Luthael spends a bit of time looking Darrel over but finds surprisingly little wrong with the foxkin thanks to Gunnar's intervention. With the wendigo dead, the excruciating pains that wracked his body have fled back into the darkest corners of his mind. It takes a few minutes, but eventually the guide is recovered and well enough to move about on his own.
He dutifully avoids watching Scramsax try to remove the fallen beast's face and instead turns he attention on the foul weather and Gunnar's puzzlement over the creatures mirrored return.
"Magics are often a might...errr...unpredictable here in the Margreve." He says. "Power flows through...well, pretty much everything which is true of most of the world, but here it's just stronger." A quick shrug of the shoulders. "I ain't no scholarly wizard, but I've heard folk say it's because the forest is so old, a living connection to the beginnings of the world. Others claim some fallen god lies buried beneath feeding the trees and all. I had one feller tell me it was because of some confluence of major ley lines creating all the trouble. Really, it just is what it is." Another shrug as he turns to look out at the river and the growing layer of ice.
"Now on the other hand, this weather is down right peculiar even for this old wood." He takes a moment to brush the accumulating ice from his own clothing and head. "Ain't never seen or heard of such a foul mix. And lasting so long. All this ice is going to make traversing the falls nearly impossible. If it don't let up, sticking here ain't much of an option unless you're looking to freeze to death fer sure."
The foxkin's point is punctuated with a shiver as another blast of wind howls down the river valley snapping tree branches and blasting faces with a frigid blend of snow, ice pellets, and rain that freezes instantly upon landing. Even if a fire can be maintained with nothing but wet fuel and some makeshift shelter, this open spot along the river shore offers little opportunity for rest or safety.
"Might be best to try and forge ahead on foot." He points out a pillar of rock jutting from the river nearer the opposite shore. The basalt weathered and worn looks a bit like a finger pointing upward, the rest of the hand buried in the river depths. "That's Devil's Finger, so we aren't but a few miles from the falls and where we'd have to leave the river anyway."
"Its not good even for trees this old that is for sure" Ingryd says looking around ice clinging to her fur and seemingly to vaguely notice it.
Ingryd goes over to scram and sits down and leans in towards Scram."You think you can make through this slog or do you need a shoulder to ride on?"
She says it quietly hoping the others don't hear. She basically doesn't want the others to know should Scram not want them too. She does this as she knows it could be embarrassing. Ingryd often felt embrassassed about her height in most peoples places as she often had to crouch a bit.
Nodding at the foxkin’s words, Gunnar extends his senses into the wood itself, searching for ley lines and other sources of eldritch power as others prepare to break camp.
Hearing the Darrel offer to slog overland, Luthael offers a suggestion, "If we travel overland, will we portage the boats? Maybe we say our good byes to Darrel, and let him escape this place with his new boats."
"Agreed," Raseri says before turning to the foxkin guide. "The decision is yours. We will not think less of you for returning home. All I ask is that you tell us the way towards the old aerie we seek."
The thief summited the Grizzly Mountains as the ice storm intensified, snuggling back into her old apartment up there. Other than a stack of spam mail at the door, not much had changed. Yes, Flippy the Goldfish was floating and completely forgotten. But there was still plenty of dry firewood (only by chance resembling a certain ramshackle lost and found booth) by the hearth and a few bits of chipmunk jerky in the cupboard. Soon the dust was blown off the old recliner and Scramsax the Tenant was finishing her signature on the updated lease agreement.
Just as she was about to doze off into a warm hibernation, the halfling's ears heard 2 priests who cared nothing about coin yammering. 2 priests about to write off 200 crowns and a handshake deal like it was the venial sin of using a dirty word or flipping off a neighbor. Still, Ingryd was pretty comfortable.
" Sounds great. We can let him continue on. Though how will we get out of here?" She says as she makes sure Scram is safe and secure. She didn't want her friend to fall.
Gunnar speaks up, saying, ”Didn’t we pay extra for being guided the safer way? After the wendigo’s attack, though, I’d understand if he changes his mind and returns the coins,”
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
(Have we passed the night in the stone shelter? Is it morning? Or are we forging on in the night?)
Darrel listens to Raseri's offer. For several long moments the foxkin ponders the offer and gives it a meaningful level of genuine consideration as the ice continues to slowly engulf the land and forest in its heavy, thick embrace. Finally, he huffs his cheeks and seems to come to a decision.
"I could describe the way. Even draw ya'll a reasonable map." He says, but then shakes his head. "But even in the best of days, it is a treacherous path. With this..." His hand waves in the air after brushing more ice from his face. "With this it'll be difficult enough for me to not get lost. No, I won't let ya'll go off into this without at least a tiny bit of local knowledge to guide your way. And to be honest with creatures like that roaming the land, I wouldn't be lying if I said I'd rather stick with a group of folk rather than wanderin' about on my own."
