Ingryd looks at Olaf and smiles. " Good set up. Let me show you a few quick things to help you make rhe process smoother" Ingryd will drink and talk shop with the man having been a brewer.
She will also get the reciepe and talk about beekeeping. Oddly enough she doesnt get drunk. She enjoys a good night talking about her former professions.
"Damn then. Did we pick the only town in Midgard without an Inn to rest in? Don't tell me this is one of them 'dry townships', too...who's the brewmaster? I'll buy his house, we'll stay there." mumbling on about how enterprise is important to budding hamlets, especially bean-farming, and the finer points of investment, and how she would be happy to draft a certain 'loan document' "...for a modest fee of course. What is that about strange wood you say? Your axe doesn't hack it, or it can't be hacked? ...Also I wasn't kidding, where is the beer. The Griz gets angry when there is no beer." thumbing to Ingryd.
"They are probably talking about the winter fey," Raseri tells Scram before turning to the Levocan. "Or is it something else?"
”Once we get the refugees settled, we will need to take on that winter fey, or these people will freeze or starve,” responds Gunnar.
"There's probably several of them, all of varying power and all very dangerous."
Luthael smiles broadly at the close kinship and says to himself, Khors will provide.
To the woodsman, he asks directly, "could you tell us more about the strange behavior of the wood? Perhaps, we could investigate it while our wards find some hospitality within your village."
Fortunately, the questions are asked before Ingryd and Olaf disappear into the woodsman's brewing hut. For it is many long hours before the two reemerge smelling of fermenting berries and still companionably bantering back and forth about various benefits and challenges of the latest brewing methods including the use of glass and steel brewing vats by the larger brewmasters in Zobeck and the Seven Cities. Olaf waves off the idea of such things a wobbly smile.
"Bah! My father, grandfather, and his father before that used the very same barrels. Each year adds subtle flavor and taste to the brew." He says. "Why give up that uniqueness that gives a wine or meade its true essence and life?"
Indeed it is well before the two brewers begin to chew upon that thorny advancement in fermentation techniques that Olaf answers the question offered by a parched halfling, wizard, and two priests. The man's brow furrows, not in fear or consternation, but like someone trying to piece together a puzzle while half the pieces have gone missing. Eventually he just shrugs.
"It is difficult to say." He begins glancing up into the cold, gray sky. "The first, would be the weather. Cold, snow, ice, are not unusual in these parts, but so much, so early in the year...well, that's plenty unusual. Most of us have lived in this village all our lives, and no one recalls a winter starting off this foul." Mutters from the other villagers all confirm their own fears of the weather. "You say one of the fey folk are behind it. It could be. Although we've been on mostly good terms with those dwelling nearby. Folk leave a bit of spirits out on the important days, a bit of sweet cake. Stay clear of the circles, bogs, and other spots where we know such creatures tend to live."
"But the second thing is that animals have gone missing." Several of the other villagers mutter and nod in agreement.
"I lost my prize milk cow, Bessie, just two weeks ago." Growls one farmer. "Craziest thing. She went all crazy bawlin' and stampin' around then charged right through the fence and off into the woods." Stops to spit onto the ground. "Tried trackin' her, but lost the trail. T'was as if the forest just closed in behind her."
Olaf nods and picks up the tale once again. "Walt's cow, a couple of Anna's pigs, a half dozen of Miss Pinchon's hens. All lost to similar fates." He pulls out a pipe and light's it from a lantern hanging on the porch post. "Worst of all, is folks are finding marks on their doors and walls. As if a big cat were trying to scratch its way inside." He points his pipe at a set of crisscrossing scratch marks marring his own door. The cuts are deep in the hard oak wood of the door and wide. Certainly something larger than a normal mountain cat.
"Again, lived here all my life and never seen the like. And the great yowling that comes every few nights." The big man shivers and shakes his head while the others glance about warily. "We're used to the calls of wild beasts. You don't live here and not get used to a wolf pack's howl, a bear's growls, or the hiss and snarl of the bigger cats. Even the occasional wyvern or more exotic beast. But this...this is something different. Almost a mourning wail, but not from the throat of any human, elf or even goblin that any of us reckin ever walked this wide world."
