About Pyry LemminkäinenBefore you stands a slender young man. His porcelain skin is unblemished by the rigours of this fastfrozen faerie freehold. His eyes are the blue of the icebergs floating outside the harbor. Thick platinum tresses ensconced in a circlet of ivory set with three blue onyx frame his face and flow in waves past his shoulders to float in the slight arctic breeze. Billowing out from his spare frame, loose silken robes gleam so bright as to make the surrounding snow and ice appear dingy and gray. He speaks, and though his words are brief and without humor, you smile because the priest's sermons back home about the beauty of angelic choirs finally makes sense; and yet an ephemeral chill runs down your spine. Clasping your hand in greeting, his frigid grasp almost stings your skin. It is sometime later as you stand speaking with the other members of the party, the steam rising from their mouths into the cold air as they converse, you start in realization that his words did not effervesce, as if he lacked any warmth whatsoever. Initiative +3 HP 8 (6 for Sorcerer, +2 CON) Fort +2
BAB +0 Melee Atk: Longspear +0, 1d8+0 x3
Ranged Atk: Sling +1, 1d4+0 x2 CMB +0
Background:
Pyry knew he wasn’t supposed to be out amongst the trees at night. Grandmother told him not all were friendly, but he couldn’t help himself. For weeks the sounds had haunted his dreams. The past few nights the melodies came to him even while he was lying awake in bed.
His grandparents had chided Pyry for playing pranks. No one else heard it. Certainly there was no music. Even so, the refrains strained to penetrate the logs of the longhouse as Pyry lay shivering in the dark. He hated the cold and no matter how many logs were on the fire it was never warm. Winter in the Lands of the Linnorm Kings was nearly a year round season and poor Pyry dreamed… had used to dream, about far off lands basking under a sun that burned big and hot; not a wan light that never seemed to stretch its fiery fingers all the way to earth. Well, as long as I’m going to be cold and miserable, I will find these minstrels in the night, thought Pyry. I am not afraid of old tales meant to frighten small children. I am nearly eight! I will show grandmother proof – I will bring back one of their instruments. Pulling on his fur boots and grabbing up his heavy cloak, Pyry quietly slipped out into the cold, dark night. Once outside, the music seemed to reach out, veritably dragging him forward. He could see the notes as they skirled wildly through the air like flakes of snow blowing in the wind. So entranced by the call of the music, Pyry didn’t even notice his chattering teeth. All that mattered was finding the source of the melody floating on the breeze. Flitting through the trees pursuing the dulcet tones of flutes and fiddles, Pyry nearly ran head long into the glade. Icicles sharp enough to pierce a heart hang down from the barren boughs of surrounding birch and elm. Snow blanketed the ground like a clean linen shroud and there in the clearing were his quarry. A squat carpetbagger with a bulbous nose stood tapping his foot, fiddle tucked into his fat neck as he sawed a jig out of the cat’s gut. A small woman, all spindly limbs, held a drum in the crook of each elbow and another between her knees. Pyry couldn’t see how she managed it but all three drums were beating out a tempo. A sprightly old dodger, his halo of stark white hair flying around his head, sat on a stump playing a great set of pipes, their keening twining together the sounds of the other musicians into a complete harmony. As amazing as the sight of this trio was, it was the two graceful figures dancing on the ice of the small pond in the center of the grove that drew his eye. They shone as if with an inner light, motes of light swirling around them as they swung around in each others arms. Elongated ears poked through their hair of fine gold and silver. Their skin was marble, no ruddy cheeks from their exposure. Then suddenly a high clear note rang out. A voice so pure, so innocent; poured out a slow dirge in counterpoint to the gaiety of the music. There, apart from the others, was a young girl. She wore only a long shift of gossamer thread that glimmered in the light of the low moon. She was the fount of his longing. The sorrow of her heart bore through the lively notes of her accompaniment which somehow accentuated the tale of star-crossed lovers. It was high, resonating notes of her song that he had seen on the wind. He didn’t know how long ago the music stopped. He missed when all of them turned to regard him with curiosity. He didn’t even realize the ballad had died on her lips. He started when the silence became too loud to be ignored. They all smiled at his discomfiture. The young girl strode towards him and reached out her hand. Pyry didn’t remember taking any steps yet there was his hand, firmly nestled in hers. He looked up to see a smile that reached all the way to eyes the color of storm clouds set above high cheekbones on an angular face framed by curls of spun silver so white as to almost have hints of blue. They danced. For hours, for days; they danced. She had grown, leaving the light girl behind, however; she never lost her blush of youth. Pyry remembered how they had looked eye-to-eye that first time they turned across the ice. Now she would look up to him whenever they waltzed. The trio still played, the