Skäne shoots the cheeky goblin a jaundiced look, then reaches across to take Anja's hand in his own calloused grip;
"I meant nei hrakning Anja. You and yours have given us such risna . I would not see you suffer for that act. Should you be questioned, the more you know, the more they will force from you."
He flashes a hard smile at the proud woman;
"I will say this. We eit Baba Yaga the Bone Legged's hut. Finding it is key to our quest and collective hlutir . Should you know aught on it, we would be most appreciative."
Anja locks eyes with Skäne and she listens to his words methodically. She nods in understanding. "There have been whispers of the Hut in the center of the city proper, chained up. No one here has seen the truth of it, but that is the rumor. I can't imagine what you are caught up in if you are looking for that."
Ringeirr tugs on his beard and looks to Geedra. "Tomorrow?" He looks out a window again, obviously nervous. "If you need the night, then I suppose...but we need to be careful and move quickly tomorrow, especially with that mirror man having been involved..." He sighs. "I owe you lot my life, so I'll not nitpick. Whatever you want to do."
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Geedra shrugs her shoulde. ”Eh, Geedra am okay. If not what wait, Geedra fine. Geedra though Skane might want kissies, but Geedra am already.”
Skäne squeezes Anja's hand with a hard smile;
"Best we strike afore the Skuggsjamaðr koms calling."
He shoots the little goblin a look, then rises;
"I'll claim my kiss another day little Puka. Time we found the Bony Legg'ed's hut."
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You all begin to rise from the table, gathering your things to continue on your mission. Ringeirr begins to go around the house and bid his farewells to the people he knows. When he says goodbye to Harren, the man walks back into the dining area and gives a soft smile. "Ringeirr says you are leaving. Goodbye, all. Thank you for all you have done. May your roads be safe." He nods to everyone.
"Doesn't sound like any road you all will be upon will ever be safe," Anja says. She sighs, and stands up. "But we all must walk the roads before us, eh? Please wait here a moment, I'd like to give you something that may help you on your endeavor." She leaves, exiting out of view. Two or three minutes pass before she returns, carrying a large, flat object wrapped in old cloth. She sets it down in front of Skäne, and judging by the sound it makes, it has a solid weight to it. She tugs at the folds of the cloth and reveals the item.
Sitting before you is a shield, seemingly well made of metal. Dark grey but lustrous, when the light hits the piece you can see ripples resound deep within its construction, and shimmer to give the shield a bluish hue. The center of the shield is embossed with a regal bear's head in scintillating silver - an obviously mithral embellishment. It has a heraldic shape, the top edge smooth, but where it tapers to its downward point the edge is slightly serrated. There are some faint, faded marks that shows the shield has seen use, but has been well kept.
Anja gives a deep exhalation before speaking. "This was my father's. He was a good man, a courageous man, an honorable man...in the end, maybe a foolish one. He was a skilled fighter. He made a name for himself, even being from the small village I grew up in, as someone to not get on the wrong side of. Like most of us, he was not fan of the witches or their minions, and helped defend the village against fey and traitors. We were very far from this city, so I guess the jadwiga themselves were never too offended because none of them ever showed up. In fact, most of the fey that harassed us there were doing so of their own volition." She absentmindedly runs a finger along the shield as she speaks.
"I'm not sure where or when he actually took this shield into his possession, but he always had it with him when fighting, and said it was his good luck. He was always talking about the bear on it. You all might not know, even being Ulfen, as you are not from Irrisen, but there is an ancient folklore tale about a silver bear named Ilvarang. I guess it was some sort of totem god to the ancient Ulfen of this region, and was a protector against the evils of the cold - winter wolves and the like. Anyway, some manner of fey women came to prey on the town one day and took my mother. I'll spare you the details but they killed her because she was beautiful. I don't know if it was because they were jealous or they wanted to steal her beauty through some foul magic or whatever else, but they killed her. Well, despite warnings by everyone, including me, my father went to hunt them down. It was a trap though, and when he got to the woods there were many fey and whatever else waiting for him. They killed him that day, but his shield was left because they could not touch it. Cold iron. I recovered it and have kept it since, but I am not using it for its purpose. I take it out and polish it when I am feeling wistful. How childish! ha! Please, take it with you. Fight fey and witches with it, or else just have it so Ilvarang can be with you, if you believe that sort of thing."
Skäne scrutinises the shield with seasoned eyes, nodding to himself as he runs calloused hands o'er its sharp edge and boss;
"Truly a friðr skjǫldr ... I will carry it in virðing of you and your faðir ..."
The warrior smiles warmly at Anja, a rare expression upon his blunt features;
"A gipt such as this, deserves something in kind..."
He beckons toward Katie to hand him something;
"The ancient ring you carry Rosten. I would gift it..."
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"Huh?! Oh! Yes! I... yes."
She can't get it off of her hand fast enough to hand over to Skane.
"Trading items between you... ah, a promise of the loveliest of loves..! I'll have to note it down for later..!"
Geedra grasped both hands to her chest in a swoon. ”Am beautiful,” she cackles, as she trudges off to give the two of them some alone time. ”Katie! Big human savage outside need group. Come with Geedra,” she laughs.
"Yes! Alone time! You guys make sure to take all the time you need!" Katie flexes an arm. "Leave the heavy lifting to me today! You've been doing all the hard work lately anyways."
She follows after Geedra, throwing the goblin a covert thumbs-up.
Anja raises her hand to reject the ring. "I look for nothing in exchange. You have already helped Ringeirr, and by the sound of it you are helping all of us, please-" her voice trails off as Geedra and Katie suddenly scramble away from the room, exiting to join Krosh outside and leaving Skäne with the woman. She watches the others depart and blinks a few times before returning her eyes to the warrior before her.
