”Are we sure they are hostile? Perhaps we should send a delegation up to them to negotiate passage?” suggests Gunnar, still acutely feeling the loss of the flying carpet because of his compassion for the trapped feline.
”I can grant three of us the ability to fly for a ten minute span of time,” he adds, ”So we would need to get relatively close before we make our ascent.”
" I could carry Scram and maybe Arianna" Ingryd says as she looms seemingly unphazed by the weather as much as the others.She was used to the cold tempuratures. She also seemed ro plow theough alot of areas with sure feet and lingers to help those who need it.
”I can fly with my boots, maybe not at the same speed.” The prophet offers.
”We would need them to follow us and have some cover from cloud or darkness to close the distance with them.”
”I understand that just because it is a Dwarven flying ship doesn’t mean there are dwarves piloting it—or if they are there, that they are potential allies,” says Gunnar.
”Still, if they are allies we might get a lift—and if they are hostile, well, let’s try and take the ship in one piece and we may greatly enhance our mobility,” he reasons.
As everyone tries to catch a glimpse of the distant flying ship, Scramsax does his best to see if it matches that of the nefarious Inquisition of Khors. Fortunately, even from this great distance the halfling's eyes can see this vessel is nothing like that terrible flying monstrosity. First, it is much smaller. A quarter of the size, perhaps even a little less. Second, it doesn't appear to have the same bulbous look created by the caged fae that powered the other ship. Instead a constant flow of smoke and steam boil from a single stack near the center of the ship while churning paddlewheels of thick cloth provide steering and additional momentum.
It is Luthael and Arianna who notice the pair of flags flying at the top of the slightly sternward pitched mast. The first is the black and yellow checked shield of Bundhausen, one of the largest cantons of the Ironcrags. The red wheels and bull and griffon marking each quadrant of the shield, standing out in the gray sky. The second is a more familiar to most tavern goers of Midgard, and causes perhaps just a moment of concern. For it is the barrel and stein in front of crossed stalks of barley and wheat. The Ironcrags Brewers Guild. Of real concern is that the usual symbols are placed upon a field of unusual black rather than the much more common green.
Hearing the description of the ensign, I was relieved and eager to get on board "Ah, that's the Ironcrag Brewmeisters! They probably smelled their handiwork sprouting up in action and came to congratulate my new progressive, bean-inspired formulation."
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Arianna studies the ship for a moment and then goes deathly pale. If there is one thing that Dwarves take seriously, more seriously than metalwork, masonry, craftsmanship, and reaving, it's booze. The stories of Regulatory and Enforcement Arm of the Brewers Guild of the Ironcrag Cantons had reached even her clan wandering the Fey Roads and the Moonwood. The tamer ones told of enforcers spending a century tracking down those that had counterfeited a middle-ranked member's mark and sold barrels of cheap rotgut to a band of kobolds, an arbiter giving notice to a red dragon that the next time he even puffed the smallest of flames in the general direction of a field of barley near his domain that was used to grow one of the main ingredients of one particularly renowned brew, it would be the last time he breathed fire, and a group of enforcers marching into Hell itself to recover a stolen cask of Thor's Courage from an Infernal Prince's hoard and coming back with it and their souls intact. The mysterious geyser of fine dwarven brew in the house suddenly takes on a much more sinister air.
"S-s-scram. H-how d-d-did that ale geyser wind up in the house," she asks in a very small, very frightened voice. "Because I think those dwarves are going to want to know the answer to that really, really badly."
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"Brewmiesters you say" Ingryd says as she smiles.
" Maybe they have some mead. And some supplies" Ingryd says wondering if she can show them.
Burst woke me up right quick, like the hot slap at the end of a wet fist...there was danger in that blimpomatic.
"Heh, good point Burst...badly enough to pay a pile of dwarfy-cut gems for me secret, I'd wager. Suppose we flag them down, draw up a contract...tis a fine vehicle they have there." Course the pen were as likely to be the bladepoint hidden at my spine. I'd have to get lucky fast-talkin or kill them all...self defense, I mean.
"Um, Ingryd? These aren't the ones that brew the beer. These are the ones that enforce the Brewers Guild's rules, and they are very, very scary!" Arianna's voice cracks as she puts her hands on the bearkin's arm and gently turns her to face her. "We heard all sorts of stories about them in my clan while we were traveling, and no one, I mean no one wanted to mess with them! They fly a black flag with the Guild's crest on it. I've heard they chased those that violated their rules into the abyss and dragged them out. We aren't going to get away."
