Luthael surveys the change to the land and offers, "Scramsax, this new land becomes a monument to the consequences of moving objects that were not meant to be moved."
"I hope the memory of this monument gives you pause the next time that you consider moving an object that is not yours. And, I hope we and Midgard survive the next time that you decide to move another object that was not meant to be moved."
The thief nodded slowly "Surely, I will. What a costly lesson to learn."
"Ironic though. Lord of war burying his own last vigil with a brash final move. Master of tactics, indeed."
Ingryd gathers a few fish while Luthael encourages Scramsax to think twice before grabbing glowing gemstones from odd looking statues. Or maybe even think three or four times, perhaps ask a friend or two for some advice. The message appears to resonate, although one can never be too certain.
Meanwhile, Gunnar spends much of the afternoon stamping around in the wind and ice muttering to himself, jotting down calculations on bits of old scroll after using the handle of his warhammer as some kind of oddball measuring device. At first little seems to come from the work except a near case of frostbite and a hefty amount of irritation at having an entire forest rather peeved off. Especially that forest being one he still needed to travel through to reach his destination. There just didn't seem to be a way to quickly and easily restore the river to its former path. For certain it was going to shift westward nearly a half mile or more under the current circumstances. What that would mean further downstream, he'd no idea. But somewhere between thoughts of wishing he'd stayed home at the forge and daydreaming of halflings safely tucked away in nullboxes, the dwarf makes a series of keen observations and inspiration suddenly strikes.
Scrabbling up to a slightly higher vantage point just a few hundred paces to the east, he confirms his calculations. A solution had presented itself. It would likely require a day or so worth of labor, and a few carefully placed lightning blasts, but it could work. As long as the halfling was willing to give up those magic paints of hers, they could do it. An earthen dam, just wide enough at the two key points, reinforced by blasting the rock on each end. Then excavating a channel in the original riverbed just a few feet deeper. He is certain it could be done. It would likely take every last drop of paint, but the basic path of the river could be restored.
Satisfied, the dwarf manages a rare smile only to have it quickly fade as he notices Scramsax painting a series of mugs, kegs of ale, and cook pots with the precious paints.
Running up, Gunnar says, ”Stop, Scramsax! We will need those paints if we are to redirect the river back to its previous course!” Gunnar lays out his calculations excitedly, hoping the others will join in his attempt to undo some of the damage done.
After a short rest, Gunnar can use Wall of Stone as a stopgap dam until he has rested fully and can do more. But will the rest of the party help, and will Scramsax use the rest of her paints?
Raseri goes with Gunnar, not wanting to leave anyone by themselves after what happened and the change in the forest's mood.
"We should find a way to make amends," she tells the dwarf, more than willing to put aside what happened under the water between her and Luthael for the moment. "I don't think this will be enough."
Scram stopped suddenly as a surrealistic bacon half-rack failed to materialize "Oh? The paints?" willing to hand them over.
Luthael stays with Ingryd improving their campsite. He is quiet in his thoughts remembering the direct divine audience.
”True, but it will be a start and show we are earnest in our desire to put right what has gone wrong,” replies Gunnar.
”Let’s get to work,” he says simply, adding,”Keep the paints for now, Scramsax. I think it is only fitting you finish the brush strokes that set the river aright.”
"For an old forest it seems to have lost the patience of the very trees that grow from it." She says as she continues to cook the fish.
"I will grant it that the loss of the river and such will greatly change the landscape, but all land changes be it overtime or swiftly. Forest fires though dangerous and deadly, bring new life and growth. With eliminating a potential divine rebrith,That I guess would bring the ruinous warmongers to put axe and flame to the very wood, and care not for the blood that drenched the roots beneath in the ever churning warmachine to industriliaze the land around us." Ingryd looks over the woodland and smiles.
"We kept the very glorious sight around us alive another day in its long, long life. It makes me happy this wood will stand even after my bones are dust." She looks over to Luthael and then gestures with her snout to Raseri.
In a softer voice."So how was the kiss?"
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The halfling shook her head in consternation "Have you forgotten Invictusol is the one true Prophet of Midgard? Surely he foresaw the kiss in days past, thus robbing the smooch of its spontaneity and therefore its spice." In truth, Scramsax was more interested in the loot Gunnar was currently scanning. What was it to her, in the final analysis, if a bunch of clerics wanted to make out.
Raseri's planned words of wisdom die unsaid on her tongue as Both Ingryd and Scramsax mention the kiss. It hardly mattered that her consciousness was almost a millennium old, nor that the body, despite looking as if she were not even twenty, was thirty or more years old. (Time was always a slippery thing in the realms between.) No, it hardly mattered because in those centuries and decades she'd not once had a romantic experience, not even the tawdry penny-dreadful romance novels that were favored by the Zobecker's upper class daughters she'd been asked to guard the virtue of by overprotective fathers and mothers.
"D-doomed to drown, was I. H-He ensured that did not come to pass. That is all there was," Raseri answers as she turns away and tries to hide the blush coloring her cheeks. Even without that tell, it sounds more as if the Thorsdottir is trying to convince herself of that than Ingryd or Scram. Before either the bearkin or the halfling can press her, she hurries off to find something, anything, to do.
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"Come now Scram, you and I both know even the foreknowledge kiss doesn't hold a candle to the actual kiss! I remember my first kiss, it was Bori he was so nervous. Though he hid it well. I was ready and then wham, his face and lips where there. It was a shock, but also made me melt. He was a wonderful man..." he let the image drop sniffled then giggled.
" If its too much, I can stop. But you two really are so cute"
Luthael blushes at Ingryd's question. His thoughts are overwhelmed with emotions. He too has not had a romantic experience. His prophetic journey has obviously prevented any amorous adventures.
He gets ready to answer Scramsax's comment about the clarity of his visions when the Thorsdottir answers quitely and turns away. His thoughts evaporate in a rush. What does that mean?
Stunned until Ingryd replies to Scramsax, Luthael finally recollects his reply about his visions and stammers, "my... my... visions are only of future episodes... without context... and... and... none include me... So, I couldn't see this..." His flushed face looks at the women around him: Ingryd, Scramsax, and Raseri.