"You keep interesting company, Skäne Ingvârssonn. I won't even ask how to ended up with a goblin in tow," she says with a slight laugh. She does end up taking the ring into her hand, turning it over to inspect it. "What a treasure. Very old...it is...beautiful." Despite the ring being a simple wrought iron band, it does not seem as though Anja is being disingenuous or coy - from the short time you have known this woman, she certainly does appreciate the past and her people. You even notice a slight smile twitch at the corner of her mouth as she runs her thumb along the ancient Ulfen runes. "I suppose you or they will insist I take it, anyway. You have more important things to do than argue pleasantries with me. Thank you for the gift, as unnecessary as it is. Wherever you and your fellows are headed, into whatever dangers, please be careful. The witches and their ilk are ruthless, and if you are after that hut, I can only imagine the horrors that lie in your path. I hope my father's shield will help to keep you safe. He always went on about how there was more than meets the eye with that thing...that he could feel the strength of Ilvarang inside of it. I cannot say I know anything about magic, but we could all use some of it in these times. Good luck and fare well, Skäne. May your ancestors watch over you and may the fates deem you worthy for another day."
When Katie and Geedra make it outside, they see the large orcish form of Krosh standing unmoved from where you left him, the silver ermine sitting atop his shoulder.
"All is clear, Riders," he says in his deep voice. He turns his head, the antlered helm jingling ever so faintly from the trinkets affixed to the tines, to peer at you. "Is it time to press on? The spirits suggest this path will be long. Frost and rime lay thick on the road, yet time is of the essence. We must pass quickly, but avoid a slip, lest we fall into the frigid abyss beyond." He turns his head back to look ahead down the road leading to the house. His companion Khikezh squeaks a few times.
"I know," Krosh replies.
Skäne nods as she examines the ring, before uttering an old Ulfen proverb;
"Gammel kjærleik rustar ikkje."
Before embracing the fair Ulfen maid;
"And you Anja. I hope to return to you one day... and hear more tales of your faðir , and share my own saga."
He holds her close, without words, until hearing Krosh's deep voice outside, takes his leave with a final hard smile.
As he exits the warrior hefts the shield, testing its weight;
"Time we pressed on. We have much to do aye?"
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Anja does not speak during the embrace either, allowing the moment to pass in quiet contemplation. She raises her hands to Skäne's back and returns the gesture, awash in this sudden bond. When the warrior takes his leave, she watches him depart, clutching the ancient ring in her hand.
Skäne joins the others outside, carrying the new shield. To his words, Krosh turns his head back again and nods, the soft jingling of his trinkets accentuating the motion.
"Aye, Red Rider. The road beckons."
Ringeirr exits last, seeing you are all prepared. He gives an affirming nod and takes point, his feet crunching on the snow. "To Mortin's. Hopefully all of this business gets easier after meeting with him..."
You leave the street with the safehouse and double back around the bend, heading further into the Howlings. The village isn't difficult to navigate, and Ringeirr swifty takes you through the settlement. Other beings pass you on your trek, but upon eyeing Skäne they think the better of getting involved with your progression.
After fifteen minutes of your trek, you hear a boisterous commotion from around the next corner. A mix of growls and rambling Skaldic voices punctuation by thuds and the sound of shifting snow. Ringeirr slows but keeps going, and just as he rounds the corner to the perpendicular street, two entangled figures nearly plow into him. The spry man scrambles out of the way as the pair scuffles out into your path.
Two humans - though you recognize them as winter wolves in human form by their silvery-blue eye, icy eyes, and overall build - are in some sort of tussle. They are half-insulting each other and half-bickering over something unintelligible, punching and kicking with abandon. They likely have been at it for at least a short while, judging by their bruises and bloodied lips. As they near, you can smell the stench of something alcoholic all over them. One of the two, with bluish stubble and heavy hands, knocks the second who has long sideburns, down in front of you. He gets to his hands and knees, looking up at you with a look of pure venom.
"Whattaya want?!" he yells, scrambling up to his feet. "You're in the way!"
"Good'un, fool," the first says, giving an inebriated guffaw. "Watchit or they play you too."
"Shut it, or I'll tear your neck out!"
"You quiet....hummm..look here at these humanfolk. That's what you need, pup...let's just take 'em for what they have and finish this evening well off," the bearded one suggests. That seems to quiet the other for a moment until a wide grin spreads across his face, a grin that somehow hints at his canine persuasion.
"Yeah...yeah..." He reaches out and grabs a confused Ringeirr by the coat and stares hard at him. "What you got, greycoat? What you got for me?"
Ringeirr's eyes shoot to the rest of you, looking for an out.
Geedra keeps her cloak pulled tightly across her face. At first blush, she didn’t know how this was not going to get violent, whether they were trying to keep a low profile or not.
When the wolf-in-man's-skin grabs Ringeirr, Skäne counters the grab with his own strong grip.
The vikingr flashes a hard smile;
"Begone ofrǫlvi pups. These are mine. Best leave alone lest I ógagn you both."
:
Katie says nothing, but gives him a threatening glare, too in order to help out Skane as best she can.
The wolf-man continues to hold on to Ringeirr's coat for a long few moments, staring at Skäne's hands on him, and then moves his gaze up to the warrior's face. He looks past him, also, at Katie glaring at him with the menace she can unsheathe when needs be. He bares his teeth and hisses but drops the old man, putting his hands up dismissively.
"Didn't realize they was yours," he says through clenched teeth, dusting off his hands. "Let's get on then," he adds, looking back over to his compatriot who has grown quiet in the exchange. The other wolf-man nods and they both trudge off, bickering lowly under the breath.
Ringierr sighs in relief. "Got out of that one without too much attention, thankfully. Every time we take a turn we run into something, it would seem...glad I've got you lot at my back. Come on now, quickly."
You continue following Ringeirr through the streets of the Howlings, and as it turns out, his lamentation proves prophetic, as around the third corner from where you encountered the drunken wolves, a human nearly collides with your entourage. An Ulfen man in his near twenties with dirty blonde hair explodes from a side street with frantic speed, though his crash course with you sends him stumbling to his hands and knees. He stays still for a second, panting heavily, sweat dripping from his nose onto the cold ground. He looks up with a wry grimace. "My master's...in a rage," he barely says.
