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It seems like we are back on track again! As lurking was apparently kinda hard over at Rondak's Portal, here's The Story So Far (tm), courtesy of the magic of cut-and-paste:
Part 1: Prologue
SAERN:
Snow drifts in the wind of the late afternoon, as the low sun lances with golden beams behind midnight blue clouds. The scattered firs and spruces cast their shadows darkly on the drab ground, like the spearheads of giant sentinels deep beneath the ground. Their boughs wag and sigh with the wind, as biting as a sword’s edge. The north sings its eternal song; the whisper of the wind, the howl of the wolf, and various bird calls and chirps from here and there, unseen in the dark branches along the road.
Here are three travelers, all in a row, strange and brave for testing these lands. The front man walks with a strange grace, an uneven gait, sometimes halting, sometimes rushing. Here he spies a fine tree, a rare snow flower, a glimpse of a bird, and he rushes ahead. There he spies a familiar sight, one estranged to his eyes for nearly a decade, and his feet stall in memory as a smile or some other expression crawls over his face. A dog, laden with bags and sacks bulging and sagging all around, attends this master of his.
The man looks young, much more than his years should tell, and clearly of Ak blood. His blonde hair, unkempt in a fashionable way, waves with every furtive glance of his face. He has an easy grace about him, and his face is often bowed in a grin. His garb is a fine weave of fur and leather, thin but proof against the cold; at least to his northern blood. His eyes sing, piercing and blue like a glacier.
Across his back rests a lute, worn with care, and at his side hang a sword and a whip. Packs and pouches adorn his belt and other places on his person, as if the dog he frequently pets wasn’t carrying enough odds and ends.
This is Daeman Greensails, a bard returned to his home from many, many a year at sea.
Behind him walks a figure, vaguely defined as a female, and cloaked in mystery more than furs. Pensive despite her grace, she carries an uneasy air about her, but wise indeed would the man be who could say for sure why. She looks to the one ahead of her and sometimes to the one behind, and often at the land all around. The bard is quick to exclaim a new find or wonder, and she looks on, carefully intrigued.
One may think her a monk, looking over her thin gray garment, the fabric cut at the knees and elbows. Certainly the black sashes that hold the cloth to her, and the matching wraps upon her forearms, running all down to her wrists and beyond, where they vanish beneath her leather gloves, enhance this appearance. Her calves and feet fit snuggly into her supple leather boots, like those that are popular aboard a ship or in the south, in Calisae. Even with the fur cloak draped across her thin shoulders, this is far from enough to keep her from the biting wind, yet she seems to pay the dire chill no mind. Certainly she is a capable woman, and the blades at her side, one long and thin, the other short and bent, (not to mention the bow on her back) speak volumes. These weapons seem to garner far more respect from their master than her dress.
This is Lythdrae Vasyln, though prying even that from her can prove difficult. From where does she hail? Why, the south, in Calisae; one could hardly be native to a land more removed from these current climes in Aksal. Why is she here? Well, that would be the question, wouldn’t it?
The rear guard of the procession bears not the easy grace as the others. Certainly, his frame is thin and willowy, but he is hunched, his shoulders bunched and his arms shivering. He trails slightly behind the others, unable to match their easy pace. His short, well-kept blonde hair, his pasty skin… one may reach the conclusion, finally seeing his blue eyes, that he was Ak, but that would be incorrect. No, any experienced traveler would know this lad, clearly the youngest of the three, to be an Ariol, from Saern’s rich heartland.
His dark robes, so clear against the snow and speckled with drifting flakes, his smooth walking staff, the belt pouches and book hanging from his side; all clear indicators, given his heritage, that this one knows magic. A green sash rests upon his wrist, a dramatic splash of color in his otherwise darkened regalia.
This is Aererath, a young mage of Arionor. Even Lythdrae cannot match the air of secrecy that surrounds this stooped young man, but his destiny will become all too clear in the weeks ahead.
So, now, here are three travelers, walking south in the late afternoon, among the blue-tinged shadows of the spruce and firs. Just this bright morning they disembarked from their long sea voyage aboard the Blue Lady. They landed at the small outcropping, Grayrock Point, a popular stop for smugglers and other not wishing to pass through customs at Northwind’s harbor. But lawlessness was not the intent of their going ashore at this point; no, the bard’s idea compelled them.
The three conversed as they walked, and here is what they said:
DAEMAN GREENSAILS:
Daeman was still lost in thought, transfixed by the majesty of his homeland, when a sharp cough from his new companion Arerath brought him out of his blissful stupor. It was only just then that Daeman was aware of his long shadow and the sun threatening to sink into the horizon. Daeman passed a look back at his charges. Lythdrae seemed fine but Arerath was clearly uncomfortable in the cold snd tired from the long march. "Great." He thinks to himself,"my first chance to show a southerner some Ak hospitality and I march him to death in the snow in the first day." Daeman stops and turns to face his comrades. "I think it's time to set up camp for the night. Spead out and look for a good site here in these trees, we need a space wide enough to get a fire but with enough trees to hide the smoke and keep out the wind. If you see something promising let out a whistle."
