Throwing up a shield just in time, Gunnar is able to deflect the last of the missiles (AC 26 with shield).
Disappointed the fey were not in a nice line right behind the fort wall, Gunnar steps forward adjacent to the snowman who just ate Ingryd as he pulls out a scroll. Sheeting fire spreads in a 15 foot cone, washing over the snowman and any nearby fae!
fire.
With his Wall of Fire engulfing the pixie-manned snow wall and blocking like of sight to the snowman swallowing Ingryd. Luthael flies above the snow toward Gunnar to get behind the Wall of Fire landing on the snow to avoid any difficult terrain.
"Blessed Khors, incinerate this snowterror!" Luthael call out causing a forty foot pillar of fire to engulf the snowterror.
So, this is how I understand the battlefield from right to left is top to bottom:
Ingryd-swallowed Snowterror
Gunnar, Scramsax, Arianna, Luthael
opaque Wall of Fire
burn-side with 8 Pixies and Commander
clearing
another snow wall
more pixies
another snowterror
From inside the demonic snowman, Ingryd's jaws snap widely at anything they can find to snap at. At first she manages to bite down on...something...that feels and tastes...fleshy. Which is both satisfying and disgusting to even the iron stomached bearkin. Perhaps the overly salty and foul taste of the snow terror's innards is what causes her momentary bout of madness. Or maybe she just needs to not stick her tongue out when fighting. Regardless of the actual cause, her jaws slam down on her own pink tongue causing a mighty roar of pain and self directed cursing as she can already feel her tongue swelling. The digestive acid that continues to burn and eat at her flesh is also quite an irritation.
Meanwhile on the outside...
Scramsax crawls out of her halfling shaped snow cave and rejoins Gunnar and Dekatron atop the rapidly melting snow wall. The sudden feel of slush beneath his paws completely disrupts the big cat's concentration as it pounces upon the nearest snowball tossing fae. Landing head first into a small pile of snow there is an embarrassing moment when only the big cat's hind legs and twitching tail can be seen. Seconds latter he erupts out of the snow with a yowl of irritated frustration, eyes gleaming for a tasty fae morsel to sink his teeth into.
The cat's predicament and rage momentarily overwhelm Scramsax and her initial dagger thrust at the bobbing and weaving fae misses wildly. But there are some instincts and natural abilities that are simply unfazed by outside influences. They simply happen. Such is the thief's ability to acquire random things from random folk. And so the rule is proven once again, when poison is left dripping into the melting snow, Scramsax's other hand comes away with a brace of tiny knives. Useful as toothpicks or a well balanced set of darts.
On the halflings opposite side, Gunnar mutters a few arcane syllables and unleashes more fire upon the ice loving fae and their rapidly diminishing snow fort. Several of the little scoundrels are caught in the flames causing them to duck and dive aside to extinguish their burning clothes and hair.
From a bit further back Arianna continue to punch arrow shaped holes into the snow terror. Two more steel tipped shafts plunge into the creature sending chunks of snow flying away.
The snowman somehow senses a disturbance in the aether just as Luthael finishes uttering the final word of his holy prayer. Instinct and self preservation cause the snowman to slither aside at just the right moment avoiding the worst of the fire and holy damage. Even so, much of its right side instantly melts away leaving it with a disturbingly asymmetrical look. Faced with fire from the sky and in front, the creature begins a rapid retreat toward the trees, its roughly bearkin shaped belly rolling along on the snowy surface.
The wall of flames quickly incinerate two of the pixies. Nothing but delicate gray ash remains to drift through the winter air. The others all find themselves slipping and sliding to avoid the flames, then rolling in the melting snow to put them out. All begin to look on with more than a little panic a several wide cracks suddenly burst into life along the entire length of snow wall, up slope and down. The entire snow covered hillside suddenly lurches as the stream of water pouring from beneath the wall of fire becomes more of a raging waterfall. More snowmelt pours away as the heat from Gunnar's spell carves a large chunk from that section of the dwindling wall. Pixies scatter every direction. A few even break away from the farther wall, worried about the stability of their own section of the slope.
