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The trio of hits fall upon Aterro like a dragon battering down a tower. Though he still stands, he can not remember a foe that tested his mettle so severely.
His vision fogs and his heads spins, the earth calling him to lay down and rest. He almost surcombs to the siren call of sleep.
But then he hears Tervor chant, and he knows he can not fail. Shaking his bull head he raises his hands with fresh strength and comes again at the dwarf.
"Reaver, you will come to know that there is...No Easy Way Out."
Battered and bruised the two warriors shuffle back and forth within the limited space of the circle. Trevor's chant echoes into the dark night while the other two reavers shout their own encouragements and insults to the fighters in the circle. Man and dwarf inhale and exhale in great heaving gasps as lungs struggle to take in much needed air. Then suddenly the two charge toward each other. Fists fly, curses fill the air and more blood flows from battered knuckles and cut faces. Aterro lands another blow to Vadik's hard-headed dwarven skull. Although barely able to raise his arms, Vadik sneaks a left in under Aterro's guard.
The big cleric stumbles, starts to fall backward, then tilts forward to regain his balance momentarily. But the lapse is just enough to let the veteran raider through. Vadik's fist connects and the sound of knuckles on jaw cracks through the night like a thunderclap. Aterro's waivers for a moment and then his eyes roll into the back of his head, and he falls to the ground.
Moments later the dwarf staggers over to his companions and collapses into a kneeling position on the grass. Chest heaving and eyes swelling shut. He offers a quick prayer to his god and nods toward Trevor.
"You ought t' help your master up boy. He fought well an' wit the heart o' the north." Wiping sweat and blood from his face. He offers a swollen faced grin. "Perhaps one day, you'll please 'im well enough to get you a pair o' boots." He adds noticing Trevor's bare feet. He glances toward the unconscious Finnigan. "As for your other friend...well...he should consider 'imself lucky it' twas just o' beating."
"Wilem, gather me armor an' let's be on our way. Time t' get our hides back." He says getting off his knees and turning to go back up the road north. One of the other two raiders gives him a puzzled look and starts to say something, but Vadik makes a quick cutting gesture with his hand and the dwarf just shrugs, sighs, and starts to walk back up the dark road.
Aterro stiffens as he is called a servant and goes to speak up, then lays eyes on Aterro’s puffed up bloodied face and swallows both his pride and his shame.
Slipping in his socks, he pulls Aterro out of the circle and stacks him beside Finn against the wall.
”Why are they leaving us the hut!?” he mutters.
Then it starts to sink in. Vadik is no fool, those gold bands show he's won more than a few tough fights. And the gray in his beard means he's crafty enough to have survived a rough, harsh life in the north.
The dwarf, outnumbered, and with no magical capabilities within his own group, managed to defeat two of your companions, and reveal at least two more of you have magical abilities. He gained honor among his fellows by winning the fight and then strategically withdrew knowing your group is heading north...most likely toward the rest of his fellow raiders. They had mentioned a leader or 'boss' early on, and the original letter you found had mentioned a reaver ship off the coast. So there are more reavers in the area than just Vadik and his two companions. And now Vadik is likely hurrying north to warn his friends and gather a larger force to deal with your group's unwanted presence.
The last thing you remember is a big dwarven fist filling your vision, then nothing but black. As you lay there unconscious you dream of the old Rusty Pelican Pub back in Krakova. It was a bit of a dive along the south pier, but the ale was strong and old Loraic was always good for a pint on the house. The smell of the fire and Krakovan spiced sausages filling the air. And then of course there was Magdeline, one of the prettiest tavern lasses you've ever seen. Her long red curls, full figure, sparkling green eyes and that warm smile that could light up a room. She was what drew most of Loraic's regular patrons, and you could always get her to laugh if you put your mind to it. But then the scene changes as Krakova burns, Loraic, Magdeline and so many others disappear into a sea of undead horror and bloody fighting.