Scram's stomach sank as she realized the poor, ignorant fool was describing an Ice Hyena to the letter. As the thief would wager, this far from the North where Ice Wildebeest are less plentiful, the scavenger would become the predator. Snatching livestock, marking its territory. Cries in the night.
Yes, sometimes a mystery would come along in life that rational thinking couldn't explain. This was not one of those times. Thoughts aflow with 100% certainty, Scramsax cursed the cold blade hidden on her spine...nearly useless against such a foe.
But before tossing her old prize dagger in the garbage bin, she quickly mentally reviewed the woodsman's discourse. Glancing at her bag of rations, that moist, moldy ball vaguely resembling some vegetables, one important detail the woodsman mentioned stood out that begged immediate attention "Spirits and cake, you say? Wait, don't tell me. There is no more milk to sweeten the flour. No more eggs to stiffen the bake. Foul indeed, sir, most foul. This fey princess with pointy nails**coughICeHYenacough** will be eliminated at once. We are the Narg Nasty 6, its what we do." striking a proud pose while high-fiving Gunnar.
"One last thing, before we discuss terms of the contract. That leaf you're smoldering there, well frankly its no good. My right nostril has been gifted with divine properties, sir. Even from hither, the body, quartile notes, and draw are something a working man like yourself shouldn't settle for." Whipping out a green sac with an outdated and somewhat awkward embroidered image of a male version of herself "Let me introduce you to Scramsax Selects, for the discerning pipesman. A choice crossbreed of the finest northern varieties, each bud blessed with a dryad's kiss. But don't take my word for it..." offering a first free sample.
"Seems we should stay the night, if you'll have us," Raseri says with a nod of her head towards the villagers and farmers. "How long ago was the last time you heard that wailing? Did it also happen to sound the same nights you lost your livestock?"
Ingryd nods noting the old method with respect, the agedness is there and the age is great.it also is strong, but she doesnt mind.
" That is strange.Probably a nasty unnatrual thing." Ingryd says taking another drink.
" The snow needs to stop, the beast needs put down. What say are fearless leaders"The bearkin says with a smile and a wink.
Olaf sniffs at the tin of leaf offered by Scramsax and politely shakes his head. "I reckin' our good Levocan blend was good enough for my father and his before him, so I reckin' it'll suit me and my sons just as well." He says. "No sense gettin' accustomed to something I wouldn't be able to grow myself. Like I said, we don't get much trade through here." He passes his own pouch to the halfling. "But you're more than welcome to try our own local leaf. It's a rich, robust smoke that alights the mind but lets the body be at ease."
Puffing on his pipe as he stokes the iron stove, he replies to Raseri. "I'd say the last time we heard that thing yowlin', must've been two nights ago, wouldn't you say dear?"
A weathered woman, arms a little heavy with muscle, body fit but showing her three and a half decades of mortal life and four children brought into the world, looks up from where she chops vegetables and nods. "Same night little Maia got that splinter from helping you bring in the wood." She says over the *chop*chop*chop* of the knife quickly slicing carrots and potatoes.
"So it was." Olaf adds with his own concurring nod. "But, that's the curious thing. We didn't lose any stock that night, nor on the others when the beast seemed to be stalking the night. No miss. The animals were lost during the day, and as far as we know, when no other creature was about."
Locking the stove door closed again he straightens up and smiles at everyone gathered. "It certainly wouldn't be right to turn god folk out into this weather after such a long journey. I'm sure we'll be able to find places for everyone to settle down for the night. And if you're willing to help track down whatever is haunting or stalking us, well, we haven't much to offer as reward, but we'd be mighty grateful."
”Very kind of you,” says Gunnar, thankful for the offer of shelter against the weather. ”Perhaps if you can show us the tracks while there is still light we may be able to learn something,” he suggests.
Gunnar also slips each of the survivors of Baldezig some coins (10 gp), trying to keep it quiet and saying things like, ”It’s not much, but it might help you get back on your feet.”