Raseri's back is to the others, but the tips of her ears are visible just peeking out from behind her platinum locks. They stand out rather magnificently, having turned beet-red.
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Taking pity on Luthael surrounded by the ladies, Gunnar goes over and clasps him on the shoulder, saying gruffly, ”That’s enough mooning about. Let’s get to work,” pulling him over to the area where they need to work for the river be restored.
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Letting himself be saved, Luthael whispers "thank you, Gunnar."
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Sounds of alarm, confusion, and anger echo through the forest throughout the remainder of the afternoon. Such noises almost drown out the awkwardness of prophet and priestess as they both wrestle with foreign feelings and new, unexpected experiences. The strange yowls of forest lions echoing the turmoil churning through youthful hearts and minds no matter how little or long their sojourn in the mortal realm may be. Fortunately, a dwarf is good at ignoring things outside of the immediate task. So under his guidance the work of trying to put one small thing right after a terrible wrong gets under way. In the background, the mournful howls and roars of creatures none wish to meet on a cold windy outcrop of icy rock constantly fill the air both near and far. The storm continues to blow cold and wet. Each passing minute the new lake continues to fill.
Darrel remains agitated and aloof, his eyes constantly flipping between the growing lake to the north and the empty riverbed to the south while his hands scratch at his arms and his tail twitches. His voice can be heard constantly muttering one of a hundred different prayers of protection and forgiveness. When Ingryd mentions her thoughts on the forest, the musician and guide shakes his head.
"The Margreve is much more than a simple forest spirit." He says scratching at his arm. "The forest is a part of everything born beneath the eaves of its canopy. We all feel it. And it feels us. Knows us in its own way. But there is more to it than a simple 'born of this earth' way of being." He frowns as if puzzling out a difficult question. "It is hard to explain to outsiders. For the forest itself is truly alive. An entity and sentience all its own. It thinks, acts, shows kindness...and anger like most mortals. It has desires, needs, and dislikes. Yet, it is not the same as you or I. How could it be. It is a mind larger than any other, encompassing a hundred miles in each direction. It knows and remembers the first days of creation and as you mentioned knows the pains of thousands of fires, storms, droughts and floods. It's felt the harsh bite of tens of thousands of axes and saws. And because of that pain, those who'd conduct such acts usually pay with their lives if they stay within the forest's realm."
He waves a shaking hand out across the growing lake. "A mortal may take a sudden storm flood and the damage he suffers in stride. Perhaps he curses the gods or bad luck for the loss of home and loved ones. But in the end, he knows there was little that could be done. Now should that flood come because a neighbor purposely or negligently ruptured a dam and sent the water flowing across his property, why that same man would seek revenge or go to war over such a deed." He sighs. "I'm afraid the Margreve is now at war with us."
A nod to Gunnar busily guiding Scramsax with her paintbrush as the halfling creates a berm of earth and rock across a narrow low point to the west. "It is good that Master Gunnar seeks to return the river to its normal path. But I greatly fear it will not be enough."
Darrel's fears do not hamper the effort. Gunnar's feel and experience with stone, is up to the difficult task. Knowing its weak points, understanding how it will break or not, calculating how much to fill a channel, all provide what is needed to sufficiently block and reroute the river back over the falls. The channel is narrower, for there simply isn't enough paint to carve out a wider path, but it is enough. By the following morning the lakeshore is just rising to the newly carved channel. Within an hour water is already flowing through the gap and starting to flow back into the original riverbed.
It is a start, but the trees of the Margreve still loom dark and dour. The forest still echoes with harsh calls. Even worse, upon waking from a restless nights sleep, all find belt buckles, cookpots, knives, armor, and any other bit of non-magical metal to be rusted, tarnished and in need of serious maintenance.
"So you like the Thundergod's wench eh? Nice to know you really are human oh high and mighty Prophet of Khors." The voice of the Sword speaks from within the confines of the nullbox, your title said with a sneering smirk. "Maybe together we could make her forget that thundering god of flatulence and hook up with a real power, eh?"
Grumbling at the reduction in power due to the nightmares, Gunnar gets up early and finishes identifying the items, soon afterwards preparing his spells for the day while eating breakfast.
”We’ve done what we can,” announces Gunnar, surveying their attempt to correct the river’s course. ”Let’s move on to take on the ice hag and rescue some dragon eggs,” he adds, eager to get moving.
" So we inadvertantly caused it to loose a great Loss?"" Ingrud says as she goes to see the trees.
" You felt that.a pain that irrevitably changes you." She speaks to the wood and then looks around.
" I know that pain. I know that feeling. You are magnifying it by the very breadth of your being. Invading every inch of your being. Nothing to numb it. That is the danger" she says touching the tree.
" I feel you need something. I have a task I must complete. One I owe to people. I may die. But I will return and commune with you. See what can be done." she says as she then looks to the others.
" I may need to do something to appease the wood. I know not what yet, but I know that hurt and pain."
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Luthael replies to the evil artifact, it has been so much better with you keeping silent. Again, your perspective is not wanted nor desired.
He awakes exhausted from the night of harassment by the forest. "Think we're going to have to make it up to the Margreve Forest on the way. Otherwise, travel will be even more difficult."
Scram mourned the loss of her favorite painting set, caring little for some uptight forest that can't chill out whining about more water (oh dear!). As a final farewell to the magical colors that had fueled the thief's creativity since the destruction of the false-priest's blimp, a tiny signature dong was inscribed on the berm. Forever it would stand sentinel like a spiteful middle-finger winking at the resting place of Carn...who in the final analysis was the one truly responsible for the destructive alteration.
Hearing the fox say the fix wouldn't even matter, and that a very rare, beloved wondrous item was just completely wasted "Dang. Are you freaking kidding me? What's with this forest, anyways? Why can't it just be cool instead of being such a jerk all the time? It needs to relax...right, Void Hammer?" looking to the apathetic nexus of smashing for support.