A few moment later, a shaggy winter wolf comes around the same corner, skidding to a stop at the gathering. It immediately snarls and casts its icy gaze across all of you, before they fall on Skäne. "Ah...Greetings. I am Korgin. This slave is part of my household. Or...was, until he decided to question how I handle my affairs. I'm sure you understand...sometimes you just can't break that defiant streak, and then they are good for nothing but a bit of sport." He lets out a laugh, an unsettling bark, and returns his arctic stare to his prey. "Now now, back on your feet...I'll give you another head start to make it interesting!"
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Skäne casts a baleful gaze first to the young Ulfen, then toward the winter-wolf that follows.
The vikingr-in-vetrvagr's-skin flashes a grin at the creatures words;
"Hold Korgin... As you see, my þrællr are littered with those who were once defiant. Yet here they stand, dutiful to their master."
The warrior gestures toward the motley group accompanying him, then reaches back to scruff Geedra and heft her like a trophy;
"Who alone to bring a wilful puka to heel but me - Skäne Kappbrotna !? Sell it to me brother! I like a challenge! Name your price..."
Geedra lets out a squeal from in unexpected surprise as suddenly her feet were no longer underneath her. It took a second, but before she started cursing the human, she realized his play. She kept her eyes to the ground, wondering if the clever ruse was going to work or not.
The wolf watches Skäne carefully and then a wide grin comes across its features. A moment later the lupine form of the magical beast shifts, swiftly adopting the guise of a tall, brawny man in leathers and furs with long blond hair with a shock of white. His pale but bright violet eyes seem to match his mischievous grin.
"The only thing I like more than sport is coin, friend. I will offer up this head for 75 gold. A fair price if you are so able a willbreaker as you say."
The Ulfen man himself seems paralyzed by fear or hesitation. His eyes dart nervously back from Korgin to Skäne.
Skäne returns the wolfish grin with one of his own as he lowers Geedra;
"Done. 75 gold is a réttr price for the wretch."
He hands the brawny wolf-in-man's-skin the correct coin, then beckons for the others to secure their new fellow "slave".
"Spend it unwisely bror!"
The vikingr claps the shoulder of the winter-wolf, then moves to continue on their way.
Geedra took in a deep breath, still in a bit of shock from the quick thinking of the large warrior. It was the first time any of the warriors she had thrown in with had ever shown their strength to her. Big human am strong, she thought to herself as she recovered.
She kept her head down and saw to the new ‘slave’ the group had just purchased. Maybe it had some talent to make it worth the price they had paid.
Korgin chuckles and walks off, enjoying the jingling of his newly acquired coin. Your new "acquisition" sighs and looks down at the ground. "I...I'm Jorhan," he mumbles. "Please, Master, don't let Korgin's words make you think badly of me...I only said there was a better way to do his books for keeping track of his coin is all...I've...a good eye for numbers. If you...have anything that needs to be kept track of, Master, I can do it." His voice has a tremor of nervousness and fear in it, and he swallows hard several times during his shaky introduction.
"It's all right, my boy," Ringeirr says, clapping the young man on the back. "Skäne's no slave-holder." His eyes move to the Ulfen warrior. "At least, I hope not!" he adds which a chuckle. Jorhan looks up from the ground with a confused expression. "Thank you, Skäne," the old man continues. "Quick thinking to buy him off the wolf. One less of our own under the heel."
"If he is one? I'll kick his butt." Katie jokes with a smirk.
"Seriously, good thinking. It's like the sort of thing you'd see in a story, before..." And she trails off again, writing some sort of romantic play in her own mind.
Oh, but there was that other girl, too, wasn't there?
.......Katie has much to think on.
Skäne flashes a rare smile at Katie's blustering threat. The warrior turns his attention to the lad;
"Ringeirr has the réttr of it. I am no slaver... nor vetrvagr... It seemed the easiest way to make þegn of you. Your life and fate is your own. Live it well boy."
The warrior mulls the lad's skills, before speaking again;
"You kept its bókr ? Perhaps you have knowledge we can use? We seek Baba Yaga's troðar hut..."
”And slaves owes to to group, to buy freedom. 75 gold ma much, must earn keep. Tell about hut. That am fair.”
Jorhan looks positively confused, blinking as his mouth opens in search of words. "...Free?" he manages to say, perhaps thinking the notion is a trap of some sort. Either way, it seems as though the idea of being free is completely overwhelming for him. As questions are asked of him, however, he quickly straightens up and trips over his words for a moment or two before responding. "I..I had heard that the queen put such a hut on display in the center of the city, with chains around its legs. A trophy. But then, after a short while...a forest began to grow around it. Now the center of the city has woods where there were not woods before...the queen's guards patrol the trees, and do not let anyone in. it is.. strange."
Mustering his courage, he clears his throat. "I...I don't know how to be free. I've been a slave my whole life. Please, take me with you! I don't know what else to do, or where to go...this place...this place is terrible."
Skäne nods, then looks to the others;
"If your skien is such you will walk this hœttr path lad. What dugr do you have? What do you bring to our sinni ?"
Jorhan scratches the scruff on his chin. "P-powers?" he shrugs. "Nothing like that... I...I'm good with numbers and ledgers, and I.." his gaze slowly crawls over the gathered lot of you, looking at your battle scars, bloodstained armor, assorted weaponry, and imposing stances. "I'm no warrior...people like..like you were always just characters in stories to me. I've moved from one master to the next and have never so much as picked up a sword. But I will do anything to not have to be a slave again."
Ringeirr pipes up. "Mayhap once I take you to meet the Heralds, the lad can stay with them. They ought to be able to keep him safe, and can probably make use of his talents." He claps Jorhan on the shoulder. "Failing that, can send him to a safe house to lie low and help out. Back to Anja's, perhaps. Unless you want to make a fighter out of him, of course." He turns his gaze to the newly freed man. "For once, the choice is up to you what you wish to do with your life."