Snowterror: 62/127
Pixie Commander: 34/45
Pixie 1: 25/25
Pixie 2: 25/25
Pixie 3: 7/25
Pixie 4: 7/25
Pixie 5: 0/25
Pixie 6: 0/25
Pixie 7: 13/25
Pixie 8: 13/25
Arianna mutters an elvish curse she'd overheard from her father once as she sees the snowterror trying to escape with Ingryd.
"Save some of that for the other side, fellas! These aren't the only ones we need to worry with," she calls out before moving as swiftly as she can to give herself a clear shot at the snowterror and avoid the apparently soon-to-be-collapsing snowy hillside.
"Back in the trees, the hillside's going to be coming this way," she calls back to the villages as she nocks another arrow.
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Like feline like con, Scram began flapping around oddly in the snow. Unfortunately there was no thesaurus in the ice citadel's library to find a better description, but 'prancing' came to mind.
"The holy fire is melting the snow! Back to the forest!" The prophet echoes the elf. He jumps toward the Snow Terror going around or over his wall of fire with his winged boots.
Luthael maintains the wall of fire and drops a fireball on the commander's position with his two other pixies.
With reckless abandon Ingryd continues chomping, chewing and gnashing on the vile creature. In her mind its "Eat or Be Eaten"
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Inside the snow terror, Ingryd snaps her jaws once again. This time her teeth sink into something solid. With a gurgled growl the bearkin tugs, rips, shakes, and otherwise shreds whatever bit of demonic innards that tastes curiously like chicken. Suddenly realizing it may have tried to digest the undigestable, the snowman coughs once, twice, and finally heaves a massive third time spewwing forth a slime soaked bearkin barbarian still smoldering from her swim in acidic juices.
Moments later lightning and fire converge upon the demon vaporizing it in an instant. All that is left behind is the jaunty top hat and scarf which go flying off into the wind.
The remainder of the pixies find themselves caught in the furious flood that is now washing down the slope. Their finely crafted snow fort now nothing more than a raging cascade of water thanks to the insta-summer provided by Luthael and Gunnar. Their screams echo back as they tumble and slide into the depths of the valley.
Across the slope, the remaining snow terror and pixies flee the suddenly catastrophe. The old witch's wrath could be weathered. Utter destruction in fire and avalanche were another matter entirely. And so they run. And really none too soon. For moments later, a great sheet of snow and ice breaks loose from the upper portion of the hillside and comes rumbling down. The avalanche sweeps along the entire length of the slope gathering anything and everything in its path into its tumbling mass as it careens downward to the bottom of the valley.
Fortunately, thanks to Arianna's warning and urging, all of the villagers manage to make it safely back to more stable ground. Only Scramsax, Gunnar, and Luthael risk getting caught up in the raging avalanche.
Reacting a heartbeat too slowly, Gunnar is tumbled down the slope with the avalanche. His fiery protection keeps him warm, and his Arcane Ward absorbs the crushing and bludgeoning damage, but he rapidly finds himself entombed in a snowy tomb already melting from its contact with his Fire Shield.
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After that avalanche I looked and looked, but the leopard I had pulled from the Outlands wasn't to be found...I could feel it, the connection was gone. I liked to think she was back beyond the reach of mortal philosophy, plucking at the strings of the underworld with grabby paws.
Watching the black hat flip in the icy wind "Musta been some magic in that old silk hat..."
But soon enough the glimmer of precious metals caught my eye, though I would later wish it hadn't...
Arianna rushes over to where Ingryd is and checks to see if she's alright.
"Ingryd! Here! Let me clean you up," the young elf says as she casts a spell.
After uncermoniously vomited up, the bearkin sits up and clears the gunk from her eyes nose and mouth. While doing so she notes the glint and when her face is clear stands up and walks over. When she can she uses snow to clean herself.
"Found something!" she calls out, and then turns to see the impending potential doom of her friends.
.
Ingryd looks at Arianna and huffs as she blinks." I mean this isnt the first time Ive been thrown up on. Doubt itll be my last" Ingryd laughs. She was still alive.
"I agree, but that doesn't mean you have to walk around covered in vomit," Arianna says as she finishes up and follows along as she tries to mend Ingryd's wounds.