He also keeps a eye out for anything around town that could use a craftsdwarf of his skills and/or magic. Mamluk gets some time to wander around and play with the other town pets.
”Yes. Thank you for the hospitality. Yes, seeing the tracks in the light would be best.” Luthael complements his dwarven friend.
Raseri ponders on what the man relays.
"When was the last time your livestock went missing," She asks, trying to puzzle this out. "If the others are willing to help, I'm more than happy to as well."
" At least I byilt for this weather" She says as she stands and looks about.
" Lets see these tracks. Then I can help. Always good to do some hars work. Then I can post up a watch with Scram." Ingryd says pointing to her little friend. Volunteering the Halfling for a cold damp night.
Scram's eyes narrowed at the ease with which the woodsman rejected Illarya's leaf. This must truly be a competitive strain. The thief pocketed the freebie with an awkward chuckle, vowing to reverse engineer it later.
In the mean time, the alley-blade (no stranger to slicing and dicing) took a close look at the claw marks on the man's door...
She was just about to stuff a plate of Mama Chops' breakfast danishes under her shirt when Griz volunteered her for the graveyard shift, foiling the thief's scheme.
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Although they do their best to downplay the wizard's quiet gifts, the surviving villagers are quite surprised and more than grateful when Gunnar hands out the small pouches heavy with gold coins. Such an amount is likely more than some would have seen over the course of several years if not decades. Even some of the older men are driven to near tears at the unusual act of charity. Already respectful of the wizard, the villagers of fallen Blandezig now look upon the dwarf with the eyes of folk truly devoted to the causes and principals he follows.
Thus in the following weeks and months, a new shrine dedicated to the thunder god takes root in Levoca. Thor and his scholarly disciple quickly become the new beating heart of faith in the small community. The old charlatan priest of Porevit and Yarila in his run down chapel has little power to stop the rapid conversion of his community. This is especially true as the tale of the pilgrimage south through snow, ice, and unnatural winds while fighting off fae, shadow wolves, and an ancient evil dedicated to the Goat of the Woods herself spread throughout the settlement. A tale enhanced even further when the wizard and his companions immediately set forth to tackle yet another evil befalling the poor, hardworking folk of yet another small village. Unlike so many noble lords, mighty councilors, or great generals who barely take notice of such folk except to steal their crops or send the tax assessors out every year, the dwarf and his companions are true friends and growing legends among the common people of the land.
"Don't be gone too long." Della, the woodsman's wife says as her husband slips his coat back on to guide Ingryd, Gunnar, Luthael and Raseri out to where the freshest and clearest tracks could be found. "Supper will be ready soon and I'll not have our guests eating an over cooked stew."
"It won't take long, I promise, but best they see the tracks before the weather buries them." Olaf says with a smile before heading back out into the elements.
Standing outside the door, Scramsax steps back as the big man comes striding through. After examining the marks in the thick oak, the halfling doesn't learn too much. She would agree that the beast is no common mountain cat or badger or other typical woodland animal. Staring at the slashing marks, she recalls some of those who had journeyed with Rook Bentknee into the wilds of Courlandia talking about creature that made similar type of marks. It takes her several moments, but she recalls that scoundrel Finnigan talking about a forest drake they'd run across just before reaching Nargenstal. That's what these marks call to her mind. A drake or some beast of similar size.
Trekking back out toward the western edge of the village, Olaf takes the group past a darkened hut, the door clawed and scratched similar to that of his own only in this case the wood was older. Rot had set in around the hinges and it gave way. According to Olaf, before anyone could get out here, the was nothing left of Old Beniface except a broken mug of tea and one boot.
Beneath several thick cedar trees, Olaf carefully points out a set of tracks. Five toed, thick claws that leave deep impressions in the damp soil and icy snow. It's also clear something was carried or dragging along the trail.
"Most likely poor Beniface it was we guess." Olaf says shaking his head sadly. "We tried to have him move in with some of us closer to the village center, but he'd not do so. Said he wouldn't put any of us young folk out. Not that anyone would have minded. Except maybe Karl of course."