“As a craftsman from the Ironcrags myself, I can attest to the seriousness with which we dwarves approach our crafts,” says Gunnar.
”Say, does anyone know how that fountain of Dwarven Stout in the noble’s house was created? I would guess that is why they approach,” he says warily, worried about the answer he might receive and its implications.
I had told a thousand lies, there was no knowing if this would be a stick or miss. Couldn't really blame em, either way.
"One of my magic beans...still have a few for sale, if you're interested. Well, when I saw that creepy little nutling and its grabby paw sneakin' towards that doubly creepy crib, I threw a bean at it and beat tail. Before you judge, let me explain...long hours I've spent practicing a hidden artform of bean-tossing techniques, or as its called in the east Dou Wu Zhi-Dao (Way of the Dancing Bean). A perfect blend of surprise attacks and unexpected defenses, I've a second chevron on the novice rank, I do. Tis much more than a mere musical fruit."
Arianna almost believes Scram, but only almost.
"Scram, I've only known you for less than a month and even I know that you don't have the discipline to pursue any martial art," she sighs before something else falls into place.
"Wait, that beanstalk... THAT WAS YOU?!"
Raising a finger to shush the bard's blasting lips "The puzzles of the bean are myriad, child...and too easy it be to find oneself lost, adrift between fava and garbanzo. Fear not. Interested initiates need only make a small downpayment, followed by a reasonable monthly fee...such teachings can be yours, too."
"Are you certain that you weren't named Scamsax?" Arianna bats way Scram's hand as she narrows her eyes at her.
I tried to take it in stride, lighting my old pipe "Meh, was a fair ploy. There is somethin special about my select drystuffs, deny it if you want. If you aint buyin, them Ironcrags might. Truth be a hard sell though, after all...you're right. Maybe we hustle them with another story o' fancy and fiction, what do you say, got those creative juices flowin'?"
Taking a long pull "Cause theys gonna ask, and we's gonna answer...and chances are theres gonna be some hell to pay either way."
"Why lie? It's exhausting to keep everything straight," Arianna says. "It's why most fey don't bother and the rest consider it the idiot's way out. I say we tell them the truth, you used a dangerous magical item and flooded a now destroyed house with dwarven ale. In the meantime, let's find someplace that looks like they can land and maybe they'll be kind enough to take us all to Luthael's home."
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Well somehow she'd gone from terror of the skies to invitin' them in free. I kept my mouth shut, thinkin' I had done somethin' right. But aye them magic beans, it were a hard sell.
"The points are moot if the fliers do not find our trail to here. We're not backtracking with these villagers." Ever practical Luthael concludes. While he finally has the explanation for the beanstalk and beer fountain, the prophet is certain that Khors put the beans in the halfling's possession.
"If they do manage to follow us, maybe Scramsax can trade some of his beans for a ride north. Meanwhile, let's get our troop marching north."
" Scram you anygood at hiding tracks?" Ingryd says giggling a bit at Scramsax. The Halfling was an odd duck,but ever entertaining.
"The question is wethwr we try to flee or confront?" Ingryd smiles at confront, ready to smash some heads if need be to protect these people.
"Yeah, I know what not to leave behind...though I've a bit more experience on the streets than out here in the mud."
"What if they are using magic to track us? I mean, they'd almost have to be to know where the ale wound up," Arianna observes.
As the party debates the relative merits of running from or toward the dwarven ship, it disappears back into the snow heavy clouds. It's course taking it for sure to the ruined von Florien manor. Luthael eventually ends the debate coming to the same conclusion as the others. If the guild enforcers wanted to track the party down, they probably could given how quickly they've shown up. How, and perhaps more importantly, why they are snooping about the forlorn countryside is both easier and more difficult to answer as Scramsax spills the beans on how the ale geyser came to inhabit the chaos priestesses lair.
So the group sets out once again. This time a bit better equipped thanks to the brightly colored gear painted by halfling the previous night. More than a few finding it unfortunate that persimmon and chartreuse were the two colors with the fullest pots. Still even eye-twistingly ugly fur coats are welcome when the temperatures drop below freezing.
And so go another two days of cold weather traveling as the ragtag group of heroes and villagers make their way out of the foothills of the Cloudwall Mountains.
Midway through the third day, the trail crosses along a wide stretch of hillside now covered in a two feet of snow. Puffs of snow are kicked up by the blowing wind all along the smooth slope creating eerie twisting, dancers of snow.