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The upside-down pennant of the Gray Ladies fluttered in Carnadine's hand as he pushed Raseri from one of the bridges that spanned the gaps between worlds. She looked at him, shocked at his betrayal and even more shocked that he had stolen the mark of the Gray Ladies from her. He smirked at her, that damned smile of his that he saved for those times he found her actions or reactions amusing and the one she always hated.
"Holmfirth has no further need of you, nor do I," he explains as she falls into oblivion. Lightning arcs around her as she snarls and looses a bolt at the smug Knight Incorporeal. The blast strikes the bridge, but misses Carnadine. Down, down, down she falls into the ever deepening blackness.
She lands hard on the stone floor. She gasps for the breath that had been knocked from her lungs. How long had she fallen? She could not tell, nor could she fathom why she still lived. She had thought her soul, her being, had been set adrift for all eternity, until Gotterdammerung and the end of all things when Jormungand would rise and swallow the seas and the land. She couldn't move. She couldn't breath. Her heart thundered in her chest even as her ears rang. Louder and louder they rang until she thought her skull would shatter.
Then she sucked in a breath. The air burned her lungs and she could feel her ribs complaining as they flexed and expanded to make room. She didn't know how long she laid there, coughing and gasping for air. As her breathing slowed and her heartbeat relaxed she heard someone speak.
"Ah, you're alive, Lady of Storms," a cheery woman's voice said.
Raseri sat up and looked up at Mnemosyne. Confusion crossed her face. This wasn't Sif, of that she was certain, nor was it Volund, Valeresh, Perun, or Thor.
"Who are you," she asked, her voice creaking from disuse and dehydration. How long had she fallen?
"I am Mnemosyne, the goddess that had sent Scramsax to do something for me in a place beyond even the void of Ginnungagap. Something that is now left undone thanks to you and your compatriot," the other woman answered, and all of the color drained from Raseri's face.
"Oh, I'm not about to smite you. That would be a waste of talent and effort. Instead, I would like to propose a deal."
Well, That was a relief.
"A deal," Raseri asks after she's certain that she isn't about to break down sobbing or laughing like a madwoman. The goddess nods. "What sort of deal?"
"Since you almost killed one of my very few followers, I decided to look into your past. I must say, you're made of sterner stuff than most. You died at least fifty times and managed to keep most of your sanity. That is an impressive feat. Anyway, I figured out why you decided to track down the party I had assembled for this task. You want to reclaim the weapons and other artefacts that were stolen from you, and you want to return Hieður to its original state, don't you," Mnemosyne asked.
"I do," Raseri answered, knowing better than to try lying or obfuscating the truth to a goddess' face.
"Well, my little thief has gotten his hands on some of them before. If you apologize to her and aid her in her quests, I am sure that she'll be willing to help you find what you are looking for. How does that sound?" Mnemosyne snaps her fingers and a suit of plate and a cloak appear on the floor before Raseri. "I'll even return these to you."
Raseri stands up and walks over to the armor and holds up the breastplate with trembling hands.
"This is a generous offer, Goddess of Knowledge and Memory," Raseri says. "Forgive me if I am wary of what else may be lurking among the treasure you offer."
"Well, I am still a little miffed about what you did," Mnemosyne says. "I am willing to forgive you for that if you help my follower."
"Does he-- I mean, she follow a noble course," Raseri asks. "I have had my fill of shadowy dealings and questionable motives from working with the Gray Ladies."
"She and her companions are," Mnemosyne assures her.
"I think I would like to help, then." Raseri smiles as she looks down at her handiwork. Finally, she'd found her armor and perhaps something more rewarding than running errands for old, monstrous courtiers and courtesans.
"Excellent! Now hold still," the goddess tells Raseri before snapping her fingers again. Raseri blinks and finds herself standing before Mnemosyne with her armor donned and the cloak fastened around her neck. "I am happy that you accepted, but I still need to punish you for your little indiscretion in unknowingly thwarting my schemes. I do hope you'll not take this too personally," she says before gently tapping the top of Raseri's head with her fingers. Raseri feels dizzy as everything gets bigger, or seems to, as she shrinks from over six feet tall to less than five feet tall.
"Oh, and just a reminder, Fate is a fickle b~@@*. Good luck," Mnemosyne says as she turns Raseri around and pushes her through a glowing portal. The Thorsdottir stumbles through into snow. She blinks away the glare and focusses on the group of icy fae fluttering before her.