lovers still danced. Sometimes, when the steps demanded, they would switch partners. Other times, their dance was for them alone. She sang as she danced, songs of love and light; the dirge long forgotten. They danced into a clearing. The musicians stopped playing. The other dancers stopped dancing. Pyry only noticed when her eyes went wide, her mouth forming a small ‘o”. Turning, he noticed a new couple had joined them. They, too, were tall, slender of frame and lithe in movement. They shared features with the lord and lady of dance. Whereas the dancers had angular faces warmed by smiles and eyes twinkling with merriment, the newcomers’ coldly beautiful angles were sharp, eyes brittle with frost. The original dancers bowed deeply to their newly arrived counterparts. The bows were returned, albeit stiffly. Pyry felt her latch onto his arms. He looked to her and saw tears welling up in her eyes. Frowning, he shook his head, confusion sown onto his face. His companions in dance stepped forward, gently taking her out of his arms and into their own. He felt new hands close upon him as those recently arrived turned him away from the clearing and onto a path leading through the forest. He managed to look back only once to see her reaching out to him as the dancers encouraged her to return to the reel. Months have passed. His grandparents, so they have claimed to be, do not pay him much attention anymore. At first it had amused them to play him off against each other by revealing tidbits about his past and parentage. They called him a bastard, son to one of their countless offspring who had run off with a Viking from the Land of the Linnorm Kings. They told him how the fae were still beholden to their line and had been geased to find him and return him home. Over time he had come to learn that he was a mere pawn in their successive fête champêtre and refused to play. They then just used him for petty amusements until something new caught their attention. It is deepest winter here. He no longer feels the cold on his skin. He had thought there to be no warmth left in him. Of late, he has been haunted by a soulful melody blowing faint on the wind. It invades his nightmares and pervades the daymare that is his life. Making the mistake of telling this to his grandparents, they have been conjuring ghost sounds and singing at all hours. Still, the lamentation has been steadily increasing in pitch and volume. It is again a starry night when he can no longer stand the sound. He races up to the highest parapet screaming out into the night for release. Release from the torments of these hateful gaolers, freedom from the anguish of his torn and bleeding heart. His grandmother takes petty delight in mocking him for his outburst last night. Pyry walks out of the castle and into the trees. He remembers them calling this the Hoarwood. He wanders aimlessly through the forest. From a trail he steps into a glen. There is a pool in its center. Oddly, there is no ice covering the water. He sees a glimmer of light upon the water. Moving closer he notes a silver and white film which resolves itself into the form of a body floating on the water. Pyry rushes into the pool grasping at the figure and dragging it to shore. He pushes aside hair, fine and white, from the face to reveal his lover. Her countenance is one of heartbreak. The water trails down her eyes as if she were still crying before freezing on her cheeks. Protruding from her breast is a small dagger. His heart drops from his chest as the memories of the past weeks come rushing back. The strange song whispered on the wind, the relentless pull on his soul through his sleep into his waking hours; the pain that lodged in his heart every time he heard the music. She had been calling him out, singing her sorrow at her loss to draw him back to her. His cry into the night for surcease had been heard. She heard it as his refusal to rejoin her. Her heart broken, she had sought to finish what his words began. Pyry sobbed over her cold body. He cried out once more, screaming the words that he held in his own dying heart. His words took shape, the chill in his spine reflecting into the world around him, freezing the water of the pool. Sparks of light arc away from him as he pours out his soul to her deaf ears. The refrain stirs him. He lifts up his head to see the dancers spinning upon the ice. The band plays on. He calls out to them and they stop their reeling with twin looks of surprise. Imploring them to help, he holds up her cold body. They step forward, taking her into the arms once more, with reproachful looks. He pulls the dagger from her heart, laying it at Pyry’s feet. He begs them to return her to him. They sadly shake their heads, turning away to return to the dance. Swinging her in their arms as they dance, the reel continues; all the while the band plays on. They are gone. Pyry picks up the knife, her blood frozen upon the blade. He rips a strip from his clothing tying it to the tiny dagger and placES it around his neck. The cold of the iron stings his skin.
Skills:
Bluff +8 Spellcraft +4 Use Magic Device +8 Feats:
Fey Foundling Irrisen Ice Mage Traits:
Reactionary Frostborn Words:
Personal – persoonallinen Touch – tunto Short – täpärä Small – pieni Medium – meedio Large – laaja Long – pitkä Burst – puhjeta Line – linja Ray – juova 0 Level
1st Level
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