Scram was alternating between munching some of the jalapenos leftover from Raseri's pizza and licking one of Ingryd's beer popsicles. Sadly, the antarctic picnic was brought to a close care of one purely coincidentally hyena sounding 'waawaawoo' from the north.
"Meh, I'm sure that was nothing." the thief joked before vanishing behind Darrell.
Roused from his sleep and grumbling, Gunnar starts pulling on his armor and grabs his shield. He leaves Mamluk to the questionable warmth of his bedroll and out of habit tries to make mental contact with Sylvia as he prepares for combat.
"You should really learn to sleep in that stuff Gunnar" Ingryd says as she chuckles.
"Or maybe learn my fighting techniques. Learn to take punches, slashes stabs and hammer blows! its hard going but in the end it will help you greatly, trust me"the bearkin warrior says as she picks up her maul and stands. She was the Not a warrior originally by choice, but by vengenence, from that she has become a guardian and protector of those who face the same dangers she did al those years back then.
thankfully she had found this group and friends to fight alongside and help better focus the righteous fury. So she was ready for whatever came there way.
Raseri grimaces as she readies her sword and looks around to the others.
"I do hope it's not those beasts we fought on our way to Levoca," she says.
The howl forces everyone up from the dubious warmth and comfort of their bedrolls. A thick layer of ice coats everything outside of the few feet nearest the fire making any attempt to move even a step or two a challenge to stay upright. More of the cold rain falls. Instantly freezing as it touches the cold, cold ground. For several seconds the wood is silent except for the soft his of the precipitation as it hits the river and the forest. Even the wind takes a momentary break.
"WOOOOO! WaawaawaaWoooooooo!"
The chilling call erupts not more than a few dozen feet beyond Gunnar's wall. Its source hidden within the dark, dense confines of the ice coated forest. Scramsax catches a quick glimpse of movement. A brief shape. Like an antlered man running hunched, almost on all fours. Following the halfling's pointed warning, Raseri also catches a momentary look at the creature. Wolf-like. With an elongated snout and pointed ears. Then it disappears into the darkness of the wood.
Standing there in the cold and darkness. Ice already coating heads and beards, each stout adventurer feels the sudden gnawing grip of hunger. Stomachs growl and rumble as if none have had even the slightest morsel for over a week. The odd sensation does not fade. Instead it increases with each looming moment.
"Wooooo! Weeweewaaawaaa...Woooooo!" The cry echoes from the wood. Hungry. Plaintive. Ever seeking to feed an insatiable need. Your own stomach rumble and growl in sympathetic reply.
The sight jostled loose a memory of a cold northern tavern, and the tall tales recited within "Ah yes, the fabled Where-digo. It's legendary Bubble Breath attack encapsulates any who dare stand in its way, with Glow-in-the-dark Farts to bedazzle its prey. Beware, Six, beware...its Tick-tock Tail is able to accelerate or dam the flow of time itself..." snapping her fingers "...damnit, of course. It already has us ensnared in the temporal trap, making us as hungry as next week..."
Yes, Where-digo. Where did he go, after all? Not Who-digo, How-digo, or When-digo certainly.
Standing with his half plate on and shield at the ready, Gunnar draws his ornate hammer and casts a spell. Warm flames sheathe him in a protective layer, hedging out the cold and promising a burn to any who touch him.
(Flame Shield)
He, too, tries to place the plaintive call mixed with the cold and feeling of hunger, casting his mind back to his studies.
Luthael tries to pray himself to warmth with some success.
When the creature appears, Luthael stands should to shoulder with Gunnar. The prophet grips his shield and bejeweled, pectoral amulet. Taking the calls at face value, he answers, "I am Luthael Invictusol, prophet of Khors, the Lord of the Sun. We seek to destroy the hag who dwells around here. Are you friend or foe?"
"I would say it is a foe. Gather around me," Raseri says before beginning to call upon her god for strength.