"I mean, I get it, its alive. A big mind, sentience, et cetera. Old. Ok. Lots of people are alive, old, and are uptight jerks. It doesn't mean we owe them anything, or bend over backwards to appease 'em. I mean personally, that's all the more reason to tell someone to screw off, am I wrong? Maybe if it was a wee bit less uppity it wouldn't get shat on every day by minotaur undead, giant freshwater octopi and forgotten gods..."
The more the thief thought about it, the less respect the Margreve truly deserved. It was acting like a petty Barsellan neighborhood crimelord "Kneel and kiss my ring or find another street to walk through. Do anything that upsets me and there will be hell to pay..."
Not to say that such extortion scams weren't profitable.
Raseri wakes curled up in a tight ball and shivering from fright. It has been a long time since the storm-blessed maiden has suffered a nightmare of her sisters and her hag "grandmother." It is always the damned silver eyes that haunt her the most. She doesn't speak of her ordeal, almost grateful to have something mundane to worry with and take her mind off of what may be hunting her from the shadows. As the others prepare breakfast, Raseri uses her tools and skills to fix everyone's gear.
Hearing Ingryd and Luthael speak of the Old Margreve's anger and their need to appease it lest it hinder them in their mission, Raseri decides to act. She walks to one of the three most sacred of trees she sees along the tree line, a grand oak, and reaches out for its mighty trunk. She closes her eyes and says a brief prayer to her god for success before asking to speak with the ancient forest, waiting for permission before touching the proud tree of the Margreve.
"I am Raseri Whitescale, Thorsdottir, Lady of Storms, and Fey-touched. I ask to speak with the Elder Wood, Old Margreve, so that it might know of the grave disaster we seek to avert and so that it may tell us how to make right the damage caused by our sticky-fingered companion."
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You begin with the ancient sword. A blue lapis stone blade of certainly ancient origin, it crackles and sparks as your ritual begins to take hold.
Who are you? Asks the weapon in its haughty voice. It seems I cannot help but be passed from thief to thief. One steals god souls, the other wishes to steal my secrets. The blade crackles and sparks again causing a mild shock to dance across your fingertips. A warning really, nothing more. I cannot prevent your intrusion bearded thief, but know I will remember this affront.
The blade says as its nature begins to manifest within your mind. It is a blade nearly as old as Midgard itself. Forged during the war between the gods and the giants from the storm filled chaos that engulfed the world following the days of creation. It is a weapon of Law. Forged with the very energy of the Storms of Creation, it was once Carn's chosen weapon during the war. It drank deep of giant blood once even wounded the world worm. But its deeds were long, long ago. Both it and its wielder forgotten by most mortals of the world. Imprisoned by Perun just like its owner. It is now a bitter, archaic weapon who only allows itself to be wielded by one it deems honorable enough and worthy of its might and power.
The hide shield giggles softly in your mind as you pick it up and begin the ritual. Heeheee. That tickles. The feminine voice says with another laugh. Oh, but I must look a mess. I just can't believe what happened. Why, my paint was already faded, now it is all scuffed. I even, why I even have mud on my stitching!
Ugh! Suddenly Sylvia pops into your mind. Please tell me this ancient tart isn't the kind of protection you're interested in?
Oh, who are you to talk. Counters the shield with a sneer and snark that would fit right into a Zobeck back alley brothel. And who are you calling ancient you screeching harpy? You've got a few years under your belt yourself and at least I'm still in my original body. Not just some trapped old spirit who couldn't keep her day job. It is the first time you've heard a shield snort with such arrogant derision, it isn't a pleasant sound. But just as quickly the shield's attitude changes and you can almost feel a wide smile aimed seductively in your direction.
So, what is it you'd like to know dear? It whispers. If you'd just be so nice as to help get me cleaned up and presentable I'd be just pleased if we had a little time to talk...just the two of us. You know I just adore beards. Beards and thick arms like yours.
As a bonus action, absorbed damage can be discharged via a ranged beam attack. If 10 points has been absorbed, the bearer can generate aone beam attack doing 1d10 force damage. The bearer makes a regular ranged spell attack using CHA in order to hit. The bearer can increase the damage of the beam by d10 in additional 5 point increments up to the total amount available.
Picking up the warhammer, the first thing you notice is how heavy it is. Nearly twice the weight of your own weapon, the mysterious weapon is chill to the touch and emanates an empty feeling of apathy. It takes your complete concentration to continue with the ritual instead of just giving up to contemplate the futility of the mortal struggle and uselessness of life in the multiverse in general. It is a challenge not easily overcome, but you manage to do so, for a while.
Hello. Mutters the black hammer in a bored, depressed voice. I'd say good morning, but I really don't see anything good about it at all. I thought it was dull down in that cave, but all of this gray, icy rain and wind make that look like a rather warm and dry paradise. Not that there is really any such thing as paradise. That's just a myth really. It sighs heavily causing a slight pain to manifest in between your shoulder blades. It is as if someone suddenly just placed a massive weight upon your back that feels impossible to put down.
I don't really know why you'd want to know anything about me. The hammer continues. I'm not important. You're not important. The world will just trudge along in blissful ignorance toward its ultimate destruction. Why bother?
The weight gets just a little heavier along with your heart as you listen and wait for the ritual. By the time it is through, you've stared into the abyss of apathy and find yourself barely able to step back from the edge of that churning vortex of time.
If the hammer has performed the killing blow on three living beings then the wielder may release the trapped souls. Doing so creates a Whirlwind of Lost Souls in a 20' radius centered on the wielder. Anyone caught within the area of effect must make a DC20 WIS save or immediately suffer 6d6 psychic damage and be stunned until the end of the wielder's next turn. This is a bonus action, but can only be used once per day. After performing this action the bearer must make a DC20 WIS save or suffer from a complete lack of caring or concern about anything. This leaves the bearer with the Restrained condition as they succumb to the hammer's philosophy for one hour or until they make a successful save. The save can be attempted again every five minutes.
The hammer weighs twice that of a regular hammer simply because of its attitude.
Finally, you come to the bracer. You ready yourself for whatever odd personality or essence that might reside within the ancient item. But to your surprise the beautifully wrought item appears to be free of such manifestations. But it is not without power. Letting the ritual perform its work you discover its properties in blissful peace and quiet.