"She is one, truly," Raseri mutters in agreement just before she's encased in ice.
"Woot! Luthael celebrates the holy vaporization of the demon, which is cut short when the snow beneath his feet disappears down the slope. The lesson of humility taught to the prophet by his divine patron, again.
Tumbling down the slope a$$ over teakettle, he finally comes down next to a body. He moans in pain and stands awkwardly. "Alright. Walls of fire don't mix with snow. Lesson learned."
"Uh? Who's this?" The Elfmarked examines the body looking signs of vitality. If just unconscious, he would cure her wounds.
Buried in snow even as it melts around him, Gunnar looks for anyone else who might have likewise been rolled by the avalanche. If he can melt their way out, he will—otherwise he will employ teleportation magic (Misty Step if just him, Thunder Step if there are two of them).
Seeing that Gunnar and Luthael have been buried Arianna tugs on Ingryd's arm and pulls her towards their two companions so they could help dig them out.
The first thing Raseri becomes aware of as she comes to is the burning pain all over her body and in her lungs. She is cold, colder than she's ever felt before. Even the memories of the cold her namesake had felt when she ran from the village she'd burned centuries ago couldn't compare to the biting chill she feels now. She can hear others talking, moving, and working their way free of the snow. She tries to move, but the ice holding her is as immovable as stone, or at least it feels that way to cold-numbed digits and limbs.
She blinks and the ice around her head begins to crack. Whatever spell had been cast over her is weakening, and she strains against it. She's survived this long, and she refuses to die cold and shivering from some tricksy sprite's prank. Ice clinks and crackles as she slowly forces her limbs to move. Bit by bit, shard by shard, the ice falls away. Her limbs then her fingers move as she breaks free. Then, all at once, she can move again, she can see, and she can breath. Her lungs burn as she takes in a great gulp of air, but even that pain is not enough to dull the joy at just being able to move again.
After a few moments, she pulls herself free of the snow she'd been buried under and coughs as she catches her breath.
"C-c-c-c-could-d y-y-y-you s-s-s-spare s-s-some w-warmth," she asks as she looks at the others. "I-I-I f-f-f-f-f-f-fear it's-s-s-s d-dreadf-f-f-fully c-c-c-c-c-cold-d-d." Even though she smiles, her lips are blue and even for a northerner her skin is deathly pale.
Across her back is a sword that Scramsax knows all too well, Heiður, and embedded in it's blade is another familiar object, Ilarya's mindstone. Strangely, the woman carrying it, while she certainly looks a lot like the one that had sliced off the top of his skull and somehow turned him into a halfling woman, she's a good deal shorter. Still, how many silver-haired northerners has the halfling met in his, now her, many travels.
Ingryd stands and follows as Arianna pulls her to the rest of the group. Ingryds non leather gear still burning as she plods unphased by the cold. Her hammer blazing to life as she looks at Scram and the others. " I need a drink to wash away snow monster out of my mouth!"
She points to the blood stained mouth,nexk and chest as she continues towards the group. She then looks at the silver haired woman and raises a brow.
" Whoses this?"
I snatched out at the Prophet's healy fingers before they could deliver the god-sauce. "Bad news, Six. There's the one that sliced my skull wild...hold her down." drawing my knife to return the favor.
Arianna is about to answer that she has no idea when Scram draws her knife with fell intent. She readies her bow and nocks an arrow before turning to the silver-haired woman.
"I would suggest surrendering. We might be willing to talk our friend out of taking your scalp."
Ingryd moves and gets in position to grab Scram. " I may look foerce but My pal here will cut you if you arent careful"
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Gunnar, Luthael, and Dekatron go tumbling down the slope. The first two manage to survive the fall and subsequent burial without too much trouble. Even before the echoes of the avalanche fade away into the hills more fire magic flares to life and snow bursts outward on a wave of steam and mist.
For Dekatron, the experience of dying in an avalanche leaves a lasting scar as the celestial is whisked back to his home realm. The entire incident in the snow was simply embarrassing. First, that terrible leap into nothing but a pile of snow. Then slipping on the ice like some just out of the womb kitten. Confidence shaken, the big cat decided to spend the next several decades curled up in his favorite corner where the sun always beamed its warmth and completely forget about adventures and adventurers. Especially buxom, greedy halflings.