You flee the horror of fallen Krakova only to find yourself in a cold, dark wood far from any civilization. Rain falls and the wind blows. A menacing laughter drifts through the air along with the smell of brimstone, pine, and blood. You have a sense of being hunted, or needing to escape as you scramble through the trees and underbrush, but something prevents you from really moving quickly. Each step is like wading through molasses. Your feet ache it feel as if you are walking on burning coals.
Looking down you realize the skin has been removed from your knees down. Bare muscle and bone grind into the rough forest floor with each step you take sending waves of agony up your spine. You look back up and Trevor stands nearby. His youthful face grinning pointing toward his new boots as Ibrox finishes sewing a few stitches to get the fit just right.
Your heart races faster when the wind hits your hands and it feels as if the breeze is instead a blasting sand storm. You try to scream as the skin is gone from your elbows down, but all that comes out is a stifled squeak that is overshadowed by more of the devilish laughter. Again you look up and this time it is Zove who slips on a fine looking pair of leather gloves and again Ibrox helps with a final stitch for fit.
Afraid, but compelled to look down at your chest you....
....Wake up to find Ibrox smiling at you holding a cold rag to your head and attempting to stop some of the bleeding from a nasty cut under your eye.
"Magdeline... wha!? I've had it with this. I'd rather wake up inside a cell than looking at your creepy mug. Get off me you gremlin!"
Finnigan rolls away from the gnome.
"What now? Did I win? I see we've kept the campsite and those dwarfs have slunk away with their tails between their legs? Aterro has the right idea going back to sleep. I rather fancy the dream I was having until Ibrox crept his way inside my head! That hat stinks from here to the golden hells, mate. Honestly!"
"Get up, Boots. We need to hunt down them dwarves." Ibrox throws the wet rag in his face. The cheerful gnomes heads into the shelter kicking the trollkin on his way to gather his gear.
He hisses, "Vrindel, get up. You need to heal Finn and Aterro quick, We need to hunt down those dwarves. They refused my hospitality, and now they're probably heading back to their former boss to get his good graces by telling him about us. Hurry. Hurry. Zove." He shoulders his gear and starts pushing other folks' gear together.
"Zove? Can you follow them? Stay out of sight until we catch up? Go. Hurry. We've got to get them while their leader is weak."
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Vrindel rises to his elbows, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and stares at Ibrox.
"Well that would be grande... if I had any healing power left now wouldn't it. I've use all my spiritual guidance and shape changing ability today due to irrational and spontaneous decisions by our friends. I can call on some minor magical means, but no healing remains for me".
The big Trollkin then rises to his feet his normal calm manner giving way to anger.
"Trevor has no armor nor even any boots due to a silly decision".
"Finn attacked before realizing what he was shooting at and now he's hurt badly, and then Attero decided that one down warrior was not enough, so he needed to get the snot knocked out of him as well".
Now really getting worked up the intimidating Trollkin stalks about wagging his finger, his voice louder by the word.
"I am not the parents of some ridiculous teenagers, coming to bail them out of trouble. They put themselves and all of us at risk due to pride or something that I'd prefer not to mention. In this condition we couldn't fight off a horde of butterflies, and you want us to head off injured and down on power into the night. Have you lost your sensibilities as well? If I didn't know better I'd think we all took a drink from stupid springs".
Vrindel, then grabs his blanket, and heads for the trees near the edge of the campsite. "Best to leave me alone for now. Maybe a night to dream and consider these decisions will lead us to better strategy going forward. The world here is dangerous enough without us creating our own folly".
Ibrox watches the back of the trollkin and shakes his head. "Zove, this is bad. A whole crew of reavers now know that we're coming. Let's take turns watching the camp. I'll take first watch. I'm already packed again."
The cheerful gnome heads out of the shelter looking for local animals to help him watch the trollkin, unconscious brawlers, and shelter. After he creates the neighborhood watch with pieces of his rations, He settles into a blind for the first shift of watch.