"So, a deal is a deal, and I'll not leave you." He looks at the boats and his shoulders sag in disappointment. "But best we leave those here. At this rate the river'll be froze solid in a day, maybe two anyway. Then they surely won't do us any good. No since lugging them around the falls just to leave 'em." He points out a little area near some low rocks. "Let's draw them up the shore further against them rocks. With a little shelter maybe they'll not be too damaged after all this. Then we best git movin'."
Raseri smiles clasps Darrel's arm in a typical warriors' greeting before helping with the boats.
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
His hand waves in the air
Scram gazed out the penthouse window of 2131 W Bearhair Ave, seeing a disturbing sight on the snowy streets below. That slight, foxy hand wave...there was something else to it. Juju. And Darrel had other reasons for wanting to come along, the scoundrel was sure of it.
The fox could lead us wherever he wanted.
It made Scram uneasy, and the razor's edge of Morrin's Misery that much colder at her spine.
"Right," says Gunnar, who has begun to get cold now that his fiery shield has expired. "I shall try to keep you safe, Darrel, as best i can, but my powers are limited. Let us hope the Lord of Thunder favors our purpose this day."
Finishing breaking camp, Gunnar prepares to follow along the treacherous ground.
"To go fight hags and slay them? How could he not," Raseri laughs. Despite the cold and the likely unnatural origins, the storm seems to have lifted her spirits a bit.
"Hags die when My hammer slams into their skulls" Ingryd says bitterly. Not with any hate towards, god or her companions, but just brutal truth.
"They will taste death by my Sting, My fury and pain, my loss and lament. All will be welded against them. ALL OF THEM" She growled as she choked up on her Maul almost instinctually as she was all for slaying the beast.
Luthael smiles and pats Darrel on the back and opines, ”there’s safety in numbers. And Khors blessings.” The prophet helps with the boats and camp.
And yet, with each passing moment. With each thoughtful pause and internal deliberation, Darrel generates confusion, puzzlement. For the river going traveler and guide appears to be telling nothing more than....the truth. He seems genuinely concerned for the safety of those who have entrusted him to guide their way. His surprise and concern over the harsh, dangerous, and potentially deadly weather is also real and surely not an act. And while most certainly his choice to stick together is partially motivated toward his own personal safety, for it is true, even a true saint has some sense of self preservation, there is also a real desire to see the trip through and earn the coin paid. And perhaps have a tale to tell and share up and down the roads and rivers of the Margreve, for after all the foxkin is a singer and musician and passing up the chance at a new tale of heroic deeds seen first hand is much like a drunk passing by a lonely bottle of unclaimed gin.
With the decision made, it takes little time to break camp and store the boats and best as possible under the fraught circumstances. Every step requires concentration and balance. Any mistake or overzealous action results in a tumble that leaves a backside sore and even colder. But as the morning slowly turns to day, everyone develops a mostly functional short-length stride that with the aide of Raseri's walking sticks proves effective enough.
The trek up the valley is slow, cold, and miserable. Ice coated shrubs and low tree limbs constantly drape themselves across what little wisps of a trail Darrel seems to be following. Depending on the icy covered barrier it either means ducking beneath and risking a rain of shattering ice shards down the neck with one wrong bump or working around the offending obstacle and yet another slip and fall on the uneven ground. All the while the wind continues to scour faces and flesh with ice pellets and cold rain that freezes in an instant.
The constant roar of the wind and hiss of the falling moisture is and ever present companions as welcome as a mother in law, with the same desire to stick around much longer than hoped. After two grueling hours the cackle of the storm is accompanied by another sound. At first it is merely a distance, low rumble. Barely noticeable above the howl of the wind. But at the march goes on, the rumble grows in volume. Looking up river, a white cloud of moisture billows and churns. The ground trembles and the ice coated trees tinkle like temple chimes.
Further progress reveals the source of the now raging rumble that easily drowns out storm, wind, and every other noise in the valley at the base of Shattered Staircase or so Darrel calls the massive set of roaring waterfalls.
The name comes from the central most cascade of water as it flows through a wide series of naturally formed terraces from a height a thousand feet higher than where the party struggles along. A trio of other narrower falls rumble, tumble and rush on either side of the great expanse of falling water. Ice coats every rock, nook, and cranny and the massive cloud of spray from the falls freezes as soon as it touches ground again. Icicles wider than Ingryd's chest and longer than a dragon's tail hang in great groups from the cliffs and terraces of the tumbling falls.
Pulling his heavy cloak tight around his face, Darrel points off to the eastern side of the steep rocky cliff. Usually covered in massive ferns, gnarled trees, and clinging vines, the cliff is now a mass of whites, grays, and sparkling silver as all is buried beneath the ice.
"The path up." He says, voice muffled by cloak and the rumble of the falls. "There used to be some shelters near the base of the cliff, but with this weather I don't know what shape they'll be in." He adds starting to work his way away from the river and toward the looming cliff.