Scramsax sighed, utterly defeated by the forest's tyrannical intimidation tactics. She glanced around for a convenient rumplestool to rest upon, but found only rotten logs and razor sharp ice crystals. Meanwhile the others would just bow down to whatever authority had the most power, scolding the rebel for being unwise.
No wonder the hag called the place home. ...a hag with a dragon egg no less. Soon to be a freak-ville muppet-liver dragon egg, the thief supposed. A strong alliance could be had by exploiting a tyrant's ego...but equally without doubt was that the two would betray each other before the end.
Finally Gunnar stood from his ritualistic pose, and got shot with a cynical "Heh. Let me guess, all trash? Shoulda left it buried, something along those lines?"
Quote:
“The hide shield giggles softly in your mind as you pick it up and begin the ritual. Heeheee. That tickles. The feminine voice says with another laugh. Oh, but I must look a mess. I just can't believe what happened. Why, my paint was already faded, now it is all scuffed. I even, why I even have mud on my stitching!
Ugh! Suddenly Sylvia pops into your mind. Please tell me this ancient tart isn't the kind of protection you're interested in?
Oh, who are you to talk. Counters the shield with a sneer and snark that would fit right into a Zobeck back alley brothel. And who are you calling ancient you screeching harpy? You've got a few years under your belt yourself and at least I'm still in my original body. Not just some trapped old spirit who couldn't keep her day job. It is the first time you've heard a shield snort with such arrogant derision, it isn't a pleasant sound. But just as quickly the shield's attitude changes and you can almost feel a wide smile aimed seductively in your direction.
So, what is it you'd like to know dear? It whispers. If you'd just be so nice as to help get me cleaned up and presentable I'd be just pleased if we had a little time to talk...just the two of us. You know I just adore beards. Beards and thick arms like yours.
Hide Shield of the Warrior: +3 shield. Made from the skin of a cloud giant sorceress, this shield once belonged to the High Warrior of Carn before the god was dethroned. Over the eons it has become a vain and frivolous item that while sturdy as adamantine, abhors any blemish, stain, scratch or even the chance of such things happening. Once attuned, the shield allows the wearer to absorb up to 50 points of mundane or magical damage per day, including that from spells such as magic missile. However, in order to activate this effect the bearer must make a DC15 STR check or the shield actively moves to avoid the incoming attack leaving the bearer exposed. If exposed, no damage absorbed and all attacks against the bearer have advantage until the beginning of their next turn.
As a bonus action, absorbed damage can be discharged via a ranged beam attack. If 10 points has been absorbed, the bearer can generate aone beam attack doing 1d10 force damage. The bearer makes a regular ranged spell attack using CHA in order to hit. The bearer can increase the damage of the beam by d10 in additional 5 point increments up to the total amount available.”
Mentally, Gunnar responds, ”Sylvia, you were a gift from Thor, and have already proved your mettle beyond doubt. Besides, I have concerns about this hide shield’s willingness to actually block damage when it really matters. She needs a mother’s firm hand of discipline.”
Gunnar takes the shield to Ingryd and explains the situation, including the need for a bit of stern parenting and an occasional literal strong hand to keep the sultry shield in line.
Quote:
“You begin with the ancient sword. A blue lapis stone blade of certainly ancient origin, it crackles and sparks as your ritual begins to take hold.
Who are you? Asks the weapon in its haughty voice. It seems I cannot help but be passed from thief to thief. One steals god souls, the other wishes to steal my secrets. The blade crackles and sparks again causing a mild shock to dance across your fingertips. A warning really, nothing more. I cannot prevent your intrusion bearded thief, but know I will remember this affront.
The blade says as its nature begins to manifest within your mind. It is a blade nearly as old as Midgard itself. Forged during the war between the gods and the giants from the storm filled chaos that engulfed the world following the days of creation. It is a weapon of Law. Forged with the very energy of the Storms of Creation, it was once Carn's chosen weapon during the war. It drank deep of giant blood once even wounded the world worm. But its deeds were long, long ago. Both it and its wielder forgotten by most mortals of the world. Imprisoned by Perun just like its owner. It is now a bitter, archaic weapon who only allows itself to be wielded by one it deems honorable enough and worthy of its might and power.
Blade of the First Storm: +3 lawful blade. Any of chaotic alignment who attempt to grab or wield the blade are met with an initial shock of electricity. If they do not drop the blade a full shock is delivered dealing 2d6 electrical damage each round and a DC15 CON check is required to keep hold of the blade. When striking any chaotic aligned creature, giant, or aberration the blade delivers an additional 4d6 electrical damage (CON Save DC15 for half). Other creatures receive 2d6 electrical damage (CON Save DC15 for half). If the wielder is on good terms with the blade and makes a successful CHA(Persuasion) check vs DC20, then it will summon a Storm of Vengeance per the spell. This can only be attempted once per day. Requires attunement.”
Mentally, Gunnar responds to the sword’s thoughts, ”Call it what you will, venerable and honored blade, but for my part I only wish to discern how you may be of use to us in the current age now that the age of your creator is long past. I know of one honorable and true, who will wield you with honor and righteousness, though he may be unfamiliar with wielding such a magnificent weapon. Will you undertake the task of teaching him in exchange for once again having an honorable purpose in this world?”
Handing the sword to Luthael and explaining the situation (Luthael is Lawful but may not have Longsword proficiency, correct?), Gunnar suggests he take the mighty blade.
"Thank you, Gunnar." Luthael replies gathering his thoughts before thinking at the Blade of the First Sword, It's good to meet a new sentience. I am Luthael Invictusol, Prophet of Khors, the god of the sun in all its heat, light, and radiance. I've never trained with a long blade, such as you are. Instead, I bring the divine blessings of Khors to violent conflicts. I would be willing to learn, if you can train me enough to not embarrass you.