Trevor listens to the conversation and does his best to make sense of them, but doesn’t.
He finally decides to get back to bed mumbling something about beating butterflies with socks. He’ll take a turn watching the camp if asked.
"Fear not! They shan't return, having tasted the kiss of my two mistresses, 'Left' and 'Right'! See there, Aterro sleeps knowing I have driven them away. No need to post a watch I reckon. Honestly, I'd feel more comfortable if Ibrox wasn't watching me sleep. Honestly..."
He pulls the old potato sack over his shoulders and huddles on top of a pile of leaves.
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You recognize former companions from your youth in Krakovar and days spent in the Wolfmark fighting the undead hoards. A few wave in your direction while others turn away, not recognizing your grown features and hardened, post-invasion looks.
Suddenly a man appears at your side having somehow gone unnoticed despite being at least a head taller and with massive shoulders and long locks of golden hair that frame a stern, warriors face. A hammer wrought of mithril hangs from his side, it's intricately decorated form a mesmerizing work of master craftsmanship. Several javelins or short spears stick up from over his shoulder, each seemingly aglow with electrical energy. Unspeaking, he offers a brief toast in your direction drinking several deep swallows of ale from a mug that never seems to run dry. Then he disappears back into the crowd as quickly as he arrived.
Moments later the hall, the banquet, the laughter is all gone, there is nothing but darkness and a sense of a duty uncompleted and task or tasks left undone.
Eventually you wake to the dim glow of the flickering campfire. Your body feeling the aches and battering of the fight with, Vadik. Cracking a swollen eye open you see Ibrox and Zove sitting nearby. Both of them staring off into the surrounding darkness while Trevor, Finnigan, and Vrindel rest in their blankets...or potato sack...as the case may be.
The night proceeds uninterrupted until the early hours just as the moon disappears into the rolling waves of the sea. As Zove sits meditating, her mysterious book of magic begins to tremble. A hot, dry, desert breeze rustles the leaves and branches of the surrounding forest bringing with it a stench of waste, death and despair. Moments later the book opens and the sound of pages rapidly flipping fills the ruins of the small shack. The pages stop at a blank and the wind brings the distant moans and echoes that sound as if some pitiful beast is being tortured far off in the forest.
Crimson blotches erupt onto the blank page of the book and begin to form into ancient elven characters. It seems to be the same three word symbols repeated over and over down the entire page.
The book flips itself closed. The wind passes and the forest is still once again. The silence is deafening but a welcome relief as the first purple of early morning begins to creep up the eastern horizon. The light of day slowly returns, but with the light is revealed the walls of the shack and the display of the same crimson symbols as those in the book written across every inch of wooden surface. The only difference being that overwriting it all in large bloody swaths are the letters A....N.....Y.....M.....O....R....E......
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As dawn's first light cracks open the crimson sky, Aterro bolts upright shouting, "No! Thor!" before suddenly looking around as if he didn't know where he was.
As recognition dawns on his face he plummets back down to the ground. "I was in the golden hall of Valhalla. Food and wine were ever-flowing and many friends of old did I see. Many did hail and greet me, honoring my arrival to the festhall. The Thunderer himself did raise his tankard to me, and I felt with all my heart that I had earned a high place.
But I see now that my quest is not at an end. Since, 'twould seem, I am not toasting high my victory over my opponent's prone body, beseems that despite all I was bested.
Perhaps that is why I am not held by Valkyrie--I am rejected until I spread more righteousness.
Well, if that is so, then that is so.
Methinks I shall do this better on a full stomach. Apparently near-dying makes one famished!"
Again does Aterro haul many arm-loads of wood to the hearth, setting them alight with Will alone. With pot boiling and fire crackling, he breaks into his bag and prepares a ration packet, devouring it whole. Again does he perform this, chasing it with a full skin of water. Only when a third helping of food has fallen to his satiety does he rise and belch mightily.