Meanwhile, back in Midgard, as one being does his best to forget, two others appear to remember each other all too well. Scramsax holds a knife on the newly discovered, semi-thawed prisoner of the fae. Questions are asked. Bearkin fur is cleaned. So far few are willing to intervene in whatever little drama seems destined to play out between halfing and frozen priestess of Thor.
Raseri looks around from the halfling, the one she recognizes as the thief that had rushed at her with equal parts foolishness and bravery when she'd reclaimed Heiður from the goblin that had managed to get his hands on it, to the bearkin that was easily more than half again her new height, to the elf readying her bow, to the dwarf and the elfmarked priest that had just been pulled from the snow. She sees the villagers off in the distance, but they hardly changed the equation before her. She's outnumbered and definitely outmatched with her cold numbed limbs. The smile is gone as she realizes that her options appear to be surrender, run, or try and talk her way out of her predicament. Fighting is definitely not an option in her current state.
Mnemosyne did say they were on a noble course. Hopefully I will be forgiven for taking the swiftest route to avoid a needless sword song.
Slowly she raises her hands, which tremble visibly from her shivering.
"I-I-I-I m-m-m-mean y-y-y-you n-n-no h-h-harm-m-m-m-m. P-p-p-p-please, w-w-w-wint-t-ter's t-t-t-t-touch s-s-s-s-s-steals m-m-m-m-my f-f-f-f-f-fire." She hesitates, wondering if that will be enough. It takes all of her strength of limb and will to keep from curling up in a vain effort to keep warm.
No, it is not enough. They trust me no more than they would a bandit or an unseelie fae.
"I-I-I-I s-s-s-surrend-der. T-t-t-t-t-too c-c-c-c-c-cold-d-d," she says through chattering teeth. She looks far more like a desperate and frozen half-to-death young woman than someone who could or would callously lop off the top of anyone's skull.
After being pulled from the burial in snow, the prophet trudges over to the chattering prisoner. Hearing her surrender, he heals her, "The blessing of the Lord of the Sun Khors warms you." There's a glow about this clean-shaven elfmarked who's pointed ears peak out from wildly blonde hair. His leather traveling gear is snow-stained and covers breastplate armor. He proudly displays his holy service to Khors with a radiant sun on his shield and heavy pectoral amulet.
"Scramsax? Do you know her? What's her story?" Luthael asks stepping away in case he cannot stop the halfling from murdering her.
Gunnar, still glowing with warming flames, rises slowly out of the melting snow pack around him. He moves over to the others and observes, curious as to who this person might be.
Arianna relaxes somewhat when the strange woman surrenders.
"Shouldn't we get a fire going? The poor girl looks like she's about to freeze to death," the bards observes.
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"She's the one capped me crown...you know, excised me occiput..er...divorced me pate." Crickets of the plains used the interceding silence to communicate with each other, before I finally found the words "Sliced my head in half! That little slashy swordslice which cast this gender bending jinx on me, what with her hexy Thor talisman and thrice enchanted Tools of the North."
"Behold!" Pointing to the work of art known only as Heiður on the elfmarked's back. "That's the very steel that parted my brains, still stained with the gore of me former self. That edge which cast me soul once and for all into the damned abyss, where only the grace of Mnemosyne could pluck a poor ghost free. The thrust that snatched Illarya's sapphire and stole me spooky psi-powers away, delivered by the arm of this cold turkey! 'Ware, Six, 'ware. Don't be fooled by those pale, chilly bones! They hold the strength of a thousand lifetimes, and the ire of a blinding lightning storm. I have seen with my own eyes she is in league with the Ghost Knights of Morgau, best friends forever with the bloody witches that are shoving eels and ticks into everyone's gastrointestinal systems everyday...s-she...she went to a ghoul's birthday party once..."
Well about that time I was gettin' pretty worked up, words were comin' out faster than my little girl mouth could enunciate, and probably half-truths or zero-truths were easier than fulls. ...blathering mumblecrusts!" slobbering hot spittle steaming on the snow. My muscles tensed in anticipation of a precise knick across the frigid apple dangling at the Thorsdottir's gullet.