"I, I...Well, I don't know who these heralds are, but if you think I could be a help to them, I will go with you for now, if that's all right."
Geedra nods. ”Fine by Geedra. Forest sounds strange around Hut, though. Am crazy dark magic, maybe?”
Skäne eyes the lad, then Ringeirr, then back to the lad - weighing the words spoken with mulling frown;
"Swords aren't every man's stígr lad. Being numbered means you have a keen hyggiandi , which can cut like a sverðsegg ."
He taps the lads head with a calloused finger;
That is your greatest weapon. Wield it harðsnúinn and make your name."
"If it is crazy dark magic... Well, wait."
Katie doesn't know much about dark magic, at least not specifically--but she does know stories.
"The hut might be protecting itself? If that's the case, it might be able to help us find it, since we're... y'know..." She makes a vague gesture towards her cloak, trying to intone that they have the mantles of the riders.
"That's just a guess, anyways."
Jorhan blinks as you talk, obviously confused by the conversation, but says nothing. Ringeirr takes point and ushers everyone away from the crossroad, remarking that Mortin's house is nearby. As Ringeirr leads, he tells you a bit about Mortin.
"He doesn't look like much, but he used to be a smuggler like me. Got captured by the now-displaced Iron Guard once, and they tortured him something fierce. He escaped - with no small amount of help from me, I might add - but that whole ordeal made a mark on him. He never leaves his house now, scared to get scooped up again, I expect. Still, he's the best forger around, and has some magic to back up his writings. Fortunately, he owes me one."
Soon enough you are led to a street, quiet and flanked by rows of homes on both sides. The street dead ends at another home, which has no ornamentation or decoration, and is tightly shut at every door and window. Ringeirr approaches the door once you make it there and gives a very precise knock in a series of taps. A few moments later, a response of knocks comes from within the house, and Ringeirr follows up with a different rhythm. Next, the sound of sliding wood accompanies the reveal of a tiny peephole in the door, followed by the sound of several sliding deadbolts and clicking of locks. The door opens into a dimly lit interior and Ringeirr sweeps in swiftly, prompting you to follow suit. The door closes and the locks and deadbolts are redone, and you stand before Mortin forger.
He is a short, unassuming bald human in his fifties, with a slight build, wrinkled forehead, and dull grey eyes peering out from behind spectacles. He is dressed in flat purple robes trimmed in white fur and wears tight, supple leather gloves with no fingers. His lips are pursed tightly as he looks over you.
"Ringeirr," he says softly, his voice a somewhat nasally mix of dignified and annoyed. "I hope you have good reason for bringing such an...eclectic mix of individuals into my home."
Ringeirr smirks. "Here to make good on that favor you owe me, old friend. These folks here are in need of papers to get them in and about the city. They are here to help."
Mortin is quiet for a long few moments and he exhales deeply out of his nose. "I see. I suppose I do owe you...my my, what you are getting yourself into these days...no, I don't want to know. The less I know the better. Fine, come in, come in."
You move from the entryway - itself a modest antechamber with no decoration, to a study of sorts to the right. It is plainly furnished with a few chairs, a small table upon which stacks of papers and books sit, and a desk which takes up the rear part of the room, upon which several candles burn and jars of ink are neatly organized along with pens, scrolls, cases, signet rings, wax, and other sorts of writing tools. Mortin wastes no time in getting to business, going to the chair by the desk, sitting in it, and turning to look at all of you again.
"There are two ways to get you about the city. I can either write you papers as slaves to a winter wolf or ice troll or some other brute, or I can write you up as stilyagi or noble jadwiga guests. Slaves would be easiest, and papers for them would be under less scrutiny, and more difficult to see as fake. However, slaves are not permitted to carry weapons or armor and must always know their place, which, by the looks of you, I would imagine would make it quite difficult to do whatever it is you wish to do. Stilyagi are a..generation of jadwiga obsessed with foreign and outlandish things - they dress oddly, speak oddly, have strange hobbies, and keep strange company. This would..likely make sense for you. I do even know some of the magical arcane marks of certain families of the city to lend extra weight to your papers. However, these papers would be more difficult to pass off as fake, but would afford you freedom in the city. I could likewise depict you as noble guests of some family, which would carry the same freedoms, and same risks, as being stilyagi. Whatever fate you choose, it will take me a few hours to get them together. What will it be?"
Skäne looks to the others, then eyes the forger;
"Stilyagi it is Inkfingr... We haf gold aplenty to steady your hand and eye , so make it your best work."
Geedra shrugged. ”Geedra am fine with Stilyagi papers. Group need move through town good, so best papers am important.”
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”Stilyagi it is, then,” Mortin says. ”This will take a few hours…make yourselves comfortable, I suppose…Ringeirr, there is some spiced mead in the kitchen you can pour out…heat it in the pot first. Much better hot. Please mind my things.” After that, he begins to assemble his arsenal of instruments at his desk, doling out pens, parchment, inks, and arcane reagents to himself as he constantly mutters under his breath.
You are able to find seating around the local few rooms in chairs, benches, or on a rug on the floor. Ringeirr isn’t long in preparing the beverage, and soon enough comes around and hands everyone a mug of steaming drink. The spiced mead proves quite palatable. Ringeirr also stokes the fire, creating at relaxing ambience where the warmth of the fire and the heat of the drink combine to melt the toils of the day off of you. In particular, Skäne, who carried much of the weight of the day in both subterfuge and swordplay, drink in hand, seems to find this a perfect time to take a nap, and it isn’t long before the rest of you notice him in a chair, eyes closed, resting comfortably…
You dream.
A dark forest spreads all around you, the dusky green of the pine needles of the gnarled trees limned in frost, faintly aglow in the pale bits of moonlight that manage to sneak through the gaps in the foliage. You trudge along, the snow crunching beneath the footfalls of your boots, but it isn’t long before you realize that the snow is too loud and hard beneath you. You look down and see skulls and bones littering the powder, crumbling to dust beneath your gait. You slow, instinctively drawing blade and shield, eyes slowly scanning the darkness that looms around you, ominous and foreboding.