As you will discover, I carry another sword, but it is a EVIL artifact. I am questing to destroy it removing its stain from Midgard. If you find yourself agreeing with it, be very careful. Its destruction has a certain timing to it, so while waiting we recently made a deal with a dragon to save her eggs from a hag in exchange for the dragon leaving a village unharmed. The village welcomed refugees that we saved from gnome slavers and priestesses of the goddess of blood... We've been on this quest for awhile...
Anyway, while the small fellow who found you is unfortunately a thief, who even my god has personally chastised me for not keeping him under better control, I hope you can take comfort in being released. If you had not been taken from your last location, you would have been lost to civilization forever, buried beneath a hill of rocks.
Do you have a preferred name with which to be addressed? You can call me Luthael.
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Quote:
“ Finally, you come to the bracer. You ready yourself for whatever odd personality or essence that might reside within the ancient item. But to your surprise the beautifully wrought item appears to be free of such manifestations. But it is not without power. Letting the ritual perform its work you discover its properties in blissful peace and quiet.
Bracers of the Deft Defender: +3 to the wearer's AC. The bearer can do one of the following action up to three times each day.
1. As a standard action cast a Major Image per the spell. This uses the caster's INT to determine the save DC.
2. The bearer can use their reaction to increase their AC up to their proficiency bonus when hit by an attack. This could prevent the attack from hitting.
3. The bearer may cast the Teleport spell.”
Gunnar moves over to Scramsax and says, ”Thank you for sacrificing your paints. I know it was a difficult choice, and I appreciate it. This item should allow you to occasionally paint with your imagination, as well as protect you somewhat from harm. Finally, it will be good for me—I can’t always go diving after you to teleport you to safety, but this bracer can be with you.”
The Dwarven wizard gives Scramsax the details of the bracer as best he knows them.
"I could use a new shield. It needs paint. Ooo Maybe a Bee or a Stein!" She says looking at the shield and handling it. As she does she smiles at the craftsmanship as well as her claws not finding hold.
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“ Picking up the warhammer, the first thing you notice is how heavy it is. Nearly twice the weight of your own weapon, the mysterious weapon is chill to the touch and emanates an empty feeling of apathy. It takes your complete concentration to continue with the ritual instead of just giving up to contemplate the futility of the mortal struggle and uselessness of life in the multiverse in general. It is a challenge not easily overcome, but you manage to do so, for a while.
Hello. Mutters the black hammer in a bored, depressed voice. I'd say good morning, but I really don't see anything good about it at all. I thought it was dull down in that cave, but all of this gray, icy rain and wind make that look like a rather warm and dry paradise. Not that there is really any such thing as paradise. That's just a myth really. It sighs heavily causing a slight pain to manifest in between your shoulder blades. It is as if someone suddenly just placed a massive weight upon your back that feels impossible to put down.
I don't really know why you'd want to know anything about me. The hammer continues. I'm not important. You're not important. The world will just trudge along in blissful ignorance toward its ultimate destruction. Why bother?
The weight gets just a little heavier along with your heart as you listen and wait for the ritual. By the time it is through, you've stared into the abyss of apathy and find yourself barely able to step back from the edge of that churning vortex of time.
Warhammer of the Void: +3 warhammer. Carn forged this ancient obsidian stone hammer himself infusing the heart of the weapon with an actual sliver of the Void. Anything struck by the weapon must make a CON save vs DC15 or suffer an additional 4d6 necrotic damage as the weapon devours the target's physical and spiritual connection to the mortal realm. Half on a successful save.
If the hammer has performed the killing blow on three living beings then the wielder may release the trapped souls. Doing so creates a Whirlwind of Lost Souls in a 20' radius centered on the wielder. Anyone caught within the area of effect must make a DC20 WIS save or immediately suffer 6d6 psychic damage and be stunned until the end of the wielder's next turn. This is a bonus action, but can only be used once per day. After performing this action the bearer must make a DC20 WIS save or suffer from a complete lack of caring or concern about anything. This leaves the bearer with the Restrained condition as they succumb to the hammer's philosophy for one hour or until they make a successful save. The save can be attempted again every five minutes.
The hammer weighs twice that of a regular hammer simply because of its attitude.”
Knowing the hammer literally wouldn’t care what he says, Gunnar does not bother responding. Instead, he speaks to Ingryd and Raseri, ”This one is difficult. The hammer of the void is powerful, but it projects a massive aura of apathy that would be very tempting for you, Ingryd, to fall into when you think of your family, if only to dull the pain. On the other hand, your passion could motivate it to care again…perhaps.”
”Raseri, you could certainly use this weapon, but it may provide the same temptation—I know you less well, so perhaps you will know best. In any case, perhaps once I identify the spear the choice will become more clear,” Gunnar adds.
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Scram examined the gem studded armlet closely with her jeweler's loupe. It was fancy, that was for sure. The thief had always presented him/herself as being unarmed and modestly adorned for a peasant. The Six had seen her sling-as-a-hidden-bracelet trick, and spine-cradled ice dagger, enough times to know the leather straps at her wrist were something more. That the irritation and readiness at a snap were elemental.
But now Scramsax the Forest Sprinkler clasped together bracers of unimaginable wealth, with a dwarven magi's promise of illusory control, script-altering rewrites of time, and the chance to see Vee and Illarya whenever the mood struck.
It was a welcome advance, but of course she could never hold a candle to the winged-cow lumberjack of buried lore.
The thief's frown was turned upside-down (rumplestool or no) as a sense of vindication swelled within. Watching the wizard pass out handfuls after handfuls of booty reminded the scoundrel of his/her central axiom: loot was king after all. It was time for a sweet mouth full of pipe smoke, and how.
"If you think I didn't notice what you did fer me down there, Gunz, yer wrong. Klepper don't forget a mate standing up like that, not never." the thief promised, and assured.
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After a bit of hot tea and a nap, Gunnar is able to refocus and examine both the jade spear and the diamond ring. It only takes a few moments for the wizard to hand the ring back to the halfling with a quick shrug of his shoulders.
"Princess cut diamond. Full carot. A simple setting and gold band. It's fairly old. If you look at the pattern on the band it is likely from the post Mage War era. Non-magical. At auction you'd probably get about five thousand gold crowns in the markets of Zobeck."