"I think it scared all my fish away!!!" Ingryd says as she whips up her maul and looks at their guide.
"Say you know what this thing is?"
Beware my friend. Sylvia's voice rings in Gunnar's mind. Flames dance and flicker upon the dwarf's sturdy shield highlighting the wizard's face with yellow, orange and red. Tis a spirit creature most vile and dangerous. Its wickedness and terrible needs will try to wrap you in their grip so it my rip and rend your flesh.
A scene suddenly appears in Gunnar's mind. A village of the far north. Neat, well kept huts and longhouses all sitting empty and quiet. Once a thriving place of life and trade. All that remains of the laughing children, tale telling warriors, strong-hearted mothers, and stooped, grinning grandmothers are a few gnawed bones and bits of rotting cloth flapping in a cold wind. Only death and lost dreams haunt the sad place.
Beware the hungry cries of the wendigo. Sylvia whispers sadly within the wizards mind as the image slowly fades away.
True to the spirit's word, moments later a wave of insatiable hunger and greed crashes across Gunnar's stone wall and upon those waiting behind its protective shadow.
Ingryd's stomach rumbles, growls and convulses for honey, for ale, for the uncaught fish still lurking safely beneath the icy surface of the river. She doubles over in pain as the need stabs at her with more power and sharpness than any knight's blade.
Raseri feels the need rise up from deep within the pits of her stomach and mind. Her lost creations. Stolen. Lost. It does not matter except they are gone and with each keenly crafted item a small part of herself disappeared. A hole created that cannot be filled with food, drink, or comradeship. Only the return of what was lost could possibly sate this hunger. Ease the growing whirlpool of pain-filled need and anguish.
The prophet of Khors warms himself from the driving cold of the storm. But as the power crashes across the stone wall like a tsunami, Luthael discovers his own gnawing hunger. The desire to see his god worshiped across the lands of Midgard once again. To see the temple filled with devoted acolytes of his bright faith. To hear the halls ring with the glory of prayer and song to the sun. To smell the incense as it cleanses the faithful and whisks the hopes and dreams of light up into the sky where Father Khors can know them. The desire, the hunger stabs at the prophet's heart. Drives an icy dagger of doubt and disillusionment into his mind. Failed. You have failed the Light. Wails the voice upon the wind.
At first Scramsax barely notices the rising floodwater. Her own natural tendencies and love of all things golden, silver, or bejeweled in nature simply a familiar echo to the wave of power flowing into the camp. But too soon, the usual curious mental exercises to remember where the foxkin had hidden his coins become something more. It is no longer just a clever game of cat and mouse or a test of skill against another who is perhaps no simple punter gawking at the market wares while nimble fingers pick him clean of anything of value. No. There is a burning need. A driving desire. A greed that erupts like a beanstalk from the fertile field. Tangling vines driving upward into the furthest heights of the halfling's mind where they writhe and weave themselves into a net of need. Foxkin gold. Bearkin gold. Wizard's gold. Prophet's gold. All of that and more. More must be had to appease the gnawing, grinding greed.
And so the wizard watches as each of his companions begin to feel the true effects of the creature that even now approaches behind the wave of its own horrible hunger. And even forewarned by Sylvia's knowing, the wizard himself is not fully prepared for the wave of power that crashes into his mind and spirit. For it is neither biscuits or gold or religious glory that burns within Gunnar's heart. But as he looks upon the creature. Sees the ripples of power washing across the land, churning the arcane flows, bending them, twisting them, pushing, pulling, to bolster and amplify its own power. It's own greed. The wizard thirsts like a parched wanderer across the vast deserts of the south. Thirsts for the knowledge of how. How do such things exist? What dire tragedy or act brought such a thing into esistence? Why? Why should it even exist at all? Why does it have such power when so often those who try to create good, and joy, and healing in the world have so little. The questions pour forth only to sink into the sands of uncertainty and ignorance. Desperately the wizard's mind grasps at whatever scraps of knowing he can articulate. Clutches at formulaic spell scripts and arcane mathematics. But it is not enough. Oh, not nearly enough to appease the dragon like maw of a mind in need of knowing. And so to, the wizard stands staring blank eyed as the wendigo charges forward.