Stretching his massive arms and resuming his armor he looks about. "Well, shall we? We have many miles to go, I wager."
Ibrox returns to the shelter after Attero has broken his fast. The cheerful gnome is ready to travel and fully versed on the drama of the local fauna. "Aterro, we've a problem. The dwarves rejected our hospitality after the leader dropped you. They probably went to warn their crew of reavers of us and use that warning to get back into the good graces of their boss. So, we've an entire crew of reavers waiting our arrival. Kicking in the front door and challenging them will not work, right? We need a plan that gives us advantage in glorious combat."
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Aterro stares at Zove's eruption of arcane linguistics with dismay, and the words revealed are of primal meaning.
Turning back to Ibrox, he shrugs. "And what of it? In single combat, after we had already exhausted ourselves against the sirens, their leader almost fell. On the battlefield, together and rested, we can take him down in a trice. If he is the best his kind can offer, I can muster but little fear for more of brethren.
And there are but few other plans to have. There are few alternate roads to Nargenthal along this strip of land, and Britta at the Frost Maiden Inn will always be where it is--however it is.
Our plan can be to strike first and hard. That works most.
And if not? Well, I have beautiful Valkyries to carry me unto tankards of ever-flowing mead and roast venison to look forward to. That too is no bad thing."
Trevor ignores Aterro and Ibrox, his gaze fixed on the book: "Zove? Your book... It woke me... And now the walls... What is going on?!" he asks, his voice imbued with a light tremolo.
Vindrel finds a soft bed of fallen leaves within sight of the ruins. He is angry with the others, but finds that separating himself from them a bit, and relaxing in nature tends to sooth his emotions.
He is awakened first by the rustling of wind in the trees. Tossing in his near wakefulness he determines that a storm must be blowing in, but then the dryness of the wind causes him to open one eye. When the odor of decay and death comes to him he starts to his feet, running back towards the ruins in time to see the wicked book perform it's trick.
He stands and stares at the others, making an ancient Troll sign for warding off evil. "That portent does not bode well. What is it warning us of"?
He then hears Aterro's shout upon his awakening. Surprised that one has the energy to rise so quickly after the beating he took yesterday. He seems bruised, but not slowed in the least. He listens without speaking as Ibrox spells out her opinion.
Just as his thoughts begin to organize the terrible sound rips from Zoves throat. He recognizes some of the words being of Fey origin, but it's as though only the dark sides of the Fey tales have survived, and they emerge as a dark cloud from the Wizards throat. Once again he makes the ancient Troll sign to ward off evil.
He looks at each of his comrades in turn before stepping into the ruins and seeing the scrawling on the wall. "And nobody saw this happen? Nobody saw anything enter and create these symbols"?
"Give me a bit to commune with the spirits, and we can discuss over breakfast".
Vrindel steps into the forest and rests his head upon a majestic Rowan tree feeling it's ancient strength and energy restore his spirit. Butterflies and even a small chipmunk scamper across his body as he lets the energy give him strength. When he feels recharged he returns to the clearing.
"Friends Pleas gather around and let us speak".
The big Trollkin pulls out a piece of some root and slowly begins to chew it as he addresses the others.
"We have been both fortunate and skillful to survive the challenges presented to us so far, but even good fortune can run it's course. If we are to survive and succeed, we must make efforts to function as a unit, not as a group of individuals. When properly focused we are a force to be reckoned with, however we tend to let our person motivations rise above the good of the whole".
He first looks at Trevor. "Trevor your potential is great, but you assume too much. You must learn to rely on knowledge as well as instinct, and the only way to get knowledge is through experience. I'm sure you learned yesterday that you cannot fly, nor swim in heavy armor".