Turning his attention to the spear, the wizard once again begins the ritual incantations to discover the secrets of the ancient weapon.
Hey! Hey, dwarf? The voice of the spear calls out sounding more and more like that crazy family member who everyone tries to avoid sitting next to during the midwinter festival feast. What are you doing? Have you washed your hands lately, they feel all oily and grimy. Are you leaving fingerprints? It feels like you're leaving fingerprints. You know carelessly dirty fingers are the number one cause of weapon rot. Ranks right up there with fu%^ing fish goop and cat s$%t. I swear, if this doesn't lead to a body soon, someone is going to pay. You think just because I'm old and don't have a body I can't still take you, well think again. The spear wriggles around in Gunnar's hands, but the dwarf manages to hold on without getting cut or interrupting the ritual.
Raseri just happens to be sitting nearby, her own crafted sword in hand as she cleans and oils the blade. The spear point lets out a low admiring whistle. This is disturbing for everyone in camp.
Nice scroll work on that blade. The spear says with a desiring leer. You look like a Thorsdottir that's got some talent. How 'bout you dump that boy-prophet over there and we get together? You and me sweetheart, with talent like yours and a new body, we could really put some crackle in the multiverse.
Gunnar channels a small bit of electrical energy into the spear, drawing its attention back to the wizard and the ritual.
Whoa! Hey now. No need to get all huffy. You can't blame a spear for checking out his options. Am I right?
With a sigh the dwarf pushes the ritual forward finally able to gather the secrets of the ancient weapon.
"You okay Gunnar, you look a bit overwhelmed? Are they that..um strange?"Ingryd says as she pats the dwarf on the shoulder as she serves him some fish.
" So A Shield, seems good fit, I need more protection thats not armor. Armor weighs me down. Hinders me." Ingryd looks at the Shield.
"Hello, Shield I am Ingryd, do you want a Mead Stein or a Bee as our symbol? Maybe gold on a field of green, or white? Show our enemies the power of the Honey Maiden"She smiles holding it up looking at the shield.
Quote:
“Spear of Purification and Justice. +3 spear (when a body is attached. Can be used as a +3 dagger without a body but attacks have Disadvantage.) Any evil creature struck by the spear must make a WIS save vs DC15 or suffer an additional 4d6 radiant damage and be stunned until the end of the wielder's next turn as the war god's energy purifies the enemy soul of its evil deeds. Half damage on a success and no stun. When the spear makes the killing blow on a foe, it absorbs the spirit and cleanses all evil from its being before releasing it to move on. This also prevents evil demons, fiends, or other planer creatures from returning to their home plane, thus destroying them completely. Unfortunately, the residue of evil left behind by this process corrodes any haft attached to the spear. Following a killing blow, the wielder must make a DC15 Woodworking or Blacksmith roll to keep the haft from rotting. If rotted, all attacks with the weapon are at Disadvantage and a second killing blow and failure results in the haft being completely destroyed.“
Bringing the spear head to Raseri, Gunnar describes the weapon in detail. He says, ”The ultimate in purification, this weapon drains the evil from those it kills though in doing so it corrupts the haft that bears the blade. Until we have the opportunity to collaborate on creating a haft that can drain away the evil residue instead of being corrupted by it, we will need to have several hafts ready—they can be short hafts for a one-handed version or a long haft for a pike.”
"Thank you for your concern, Ingryd. Yes, these are items of great power and great risk to use, so I have tried to be very thorough in understanding exactly their capabilities. They should be quite useful in fighting the ice hag, as long as we are able to adapt them successfully," answers Gunnar.
"We seem to have mollified the forest somewhat, but we should get moving--we are losing daylight," he adds, worried about getting the dragon's eggs rescued in time.
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Ingryd will take time to attune to the Shield.
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Following his long effort to commune with and delve the secrets of the items discovered with the Temple now Tomb of Carn, Gunnar readies himself to leave. But at his slings his pack over his shoulders, the dwarf sees Scramsax puffing on her pipe and pointing a thumb toward the tree line. The he spots Raseri, kneeling, hands resting gently upon the handle of her blade with the end stuck into the snow and ice. She has obviously been there for quite some time, lost in her own meditative state as she attempts to seek a pathway toward reconciliation with the vast forest whose realm must still be traversed.
With a shrug and a sigh, Gunnar drops his pack and sits down next to Luthael's fire. Ingryd smiles and hands him a fillet of honey roasted river trout.
It seems like hours that you remain in place. The snow begins to gather upon your armor and cloak, ice drips from the handle of your blade. Soon enough, your bent posture nearly matches that of the great tree. By now, most would have grown impatient. Moved on thinking the entire attempt a waste of time or just a quick path to frostbite. But you know differently. Gods, spirits, the great powers of the world, they all work upon their own timeline and in their own often peculiar or unknowable ways. Besides, the cold is of little concern to a daughter of storms born in the harsh north where Boreas' breath is a constant companion. So you pray and wait. Wait and pray.
You hear the calls both loud and soft that drift among the trees of the wood. The panic, fury, and confusion of earlier has dwindled. Anger lingers, but even that has softened somewhat since the river's flow was finally restored. Pain. It is pain that you sense in the soft rattle of ice coated limbs. Pain in the mournful wolf call and sorrowful roar of an owlbear. You mind recalls the fallen trees cascading into the cavern from above. See again the ancient tree clinging to the edge of the landslide suddenly break loose and tumble down into the lake. It once mighty grandeur now nothing more than shattered and broken firewood, drowning in ice water. At first, you think this vision is simply a manifestation of your own guilt or sorrow at the inadvertent destruction. But then a thousand more images crop into your mind. A copse of young alder saplings growing near the old riverbed suddenly disappearing into oblivion. A curly willow surrounded by dogwoods floating dead and covered with ice. A sparrow's nest still clings to the branch of a shattered fir, amazingly a tiny egg still intact, but frozen solid. On and on the images flash into your mind. All painful images of doom brought upon the forest and its denizens with swift and unsuspected fury.
