The Winter Herald's page

The station's hand breaks, the levers that disengage the anchors holding the presumed island, are at different locations, and separate from the helm console altar. Shake and Bake, AKA the colonel's Herbs and Spices, are still trying to find the anchors that haven't snapped, because the corridors are so hard to navigate. They've left signs to help them navigate, but it's up to us to interpret them correctly. Do we storm the helm, and combat Nora, or defend the remaining anchors from her questionable allies.

The Winter Herald continues to blow up very slowly.

Knock knock knock...
Counter: 2d6 + 2 - 1 ⇒ (1, 1) + 2 - 1 = 3

The frosty paste that remains will be able to level at the next time we rest! Yay!

The Herald steps up next to Borak, and knocks on the door three times with her staff.

"Little pigs, little pigs, let me come in..."

The Herald is licking the raw end of a finger and trying to stick it back onto her pieced-together hand. "Yes, yes. If this flow isn't leaking out, then it must be running in circles. Moving across the flow will take us in or out."

Same here...

The Herald's eyes go wide. "How-" There's a sound like a dry twig snapping under a boot, and the Herald's shattered arm falls out of her sleeve and scatters across the warped space.

The crone is then far too busy collecting pieces, tisking and tutting, to pursue Borak any further.

The Winter Herald gives the Stranger a suspicious look. "I believe you know too much already, dearie."

Trailblazer?: 2d6 + 1 ⇒ (5, 4) + 1 = 10
When Yizid lunges forward to chase his evil alternate past self from another dimension, the crone extends her staff in an attempt to crook his hood. "This isn't any place to trust your eyes, dearie. I have it on decent authority that we ought to be headed this direction."

The Herald takes a tentative step onto a wall, then, hiking her skirts, scales the distorted space as if she were simply walking across an unstable ledge. A finger drops from her sleeve onto the floor, and she stops to scoop it up.

"Did everyone see that?" The Winter Herald asked in a awed whisper. "There could be no clearer sign that we have to get off our dusty duffs and go kill that wayward waif!" It was a little- no, it was a lot more complicated than that. Inaction meant Lincoln would be turned aside at the last second by the inevitability of Winter, and Winter's bounty unleashed, but not in the good, nonna gets all the cookies way, either. The cookies would be everywhere, and these cookies were much too good for children. The alternate telling, seemingly prophesied by Fate themselves, or, more likely, someone falsely claiming the title, showed the precious cookies bounty kept locked away, and the numen revealing themselves.

This was the problem with prophesy. The only way to fill in all the pronouns and placeholders was to watch it unfold live. Anything less suffered from artifacts of the method of compression.

Still, the whole ordeal gave the Herald pause. Who aside from the former Herald held sway over the cards? The current Herald licks her lips and holds her stomach. Now I'm hungry for cookies... Dammit Nick...

The Herald snears and spits an icicle. "That's the dinner bell, children. The early bird gets his borscht. This monarch is getting tired of getting her robes dirty."

Moving with the constant tinkling of breaking glass, the Winter Herald casts out her staff, her cards filing out of her sleeve and into an orbital. "Stupid gravitic impulse drives always leaking stupid- Grigori, some time garbage is afoot. Isn't this where a younger, more powerful, equally beautiful me steps out of a doorway? The doorway to the key? Don't tell me I can't do that anymore. I haven't burnt that many cards. At least show these layabouts what will happen if they continue to... lay about!"

Cast a Spell(Reveal Grim Portens): 2d6 + 2 ⇒ (3, 2) + 2 = 7
• Your spell has unforeseen side effects, and might draw unwanted attention.
• The casting saps your energy. You take -1 ongoing to INT until you have a few minutes to clear your head.

Twisting away at the last second,
The Herald is caught in the left shoulder. Where the sound of the dwarf's end is wet, the crone's shoulder breaks with the sound of crushed glass.
damage: 1d8 ⇒ 6

"That is... unfortunate." Left arm limp and sagging unnaturally, the crone looks about to try and get her bearings, looking for signs of the boy they were there to murder.

I mean, I think I know who they are, but then also the Herald isn't really the team's PR consultant.

The Herald lowers her center of gravity by crouching, holding out her staff. With a stomp and a twist of her right foot, frost spirals out in front of her, projecting the shape of a white owl in flight. Cutting winds buffet the crone as the glass-like aegis shatters.

I don't know if that "works" or not, I'm trying to convey an INT/CON caster. There are caster types that use CON, so the heartiness of your body is something magic can come from.

As their group tumbles along the shifting floor, the Herald maneuvers to intercept the rocketing mechansim...

Defend: 2d6 + 1 ⇒ (2, 1) + 1 = 4

The Herald completes her spin and thrusts out toward the charging machine. She slides a few inches back as she delivers a lance of carefully shaped light. The ARSL' persistant reality field wouldn't go down with a normal EMP, no. That would defeat the purpose of their manufacture.

After the Last Christmas, rebel engineers built these machines to brave the worldscars and scavenge in the the Winter Queen's domain. It had taken decades to perfect the nutcracker, but time is always on Winter's side.