Heh. Amateur. Trying to tempt the master thief with a treasure so boring as a few coin. A set of pneumatic hoppin' spring legs made of solid jade? A ruby and topaz prosthetic 3rd boob? Hell, the dragon queen's crown and the endless services that come with it? Now that would have been an irresistible temptation.
The thief slipped a cold stone into the sling falling from her wrist, cracking a shot as soon as the mind gaming antler-wolf showed its grubby mug...
...before slipping away behind some fallen bramble or one of her companions, whichever was farther away from the encroaching spirit of vice.
A flash of joy at Sylvia’s return is quenched by the approaching hunger. Gunnar warns, ”Beware the paralyzing hunger of the whhhhhh…” he warns, his speech slowing as the effect hits him full force.
”Wendigo!” he finishes strongly, throwing off the effects. If possible, he moves towards the front of the group to take the initial charge in case his friends are not so fortunate.
~Ah, rats, I was way off...~ the hidden killer thought to herself, cursing the gooey, scrambled sponge currently housing her linguistic centers.
The prophet weathers the wails of the winds of doubt and desire. His own personal sun, which burns behind his closed eyelids and within his heart, reminds him that His glorious blaze is immortal and relentless.
"No! Feel the holy fire of Khors, you foul creature!" Luthael condemns and sends a seed of holy fire to explode in furious anger.
Following his training of fire first, ask questions second, he calls out, "Gunnar, what is that thing? Can it be banished from Midgard?"
A part of Raseri mourns the loss of her creations, the weapons made by her own hand. Styrkur, the warhammer she'd sent aloft time and time again to strike down her foes, Þruma, her maul, the two-handed great hammer that she had shattered bone and shield alike with, Viskan, the spear she'd forged for herself during her exile to the Black Prince's hunting lodge, The Mask of Clouds, which had been her face as the Lady of Storms in the courts of the shadow fey, and the holy symbols of Perun and Valeresh that she'd made after coming to a deeper understanding of the gods were all still missing. Everything she made using all of her skill and her knowledge, that she needed even more of to complete, had a small part of her in it, her soul, her sweat, even her blood, but it was those items she had made for herself that had left the holes the wendigo's power now calls to, making her hunger sharp and desire keen. There was nothing that could be done to sate that hunger and slake that thirst.
However, there is another desire, another hunger that all of Thor's priests and priestesses share. That red hunger, the keening edge, the mighty need to prove oneself strong, to vanquish foes, to slay monsters called to Raseri. Fury roared in her heart as her voice rang out. How dare this skulking cur, this shade-walker, this vile, accursed, unmade thing try tempting her to wallow in self-pity and to mourn again her loss when there was a desire and hunger she could satisfy by claiming its head!
Her prayer rumbles and crackles with the power of a storm as she calls upon her god when the beast, the wendigo, appears, and she makes an oath. It may kill her, but it won't survive this fight either.
"Thor, Thunderer! Grant me strength! Grant me courage! Witness us as we slay this wretched beast and lay it low. Lightning howl, and thunder roar! Odin take this beast and damn it to Hel!"
As the last word of her prayer resounds like a tolling bell and thunder rumbling in a valley, arcs of lightning dance around her and the others, crackling and spitting madly as the spirits that infuse them hunger to rend and tear the flesh of this unworthy creature.
As Gunnar steps forward next to the others who have successfully resisted the hunger, he shrugs and says, "Interesting thought, Luthael, let us find out."
The dwarf attempts to banish the charging creature as the priest suggests.
Casting Banishment, DC 17 Charisma save or be Banished per the spell.