He then turns to Aterro "Aterro your bravery and skill are amazing as is your dedication to your God, but it is also very selfish. Thor wants you to be a might warrior, but throwing away your life and possibly those of your companions is neither brave or noble. Had we been attacked last night neither you, Finnegan, nor unarmored Trevor would have been of any use, and I had no spell power left. I understand that your faith calls upon you to battle, but should you not temper that with choosing your conflicts more wisely. We depend upon you for protection and you turn your back on us. Someday you will frolic in Valhalla, but that time is not now".
Finnegan is next on his watch list. "And what was that craven attack last night? You were hidden and if the attack needed to happen you could have still acted, but instead you put us all in danger due to your recklessness. Like Aterro had some real danger approached us in the night you would have been useless. We have made neutral individuals into enemies for no reason except your foolish and cowardly action".
"Zove I'll be the first to admit that I know not what to think of you. I understand your chaotic nature, and expect it from one with the tainted fey blood running through her veins, but I would think that your influence is rubbing off on everyone. That book and the magic you invoke is unknown and maybe dangerous, and just deciding to do things without at least discussing with those who have your back is unwise".
He then turns to little Ibrox. "Ibrox, I know you have the best of intentions but you impulsiveness and desire to react without thinking it through can be dangerous as well. You tried to awaken us last night to dash through the night in a strange and dangerous land with two warriors down, no healing available, to attack people who know this land better than us".
"It is time for us to decide if we can live as a group or die as individuals"?
"As far as the Reavers go... we must ask ourselves... What do they gain by attacking us? We do not possess great wealth, nor lands for them to take, and it seems as though other targets might be more appetizing to them. I admit I'm not familiar with their ways, but is the challenge of a good fight without the reward of plunder worth their time? Is it not possible to simply circumvent them and move forward without further antagonizing them"?
Not used to speaking this many words, the Druid simply sips his herbal tea and waits for the others opinions.
"Please help me understand".
The cheerful gnome agreed with the shadow fey's translation of the ancient words. But his estimation of her abilities reduced a notch at the length of time that it took her to figure it out.
Then, he rocked back on his heels from the response from Aterro. While the gnome was as certain of his afterlife as the Thorson (assuming Grandmother didn't tear his souls to pieces), Ibrox had no wish to throw his life away before he completed his mission. No wish to waste his redcap. This Thorson could be his doom.
At Vrindel's words, the gnome unshoulders his pack, sets it down, and comfortably settles on it. "I expect the reavers to be at our destination Nargenstal. So, I doubt bypassing them is an option. And, don't reavers traffic in slaves? So, we're valuable just as we are. I've no desire to become a slave."
"Look trollkin, my reaction was neither impulsive nor without thought. It was rooted in a survival instinct to kill a weakened predator. I expected you of everyone here to understand that." The orange-haired gnome reflects. "The question is how are we going to make good on our deal to Rook and handle a crew of reavers?"
Trevor listens to Vrindel’s descriptiion and admonishing, but quickly loses interest and his mind wanders to the writings on the walls.
Upset, he finally says in an impatient burst: ”Right, we’re all fools but you, Vrindel, but can we talk about the walls that got painted in blood just like that?!”
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The archives tell of elven archmages who fought during the wars and contributed to the plagues and monstrosities that devastated most of western Midgard. Could the book have passed through the hands of one of those past wizards? Could it hold, or have held, something more than just ancient history, spells and rituals? All was chaos during those days. The War inflicted desperation on many during that time. Plagues, creatures of the deep Void, the ley lines being twisted. Someone with the power may have taken....precautions against death.
And what might your old mentor get out of sending such a tome into this realm carried by an unwitting student? Plots within plots....shadows within shadows. For good or ill? Was this part of your testing? Have you failed or succeeded, and at what cost?
Did the events back in the cave unknowingly release something long hidden and dormant? Perhaps the little corpse thief's ability to absorb memories opened a door for something bigger...much more powerful....much more dangerous. Has some plot been set into motion? A plot that will leave the people of the realms blaming a young shadow fey named Zove for whatever happens?