Another image. A small room. A cottage or cabin, brightly furnished with elegantly carved chairs, table, even a teapot of solid wood. A dark haired young woman helps an elderly man off the floor.
"Are you alright?" She says in alarm. Her voice is filled with worry.
"Yes. Yes, I think so." Replies the elder, his hand shaking as he accepts the young woman's aide. He winces and clutches his chest. I don't know what happened." He adds, his ancient eyes casting about the room, but seeing well beyond the four simple walls.
You...you just collapsed. Cried out as if in pain and collapsed. She says with shock and concern. How is that possible?
The old man grimaces. Steps to a bed and collapses into it. For a few moments he lies there gasping. Something happened. A part of me was harmed. Much as if someone came a cut away several of your fingers and blocked the blood flow within your body.
But...but you are a forest? How could that be?
A good question, and one I will seek an answer to once I've a chance to heal.
The old man's eyes close and he appears to fall asleep on the bed. The young woman still full of fear and worry goes back to the table straightens it and soon begins writing her experience down in a journal. The soft gentle chorus of a lullaby humming across her lips as the image fades.
As the image fades another comes into focus. The great expanse of the forest as viewed from the eyes of a griffon far above. The usual bright, lush, green of the Margreve now blanketed in ice and snow. Except where a new wound of uncovered earth lines the shores of a long wide lake filled with fallen trees and debris. It empties through a narrow gap into a wide riverbed still half its previous width. Suddenly the image spirals down and down. For a moment you swoon as the brilliant white ground rushes upward. Then the trajectory flattens, flows north and west, along the upper reaches of the river and deeper into the wood until mountains rise up. Within the storm shrouded foothills and ancient tower rises through the clouds, its base cloaked in swirling clouds. Even though you do not have the same arcane sight as Gunnar, you can feel the flow of power from that place. A constantly turning spiral of energy centered upon that gnarled finger of stone. Emanating from that mass of energy is the unnatural cold and winter weather burying the forest beneath ice and snow.
You drop closer to the ancient stone peak, gaze upon its ramparts. You flesh crawls with the power in the air. Even your winter weathered eyes and flesh feel the sting and bite of cold death and doom clawing at any and all living things within its unforgiving grasp. A wind peers into a dank, dark, gloom filled where an ancient evil sits upon a throne of flesh and bone. Her poked, wrinkled, and evil infused face rising up to sneer at your intrusion. A single eldritch colored eye glowers and comes to life with blood thirsty light. It blinks once, twice, and a final third time.
"Eeeee HeeeHEEEEHEEEEEHEEEE!" The cackling laughter is the sound of ten thousand bones clattering together across a slate board. A flick of her wrist and you find yourself screaming, tumbling into the cloud filled abyss. Just before you hit a single thought finally comes in reply to your original question.
KILL THE HAG.
With a start you awaken from your trance. Hunger gnaws at gut and despite your acclimation you shiver with cold as you look back at you companions huddled against the wind and ice within Gunnar's shelter. Lutheal's carefully maintained fire providing a small bastion of heat and warmth against the Hag's Winter.
Raseri gasps as her consciousness returns from the vision she went on. She shivers, both from the cold and the remembered chill of the hag's magic and that of the frost-hearted fey that had trapped her in ice. She looks up at the maple and the dark sky above, and her heart longs to see the rivers of light, of blue and green and red and white that would dance across the sky, and the stars that shone like brilliant jewels. Her eyes fall to her sword, and the patterns of flowing light in the starmetal inlays, and reminds herself that this cold is unnatural, and the Old Margreve is not her home of old.
Not that her home existed any longer.
She shakes the thoughts from her mind. She and her companions have a monster to slay, and while the hag is no giant, the wicked crone would add to her deeds. She turns back to the maple and rests her forehead against its trunk.
"Þetta sver ég við þig. Við munum sjá visnaða kríuna drepna eða deyja við það," she says softly to the Old Margreve before returning to the others gathered around the fire.
As she warms herself by the fire, she cleans and oils her blades and checks on the rest of her gear. The Spear of Purification and Justice, however, makes it impossible to gather her thoughts and composure. Bad enough Scramsax and Ingryd were and will tease her and Luthael about the kiss that certainly was nothing more than a way to save her life, but she is not willing to endure the same coming from a poor replacement to her still missing Viskan. She smiles as Gunnar is willing to intercede for her.
"I am skilled in many crafts," she tells the spearhead after Gunnar tells her about what he has discovered about it. "Unless you wish to be fitted to the most gnarled and half-rotted pieces of elm and hemlock I can find, then perhaps you should mind how your tongue wags."
Once she is satisfied that the spearhead understands, she thanks Gunnar for telling her about what this artifact is capable of, she looks it over, seeking any maker's marks or runes that could tell her more about the spear and who made it.
"Have you a name," she asks the spearhead as she examines it.
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Ingryd will bound with the hammer. In the end she smiles. " Meet Ennui the Void hammer and Vanity the Shield. Ennui needs some love he is special. While Vanity needs to shine. So next time we are in toen we are gettinf her detailed and I think a Bee in a Mug will be my crest " She says as Her Maul goes onto her back.
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Scram humbly accepted the many, non-existent 'thanks for the treasure Scrammy's and 'way to go, what a legendary thief for getting us all this stuff's her companions showered-not-showered forth. Everyone except one certain sentient something.
The halfling smirked at Ingryd, happy to see its new honey-flavored owner "I dig the vibe that hammer's putting out, Griz. You know when Carn was collapsin' that cave and all them fish were floppin' freestyle, it was the only one that kept cool...out of all that altar litter. Has a certain outlook on life we could all take a page from, soul-sucking negathesis or no."
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"You know Scram you, did good getting these. it'll help us against the hag and even more crazy evil like the Ghouls. Ennui though needs that special attention to get him out of the funk." She says as she then giggles.
" Also we got some decent food outta the stunt. And we can't fight the Hideous Hage on an empty stomach"
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Name. I have had a thousand names. Kingkiller. Giantslayer. Thorn. Bloodletter. Justice. Honor. Crowntaker. I have worn so many mortal monikers it is laughable.