Counterspell/Cast Spell(Chill them to the Bone?): 2d6 + 2 ⇒ (4, 2) + 2 = 8 possibly a 7
The spell's effects are superficial and temporary. OR (Your spell won't last long - you'll need to hurry to take advantage of it.
AND Your spell affects either much more or much less than you wanted it to.)

Feel free to address the Herald as Anastasia. It will confound and upset her.

The Herald spins around to whack the incoming figure with her staff. I'd roll, but I get a feeling that was the introduction for a new PC. Feel free to catch the staff and deliver a one-liner, if you're so inclined.

Just what exactly are you Spouting Lore on, here?

The mech. The Herald doesn't believe the other two could overcome the warped reality here in order to fight effectively.

Shvibzik ignores the man with the winged spear and eyes the armor. She waves off Bikke's prompt, "In a place like this? I wouldn't worry too much about fighting- certainly forget about shooting an arrow." She laughs almost a little too hysterically, a dry sound punctuated by a rattling cough. "I'd watch the tin can, though, dearie. Never know what arcana dabblers have uncovered these days."

Spout Lore: 2d6 + 2 ⇒ (5, 6) + 2 = 13
When you Spout Lore or Discern Realities about something magical or otherwise arcane, on a 10+ the GM will also tell you a little-known secret about the subject.

To the three sentinels, The Herald gives a smile. "Are you having trouble with the floor, dearies? I may be able to keep things still for a time if you promise to be good little children."

If someone aids, how will we ever meet Yizzwikke?

"Well, dearies, all we're doing here is waiting to get splinched. Best be on our ways." With that, the crone hikes up her robes and walks out into the decaying metaphysical space. Attempting to bend to the distorted physics of the core, she beings to head "upstream", following the source of the flow at any opportunity.

Defy Danger(INT?): 2d6 + 2 ⇒ (5, 3) + 2 = 10

I've got a 4 that needs to resolve.

The Herald examines the threshold, tapping the sides and top with her staff. "Watch your step, dearies. No telling what's a floor here."

Discern Realities: 2d6 + 1 ⇒ (1, 2) + 1 = 4

She watches the crumbs as the floor takes them away. It had been a long time since Shvibzik had considered the term "unfathomable" as anything but a challenge, but this wasn't a puzzle. This was a hot mess.

Dang, too late XP

Piloting the XR4445 Tengri Tomor is no simple thing of pulling levers and pushing buttons. Access to the vessel's helm and targeting systems is through a power gauntlet which integrates with the user on a permanent basis.

Locally, this gauntlet is referred to as the "witch blade" because, within the core, the previous pilot's blackened skeleton is tied to a pillar as if she were burned at the stake. Folk have every reason under the sun to fear the thing, and the learned have no reason to tamper with an island which is anchored just where it needs to be.

Legends of the witch blade speak of Gods calling lighting out of the sky to smite their foes.

For those who may be interested, I'm looking for a few players to fill out the third act of my narrative-heavy Magical Girl game found here.

This last arc should be about six months to a year of weekly+ posts.

Awesome, moebius conveyor belts. This is going to be fun.

There is a quirk to this place that makes getting around...not necessarily difficult, but noticeably different than would be expected in a more normal locale. Just what is it?

Within the heart of the skyruin, space is folded into tight knots as the forces that keep the island afloat pull in every direction. Careful observation is about as effective as a leap of faith, if somewhat safer. One just has to avoid getting stuck in one of the gravity wells without a means to pull onesself free.

Sounds fun.

Poke?

The Winter Herald finds a place near the back of the pod and waits to be teleported.

Seemed like the kind of statement that immediately precedes the tethers being disengaged.

Samsung galaxy s3.

Hit submit, went off to do something, and when I opened the page it looked like I'd hit preview.

"It's okay, dearies, this island is anchored. He's not going to get anywhere just mashing the accelerator."
Spout Lore=Parking Break: 2d6 + 2 ⇒ (5, 1) + 2 = 8

Honestly hoping for a 6- that time.

"Winter is the impetus of progress. Winter is what keeps the civilized on top. Winter wipes away the chaff and levels the cosmological playing field. Those golems, this island, your clothes, food preparation... none of it is possible without Winter. If we continue on, locked in perpetual Spring, these things will be lost and the world will descend into an overgrown darkness filled with beasts. Winter is harsh, yes, but Winter is a part of who you are, and denying it is accepting the end of everything we know... What's left of it anyway." As she speaks, something of the Herald's former aspect shows through: a hard but beautiful woman, straight of spine, face to the biting winds.

Then, she sags into her robes again, a decrepit crone. "I was young when Gregori passed me the mantle, and I made some mistakes- I won't even pretend I'm ashamed of them, but I always knew my time would pass. I never imagined it would be put under lock and key."

To Moves With Grace, she adds, "Custodian was a low-level facility maintenance position. They wore uniforms and repaired things like those golems and this translation pod. Looks like you've gone all monastic while I wasn't looking. Probably for the best... The ungrateful children have been playing with my toys for too long not knowing who to thank for them. Better that they turn to dust if they won't be appreciated for what they are."

