thirst quenching still on? Sure, I'm down a few points of strength, but drinking is a Con-based activity anyways...
Feeling much better, Kveldulf gathers his things and makes his way outside to find Vladimir.
"Friend Vladimir, the road to Ironwall is long and dusty. If that be the ride ahead of me, I seem to remember you owing me a drink", laughs the woodsman.
"Come Uruz! Your dragging tongue looks like it could use a drink as well."
Dorvarr will help Unn see to the Earl, catching a slightly belated drink at the Alf.
"Indeed I do, my friend. You and your mighty hound battled well in there, despite those sorcerous fiends. Indeed, I shall make it a drink for the each of you."
"Indeed I do, my friend. You and your mighty hound battled well in there, despite those sorcerous fiends. Indeed, I shall make it a drink for the each of you."
Unn and Bjalfi with a few of his trusted men hold down the fort at the Earl's hall. Driven by your thirst your band heads down to the welcoming warmth and company to be had at the Alf. The wounded members of the party stoically shrug off the draining fatigue from the touch of the mysterious shades.
As you arrive at the threshold, Thora the owner and the towering Kjartan, the half-orc bouncer shout out lustily, "Hail the heroes of Raudurfoss!" The entire crowd assembled in the hall chime in with resounding cheers and as you stand before them the villagers heartily belt out an old victory song of Mosfell stamping their feet and clapping their hounds. The very rafters of the hall seem to shake with the raised voices and table thumping. You espy amidst the sea of well-wishers a few famaliar faces, the maiden Ragnhild, Bolli the trader and old Olaf the ranger from the logging camp.
As the song finishes Thora and her two serving wenches step forward a finely crafted drinking horn gilded in gold in each hand. The three present the horns overflowing with fine honey mead to all six of you having recently heard of all your deeds in the Earl's hall. You later learn the horns were a present from Bolli.
Note of the horns
Appraise DC 10
In the centre a boar lies on a spit over a roasting fire. A sumptuos aroma hangs in the air. Thora has also laid out spreads of pickled herring, heaps of steamed radcul, a bubbling cauldron of moose stew, and even piles of wild plums. Beyond the spread are kegs of ale and another cauldron of mulled mead wafting a rich smell of nutmeg and cloves.
Dorvarr enters the hall after the younger heroes have begun feasting. He moves swiftly to the spit and rends a choice piece of haunch. A drinking horn is pressed into his free hand and, with a roar to praise Thor for friends and valor, he celebrates the night away.
As the song finishes Thora and her two serving wenches step forward a finely crafted drinking horn gilded in gold in each hand. The three present the horns overflowing with fine honey mead to all six of you having recently heard of all your deeds in the Earl's hall. You later learn the horns were a present from Bolli.
In the centre a boar lies on a spit over a roasting fire. A sumptuos aroma hangs in the air. Thora has also laid out spreads of pickled herring, heaps of steamed radcul, a bubbling cauldron of moose stew, and even piles of wild plums. Beyond the spread are kegs of ale and another cauldron of mulled mead wafting a rich smell of nutmeg and cloves.
Ragnarr can't help but flash a wide-eyed, gap-toothed grin as he is presented with one of the horns. He twists and turns the horn in his hands, admiring the workmanship. "Walrus tusk... there are very special!" He then downs the mead in one gulp, and promptly asks one of the maids for a refill. As he begins to attack a plate full of food, smearing grease all over his bestial face, the man-beast occasionally steals a shy glimpse of Ragnhild...
"It feels good to be liked," he mumbles to Vlad and Dorvarr between mouthfuls and foul smelling belches. "Say, friend Vlad, did the tanner say when Greypelt's hide would be ready? I long to wear it..."
Astounded by the warm reception at the Alf, Kveldulf is nearly speechless. His stomach growls and churns at the sight of the lavish feast prepared. After making his rounds about the room to find a suitable place to settle in. He procures a very large bowl and a hunk of bread. He then marches up to the gigantic stew pot and holds his bowl forth.
"Moose stew is my very favorite. I hope you've got enough in there.." laughs Kveldulf heartily.
When he and his companions are rewarded with the horns, Kveldulf face is awash with astonishment. "Th-thank you," he stammers face reddening, "I only did what I felt was the right thing to do at the time. I'm glad it has pleased the folk of this place. Hail the mighty folk of Raudurfoss! May your harvest be bountiful and your children strong!"
As the night goes forward, Kveldulf eats moose stew until he can barely move and imbibes copious amounts of mead until he can barely stand. At some point very late in the evening, he breaks into off-key renditions of some very lewd drinking songs often sung by sailors. This goes on for some time regardless of the response of those around him before passing out cold on the the Alf's floor near the fire.
Uruz spends the evening busily working the room, lapping up spilled puddles of mead and snatching bits of discarded food and bones about the hall before returning with them to gnaw happily at Kveldulf's side. Much later in the evening when Kveldulf has had so much mead that he's nearly senseless, Uruz's mood changes notably. He takes a guarded stance and does not leave Kveldulf's side. The hackles rise on his neck and he growls menacingly at anyone approaching his master.