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"...you know, maybe there is something to existentialism after all. Why not embrace the absurdity and unpredictability of this thing called life? If the meaning for living isn't predetermined, then I'm the one with the liberty to create my own purpose. Isn't that right, in the final analysis? Can't we better engage with existence by letting our guard down a little and taking things as they come?" I can't remember exactly what I said, but it was something real ironic like that.
Gunnar discusses their route as they travel, saying, "So, are we heading for Levoca with the rescued villagers, or do we head directly for the shadow path? I am torn, as there is a presence obscuring the ley lines I sense."
"One of your maps does note a couple of small settlements further to the south and west. Just within the borders of the Margreave Forest. Levoca Village is the closest, but still a good weeks hike away. A little longer with the recent snowfall. Further south by a few more days travel would be Wheldon Village."
"The thought of shortening the journey and perhaps enjoying the relative comforts of the usually snow free shadow realms sends you in search of a possible entry point to the magical roads. Letting your mind drift outward from camp, you do sense a distant ley line off to the southeast. A minor road. Farther on toward the south and east, you can just touch upon the much larger road known as Grandmother's Walk. While a good forty or fifty miles to the west is the winding path somewhat ominously named the Black Road on most ley line atlases and maps.
But the truly puzzling thing that grabs your attention is that all of the nearby roads, both large and small feel odd. It is nothing too obvious or harmful. More like something swimming deep in a pond causing ripples to rumple and otherwise smooth surface. Or the way a little too much of Ingryd's sweet meade can muddle your head or gut the next morning. Not a full blown hangover, but just a little fuzzy. That is how the shadow paths feel. Fuzzy and stirred by the storm or some other unknown force. Regardless of this unusual sense, even the closest road is still a two day slog through the snow and perhaps by the time you reach the small path, the anomaly will have passed."
"Do you want me to see if I can find anything," Arianna asks.
Luthael hums to himself psalms of Khors. It's clear that his spirits are not dampened by the hard effort and deprivation of the comforts of civilization along their travel. You almost think that he prefers to endure some level of discomfort to reinforce his faith.
"I think we should take the villagers on Shadow Road, only as a last resort. The sun does not shine there directly. Only through a filtering veil." The prophet offers.
”Fair enough,” says Gunnar, guiding their course towards Levoca. ”Villagers to safety first, shadow roads home next.”
Ingryd thankful for her natural fur coat bods as she listens to the others." Sounds like a plan."
She scans about for any recent tracks or signs of passing for meat
This suspicion proves itself true as you stop a wait for several long moments. Your heartbeat slows, the wind whistles in your ears ruffling your fur. Unconcerned Scramsax keeps moving along the trail uttering more...Scramsax talk. Your nostrils twitch. Something there. Snowy dust devils swirl and dance along the slope. The peculiar scent comes and goes.
By the third time you recognize the sweet scent of daisies and honeysuckle. The smell is unmistakable. But also impossible. For neither flower could possibly be alive and blooming under this blanket of snow. Then it pops into your head. Fae! They almost always smell of flowers and honey and sweet things. An ever dubious trait given so many are bearers of misery and heartbreak.
Gunner and Lutheal follow the halfling along the trail. Alerted to what you might be seeking, your eyes once again follow the rabbit tracks. Oddly, they seem to go further than before. Then you spot them. A pair of icy blue sprites stamping the snow with a big wooden rabbit foot. They giggle and laugh as they go, hidden within one of the twisting funnels of snow. With keen eyes you catch a glimpse of a half dozen more tucked behind a small wall of snow near the other end of the trail where it leaves the slope and reenters the forest. Quickly you snap your gaze back over to this side of the slope.
Sure enough no more than thirty feet away you find several others behind another short bank of snow. They appear to be armed with a full arsenal of thick, icy snowballs. Hidden just beyond the wall and behind a screen of trees you even catch a glimpse of a tall snowman, slightly listing to one side, its jagged, crooked grin and coal eyes staring coldly at Arianna as she quietly follows the others onto the open slope. Its green and red checked scarf flips softly in the blowing wind.
Again flipping back to the other bank, you spot a back in the shadows a second snowman. Similar to the first, but this one wearing an icy blue and yellow checkered scarf and stares back in the direction of the oncoming halfling, dwarf, human, and elf.
Pondering the value of the need for constant vigilance so often portrayed among the various adventuring societies and tavern groups encountered by Scramsax over the years, the halfling continues along the trail and out onto the open slope. His philosophical question of much more interest than the rather dull, consistent snow covered landscape.
She is followed closely by Gunnar, Luthael, Arianna and several of the villagers. Elf, dwarf, and prophet all discussing where to take the homeless villagers and the best way to get there.