But then I caught a glimpse of Gunnar, really thinking it over like...reminding me of practicalities and such. Maybe there was a deal to made here, in the end.
I heard the pity in Burst's voice, thinking only of reprieve from the cold and ice. Maybe mercy was no less than I would want, cornered in the cold.
The anticipation, bordering fear, from my beloved Prophet...who knew-before-I what was about to pass here. Maybe I had at last learned the shame-sting of pure murder.
And of course I held Griz in mind, who knew more about the tides of revenge than anybody. Maybe hard street justice meant nothing at all out here and away from the eyes of the mob.
Morrin's Misery vanished behind my back, along with some part of my past.
"...eh, well, you heard her. A surrender. First of terms? Peacebond the weapon that took my life away, eh?"
"...buxom...'
Raseri listens to the tirade, growing more and more despondent with each accusation, true or not. She has done a number of things she's ashamed of since meeting Carnadine and her double's joining the Gray Maidens, and while she's never call Carnadine a friend, she has worked with him several times to repay favors owed and pay for favors needed. Despite the warmth of Khors radiating off his priest, the northlander only feels the chilling bite of ice.
"T-t-t-take th-th-them," she tells the halfling she'd wronged, even though the thought of losing Hugrekki and Heiður again pains her more than she will ever admit. "Th-th-th-the c-c-cold s-s-steals the s-s-strength f-f-from my f-fingers. I-I c-c-c-c-cannot c-c-coax th-th-th-the woo-woolen ss-s-s-s-s-serpent into a kn-knot."
"We will see the actions as we journey. Should they prove themsleves to be a villian then By all means Scram, I shall let you have your revenge" Ingryd says leaning down to whispher to the Halfling rogue.
Grabbin' the popsicle's weapons was a no-brainer, but didn't take a flash at handlin'em to see they were more like works of art than weapons of war. I had to take a closer look before binding them up and storing them away...especially the one that held Illarya's mindgem.
That nexus had been my intellect fortress...an island in an ocean of univeral thought, and had linked the dryad and me together in weird, beautiful ways. I thought it was just a mental construct, a way my mind had distilled everything precious about Illarya into a single impossibly faceted gemstone. Yet here it was in reality now, for all to see, and somehow embedded in the cold edge of this slayer's...no, this artisan's brush.
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Raseri doesn't resist being disarmed, though there's a flash of pain on her face as Scramsax pulls the blades from their scabbards. While she may have given them up willingly, its clear that allowing herself to be parted from her blades was not an easy decision for her to make. It's also clear that the armor she wears bears the same distinctive engravings and inlay as the two blades the halfling now holds.
The larger of the two, Heiður, is a masterfully forged greatsword. Star metal that shimmers with the colors of the northern auroras and glitters like a star-struck sky is inlaid and expertly woven through the engravings that decorate the fullers, quillons, crosspiece, and pommel of the sword. Intricate, geometric knotwork surrounds the runes engraved into the blade and frames a dragon coiling around a round shield at the center of both sides the crosspiece. However, there is something strange. For all the care and skill put into crafting of this blade, the sapphire, Illarya's sapphire, is surrounded by a mess of swirling lines, as if it were a stone causing ripples in the glassy surface of an otherwise still pool. It sits between the quillons above the ricasso. Despite Scram's claims to the contrary, the sword is remarkably clean without a speck of blood or even the slightest of nicks on the edge of the blade.
The smaller blade, Hugrekki, is a seax that measures two feet in length. The entire blade is of star metal that again shimmers like a northern aurora. The hilt is made of bone that has been polished to a mirror-like shine. Knotwork engravings decorate the flats of the blade and frame the runes craved into the metal. The same design of a dragon coiling around a round shield that is on the crosspiece of the greatsword is engraved into the butt of the pommel on this one. No strange gems adorn this blade. As much as it is a work of art, it was clearly made to be a tool that is used, though given how well it has been maintained it is difficult to tell its been used at all.
Raseri lowers her arms and hugs herself in a vain effort to warm up. The fae's spell has sapped too much from her, however, and she can feel her eyelids growing heavier.
"T-t-t-too c-c-c-c-cold," she says through chattering teeth. "I-i-i-it's-s-s-s-s t-t-t-too c-c-cold."