More questions than answers swirl in your head as you ponder the possibilities. However, one thing is certain, as you study the board and book further. Whatever is happening, the power is still weak and judging from the simply and repeated words, it lacks much control. Almost like a newborn sharing its first words. There is time for further study...."
The gnome arches two furry, orange eyebrows at Zove's comments. Maybe, the elves or these sorcerers of Nuria-Natal can break the curse of the Grandmother. Need to keep close to this shadow fey and keep her alive. Her book may be the key.
Zove called out once, then twice a bit louder. The gnome replied that he understood that the shadow fey was ready for her turn on watch. He thanked his new friends and settled into a comfortable recline. Ibrox. Ibrox. Ibrox. Ibrox. Ibrox. Ibrox. Ibrox. He began his mantra and let his body sleep.
His mind’s eyes opened at the familiar odor of brimstone. The constant sound of wind was a dull rush at the edge of his hearing. He laid supplicant fully outstretched, face first on the cool, hard ground. The brimstone and a howl of the wind slowly increased in strength to crescendo with the entrance his Patron. Although familiar, the fiendish voice was an uncomfortable, dissonance between a high-pitched scratch and a reverberating, soul-trembling baritone. He had learned to accept the words without flinching.
The cheerful gnome awakes to a hot, dry, desert breeze rustling the leaves and branches of the surrounding forest bringing with it a stench of waste, death and despair. The distant moans and echoes that sound as if some pitiful beast is being tortured far off in the forest brings him to his feet, so he purposely returns to the shelter. He finds crimson symbols written across every inch of wooden surface of the shack and smiles.
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There is little enough, something about great God-Kings living in the desert and always fending off the dragon hordes of the Mharoti Empire. That and a goddess of cats. Nothing of real interest. But as you meditate further, your feet trudging along the muddy winding track through barely inhabited Courlandia, a tiny imp appears next to your ear and begins whispering of the far distant southland kingdom.
As it speaks you find yourself transported to a land of desert heat set along the shores of the great River Nuria. Markets filled with exotic goods, cats drifting through sandy, back alleys, and most of all the reek of ancient power fills every nook and cranny.
The little imp tell you about the ancient wizards and priests who command powerful magics that have led to immortality or at least a reasonable facsimile. How these sorcerous god-kings and queens tap the regions powerful ley lines to do all manner of magics powerful, wonderful, for good and for ill. Many times the ancient ones have protected their people and fought back the invading hoards of the dragon empire as well as other threats over its history that stretches back millennia.
Per-Anu, the City of Crimson Pillars, is a hidden place deep in the southern deserts. It is a place devoted to death, the underworld, and the life beyond. Home and resting place of many of Nuria Natal's most powerful warriors and wizards. Visitors are not welcome unless you are a member of the cult of Anu-Akma, a priestess of Bastet, an undead, or a warrior, assassin, or mage with an especially violent and bloody history.
The city is currently ruled by the undead God-King Irsu Thanetsi Khamet, Eye of Anu-Akma and Warden of the Red Portal. Irsu is an expert in the Red Portals used to travel across time and space. He is also a ruthless adversary with plans and designs even the rulers of Hell can't figure out, not that they haven't tried.
If one was to eventually travel to that ancient land and even learn the secrets and mysteries of its rulers and power, one would certainly be well rewarded by a certain devilish benefactor. The imp adds that last with a knowing wink, but says nothing about how any of this information would help lift Baba Yaga's curse.
It then pops away in a small burst of black and sulphuric smoke that causes you to sneeze and you find yourself walking steadily north as Trevor complains of his lack of footwear, Aterro speaks of glorious battle, and Zove mutters to herself.
Silence descends upon the shack and the surrounding forest as only a few wish to match words with the agitated trollkin. Eventually the group simply breaks camp and with little ceremony strikes out north. The night of twists, turns, and mysteries leaving little sense of satisfaction or real rest.