Only Ingryd pauses for a moment at the edge of the wide open area where the wind blows and snow swirls. For several long moments the bearkin's wide head swivels back and forth, her nose working the wind. Suddenly her eyes widen, her mouth opens to shout a warning. But a heartbeat before she can utter any sound, a loud *SPLAT* echoes through the air as a thick snowball hits Arianna right in the side of the head.
"Ambush! There! Frosty sprites in their sugar icing citadel!"
Ingryd roars and rushes in. As she does she pulls her anger, sorrow and pain fo the forfront usinf it to fuel her rage.
Closing the gap on the Snow man she'll strike hard and fast.
”Snowball Fight! Take cover!” calls out Gunnar. He casts a spell and warmth surrounds him with reassuring flames. Striding forward towards the now-identified attackers, Gunnar scoops up an unnecessarily large snowball as he moves.
"Ow!" Arianna stumbles as the snowball nails the back of her head. She looks around and quickly realizes that they've walked into a trap.
she shouts as she readies her bow. There's a lot of them and the five of them have more to consider than just their lives. She doubts this will work with Ingryd already in a fury, but she has to give it a try, or at least give the refugees they are with time to take cover.
she calls out.
Luthael sees the snow ball-throwing fey behind their wall and hears Arianna say that there is another troop on their other side. He doesn't know if her offer will work, so he prepares to protect the villagers.
He looks for the opposite wall wondering if a Wall of Fire along one of those snow walls would be better than ringing the villagers.
Villagers shout and scramble for cover as Scramsax, Gunnar and Arianna all bellow warnings. The fear of fae creatures giving even more energy to the villager's efforts, for everyone knows the dangers of crossing such beings.
Being the closest and having the advantage of actually spotting the hidden sprites and their forts of snow and ice, Ingryd charges. No stranger to such slippery conditions, the bearkin races up the slope. Having concluded that the snowman decked out in red and green was no mere wintertime sculpture, she sends her flaming maul whistling toward the thing's midsection. Her assumption is proven correct as the snowman suddenly slips aside from the bearkin's first blow in a blur of frosty footwork. Growling with rage, the bearkin quickly adjusts her aim and this time snow hisses, melts, and splatters when the flaming hammer connects with a satisfying *thwump* into the icy mass.
"Ooof!" Is the clever demonic response. Before it can conjure a more suitably villainous reply, Arianna's voice rings out across the snow covered slope.
For a moment all comes to a quick standstill. Ingryd's flaming hammer whips wildly in the wind. A fiery partner to Gunnar's now crackling shield of fire and the growing holy fire coursing through Luthael's fingers ready to form a wall or other heat churning counter to the snow and ice. Scramsax churns through the snow while a dozen small arms momentarily relax, icy cold ammunition held in check.
"Passage is not for sale." Shouts a tiny voice from the nearest fort.
"None may pass." Shouts another.
"The way is closed." Relays a third.
"No getting in, no getting out." Says a fourth.
"By order of She Who Must Be Obeyed!" All say in unison.
Completely ignoring the temporary armistice, the demonic snowman lunges forward, its mouth suddenly opening wide to reveal a maw filled with blunt teeth and dripping with wretched green saliva that hisses and steam with each plip-plop drop. The snow terror's mouth opens wide, wide, wider and snatches up the growling bearkin. Acid hisses and burns as the wide coal black teeth crunch. In a moment, the demonic snowman threatens to gulp down the surprised bearkin in one great bite.
"Uh oh!" Says the first frosty sprite flipping a snowball from one hand to another.
"Too late now." Nods a second.
"That will surely leave a mark." Tsks a third.
"Another to add to our collection." Claps a fourth, her tiny eyes looking to the dwarf and halfling with a collectors fanatical greed.
Luthael tries to locate the other position spotted by the others, but the sight of Ingryd suddenly engulfed by the snowman is just too much of a distraction and the prophet is unable to make out the hidden fort on the opposite side of the snowy hillside.
"No truce? This is on you! By the holy fire of Khors, burn!" Luthael calls out the faeries that he can see. With a blessing, he creates a Wall of Fire on the other side of the snow wall, such that the hot side is between the two walls, snow and fire, to cook the fairies seeking cover and melt their cover.
"Adrianna, where are the other fairies?" He retreats back toward the forest corralling the villagers in front of him. "Go! Go! Back to the forest."
Arianna points towards the other wall 150 feet away before letting fly two arrows at the snowman trying to eat Ingryd.
"Over there! They have another one of those snowmen," she warns.