A hard step behind you. You spin.
A great, riderless steed stands, its coat of reddened gold nearly blinding against the stark shadows beyond it. It stamps on the snow, golden eyes staring into you. A heavy cloak is draped across the saddle, its edges burnt and singed and smelling of smoke. It feels familiar. As you move towards the horse, you hear something else behind. You spin again, and this time see a bear standing before you, a huge beast with heavy silver fur and ribbons of frost running through it. The bear intones a low growl and takes a large step forward, putting its face closer to yours where its azure eyes - bluer than a glacier’s heart - bore into you. You feel a cold wind that picks up behind the bear and wafts around your face that swiftly picks up speed.
The steed whinnies and you spin again, now facing a warm summer breeze that flows from behind the horse. That wind picks up as well, and blows the cloak from the saddle and into you, falling over you face and shoulders, flapping in the gale. You move up and pull it, freeing it from your face, and the steed is gone. The bear roars behind you and you turn once more, only to be showered in a fine mist of frost that forces you to close your eyes. When you open them again, the bear is gone but rivulets of rime have gathered on your body. Suddenly, you feel the weight of the cloak in your hand gone, and look down to see it has disappeared. A moment later, the cold of ice leaves your body, and you see that the rime on you has likewise vanished.
The forest shakes and a terrible, guttural roar erupts. You turn and see a massive, towering figure, a silhouette of black that dwarfs the trees. Its massive arm moves to strike you down, but the forest dissolves as you awaken and see Krosh’s un-helmeted head staring down at you as he stands before you, looking at you both quizzically and knowingly.
”Skäne Twice-Mantled,” Krosh says simply in his resonating monotone. He stands there for another moment or two before turning and walking back across the room, adding another note to his statement. ”The Spirits know you, Skäne son of Ingvar.”
After a few whispers of arcane intonation, Mortin clears his throat. ”There. It is done.” He neatly arranges his papers into a stack, stands, and walks about the room, delivering one piece of fine parchment into the hands of Skäne, Katie, Cara, Geedra, and Krosh. You look down to see the top half of the paper written in Skald, denoting you as honored guests to Whitethrone at the invitation of the noble House Voleksa, written very convincingly in official speech. The bottom half of the parchment is the same, but printed in giant. Finally, at the bottom, a faintly gloating glyph serves as the signature.
”There you are. Papered as stilyagi. That sigil is the official crest of House Voleska, done in an arcane mark for added credibility. These papers will allow you to move about the city with weapons and the like, but allow me to give you a warning. Though these will give you freedom of passage, they do not grant you freedom of consequence. Mind yourselves well, and remember your place. You are guests. If anyone asks to see your papers, show them. And do remain calm, do not give them reason to look more into it, especially not the mirror men. Those vile things can sense more than you’d care to think. Also, avoid causing any ruckus in the street…if the guards intervene, you can be sure they will call on House Voleska about their guests, and we all know how that will end.” Mortin scratches his head. ”Ringeirr, I figure you and the lad are best just posing as their slaves…an actual slave and an old, battered Irriseni ulfen commoner do not make good stilyagi, and not even I’m that good.” There is a silent moment as Mortin’s words seem to be a bit sharp, but Ringeirr breaks out into a hearty chuckle.
”Right you are, old friend. It’ll serve. You have my thanks for this, and the thanks of many others, I think. These folk are here to help…somehow, in some way. I believe in ‘em, anyway.” Ringeirr nods in his own affirmation.
”Yes, well, take care. And I hope it goes without saying that we are even. As for the rest of you…” Mortin takes a long look at your group, his gaze peering over his spectacles. ”Good luck, I suppose.”
”Stay safe, Mortin. Let’s go, everyone,” Ringeirr says, leading you out of the house. As the door closes you can hear all of the locks being clicked back into place. Ringeirr starts marching you back through the Howlings, in a new direction.
Jorhan speaks up a few minutes after leaving Mortin’s marking the first time he has spoken since before you had arrived. ”This…this is something of an adventure, isn’t it? Sneaking into Whitethrone with forged documents to fight witches and capture a magical hut in the middle of a magical forest that wasn’t there, and then it was….oh…now that I hear it aloud, it sounds like a suicidal adventure..” He looks down after that, keeping quiet and retreating into himself a bit.
The winding streets of the Howlings give way to an intersection of broad thoroughfares that lead to other districts of Whitethrone, where the buildings continue to improve in the quality of their construction and the exquisite detailing of their woodwork. IN the distance, the sounds of more active neighborhoods can be heard, but Whitethrone is generally somber and muted. A white signpost, painted with neat black writing, stands at the crossroads.
The signpost is written in Skald and Giant, and points to “Two Hills” to the northeast, “Merchants Quarter and the Floes” to the southeast, and “Porcelain Street and Frosthall” to the south.
”We’ll need to get to the other side of the Market Square in the Merchants’ Quarter to get to the resistance base…but we should be able to…oh Hells…” Ringeirr’s voice trails off and he assumes a more submissive posture, as you all notice two mirror men walking towards the intersection, gliding with a strange alien grace in their strides. They look identical to the one you saw outside of the safe house earlier.
They fluidly move in between your group and the signpost and in unison hold out their hands. A pair of cold, mercurial voices slip into your minds, sounding like a tinny echo.
Papers, please.
Geedra keeps her hood pulled close over her head and hands up her paper for inspection with no words. She knew the chances on getting through this unscathed was terribly slim.
Skäne awakes with a start, his confusion and shock only increased by being met with Krosh's features, and fated words.
The warrior sits up, eyes flitting to the others, then the shaman;
"I saw another riddar . One gyllar in a cloak of aska , upon a steed of rauðr . I saw too a mighty bjorn . Silver as the hoar frost. The ridder warmed me with his cloak while the bjorn chilled me with its hrim ."