Ingryd growls and shakes it off. She had been hungry, had lived off the dregs in her drunken phaze and pursuit to slay the wicked. This would not end her. She will rush towards it with mual ready its head a flame.
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
One by one the heroes of Nargenstal throw off the mind devouring aura of the wendigo. Long have they wrestled with such internal hungers and desires. Long have those particular demons been laid to rest or in some cases simply harnessed and chained for more practical purposes. Only one among the small band succumbs to the monster's broadcasting desires. The foxkin Darrel, lies on the frozen ground, arms clutched about his stomach as ice slowly begins to embrace the guide within its frozen grasp.
But there is time to save the fallen guide, for the elements operate on a different time scale than most mortals. Hours are needed for the foxkin to finally fall completely into the frozen grip of death's embrace. Plenty of time for the stalwart band of heroes to dispatch the pest born of some others greed and misfortune.
So it is that within moments of its appearance upon the wall, the beast is pummeled by sling stone and engulfed in flame and angry spirits. A roar near equal to its own erupts from near the shore where a fishing pole now sits unattended, the end bobbing almost imperceptibly as a scaled, finned thief makes off with the bait amidst the distraction.
Then the grumbling voice of the wizard fills the silence following Ingryd's charging roar. The air grows heavy, cloying. Pressure builds causing ears to squeal and pop in annoyance. A fissure in reality cracks open as the wendigo leaps from the wall toward the fallen guide. The beast plunges through the sudden opening into whatever lies beyond that mist shrouded portal. One last startled and surprised "Yip." is all it manages to voice before the portal slams closed.
*POP*
All is silence once again. Silence and ice and cold and darkness beyond the flickering flames still glimmering from Gunnar's shield and the remnants of Luthael's fiery blast.
Focusing on the spell, Gunnar says, ”I have banished it back to its home plane. It will take me a minute to fully bind it to its fate, unless you wish me to release it so you may vent your fury on it.”
The thief narrowed her eyes suspiciously "...did he say 'yip'? Sounded like hyena language to me...can anyone translate? Might be important."
"Gunnar! Well done. I've not had much success with that spell. Glad it worked for you." Luthael reacts. Then, he sees to Darrell's health.
Raseri claps Gunnar on the shoulder.
"As Luthael says, well done," she says before turning to their guide.
"On your feet. Naps in ice are for the dead," she says as she hauls Darrel to his feet.
Ingryds' Hammer swings at empty air and stands a bit dumbfounded.
"I wanted to hit it"She says somewhat defeated and then heads back to the group.
"So will it come back, do I need to head back to it and bash it when it pops up"The bearkin says as she laughs.
Darrel moans and holds his head and he slowly sits up with Raseri's help. The foxkin shivers with both cold and the after effects of the wendigo's foul magic.
"Ooh...what by the gods was that?" Mumbles the foxkin. "Ain't never seen...or felt...such a thing in the Margreve before."
Congratulations are shared. Scramsax ponders the beast's final words, getting little help from wizard, priest, or priestess. Ingryd starts to return to her ice covered stone seat along the shore, only to find her line a little lighter than it was before. A few minutes pass. The cold, dreary precipitation continues to coat the world in a shell of slick ice.
Suddenly the air once again grows heavy and prickly. Ears pop as the air pressure rapidly rises. For an instant everything within thirty paces of Gunnar seems to stretch, pull, twist, and curl in upon itself in a thousand, thousand knotted configurations. Arcane energy pulses among the trees and along the river shore.
*POP*
*POP*
*POPOPOPOPOPOPOPOPOPOP*
A dozen of the creatures pop back into existence in another plane wrenching, headache inducing, ear popping, planar rip. The fabric of the world quickly repairs the unnatural gash with a final skin tingling...
*SLURP*
Then silence as wendigo's blink in confusion for a moment even as the heroes of the north stand temporarily bewildered in their own right. Then all twelve beasts suddenly raise their spindly clawed arms high and twelve throats erupt.
