A low deep voice starts resonating from a distant room.
"On this night, on this night,
Every night and all,
Hearth and house and candle-light,
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She tells another tale, of baba yaga's dancing hut, and of the powerful winter witch that erected the pale tower and subjugated this land, and her daughter, Nazhena Vasilliovna, who rules there now. she finishes her supper, plays another dirgish lute ballad
and compliments the chef. "I thank you then for your generosity around the hearth. Safe travels to you. "
Her eyes pass over you, and she shrugs her shoulders. She sings severl old and entertaining yarns of Baba Yaga, and the three riders.
"Like the black rider of old, I happen to be looking for a rider of a black horse, who wears a black cloak. Have any of you seen such a man this night or any other?
with a little flourish, a typical lute appears in her hands from nowhere, which she begins playing for you. skald:
"Do you know the story of the mother of all witches, travellers? Wherever you hail from, tell me, is it the south? I'm sure they don't tell you this story before bed... " hearing common spoken, she excuses herself "Taldor then? Not a problem. Do you know the story of the mother of all witches, travellers? Wherever you hail from, tell me, is it the south? I'm sure they don't tell you this story before bed" , and she plucks ger lute gently as she talks and inquires.
You realize part of the problem with the talkativeness of the guards is that they don't seem to be able to speak much Taldane (common), as they're cooking you hear them talking more to themselves in Skald. Nadya's speech is accented, but clearly she must speak Skald, and knows a lot of Taldane from being a trader. As the stew is doled out and everyone digs in to eat, soaking their hard tack bread and enjoying the warmth of the bowls, the howl of the wind masks the approaching footfalls, until a luminous blue skinned woman, with hooved feet similar to Caladan's round the lean to's wall, and breaks through the snow into the firelight. Sudden, though not hostile, the movements startle you. She lowers her hood, and you can see the horns atop her head. she's nothing in her hands, and holds them up in front of her clearly to demonstrate that she means no harm. "Stay your blades travelers. " "Could you by chance offer a fellow traveller a warm meal, and some shelter from this storm? ", she asks, though the cloak she wears doesn't seem to offer much protection, and the cold doesn't seem to be bothering her all that much. her opal necklace bounces on its chain in the wind. "I'm Mierul Ardelain, a travelling minstrel, and able to sing for my supper, play a dulcet lute to drown the howling wind, or spin you some tales of years gone by.", though play on what, you wonder, for she carries no sword, nor instrument, only a light crossbow unloaded, on her back, and a a few pouches at her waist, wearing a fine blue dress underneath the white cloak she wears. k. nature DC 12:
a Forlarren. product of the unholy union between a fiend and a nymph. they're typically evil aligned fey. cold iron burns the skin of such creatures and cuts it as mortal flesh would cut. their skin turns away other metals, barely scratching their skin. k. nature DC 17:
Forlarren are not normally immune to the cold, but her blue skin, and demeanor could mean that she's a winter-touched fey, having accepted an icy sliver into her heart by a ceremony with a Winter Witch. k. nature DC 22: the majority of forlarrens inherit little in the way of magical abilities possessed by their fey mothers, but do gain a small measure of the power of their fiendish fathers. In most cases, this manifests as the ability to use heat metal thrice per day, but some forlarren instead chill metal, can wield blades of pure flame, conjure flaming spheres, command the winds, summon swarms, or cause wood to warp and bend. |