He frowns, his scarred brow furrowing as he addresses Krosh;
"Andirœðar , you called me Twice-Mantled. What did you mean?"
Skäne takes delivery of his papers and the advice surrounding their carriage with a nod and hard smile.
"Reisiligr work scrivener, and reisiligr advice. We will do well to avoid bjóðja as much as urðr[b] [b] will allow."
At Jorhan's words the big warrior nods again with a shrug;
"Urðr is fickle lad. This much I do know. Do we march eigr ? Perhaps... but such a dauðadagr will make for a quite the tale in the Sagas eh?!"
As the mirror men approach, he offers out his scroll with a wolfish grimace;
"Hail Skuggsjamaðr . Here are our papers..."
Krosh sits back against the wall, but looks back up and over at Skäne. ”Twice-Mantled…first by He who rides steed of sunlight, and second by he who walks the endless forest beyond. You and your sister Ulfen may share the first cloak…but the second is yours alone to hold.” His eyes fall on the shield the warrior recently acquired…
The mirror men snatch your papers out of your hands with a fluid motion, arrange them just-so in their ghoulish white hands, and bring them level with the silvery mirrors that serve as their faces. During this, both Jorhan and Ringeirr do their part to look like your slaves - a guise that Jorhan obviously slips seamlessly into. The strange sentries spend a few good long moments poring over your papers, something taking in the writing with their featureless visages. The seconds tick by painfully as they go over each one with scrutiny. After what feels like an eternity, they both lower their stacks of papers in unison and return their “gazes” to you.
A cold, shimmering noise in your head again: Public dancing remains strictly prohibited.
They return their papers to you, turn, and depart, retreating to their posts. Ringeirr quickly mumbles under his breath that you better get hustling and take this window of opportunity, and you comply, leaving the Howlings behind. You walk down a short road that leads to a small square, and Ringeirr takes the lead, but stays hunched and looking subservient, as if he were a lowly guide taking you through the city, but does his best to speak to you as he does. The reason for his deceptions is clear - the patrols of mirror men and guards - mostly humans in steely grey mail and dark blue cloaks - are nearly everywhere. Most of the non-guards that move around do so with purpose, looking at the ground and making direct routes to wherever they need to go as to not attract attention.
”Things are bad outside of the Merchant Quarter,” Ringeirr whispers. ”That’s the safest place, if you could call it that…everywhere else, the martial law holds tight. With your weapons out, the Winter Guard may demand papers…just do like you did with the mirror men and show them and don’t do anything out of turn, and we should make it fine.”
Ringeirr leads you deeper into the city, and in fact you are stopped a few times by the cold-toned members of the Winter Guard who demand papers, but let you pass on after cursory glances at them. They each warn you to not cause any trouble. Ringeirr mutters his intention to take you through the Market Square itself, but Jorhan cuts him off.
”Sir…that’s impossible. Remember, the magical forest? The whole square is off-limits, and surrounded by guards…they have been hacking down trees every day but they regrow each night! Powerful…terrifying magic.” After Jorhan’s explanation, Ringeirr curses, adjusting to a new route.
The way is longer and takes you through some back roads and alleys, but eventually you circumnavigate the strange forest, and catch glimpses of it down the cross streets, many of which are filled with felled trees and stumps themselves. Soon after you enter a district called ‘The Floes’ an upper-crust district where the structures are much finer and bedecked than many others you have seen. The people that mill about here seem more at ease, lavishly dressed, and carry a haughty air of superiority. You are led to a communal bathhouse - a structure that looks nice, but altogether unassuming when compared to the extravagant structure just to the west of it - a greater bathhouse which boasts the name ‘The Water Palace.’
As you enter the smaller bathhouse, an attendant behind the counter moves to speak before Ringeirr looks up and gives him a knowing nod and continues on. He takes you down a hall to a set of stairs leading down to a cellar, which itself leads to a series of connected service tunnels beneath.
Ringeirr sighs deeply. ”Finally can be ourselves again. No jadwiga, mirror men, winter guards, witches, or anything else down here. The shrine to the Everbloom and home to the resistance is here - hidden right beneath the Jadwiga’s very noses! Crafty of us, isn’t it, ha! Come on.”
”I never knew all this was down here…” Jorhan says as you walk through the tunnels. ”Amazing.”
”There’s a lot about this city most people don’t know about,” Ringeirr replies. ”The sub-levels of these tunnels are forgotten about by most who did know of them - no place anyone of any importance would dare to go, and the bathhouse slaves are about the only ones that have need of them. The hot springs of the Floes warm the whole place down here, so it makes a good cozy spot for a bit of…well, resisting! Still, the specific level the shrine is in is hidden…but if you know what to look for, you can find it.”
A few minutes later, Ringeirr stops at an unassuming blank wall in the tunnel. A natural undulation gives a slight lip to part of it, and he points at a small depression or chip in the rock that looks suspiciously like a flower. With a toothy grin, Ringeirr grabs the protruding lip and pulls, dragging a section of stone about a foot or two away from the wall itself. He ushers you through the gap into a separate tunnel that descends gradually. As you filter into the new tunnel,. Ringeirr takes up the rear and pulls the wall shut again, and then awkwardly pushes past all of you to get in front again before lighting a torch. ”Almost there.”
Down the passage for several hundred feet you go until you start to hear voices echoing up from below. Finally, you come into a cavern, perhaps fifty feet across, where a small group of people are gathered. The most noticeable thing about the chamber is the ten foot stone carving of a rose that sits at the back of the chamber, the petals of rock painted red. At the base of the statue is a small pool of water from which steam rises, and the whole area does have a comfortable ambience. There are a few small tables set up with parchment, maps, and quills, and some iron spikes in the wall, a few of them holding cloaks and coats. Among all of those gathered, a tall Ulfen woman with long blond hair falling into several braids stands out the most. She commands respect and authority in her posture and tone, and wears heavy vestments of deep russet, azure, and a deep scarlet cloak. She even wears a fine breastplate and a wicked morningstar sits on the table nearest her. She stops mid-sentence in her talks with an associate as you all emerge into the shrine, but her eyes fall on Ringeirr.