"WEEWEEWEEE Woooooo" They howl as they all swing their head back and forth in unison looking for the nearest, easiest prey to sate the hunger that once again fills the night air and causes Darrel to slink back to the ground with a soft groan.
”I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t THAT,” says Gunnar, trying to figure out what in all the planes is going on!
As the chorus of wheredigo heads oscillated hither and thither a glint of gold touched the velvet black of the cold night. The spirit of Coin flittered among them, eyes perfect mathematical circles as he struggled to speak. *Horrrkkk* the owl beak sputtered "...*horrrrrKKKK*" Presently a large grey lump emerged from its throat, steaming in the wintry favors of the Ice Hyena's domain. The pellet of half-digested chipmunk was savory, not sweet. "Here, just...eat that and leave us alone!" it chirped in owl before beating a wing to the south.
Scram raised an eyebrow from her hidden position, partially stunned and supplemented by admiration of the immediate and rather decisive rout. Glancing between Darrell's lifeless husk and Coin's pellet, a mental bet was placed on which tasty treat the wee-singers would woo.
Scramsax didn't know much. He/she was an idiot if you really thought about it. However, the thief knew when opportunity was a rap tap tappin' at the door. The weight of the queen's crowns tugged at the fox's garb here and there, just begging to be taken...
...even the dark sleet could not find a fiber of the cutpurse to cling to.
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
" GODS DAMNIT!!!" Ingryd says as she sighs. She stands up puts away her fishing rod and glares at the wendigo.
" Damn it you dumb bear wannabes!!!" Ingryd lets her hammer light up and she begins to stomp forward growling as she goes.
[B]" Stupid fish scaring, hunger inducing, fake fur being bastards!"[//b] with that she then leaps forward and will launch an attack at the nearest one.
Unable to understand exactly what is going on, Gunnar stays under cover of the stone wall with his friends and conjures a massive ball of lightning over the appearing Wendigos!
Still flaming in his hot Flame Shield, Gunnar calls down a bolt of lightning from the cloud!
The prophet standing close to Gunnar is as confused as everyone else when the creatures return twelve fold. Instead of attacking again, Luthael holds fire and tries to remember anything about this creature from his studies.
Raseri frowns as she sees the thing come back and bring friends. She grabs Darrel in case they need to run and lifts up her sword with her other hand above her head.
"Brenna og molna!" The words ring out, drawing power from the storm and Gunnar's spell.
Lightning bursts upon the ice coated landscape. The crackling thunder of a storm sphere surrounds momentarily surrounds the raging wendigo. But in perfect synchronization the twelve duck and roll across the ice avoiding the sparkling charge of electricity. A similar feat occurs when Gunnar calls down the full fury of the storm. In a brilliant flash and thunderous boom a bolt of lightning slams into the earth instantly vaporizing a small sapling, bent over with a heavy layer of ice. A shrub explodes as super heated sap and ice expand bursting through the puny confines of the shrubs outer bark. Shards of ice and wood fly into the air. But it is with an almost supernatural precognition and unison that the wendigo's once again tumble and roll to avoid the worst of the lightning strike's fury. It's movement's bring it close to where Darrel lies incapacitated on the slick, frozen ground.
This time, focused on the seemingly easy meal, the creatures cannot withstand the sudden pulse of brilliant light that engulfs each of them. Several suddenly flicker, popping into and out of existence with a loud irritating buzz as each jumps around in a chaotic whirlwind. An eye blink later and each image stabilizes. And the creature roars again in hungry fury.
The roar is accompanied by another outraged call. Ingryd, denied yet again the peaceful relaxation of an evening ice fishing, charges across the slippery surface of the camp. Each step taken is as treacherous a goblin's promise, but the northern born bearkin moves as if she were born upon a glacier and lashes out at the closest beast.