WHITE TOYMAKER:
"Trees..." Lythdrae murmurs as she looks about. "I could tell you everything I know about trees and improvised shelters, and I wouldn't need a second breath to do it."
Well, there's nothing for it but to look about and see what there is. Shifting her shoulders uncomfortably beneath the ridiculously weighty outfit that the shopkeep had insisted was necessary to bear the northern chill, she sets off toward the trees. Hopefully, one or the other of her companions will know more about the local environs and flora than she does.
ARERATH:
"So bloody cold" Arerath says again as he coughs into his robes trying to take the chill out of his lungs. He then pulls his robes tighter around him trying to stay warm, "So have brought some bloody warmer clothes that is for sure."
SAERN:
The trees are thick in this length of the road. The snow hangs heavy on their bows, and the long shadows totally cloak the land. Lythdrae and Arerath are no woodspeople, that is certain, and Daeman's long years aboard ships haven't lent themselves to his wilderness skills. Yet, it would be a blind man who didn't recognize what the bard stumbled upon with his searches: a patch of low branches, with the snow all knocked off and piled around the ground. A track or two, indeterminate in nature, runs for a few feet back under the trees, where the branches seem to form a short natural tunnel. Perhaps this is a game trail, or simply a sheltered spot from the wind. In either event, it looks promising.
DAEMAN GRRENSAILS:
Daeman lets out a long whistle when he finds the small wooded haven. He takes enough time to unstrap his shortbow and quiver and remove Arthur's saddlebags and place them in a dry spot. After this however his eyes rest on the seemingly natural tube of boughs and without hesitation crawls inside for a better look.
ARERATH:
Arerath not one to explore so eagerly waits for the bard to give a signal, either an all clear or his death screams. Pulling his robes in closer to stay warm, he scans the surrounding area for anything else interesting.
WHITE TOYMAKER:
Knowing her companion's lack of caution, Lythdrae peers carefully into the apparent tunnel before following him. Whatever may be in there, she'll be no better off for staying outside when her guide is within.
ARERATH:
Arerath waits for a few moments, and if he doesn't hear the screaming he peers in, "We shouldn't be waste time on ideal exploration, so if the cave is secure we should warm it up and use it for settle. If not, then we should move along to find settle and get out of this bloody cold."
SAERN:
While the mage waits apprehensively, wishing for a better field guide, the bard plunges deeper into the twisted forest, leading Lythdrae further into the brambles. It's certainly no quiet affair, what with all the snow crunching, twigs crackling under foot, and branches swaying around, disturbed by the passage.
A thicker tangle of foliage momentarily blocks the bard, and gives Lythdrae time to catch up. While Daeman struggles with the twisted limbs, distracted, Lythdrae hears something... a thudding noise, just off in the forest beyond their twisted path. Something is out there, and it is coming towards them as they stand twisted in the maze of trees....
WHITE TOYMAKER:
Stepping forward nimbly, Lythdrae draws her rapier and places a hand on Daeman's arm to gain his attention.
"Stand ready," she murmurs and flicks the tip of her blade toward the sound, "something approaches."
DAEMAN GREENSAILS:
Sobered by the barely audible sound of Lythdrae's steel slipping free Daeman focuses himself on the task at hand. He slides a dagger free and pays close attention to her body language. He's seen her pick her way through complete darkness without flaw while he stumbled. "If something shows itself she will be the one to see it.
SAERN:
The two prepare themselves, steeled against whatever strange thing may be coming their way. The approaching crunch of snow grows louder, more distinct. The snap of branches, and the limbs before the two intrepid adventurers begin to move and rustle. Then they part with a sudden motion!
There stands a wide-eyed man, Ak, clad in a chain shirt and furs, and wielding what may well be the largest spear any of the others have ever seen. Perhaps it would be more apt to describe it as a tree trunk with a metal point?
The man is handsome, with strange, vibrant eyes, and it appears as if he has perhaps decorated his armor and garb with some bright feathers. He looks totally surprised to find Daeman and Lythdrae here in the woods. Just behind him, another man is visible, bearded and armored, and what looks to be an elf alongside him.
Oh, what strange things happen when traveling!
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Part 2: Meetings and greetings
VATTNISSE:
Blinking away his surprise (and swallowing his disgust at being caught unawares), Hrothgar steps forward, making a conciliatory gesture. "Greetings and salutations, fellow travelers, and may the blessings of the Unfettered Journeyer be upon both of you. We mean you no harm, so please put your weapons down. I am Hrothgar, of the Isfisker tribe - this is Ian, and, lastly, this is Ethras. Now, if you please - who are you?"
ETHRAS ARAFIL:
The elf glances at the three newfound wanderers and releases the tension in his bowstring, returning an arrow to its quiver. He smirks slightly and stands at ease.
"You appear to be lost. Would you care to join us? At least until we get to town?" The elf spoke in accented Common, clearly not his first language, but his words were easy enough to understand.