”Lady Ayrdahl,” Ringeirr begins, without missing a beat, “I’ve got some folks here you’re surely going to want to meet. Everyone, this is Solveig Ayrdahl, leader of the Heralds of Summer’s Return.”
”Ringeirr.” Solveig’s tone is matriarchal, solid. ”I can only hope that this cavalier interruption brings good tidings, and that you have good reason in bringing a bevy of outsiders into our hidden shrine.”
”Of course, my lady! I told you, you’ll want to meet them…they can help us more than anyone else, by my life.” Ringeirr stands aside and presents you collectively. ”This lot means to bring down the Jadwiga, and we are going to need each others’ help.” The old smuggler looks back to your group and nods. ”Go on, tell her your story. I promise, you can trust every set of ears down here.”
”No biggie. Group am here to take Dancing Hut. Group am marked by Black Rider to overthrow bad Jadwiga, and stop eternal winter. Sounds like fun, if pretty Lady Ayedahl want come with group!”.
Geedra recounts most of the mission with a calm countenance that makes the impossibility of the task as no big deal. She then sits down, looking around for any food that might be available for a hungry Goblin.
Skäne watches the group as Geedra tells her tale. When she sits, the big warrior looks to Rosten and adds his own words to the introduction;
"Lady Ayrdahl. I am Skäne Ingvârssonn. Named Twice Mantled by the seer Krosh, I proudly carry the skold of Anja Hvítrhaddr's father - a great Ulfen hero."
He pats the heavy bulwark he bears - its centre embossed with a regal bear's head in a glittering mithral embellishment.
"As the little puka tells, we fight against the Jadwiga and eit Baba Yaga the Bone Legg'ed's hut."
Solveig looks a little confused and a little dumbfounded at your response, and the few other strangers gathered in the room look equally baffled. The leader blinks a few times and clears her throat.
"That is an...interesting bit of information," she says slowly. "Pardon my reaction, but...well, that's not something you hear every day." Her eyes drift over to Ringeirr.
"They were a bit more...eh...detailed when they told me," Ringeirr says with a shrug. "That's the heel of it, though...they are Baba Yaga's riders now. Normally something that'd strike dread in us, but they are on the search for...Baba Yaga herself. Turns out Elvanna's done something with her and plans to rule forever...so in the end, the Queen of Witches herself is the lesser of two evils for us, believe it or not!"
"And so...you need the Dancing Hut to take you to Baba Yaga," Solveig reasons. She starts to pace, obviously in thought. "This sounds like some sort of fairy tale, and under normal circumstances I'd be disinclined to believe it, but right now I'm not in the position to be a skeptic. Elvanna chained up the Hut and put it on display, so obviously she doesn't want it gone...and if that's something Elvanna doesn't want, then it something I do. I'll help you get to this Hut, but it will not be easy, and you'll have to help me first. Don't worry, helping us helps you in the long run." Solveig moves over to a nearby table, with a map of the city on it. She beckons you over.
"Time is of the essence. Let's skip the rest of the formalities and get straight to it, shall we?" she says. "The Hut is in the market square, but as I am sure you have seen, a strange forest has grown all around it, and regrows faster than the Winter Guard can hack it down. The Winter Guard is under the command of one of the Queen's own blood, Nazhena Vasillinova. As it stands now, the only way you are going to march through that forest is with an army, and that is not something any of us have. If you want to get to the Hut, something must be done to pull the city's forces away from that forest." As she speaks, she points at the market square on the map, a position northwest of your current location.
"Fortunately, I have a way we can do that. The Winter Guard is the new force in the city, raised by Elvanna herself. She ousted the Iron Guard, who has been the city's military for centuries and more. And by ousted, I mean purged. Fortunately, her purge was not complete, and several of the commanders of the Iron Guard survived and went into hiding. The remaining Iron Guard is still loyal to Baba Yaga and have sworn Elvanna and her associates as enemies. Though the Iron Guard and the Heralds could never consider each other friends, we have made contact and at least recognize one another as allies in this time. Truly, we have no love for Baba Yaga, her soldiers, or anything else, but as Ringeirr said...right now she is the lesser of two evils." Solveig moves her finger northeast on the map, away from the market square and to another spot.
"The Iron Guard is prepared to strike out against the Winter Guard, but here is the problem." She taps her finger on the map. "The Winter Guard boasts many trolls, winter wolves, and other creatures in its ranks...but the commander Logrivich is the most dangerous of all. He is a white dragon, and has claimed this clock tower as his lair. He is what keeps my fighters and the Iron Guard in the shadows for now, and he needs to be taken out for my plan to work. Most of the Heralds are not trained warriors - we are guerillas who take opportunities. But, if you truly are the new riders of Baba Yaga, then surely you would able to clear out this clock tower and rid us of Logrivich. Once the dragon is dealt with, the Iron Guard and my own people can launch a surprise attack throughout the city, which will undoubtedly draw the Winter Guard away from the forest and give you access to the Hut." She sighs deeply and looks at each of you in turn.
"To ask such a task, especially upon first meeting, is rather presumptuous of me, but right now it is the best plan we have. You do not have to accept, of course, but I believe it to be the only way for you to reach the Hut alive."
Geedra’s eyes grow wide. Her always confident visage broke just a bit. ”A dragon,” she laughed. Geedra am thought Geedra heard group say dragon! Not sure group can stop dragon. Dragon am supposed to be bad news...”
The news of a dragon seems to have the opposite effect on Skäne;
"A mighty Ormr..?"
The warrior flashes a wolfish grin toward Katie;
"Banamaðr of Logrivich does have a ring to it does it not Rosten? One for the sagas!"