A steady drizzle starts to drip from the sky and the gray clouds thicken, promising more rain to come. The road, having barely dried from the earlier rains, quickly begins to squelch and gurgle beneath boots (or socks as the case may be) as they trudge along the winding path.
Around mid-morning, at least that is the best guess that can be made. The smell of a campfire drifts through the air and not long after Aterro notices the remains of a campsite, not long abandoned. The fire partially sheltered in a thick copse of pine, still smolders despite the rain and damp air. Three piles of needles and moss have been drawn into rough piles and several bloody cloths sit tossed near one of them.
Further study reveals there may have been some kind of struggle near one of the pine 'beds' and something heavy was dragged off into the forest.
"Is it the dwarves'?" Ibrox asks the group.
The cheerful gnome looks around for clues and animal witnesses.
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"Pause a moment," Aterro councils the others, holding up a hand. "No campsite this, but more a sepulchre, or...a battlefield."
Aterro steps around the campsite, having seen enough struggles to discern the chief events. "Was it the dwarves? Aye, methinks so. See here? These are boots prints, dwarf-sized. Three, beseems.
But here? This is no boot, nor dwarf either.
Remember you the little corpse thief that we traded memories with back in the village?
These are his prints."
Aterro motions to a long skid mark that trails off into woods.
"There was a fight, and he dragged something heavy that way," he says, pointing.
Ibrox and Aterro search the scene further. At first they discover little else of interest until walking a few paces up the 'trail' pointed out by Aterro. There they find another set of booted footprints. It seems that the other two reavers may have followed the trail, although some time after their companion was dragged away.
As for attempting to find animal witnesses, the forest is eerily quiet. No bird calls, no squirrel chatter, no rustle of deer moving through the shrubs. Nothing but wind drifting through the branches rustling the leaves and the constant patter of falling rain backed by the distant never ending waves breaking against the cliffs off to the west.
"Something is wrong. The animals are gone. At least, we're on the trail of the reavers." The cheerful gnome looks concerned.
Trevor stands on the outside of the circle, letting the others figure out what is going on here. Truth is, his mind is elsewhere. I mean, it is often elsewhere, but this time, he is seriously thinking.
He looks at Vrindel, his admonishing like a fresh bruise, and takes a deep breath before walking up to the imposing Trollkin. His sloshing socks give him away and the Trollkin turns his head as he approashes, a sheepish smile on his face: "So... You think it's gonna rain more this afternoon?" he says, unable to say anything else, his mind locked by conflicting emotions.
Aterro crashes through the forest, following the rough trail of smashed ferns, broken twigs and occasional foot or boot print for a few hundred feet. There is no sound beyond that of the groups less than stealthy movement along the path and that of the rain falling from the leaves and branches above. The usual boisterous bird songs and other animal cries are missing entirely. Even the sound of the sea has dwindled to a dull, quiet rumble seemingly far in the distance.
Between the clouds and the forest canopy the light along the way is dim, more like late evening than the midmorning it actually is. Following the path the initial smell of pine and rich forest loam gives way to a sickly sweet, metallic smell mixed with the foulness of a rotting battlefield. The further down the path, the stronger the stench. Along with the changing smell, the new spring growth on the trees, shrubs and other forest plants is wilted and blackened. Some of the smaller plants are brown and dead looking. It is as if a hard, cold freeze struck this part of the forest. A cold much worse than anything the group felt last night while camped in the shack.
Just a few more paces ahead, the forest opens into a dark, dank clearing. It is as if the very light of Khors shuns the place or is unwelcome. Much of the undergrowth is dead or severely damaged and even the big trees look haggard and sickly, with leaves or needles blackened and dropping to the ground. The smell of death is unmistakable and unavoidable this close to the clearing. Even the sound of Aterro's boots stomping along the path is muffled.
The air, tingles with magical energy, enough so that even those not versed in the ways of power can feel the unnatural prickling sensation running along their skin. For those who do tap the hidden sources of power be they natural, spiritual, or some other method, all feel the tainted, corrupt, sickening residual power of whatever ritual was manifested just ahead in the clearing sometime during the previous night.