"Oooh!" Scram's face twisted in delight "Finally, some small town dish! So, tell us then, what beef does this sinister Karl have with poor sojourned Beniface? Does he simply hate all elderly hermits with an irrational passion? Does he prefer living alone because of sick, private rituals of which there are only scant rumors and heresy? Ah wait, its simpler than that isn't it. Beniface had an affair with a certain dilettante promised to the unfortunate Karl, and the grudge is everlasting..."
As she nudged the rumor mill, Scramsax took a close look at the tracks...or more specifically the area around the tracks. Tiny hairs, odd scents or slimes, barely perceptible fibers left hidden by ice and subsuming soils...only revealed to the discerning eye of the thief.
Raseri sighs and turns to the others.
"Was she a goblin or something at some point," she asks.
”I think it might be a shorter list to say what she hasn’t been,” says Gunnar with an indulgent smile. ”These tracks look fresh enough to follow—shall we get to it?” he suggests.
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Raseri lets out an even deeper sigh as she pinches the bridge of her nose.
"This explains much," she mutters.
"We had better, before the beast decides to come for another meal," she says more loudly.
"Aye, let's get going, while Khors' light shines on us." Luthael offers.
Before Olaf left and the 6 started following the tracks towards the mysterious lair, Scram pulled the woodsman aside "Listen. You're a resourceful man. I'm in the market for a few specialty items. Horses and livery. A 6 seat carriage. Supplies for a long road journey. While we go off and deal with this, maybe you arrange such supplies? Or at least get word out that such things are hot items, if anyone is looking to make some real money."
Olaf listens to Scramsax and starts to laugh only stopping himself as he suddenly realizes the halfling appears to be serious. For several seconds the big woodsman runs through the various stock and implements he knows about in the small village. Finally, he offers a shrug as his eyes alight on an idea but his face says that it isn't likely to meet the woman's desired standards.
"Well..." He begins with a bit of hesitation as he clears his throat, watches Ingryd as she leans down to sniff at the mud and snow, her nostrils flaring wide. "Well, I think Joseph has a pair of horses he's been considering trading or selling. Seems one is a bit too feisty for plowing, while the other is showing her years a bit."
A shake of his head. "But you'll not find any carriages or such her in Levoca miss." His says, the smile returning to his lips. "Why, most folk probably haven't seen something like the councilors and wealthy folks of Zobeck ride about in every day. I went to Zobeck once as a young man. Was going to strike it rich. Hahaha!" He bursts out laughing as his youthful ignorance of the wider world. "Lost every copper penny I brought with me and ended up serving five years in the Council's Guard before I finally got wise and came home."
"But nevermind that, the best we could do would be Olga's cart." He says returning to the original request. "It isn't much, but its still in good shape and better built to make it along the rough roads of the Margreve." Tapping the tip of his chin with a finger the villager pauses thoughtfully. "Now is your really interested in something a mite fancier, your best bet is to try the Bluebell. It's a weeks journey deeper into the wood, but it's not too hard once you reach the Great Northern Road. But old Rootglum might be able to help you out or maybe one of his customers if any happen to be passing through. But mind, you'd be beware if bargaining for many a fae frequents the Bluebell. If you don't keep your mind aware, you'll likely end up trading or giving up a lot more than you initially bargained."
"AACCCHHHOOOO!" Ingryd's sneeze echoes through the dwindling light of the afternoon. She offers an embarrassed apology to Raseri who just happened to be standing near enough to the bearkin to catch the full brunt of the blast. Pulling out a kerchief she blows her nose as then a large grin breaks across her features. "I've bot the scent of the beast for bure." She says in a nasally tone. "It bent bat away." She adds pointing west, deeper into the forest.
With all in agreement, Olaf departs in order to get back and let his wife know she may need to keep the stew warm. Ingryd sets off following the scent of the creature through the wood. Not blessed with such a large or fluid filled nose, Scramsax doesn't bother with trying the smell the beast. Instead she simply keeps an eye peeled for anymore scales the creature seems to be shedding. No bigger than her thumb nail, she finds the thick pale green and yellow scale just a few finger widths from one of the tracks. One partial scale is found a half dozen paces along the back trail.