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"The dragon must be brought down one way or the other, little one," Solveig says to Geedra. "If you truly bare the mantle of Baba Yaga's great riders, you are more fit to the challenge than anyone else. You will have the element of surprise on your side, surely, and as I said, it is our only chance to clear the magical forest of Winter Guards. Pay heed to your Ulfen comrades, little one. Not everyone can boast the title Dragonslayer." Solveig offers a reassuring smile to Geedra and a firm nod to Skäne.
She starts to move towards another passage leading out of this chamber, and looks over her shoulder. "I'm not unaccommodating. The Heralds do not ask favors empty-handed. If you're in, follow me." She heads down the passage.
Krosh's voice hums from behind. "The spirits of fire mark that one with their aura," he says. "She burns bright. There is no facade to her zeal." Apparently, this statement is enough of a justification for Krosh, and he starts to follow.
The passage leads past a few small rooms that look like simple bunks and tucked-away rest areas, but eventually leads to a larger room where you find Solveig has stopped. It looks to be a storage area of sorts - there are a few weapons and suits of armor, but calling it an armory would be quite the overstatement. Solveig lays out items on the table, and you notice a few others standing nearby - a male human in priestly vestments with long blonde hair, a human female in leather with short dark hair and a missing ear, and a male elf in the corner currently donning a shirt of sleek mithril chain.
"Healing potions, holy water, and resistance balms for your trouble. They should help you in scaling the tower's interior and defeating its inhabitants. As long as you are in Whitethrone, you have full access to the Heralds - our clerics can tend to your wounds and afflictions, our cooks can feed you, our beds can rest you, our attendants can sharpen your steel, restring your bows, repair your mail, and restitch your leathers. I know that I made it clear that this mission is urgent, but I don't intend to send you straight away, but our timeline will require action within the next day, or two at the latest. In the meantime you can rest and recover, and if you have any need to trade or further supply yourselves, my people can take you to merchants who are friendly to our cause, or for more potent wares, ones who are more...indifferent to the current regime. And finally, to show that I am not intending to send you on a suicide mission..." She looks across the room to the elf you noticed and whistles, motioning for him to join your conversation. "I will send one of my own with you on this task. May I introduce you to Mithas Aran. He knows the city well and is one of my most seasoned combatants, and should be a great boon to you in the trials ahead."
The elf steps forward, at the introduction. "Well I for one don't intend to kill myself for the cause, but it's a dragon, Solveig, hardly going to be a walk in the park."
He turns his attention the party and looks them over one at a time. "No offense folks, but you hardly look like a crack team of monster hunters. I'd ask you for references, but beggars can't be choosers."
"I'm not so confident as our fearless leader here, but if we are quick and lucky, we might just pull this off. Logrivich is arrogant and overconfident, which may give us an advantage. Then again, he's a dragon, so I guess he's got the right to be."
He rubs hand over his tired face and puts on a forced grin.
"Hey, you only live once, right? Anyways, take a breather if you need it and get kitted out. Waiting's not going to make this any easier."
Geedra cocks her eye at the elf...more specifically his ears, lingering on them a bit longer than was comfortable.
”Elf, tell Geedra more about dragon. What kind am dragon be? How big? Geedra am need know all before messing with dragon.”
Skäne approaches the the elf with a cold stare and a nod toward the shimmering chain shirt;
"Nice brynja alfur . Looks shiny and óreyndr . While we may look like vagabonds, but rest assured we can fight... Can you?"
At Geedra's question he flashes a hard smile;
"Little Puka only needs to know how we get close to the Ormr. Then I will bring dǫuðar-orð to this Logrivich..."
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To the little goblin Mithas says, "Logrivich is white as snow and fairly young for its kind. Still a dangerous foe, though."
The elf snorts at the human's bravado. "Oh I can fight, if I need to. I've been fighting since before your grandpapy was born. And, if we manage to pull this off, I'll make sure to tell your great-great-great-grandchildren about that time their ancestor slew a dragon."
He tugs at his mail coat, "Nice thing about elvish craftmanship, it's built to last. Holds up better than lesser works."
"Don't worry about their skills Mithas," Ringeirr chimes in from the entryway of the chamber. "I"ve seen this lot do battle, and they know what they're doing."
Also near the back of the room, Mithas notices the looming figure of Krosh. Mostly covered in furs, the only hints of his race are the ruddy green fingers protruding from his gloves, and the tip of a similarly colored jaw sticking down just past the impressive stag skull he wears as a helmet, both suggesting orcish lineage. Bedecked in fetishes, trinkets, talismans, and other baubles that dangle from the helm's antlers, around his neck, and woven into his clothing, he is a sight that is hard to miss. A silvery-white stoat perches on his right shoulder, and both orc and weasel seem to be giving Mithas a consistent stare.
Solveig also interjects. "I'm sure you will all prove yourselves to one another and all that, but let's keep our focus. I'll leave you some time to gather yourselves. Feel free to take rest in any open bunks you come across. Quartermaster Hevold can get you food from the larder if you are hungry. Let me know if you wish to foray out into the city for trade."
She gives a firm nod to you collectively and starts to leave the chamber. Ringeirr follows her out with Jorhan, and begins to introduce the newly freed slave to the priestess as they depart.
Scroll of Knock
Scroll of Protection From Arrows
Scroll of Greater Magic Weapon
Scroll of Water Breathing
Scroll of Displacement
Scroll of Banishment
Potion of Invisibility
Potion of Heroism
+1 Frost Greatsword
+1 Flaming Light Pick
+1 Spear
+1 Spiked Chain
+1 Light Fortification Studded Leather
+2 Breastplate
Ring of Protection +2
Ring of Force Shield
Ring of Wizardry I
Lesser Empower Metamagic Rod
Staff of Fire
Pearl of Power 4th Level
Rope of Climbing
Robe of Useful Items
Figurine of Wondrous Power (Bronze Griffon)
"If you say so Ringeirr, but just know that if I don't make it back, I'm going to haunt you all. Making me work with orcs and goblins..."
Mithas alternates his time between brooding and pacing, waiting for the team to get kitted out.