Arianna puts her bow away and calls back to villagers.
"Get a fire going!"
She moves up and helps the recently frozen woman to her feet. She can feel the chilled armor through even her own layers and hopes it's not some ongoing curse causing the cold.
"Those are too big for you Scram. I can carry them and you. That way you can keep an eye on them and her a lot easier." Ingryd offers seeing her diminutive friend serious about this situation.
" We can get warmed up enjoy the chilled weather. Though it would be better with Fresh Salmon and hard cider..." she let herself dift off thinking back to her Honey moon and then giggled.
"Sorry I just thought back to my honey moon. Still a fire will warm your bones ans get you dry" She says warmly as she helped her tiny friend.
I handed the blades over to Griz, but not before memorizing the maker's mark...it would become a symbol with many transmutations over the next few weeks.
Luthael listened to the exchange. "Khors healed her body. Her cold is deeper, something spiritual."
"We need a defensible place to start a fire and shelter with the refugees." He looks to his companions for consensus.
When it seemed they weren’t under immediate threat from the newcomer, Gunnar nods at the wisdom in Luthael’s statement.
”Let’s find a safe place to make camp and warm up,” Gunnar agrees, heading over to the survivors and checking the terrain nearby for a suitable campsite.
"Good point, Gunnar"She says as the bearkin adjusts the new weapons on her person and heads out to find a spot.
Arianna helps the freezing young woman over to the villagers and watches as Ingryd and Gunanr go looking for a good spot to rest and get everyone warmed up. As they search she takes a look at their, prisoner? ward? guest? It's hard to tell, if she is being honest. There is something between her and Scramsax, something that has to do with why Scramsax is now a halfling woman if she followed Scram's tirade, but whatever it is, it wasn't enough to make this one overtly hostile on meeting her again.
The elven bard sighs and shakes the thoughts away. One problem at a time. She has to approach this one problem at a time. The most immediate problem is the woman who's obviously having issues with the cold.
After a quick examination, Arianna believes she knows what's going on and how to resolve it.
"Luthael, Scram," she calls out to the two not looking for a spot to get a fire going, "I need your help getting her out of the armor and wrapped up in something warm and dry."
While Gunnar and Ingryd scout the area for a suitable campsite, Arianna does her best to provide some additional comfort to the freezing priestess. The signs of cold exposure are clear and unmistakable, but fortunately treatable with a little warmth. Nothing a warm fire and some hot broth wouldn't resolve, the elf determines although at the moment neither are immediately available.
Spiraling out from the others further and further, Gunnar finds what he initially considers a suitable camp site nestled among some rocks to shelter from the wind and provide some cover in case of attack. But when Ingryd looks the spot over she shakes her head. A few cautious steps down into the central site and the reason makes itself abundantly clear as her boot breaks through a layer of thin ice and plunges into a shallow pool. The depth isn't much. Just a couple of inches, but enough to make camping there quite unpleasant.
The two continue the search. Finally, Ingryd spots another site. This one beneath a thick grove of cedar and hemlock. The ground is soft with decades of fallen needles. Only a little snow, easily swept away, covers the ground. And a little further effort reveals a few fallen branches still reasonably dry despite the storm.
With a campsite found it is just a matter of effort and time to get everyone sheltered and a fire going. Between the various magical and mundane shelters all are able to spend a reasonably comfortable night of rest, warmth, and relaxation.
The next morning is born cold and gray once again. The snow heavy clouds thick and dark. Even before a warm morning beverage is brewed snow is falling and the wind groans through the rattling limbs of the secluded forest camp.
Several of the villagers look on. Concern and confusion writ across their peasant hardened features. Eventually one of the older men speaks up.
"Tisn't right this weather." He says, shaking his head at the falling snow. "Too early. Much too early in the year for such a storm. Why the apples were barely in and the wheat just gone to the mills." He makes a quick sign against evil. "Maybe a little snow or ice, but should be mostly rain. Not this, this blizzard. Mighty unnatural weather, I'd say." The nods of several of the other villagers agree with the man's suspicion as they too make various signs or mumble prayers of protection.
Was blind luck to stumble on that hemlock patch. I was just about to setup my little distillation kit to extract the useful alkaloids when Burst started mumbling about the Skull-whacker again.