As the arrows strike home, she moves to get some cover. Hopefully, these fey will focus on her and the others instead of attacking the villagers.
"Ingryd! Show that thing why snowmen are no match for a bear's fury!" Arianna's words ring out with a spark of power that twists the strands of fate.
Figured I'd sprinkle a little somethin extra onto me blade, them fae weren't playin' fair.
Gunnar rushes the snowman that just swallowed Ingryd, his burning form reaching toward the disappearing bearkin’s form.
If he can reach some portion of her body through the grossly distended mouth, he casts Thunder Step and gets them both out of there.
If she has complete cover inside the snowman, he instead positions himself to send a lightning bolt down the line of fey behind the wall, starting with the snowman who just bit off more than he can chew!
and we both teleport away.
Ingryd simply disappears between the oddly elongated and overly widened jaws of the demonic snowman. Gunnar races to try and make a last minute grab for Ingryd, but the distance is too far. Unable to reach the bearkin barbarian, the dwarf finishes scaling the snow wall ready to unleash the power of Thor upon the icy pixies. Stepping atop the wide crenellation just moments ahead of Scramsax, both dwarf and halfling find themselves overlooking a wide dugout with fae snow-throwers to either side. But what truly grabs their attention is the trio near the back half of the dugout. Two hold a massive snowball, easily the size of either dwarf or halfling, cradled at the end of a thick, overstretched rubber band. The mass quivers in anticipation of release as the third pixie, sporting a jaunty tricorn hat complete with hummingbird feather, points at the halfling.
"FIRE!" Hollers the tiny battery commander.
TWANG!!
The snap of the band is heard all across the battlefield along with the whistle of the high velocity snowboulder. It slams directly into Scramsax's midsection expelling air from her lungs and her body from the top of the wall as she goes flying backward several feet and landing with a soft *whump* into several feet of deep snow.
With a curse Gunnar unleashes a barrage of lightning upon the chilly fae. Unfortunately, the little folk are clever and constantly on the move making it hard to line up a shot on any single group at one time. And so instead the wizard elects to simply teach the now laughing battery commander a lesson. His eyes crackle and blaze as they turn upon the foul fae and his feathered hat. Lightning streaks forth.
"Eeep!" Squeaks the little hooligan as he dives aside just barely quick enough to avoid the worst of the electrical blast, although his hat now smolders atop his slightly charred head and a side of his blue face is tinted red with the glow of electrical burns.
Moments later a wall of fire appears midway between the two forts, cutting off any supporting fire from the opposite band of bandits. Snow steams and melts in rapid quantities. A small rivulet of water trickles from beneath the wall along the slope. The trickle quickly becomes a stream that starts to dig away at even more of the snow in the center of the hillside.
Her ploy to negotiate foiled by a bears rage and previous bargains, Arianna quickly unleashes a nasty barrage of arrows upon the Ingryd swallowing snowman. The first shaft sinks strikes the third tier mass causing some harm, but little effect. The second hits higher, plucking a wooden stick arm right off the middle section and sending it spinning somewhere into the trees beyond. The one-armed bandit howls its demonic fury at its unlimbing and turns its eldritch gaze upon the bow wielding elf. Sliding down slope like some bizarre upright snake slithering back and forth, the leering snowterror moves toward Arianna.
Their walls quickly under direct assault, the remaining pixies concentrate their fire on the lone hero currently maintaining a foothold upon their fort. Snowballs splat and hiss and splork on, around, over, and under the wizard. Finally one sharp-eyed fae gets sneaks a shot around the burning shield and watches a his snowball hits with a satisfying *thump* upon Gunnar's brow.
"Reload!" Shouts the smoldering commander, as the other two pixies hurry to grab the thick band and start stretching it back again.
Snowterror: 74/127
Pixie Commander: 34/45
Pixie 1: 25/25
Pixie 2: 25/25
Pixie 3: 25/25
Pixie 4: 25/25
Pixie 5: 25/25
Pixie 6: 25/25
Pixie 7: 25/25
Pixie 8: 25/25
The disorienting feeling of her mistress being plunked like a sassy whore halfway across the battlefield really did a number on Dekatron's concentration as she charged to attack the fey. The black cat bounced mysteriously from white hill into white hill, the tactical change of position appearing to do nothing at all of any help to anyone.
Ingryd feeling herself swallowed dosent panic. Rage fueled her and her hammer was alight. She opened her mouth and began to recklessly bite at the very walls encasinf her.
Arianna keeps moving away from the snowman as it chases her down.