Gunnar picks up the scale and examines it, trying to figure out what manner of creature it might be from.
Luthael looks over Gunnar's shoulder blessing his insight.
Raseri lets out a long sigh as she cleans off the bear snot with a spell.
"I hope you're not catching a cold," she says to Ingryd as the last of the sneeze is wiped away by arcane power. "I heard once that followers of Khors like spicy foods. Maybe Luthael knows a recipe that'll help clear out your nose."
"A proud bearkin like me, I was born to the cold. This is nothing."she says with a chuckle and then a sniffle.
She says looking at the tracks with her shield out and an axe in her hand ready to throw.
Scramsax flipped the mottled scale along her knuckles like a gold coin. This was neither ice hyena, nor ice princess. A blade suddenly apparated into her other hand from one of the thief's minor teleportation spells (or rather the practiced, fluid legerdemain acting as the spell's imposter). Gripping the knife's edge like a pen, she attempted to etch writing onto the scale...
"I think nows a good time for me to disappear. I'm with ya." stretching her glutes before tumbling into a bush.
Gunnar, Scramsax and Luthael spend several minutes examining the scale. Closer inspection reveals the the bit of reptilian flesh to have some chameleon like ability as it slowly changes colors to match its surroundings. When confronted with a completely neutral gray background, it reverts to a glittering pale white much like the surrounding ice and snow. This affinity for cold, seems to be reinforced when Scramsax runs the icy blade or Morrin's Misery along the scale. The razor sharp blade barely scratches the scale unless the halfling really pushes with twice or three times the normal effort. The cold of the blade turning her own fingers blue before it has any substantive effect on the scale.
With accumulated evidence wizard and priest consult together for several moments. The wizard pulls out his trusty, well worn copy of Rupert's Tome of Magical Beasts and Wonderous Creatures, Volume 4 and begins thumbing through the illustrated pages. At the same time, Luthael prays quietly to Khors. A sudden breeze blows through the wood rapidly flipping the pages of the book. Just as quickly it stops and both look down to see an illustration of a draconic creature Rupert refers to as a Frost Skulker. Similar in nature and demeanor to the more common Hoarfrost Drakes, the Skulker are considered more dangerous and deadly hunters because of the ability of their scaled hide to adapt to their surroundings. They are also a bit larger and quicker than their cousins. However, much like standard Hoarfrost Drakes, Skulkers very often serve a larger draconic power. Usually White or Boreal dragons, but they are not all that discerning as long as the one they serve provides a relatively expansive hunting ground and doesn't demand overly much from the drake.
”We hunt a Frost Skulker,” says Gunnar, telling the others what he and Luthael have learned. ”They are big, fast, and have natural camouflage. Be alert for an ambush.”
"Bloody hells," Raseri murmurs almost prayerfully as she looks over Luthael's arm to see what the creature looks like.
"I really don't want to fight a dragon powerful enough to do this without knowing a lot more about it."
" Understood."Ingryd says as shs switches to the Burninf Buzz and lets the Holy Maul flare to life. Fire licking the head as she talks, her cadence not effecting her senses.
"Can it fly?" She asks as she continues to look for signs. Snow ans ice her natural home, even when making mead. She was born to this and playes in this.
" Anyone have any magics to aid in spotring this thing? Maybe tricks like mudballs, or paint balls" She asks as she skulks looking for signs of distrubance amongst the ground trees and treeline.
"Well, I know a prayer to Khors which can illuminate creatures within an area if they're not too fast to dodge it." Luthael replies to Ingryd.
”I don’t know if it can fly, but if it can, I will grant you flight as well so you can meet it in the sky,” offers Gunnar.
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If only the forest really knew Scramsax as the Plunderer of Dryadic Psyche, its nature spirits might scatter before her. Scramsax the Twice-Reconstituted, born from the sap of the World Tree and a memory of the Universe, any peeping eyes might melt out of their aberrant sockets. Scramsax the Jewel Thief, who stole the geomancer's telescope with nothing more than a 3ft hoagie, who could scramble any ambush into a net gain in the final accounting. She knew the cunning predator, for she was the cunning predator.