"If the problem is the Spring Procession, nothing says that won't happen with the kid dead. The key is nearly indestructible, and there's nothing keeping any one of you from taking up the task. Not everyone here is in it for an ignoble cause, dearie. Some of them have family to think of. You may stop to consider that before you offend someone." Nonna nods as if she's gotten her point across and therefore the conversation is done and everyone can move on and avoid bringing up the subject again. "Now, were you working in this facility, custodian? Do you know where this platform translates to, or what exits there are to this facility? The child and his questionably adept bodyguard used this room to go further in. I think we can trust that they won't try to backtrack through this way, so what other options do they have for egress- that's to go out, dearie."

The Herald hobbles through the group as if she had joint pain, headed for the transport room. "Our obligation to end the keybearer's life has not ended, children. To follow through, we will need to find some way to use this machine... Unless we can figure out how they're planning to leave, and just meet them there."

"Who are you calling- Oh, the- Sure. Yes. Definitely more than five minutes old." The Herald proffers the hilt of the axe to each other party member.

The Herald looks down at the axe, held by the join between blade and handle. "What are you doing letting go of your weapon when there's a boss to slay?! You children have much to learn about adventuring I'll say that much."

"It's learning our weakesses, kill it!" the crone grabs and points Bikke's weapon at it, continuing to back away from her magic's spawn.

Lore: Winter isn't the same as winter. Lincolyn has a magically inept babysitter. #IceQueenShade
Treasure:A book I can SL Lincoln's next stop with.
Notable threat: golem swarm 9000? I dunno about this one...

Alignment:Spur another to greater things through prophecy and hidden knowledge.
Notably, the attempt was made, but I'm not sure MWG really benefited from my efforts. There might have been some stuff with the phase glove...

Bonds
I think we saw the laughing man with the failed attempt to save "the funny one" I think that might fit the given portend if it results in a mascot npc.

In any case, Elena's bond needs to be replaced. "The knave of quills, a man of many hats. It would seem Yizid has a lot to contribute to our efforts."

As long as that's three or more, that'll get nonna to level two... INT to 17, and the move know-it-all. People following my advice gain +1, and I gain xp if you succeed.

The Herald dusts off her hands and pulls her staff off the door frame. "Lesson number one, dearies: eyes on the prize. There's no partial credit in the murder business. You were each charged with the responsibility of ending this young man's life, and now the, uh, the guardian of the l- labyrinth, whom has resided in this place for many years, has been awoken, and to follow Lyncoln to the next distraction, we're going to have to kill it. Go on, get to it. My bones are old, my knees are weak, ol' nonna doesn't have the strength she used to."

While she is waiting, something occurs to the crone, and she picks a loose piece of tile off the floor and drops it, watching its descent closely.
I suspect we are about to fall out the sky due to an island-wide brownout.
Discern Realities?: 2d6 + 1 ⇒ (3, 1) + 1 = 5

The plan is to wait for backup and disavow any involvement in the creation of the creature. I mean, dungeons always have bosses at the bottom, right? They're just something that happens naturally in large structures, and it's not like I've been personally involved in creating all of them.

After a quiet and private fit of frustration, The Herald sighs and pats the drinking monster. "There there, a growing body needs its nutrients."

The dusts off her robe, steps outside the transport room and prepares her best 'disappointed parent speech'.

Tried to think of something clever or at least funny, but I think it'll be the bag of books. We're going to have to wrap up or take a nap or something, I'm running out of resources to loose...

Yeah, I looked at it when you pointed it out. *shrugs apologetically* It's still the course of action I'd like to take, and my expectations of the outcome aren't significantly effected, nor is my enjoyment of the game.

Spent most of my time on landing those sweet comedic anachronisms ala Aladin's Genie.

To ALL INT rolls? dang. I was thinking it was to Casting Spells like the other spell-y moves. *shrug* Good thing I built INT/CON...

The crone is too busy digging through her robe for a potion to see the monster appear. She twists off the top the slightly luminescent blue beverage accompanied by its signature hiss of released pressure, and she downs the fizzing liquid in a few quick gulps, the frost still accumulating on the bottle to trace the ancient scripture worked into the glass. 17/19HP as of posting. Wiping the ice from her lips with a sleeve, she finally spots the terror.

"Oh, hey look I made a snoow-man! I'll bet Lincoln wants to see... He says such awful things about you dear, and Winter's here. It's time you both should meet!" Nonna uses carefully calculated staff positioning like a rudder and pole to steer the sled through the dangers she senses by casting her outstretched hand through the veil of sight. She leans down on the staff, rocking arrhythmically to the deliberate motions of steering.
Defy Danger: 2d6 ⇒ (6, 2) = 8 If I get away with INT, that's a 10. If not, what's getting through to the Hero of Thyme gonna cost?

"Lincoln, dear, come meet my Snoow-man!" Turning back at last to give the thing a good look, she ducks and squints. "At least I think that that's a snow-maan..." With this last maneuver, The Herald flies on a trajectory that threads the needle between the escaping terrorists in a low-profile stance. With any luck, she'll torpedo through and leave them to deal with the incoming terror.
Defy Danger: 2d6 ⇒ (1, 3) = 4

"I guess not..."