"That's fine but prices have gone up on my exotic furs. Just got word the new seasonal rates have come down from management...100 gold."
~~~
Later when the villagers were talking weather, I knew immediately what was happening "Damnit, I knew it. We should've never let that Ice Hyena live, now its taking over the north with its frosty giggles and cunning snowpack tactics. We better not lose the next grove-leaf harvest..."
Arianna raises an eyebrow at Scram's frankly unbelievable lie. She sighs and gets down on a knee to be at eye-level with the halfling.
"Scram, please, for me," she asks.
---
Later, when they'd arrived at the clearing and gotten the camp set up, the elven bard walks up to Ingryd.
"Ingryd, would you mind doing me a favor? The woman we found needs to be kept warm. Do you think you could help with that," she asks. Later, it becomes clear that Arianna was also hoping to take advantage of the bearkin's fur when she snuggles up close to the mighty and compassionate momma bear.
---
Arianna is slow to wake up, her mind muddled by the fuzzy warmth of Ingryd's fur. As the villagers discuss the weather and Scram mentions an "ice hyena," whatever that is, she wonders if it also has something to do with the fae they ran into yesterday.
"Hey, Gunnar? Do you know of any creatures that could cause this," she asks the dwarf from where she's bundled up next to Ingryd.
Raseri manages to stay conscious, if only barely, while a campsite is secured and Arianna gets her out of the freezing cold armor. On the backplate and the breast plate is a strange symbol, the rune for storms circled by the holy symbols of Thor, Perun, and Valeresh. Scram also spies the same dragon coiled around a round shield design she noticed on the two weapons she'd confiscated. The armor is bundled up and put in a pack while Raseri is wrapped up in whatever blankets and cloaks can be spared or created for her.
She doesn't say much as she's guided over to Ingryd once camp is made and something warm is pushed into her hands. She mutters a thank you, but it's so quiet no one is sure if she's aware that she said anything. After a little while, her shivering stops and she falls asleep curled up next to Ingryd on the other side from Arianna. She sleeps easily, having been exhausted from breaking free of the fae spell and dealing with the hypothermia afterwards.
---
The next morning, she awakens to someone talking about ice hyenas and unseasonable snow.
"What tide of the year is it," she asks as she sits up. "If it is not time for hardening of the water and the trees to don their glittering coats of white, then it cannot be the low ebb of the winter tide. If it is not yet the time of winter, then perhaps those fae have spoken to the northern winds to hurry the falling tide of autumn on its way," she reasons.
”The evil fey who attacked spoke of ‘She who must be obeyed’. So we are looking at an entity who can command fey and demon alike with a penchant for ice and snow weather manipulation,” says Gunnar.
He puzzles over who might be here, thinking of rumors and books that might have mentioned such…
Luthael breaks his fast seeing to the health and welfare of the villagers and prisoner: food, water, warmth. He listens to their concerns and level of confidence drawing out the comment about the weather.
Hearing the discussion, he sits next to Gunnar to puzzle out some options about the cause of the unnatural blizzard. He invokes his Lord of the Sun to illuminate their memories for the best answers.
"They did mention that, didn't they," Arianna says. "I think that may rule out Scram's Ice Hyena." She ponders the question for a moment before looking over to the prisoner.
"By the way, who are you," she asks.
Raseri blushes as she realizes that she never gave her name.
"I am Raseri Whitescale, Lady of Storms, Priestess of Thor, Artisan and Smith of Volund, and, as of yesterday, your Thrall," she says in a pleasantly lilting voice. "I fear that I know less than you seem to about those íshjarta álfar and the ill-tiding of the weather. The wicked snow-clad sprites shackled me in frozen chains nearly afore the small one's goddess had finished shoving me through the doorway 'twixt her realm and this. Glad I am that you and he-- she, I mean-- are not so hasty with your actions nor thirsty for my blood. Now I must pay the weregild for my life. The coin I can offer is naught but servitude."
She bows her head low and pauses for a moment before continuing in a much more ominous voice.
"And to begin my service, I fear I must tell you that this mistress those foul, frost-blooded fairies serve is likely a hag, and one of no small power if she is capable of this," she gestures to the storm outside of the shelter of the trees.