Warhammers flash with fire as they lash out at the clawed creature. The first blow is aimed perfectly at the beastly chest but in a surprise turn simply passes completely through the enemy. Her follow up blow ends with a similar result except that the image flickers, buzzes, and disappears from existence with a quiet *Fzzzzt* and does not return.
Having cast called forth her power, Raseri, reaches down to grab the fallen foxkin. Setting her feet to lift him up, she discovers the treacherous nature of the icy ground. One moment she is standing, the next she finds herself flat out on the ground sliding gently down the barely noticable slope toward the river shore.
Planning to use the foxkin as a hiding spot, and potentially regaining a certain amount of coins recently handed over for services yet to be rendered, Scramsax finds herself exposed with Darrel's collapse and Raseri's failure stay upright as well. Spotting another reasonable hiding spot near Gunnar's bedroll, the halfling takes a step in that direction only to find herself succumbing to the same fate as the priestess. Gazing up at the dark, cloud filled sky and slowly sliding toward cold waters of the river.
Standing still, Luthael waits for the true creature to make its move. For it has become clear to the holy man that while he does not understand the why or how of it, somehow the spirit's image was multiplied upon its return to this mortal ream. A quirk of fate. Some chaotic mischief of the hag's, or maybe just a side effect of the Margreve's own powers. The prophet can't be sure. But he is certain their is only one true foe that they face. This is even further confirmed when one of the beasts simply disappear under Ingryd's assault. And so he waits.
A wait that is soon rewarded when one of the creatures steps forward to stand over the prone halfling. All of the beasts step forward and snarl a hyena-like snarl at a scrambling Scramsax as claws lash out. A flash erupts in the wendigo's eyes as it attacks, causing the thick claws to slam into the ice a mere hair's width from where the halfling paddles furiously on the ice to slide away from the beast.
Black eyes narrow as it stops to momentarily contemplate the nearest three fallen foes. Upon only one, does it feel the hunger. Does it sense the pain and anguish. It is this one that draws the wendigo's own hunger. And so it turns away from the scrambling halfling and focuses it deadly attentions upon fallen, helpless Darrel. Claws rake the foxkin opening a quartet of bloody wounds that instantly turn blue and black like fingers left exposed to the cold for much too long.
Wendigo: 129/150
Darrel: 25/50
Gunnar’s Arcane Ward activated when he cast Banishment, but until the return of the creature, he thought no more about it until it crept up on the helpless foxkin and attacked! Instinctively Gunnar projects his arcane ward over the helpless creature and blocks at least some of the damage (23 points in the arcane ward).
”Quickly, which one is it?” Gunnar asks as he prepares to direct the storm’s fury.
Lightning crashes down once more, but this time towards the true foe!
Gunnar moves and positions himself to send a horizontal bolt of lightning at the Wendigo but miss any friends, then lightning coruscates from his hammer!
...before slipping away behind some fallen bramble or one of her companions, whichever was farther away from the encroaching spirit of vice.
Raseri arrests her slide and climbs back to her feet as stormlight burns in her eyes. She once more calls upon the power of the storm, of all storms, and sends it crackling around her, Darrel, and the twelve-fold wendigo.
Lutheal calls for a spiritual lance to attack the right wendigo to show everyone which one it is. And follows it up with a searing it with sacred flames. "That one!"
Ingryd hearing that will move over now letting her rage run hot. blood was in the air making the Grizzly Hide Bear folk all fur and ferocity.
Wading in recklessly she swings and swings with all her might, seeking to beat this creature down and dead.
...before slipping away behind some fallen bramble or one of her companions, whichever was farther away from the encroaching spirit of vice.
Even as Raseri gets back to her feet and once again summons forth the wailing spirits of the northern realms to form a protective whirlwind of howling death, the prophet of Khors summons forth his god's holy lance and drives it toward the troublesome spirit. Unfortunately, the prophet's aim is slightly off as he momentarily confuses one of the images for the true target.