Tell me about it. Emerges that other voice. Oddly, it seems just a bit less muffled and stifled than it has been previously. Mortals just love to 'make a thing their own' by slapping some name or label upon it. Pfft. As if we really give a s%$t.
Oh, that is quite true. Replies the first sword. Say, I think we've met before? It's been forever since I've seen the light of day, but your voice sounds familiar. Holy relic of Khors during the Inquisition, right? Slay any infidels lately?
Yeah, yeah. That's me. Replies the evil sword from within the nullbox. Nah, haven't been doing much the last few centuries. Just keeping some upstart saint in check. Course this lot came along and buggered all of that. And some how it's all my fault. Mortals. They create you for a purpose and then get all 'boo hoo, you're so evil, now we've got to melt you down to make earrings.' Bah!
Huh...tell me about it. How many times have I been labeled good, evil, chaotic, lawful, and then slated for destruction. Reality is, not a one of them have any real honor or true understanding of law and order.
Amen, brother. Well, good to see you again. Whatever you do, don't let him stuff you in a box.
Will do. Replies the stone blade.
You feel the blades attention focus back in your direction. It is an odd feeling, as if one of you former temple teachers was appraising your most recent exams and finding them wanting.
So...a virgin with the blade and the babes. The sword says with a heavy sigh. Right then. I guess we better get started so you don't end up stabbing yourself in the foot...or that meddling thief of yours. There a pause before you hear the blade mutter something like that would really be a shame wouldn't it. You're pretty sure it isn't being sincere in that moment.
Oh we've met. Replies the shield as if she were just dropped into a fresh pile of cow dung. Spent the last couple of thousand years together. He's such a bore. I mean really if I'm seen with him, everyone will talk.
Whatever. Counters the hammer. Listening to your constant complaints and preening nonsense isn't really my idea of fun. But what point is fun when we're all hurtling toward the end anyway.
Ugh! See what I mean. He's impossible. The shield goes silent. You are fairly certain if she could, she'd have stamped off to her room and slamming the door closed before reading angsty Vidimese poetry for the rest of the day. [/i]
For a moment you feel as if the hammer was actually smiling, but the sense is gone as quick as it came and it is back to its normal gloom filled self.
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Ingryd giggles then speaks with her new additions.
'Vanity, he sees the world as the bleak reality of what it sadly will do end. But you see we need to remind him about the other aspects of life like love, family, friends, alcohol!' Ingryd says to Vanity then looks to Ennui 'Humor too'
After the conversation in his head finishes, he silently prays to Khors for the patience and willpower to bear such swords. He ignores the comment about Scramsax, lest they nurture a desire to destroy the thief instead of just keeping her under control.
Then, the prophet addresses the non-evil sword, Now that you are reacquainted with the unholy sword that I carry, I would pick Thorn from your list of previous names, unless there is a particular name with which you prefer.
How much control do you have of your physical weight? Can you make yourself as light as a dagger? Then, I would need no lessons to wield you. Otherwise, let's get started.
After not getting a reply from the spearhead, Raseri sighs and looks out over the water of the filling lake, and spots what she's looking for, a straight tree, perhaps only a foot wide near the roots, but not too far from shore and still large enough to get some useable hafts from. The only problem is someone will have to swim out to it.
"Darryl, yes," Raseri asks the foxkin, the name feeling strange on her tongue. "Have you a length of rope? Something as thick as two fingers or more would be best."
As she waits for his answer, she begins doffing her armor.
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As everyone was talking to their magic items, or upset about not talking to them, Scram decided to give hers a little chitty chat as well. "Well bangle, whats it like to get out of the octopus' garden for once? How'd you avoid barnacles all these years?"
A deeply resonant, yet absurdly dainty voice seemed to come out of no where (like a 400lb ballerina) or obviously Scram's strangely vibrating lips "Gleamore's my name and I'll tell you why...chimeran cows don't go in the barn-acles they go in the field-acles! Moo-hoo-hoo!" the dancing jewels oddly resembling a goofy face.
It would seem a horrible new puppet demon had earned itself a fresh 100 years on the mortal plane, being banished from the 11th transdimensional inferno of hell and nightmares and your aunt's basement.
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Looking up in alarm, Gunnar says, "Please tell me that one doesn't talk aloud. I don't know that I can handle any more drama today..."
"Does your bangle know better jokes?" Ingryd asks as she chuckles.
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*snort* Go ahead. *snicker* Says the shield. Tell her.
The spear sighs heavily. Look. I've sworn off names of any kind. Ever since...*sigh* ever since a previous owner developed a rather drastic fetish for removing certain bits from her male opponents.
The sword and shield all burst out laughing. Luthael's sword exclaiming Long live the D..."
That's enough out of you! Overrides the spear bringing on another round of guffaws. You even hear the evil sword laughing from inside the nullbox.
The embarrassed spear goes quiet as a sullen teenager.
Ha! Shouts the spear from across the way, suddenly eager to get in a punch of his own against the constantly superior minded sword. Don't let it kid you pal. It just can't do it. It won't admit it of course. Oh no. Too blasted arrogant to admit it isn't really any better than the rest of us. Dishonorable my pointed a..
Quiet, D*....
Gentlemen! Interrupts the shield. Let's keep things civil.
To which both sword and spear simply mutter at each other as the voidhammer sighs resignedly.
For the last several minutes the foxkin simply watched with growing concern and confusion as those around him converse and commune with the newly found items. When the halfling's bracer speaks, he turns a bit green in the cheek and shuffles over to the other side of the fire. When Raseri asks him for a bit of rope, he practically jumps from his skin. But quick enough he recovers and nods his head.
"Uh...sure." He says removing a standard coiled length of rope from his pack. The foxkin can't help but give the priestess an incredulous look as she begins undressing in the freezing temperatures apparently intent on swimming in the newly formed lake. But at this point he doesn't really expect any kind of normality. Instead he busily makes a set of mental notes to double, no triple, no quadruple his price the next time a group of adventurers show up asking him to guide them anywhere.
" You know Raseri I could have done that for you?" She says as she sits on the edge and watches.