The trail leads deeper into the forest. After a mile of slogging through snow, ice, the forest begins to grow more dense. Although sunset is not for another few hours, little light penetrates this gloom shrouded portion of the Margreve. A few paces further is a grizzly sight. Crimson coats a patch of packed snow. Three pale, knobby fingers and part of a wrinkled palm lie in a frozen patch of blood between two twisting tree roots. Not far away an empty boot sits upright, the leather cut down the side. A wide trail of blood and packed snow leads deeper into the gloom.
But here, in the depths of this gloom filled wood, you do not feel that same presence of the Margreve. Here is something...different. Sickness? Perhaps. Corruption? A possibility? Simply a part of the word more ancient, more hostile, less accommodating to mortals? Who can know for certain. No matter the cause, you can feel the danger. The hostility. It drips from the gnarled branches like summer sap. The air is bitterly cold, the temperature seeming to drop further with each passing step. A foul scent drifts through the air. That rotten egg stench of sulfa or something similar.
”This appears to be the abducted villager, yes, but there is something different even about the forest here. I feel it actively wishes us harm. The encroaching cold seeks to leech the warmth from our bodies, and I even smell the rot of sulphur on the air. We are getting close to something powerful and evil,” says Gunnar.
As far as Scram could tell, this was the same pain in the ass forest she had just clawed herself out of. Now all the familiar pains came rushing back at once. That numbness where ears used to be. The incessant call of a hot beverage. The midnight promise of a cold, muddy bedroll.
" Okay, which way?" Ingryd says as she begins to look for bloody prints or drips from this corpse.
"Yes, I concur." Luthael agrees with Gunnar. "Something evil has take root here in this part of the forest. And, needs to be removed."
Gunnar casts See Invisibility on himself and follows along after the others as they move deeper into the forest (where the bloody smear leads)…
Ingryd stumbles as the stench assaults her nose. In an ironic twist of fate, the allergy that had troubled her earlier is cleared and her sinuses are no longer filled with mucus. But this leaves the way clear for the sickening stink of sulfur and rot clinging to the forest air like some ill begotten swamp sludge. For a moment, the bearkin starts to wander off, only to be quickly brought back into line by Gunnar and Luthael who point out the grizzly trail.
Creeping forward the foul stink grows stronger. Ahead a hissing sound drifts through the thick and warming air. The snow and ice turns to slick, sloppy, thick mud that grasps at your boots. A dozen yards further a rent in the forest floor opens. A jagged, wide gash a hundred paces long and forty wide. Along the edge the trees grow twisted and sickly. A wind blows through rustling the leaves which sound like the death rattles of a wheezing old man. A pale yellow cloud of steam and putrid smoke drifts upward from this opening, the air here nearly unbearable to any except the most stouthearted and iron stomached.
The trail continues right up to the edge of the opening before disappearing down into the black pit.
Raseri keeps looking around as she draws her greatsword. Her hands nervously wring the hilt as she follows the others.
"I agree. Something is very wrong here. Trust not the trees in this part of the Margreve," she warns Ingryd and Scramsax.
Sure, it looked like a dragon. But then where was the treasure? More importantly, where were all the uncut gemstones?
Scram allowed herself to be visible to the Six momentarily, flashing a silent hand-signal charade:
fluttering butterfly hand flapping,
finger flames engulfing a church, steeple, and all the people,
rubbing fingers together as if a gold coin.
" Its in there"Ingryd says as she shakes off the noxious fumes.
" Let us investigate" She says as she grins eager to defeat what altered this place
She looks into the darkness ready to strike if nessecary.
Raseri grabs Ingryd to keep her from going in.
"Dragon," she tells the others quietly as she points out the tracks, figuring that the word would do more to alert the others to the danger than Scram's finger puppet play. "And it has friends."
Gunnar steels his will and his fortitude against the pale stinking cloud...
..but the poison seems to somehow bypass his natural Dwarven resilience.
Coughing in the smoke, Gunnar asks, "So perhaps this dragon is--*cough*--poison-based instead of cold-based...And it may have young or these Frost Skulkers as allies."