Ibrox follows along behind the lumbering Aterro. The Thorson is very effective at clearing paths and probably opening doors, too.
Deepening into the corrupted nature around the trail, his concern grows. Finding the site of the ritual gives him pause. He takes a deep breath and slowly polices the clearing looking for clues of the ritual's purpose, source of energy, and caster. Obviously, the smell of death does not bother the cheerful, red-capped gnome as much as anyone else.
Trevor tenses beside Vrindel, whispering: "What's going on?"
Vrindel is obviously still troubled by something, but as he follows the dying vegetation trail, he is even more troubled. At seeing the sad state of things tears come to his eyes, wiping them as he walked.
He is content to let the bit Cleric lead the way, as he certainly can't do any more damage to the trampled, dying area.
He leans over at Trevor's question "I don't know. I've never seen anything like it... it's...it's sick very sick".
As the trail ahead opens into the clearing, he is all too aware of not only the spiritual sickness, but also even the fey magic trails seem distant and dead to him. The bile rises in his throat, and it is all he can do to keep from vomiting.
Nature Check
Trevor grows extremely worried at Vrindel's assessment and tightens his grip on his axe, looking left and right for something nefarious to spring from the ground and grabs his unbooted legs.
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The clearing itself used to be a pleasant grassy opening in the forest, filled with bluebells, daisies, dandelions, and other spring flowers. But all of that is gone, blackened and dead trapped under a thick coat of frost. Instead of the fresh smell of spring flowers and new life, there is nothing but the smell of blood, rot and death. The air is cold. Cold like the frozen wastes of the Bleak Expanse...even colder. Trevor immediately feels the cold in his feet as his wet socks are nearly perfect conduits for the icy energy inundating the clearing.
Ibrox's boots crunch on the frosted surface of frozen plants as he slips into the clearing, looking for any sign of what caused this unnatural anomaly. He spots it just before Trevor points at something he sees.
The naked bodies of Vadik, Wilem, and Dee, laid out to form the points of a perfect equilateral triangle. The frost coating the bodies is black and red, a mixture of blood and magical corruption. Within the center of the triangle, a circle of rough, simple stones, most likely gathered from the clearing. The stench is nearly overpowering near to the bodies, and it is soon easy to tell why. Each of the three victims have been subject to a blood-eagle sacrifice. Ribs separated from the spin and lungs pulled out to form the rough appearance of wings. A horrifying, painful, and terribly slow way for someone to die.
Investigating closer, Ibrox notices the very slight movement of something stirring within the center of the stone circle.
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Aterro is...mostly un-observant of the dead foliage. Trees and shubbery are largely just tactical considerations, and colors and art and other foppery are largely dismissed by his considerations. He could no more tell you the color of the shed they stayed in last night than he could sprout wings and fly.
Still, that the magical corruption of the plants affects even -his- innured senses is a testament to the dispair of the place.
More in line with his senses are the horrific sacrifices that are displayed. He has seen many, many men killed in battle. Limbs hacked and bodies mangled, all to pay the butcher's bill in the honor and glory of war--the highest calling.
But this?
This has neither honor no dignity. He was but a handsbreath away from dropping his own hammer upon them, but that would have had a reason behind it...and he would have done all he could to make it as quick and clean as possible.
But this?
Moved by reasons even he does not understand he advances on the unclean place, his first thought to perhaps, at least, salvage something, some dignity. Perhaps to burn the bodies so that this horrific act does not stand.
Then something catches his eye.
"Oh by Slepnir, Fenrir, and Yggdrasil, what abhorrent thing has this sublime amount of evil unleashed?"
He steps into the clearing.
Though his senses are assaulted by the spoor and foulness the scent of cruelty and the color of horror, he has seen too much already to allow a WarCleric of Mjolnir's Bearer to show weakness at the moment of import.