*POP*
The image disappears causing the prophet to blush at his unexpected miscalculation. But no sooner does the vile creature spew forth another cackling howl than the searing flame of Khors engulfs the beast in burning light. Smelling sickly flesh burn and hearing the pained howl all know Luthael's second holy conjuration strikes true. This unleashes the true might and power of the heroes of the north.
Gunnar summons the power of the storm from sky and hammer. The entire shoreline shivers and shakes as lightning strikes the beast twice in rapid succession. Raseri's spirits howl and wail in eternal fury and glee as they rip and shred pale gray flesh and its illusionary counterparts. Unfazed by the maelstrom of furious spirits, Ingryd wields her hammer fueled by her own anger. Two crushing blows slam into the creature turning hard bone into little more than a splintered, shattered, mess. Finally, Scramsax regains her feet and with a quick *snap*crack* of her sling punctures one of the wendigo's eyes before she slips back behind the icy mound of a nearby shrub. The blow snaps the creatures head around and sends it momentarily spinning on the slick surface.
But even battered, blasted, and pulverized the insatiable hunger of its nature still pushes and drives it onward. It's gaze falls upon the lightning wielding dwarf and rage fills its one remaining eye as it easily traverses the distance and slashes its filthy claws at the wizard. The first blow bounces off sturdy dwarven armor, the second misses so badly the creature snaps its own ankle. On a mortal warrior such a thing would have certainly ended the battle, but a manifestation of greed, hunger, and devouring desire feels little pain other than its own need. And so a third blow lands, this time slashing the wizard across the leg, the razor claws also blackening and freezing the flesh sending waves of cold through the dwarf's body.
Wendigo HP: 4/150
Even attempting to Shield himself from the creature does not stop its attack, but the replenished Arcane Ward slightly dulls the bone-chilling hit.
Gunnar answers in kind, reaching out with his ornate hammer, now sparking with arcane power. The Dwarven wizard raises the hammer high, and a forked lightning blast from his conjured storm arcs toward the Wendigo simultaneously!
Attempting to dodge the bolt from the storm, the Wendigo is utterly unprepared for the sizzling impact of a hammer to the face. It crumples to the ground, utterly broken, its hunger finally ended.
"Crows take your eyes and Hel's cold embrace take you to Niflheim," Raseri says before spitting on the corpse of the wendigo before summoning a bolt of lightning to incinerate its remains. (Sacred Flame to make sure it stays down.)
"If you're not dead yet, let me know how hurt you are," she calls out as she tries to count heads.
Now with a moment to think, Gunnar says, ”That is not supposed to happen—even if I am wrong and the being was not native to another plane, it should not have come back…duplicated. Magic this close to the winter witch is corrupted, it seems.”
Ingryd comes over barely hurt as she looks about."Maybe now I can fish" she says causally as she comes over to Gunnar.
As she walked slowly towards Gunnar she looked for her companions and guide. should any need assistance she would grab them and bring them over to the healers.
Gunnar allows himself to be guided over for healing, though he seems to be more focused on the strange magic effect experienced by his Banishment spell.
"Gunnar, the Wendigo is probably native to Midgard somehow to return him from Banishment." Luthael says walking over to his wounded companions.
"I suggest we rest now to give our guide time to recover. If you need further healing after that, Raseri and I can heal you." The prophet suggests.
With a private detective's fan-fare, Scram removes the wendigo's clever mask to reveal the true yip-yapping culprit...
...but of course there is no mask, hyena, nor really any corporeal flesh to rend. The result is a lot of ectoplasm and another demonstration of lever mechanics, a shorter pry-bar being much less efficient.
"Wow, its face is really stuck on there." she commented stuipidly while rifling through the little medicine pouches and spirit capsules dotting the antlered-wolf's fading essence.
Ingryd comes over to the Wendigo and pulls it onto a rock and then looks to the others."We need to burn it."