DAEMAN GREENSAILS:
Daeman quickly sheathes his dagger and steps forward to clasp forearms with Hrothgar. "Strength to Hrothgar and the Isfisker, I am Daeman Greensails of the Hrildern tribe. This is my friend Lythdrae. We have a third with us as well setting up a camp at the end of this trail. We are travelers on route to Northwind. We aren't "lost" per say.... (his sentance trails off clearly not finding the right words) but would still more than appreciate your company if you propose to make the trip together. I'd be a fool to refuse the company of one capeable of bestowing the great travelers blessings.
VATTNISSE:
"Strength to you and your clansmen as well, and to your companions." Hrothgar's face splits in a wide grin. "You are travelling to Northwind, yet you intend to camp here? Master Daeman, you are lost! Master Ian here is a local; according to him, we are less than two hours of marching from East Haven, perhaps just an hour if we keep a decent pace. Think of it - a roaring fire, warm food, a few horns of mead... Much better than roughing it under a bough in the forest, I'd say." His smile grows wider at the thought.
His expression suddenly becomes more somber. "Unless, of course, your third companion is sick, wounded or infirm, and thus cannot travel further today - in which case he most definitely should not be by himself. Let us go see to him; these lands can be perilous for the lonely or the inexperienced."
DAEMAN GREENSAILS:
Daeman turns and begins walking back toward their camp leading their new aquiantances to Arerath. "East Haven? I' ve never heard of it. I've been working on tradeships for the past seven years friend. I suppose I'm no longer a local to my own homelands. Our companion is surly from the cold but to my knowledge he does not suffer a more serious affliction. Please, let us gather our equipment and set off together."
WHITE TOYMAKER:
Lythdrae nods silently and, somewhat belatedly, sheathes her blade before following her companion.
"If he's that cold," she mumbles, "he can borrow my furs until we get there. Worth it to sleep someplace with a door."
IAN:
Ian steps forward carefully and with natural grace, despite the enormous spear currently in use as a staff. "If I may ask, what brings you and your companions to Northwind, friend Daeman?" Ian's voice is lyrical and measured; as he speaks, he offers his free hand in greetings.
DAEMAN GREENSAILS:
Daeman clasps Ian by the forearm with a smile. "A bit of a family reunion as a matter of fact. I have kin there and I've been away from home for too long. My friends here accompanied me under the idea that I was a guide who knew the way. Which, until fortune brought you our way, I thought I was. I'm nothing more than a homesick sailor I suppose... Now you, on the other hand, I suspect are something more spectacular. That post you are currently punishing the ground with seems to suggest an interesting tale, and your voice assures me you can tell one well.
VATTNISSE:
As Hrothgar emerges from the game trail, he hears a dog’s plaintive whining; as he turns towards the sound, he sees the pack dog nuzzling a smallish shape curled up inside a cloak and some thin robes underneath a fir tree. "’Surly from the cold’, eh?", he grumbles to himself as he kneels next to the prone and shivering youngster, quickly checking his temperature and vital signs.
"Apparently the cold has overcome your young companion", he says to Lythdrae. "It shouldn’t be too serious - he just needs some stew and a long, hot soak. However, we’ll have to carry him there - the easiest thing would be to leash him to a litter. Could you cut down some branches for that?" He then turns back to the unconscious Arerath and calls upon the favour of the Perpetual Traveller. "This’ll keep him warm until then", he says, as he touches his narwal-horn totem to the wizard's forehead and casts endure elements upon him.
WHITE TOYMAKER:
Lythdrae cocks her head to the side at the man's strange assurances, and stops a moment to ponder. Arerath chose to stay in the cold, but the last thing she needs is more blood on her hands.
"Here," she removes her furs and lays them atop her companion with the hint of a smirk, "best to keep him warm, or he'll not have the chance to give us the cold shoulder."
Stripped of her excess baggage, she turns back to the trees with purpose. She draws her knife as she walks, calling over her shoulder: "I'll see about finding something smaller than our feathered friend is carrying..."
ARERATH:
Arerath stirs slightly, looking about confused... "I guess there wasn't anything dangerous in there... should have signalled me..." At that he settles down, attempting to fall back to sleep in the warmth.
VATTNISSE:
"This is excellent", Hrothgar says out loud to nobody in particular, looking down on the bundled shape of Arerath. Lythdrae had been just as handy, if not more so, with the knife as he had expected, and the litter they had constructed should be quite sufficient to get the semi-conscious arcanist to East Haven. "First thing I’ve been right about all day", he thought ruefully to himself, shaking his head. At least the duelist was made out of sterner stuff than most - as practical as her outfit looked, it seemed far from warm. Hopefully she wasn’t just faking that toughness, as Hrothgar had no more of his warming magics memorised.
He stood up and grabbed the wood-and-rushes contraption. "I’ll pull the litter. But what we really could have used is a giant - big, awesomely strong, untiring and completely unconcerned with the weather! Of course, they probably couldn’t be bothered to… nah, whatever… Let’s get going!"
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Part 3: Getting to East Haven
SAERN:
And so they departed again, continuing their travels through what many consider the far end of the world. For some, it was just going home. For others, it was getting as far away from "home" as possible.
Now six strong, the tentative companions walked down the lightly wooded path as the sun continued to sink. Foremost among them plodded the mysterious Ian; though friendly and warm, he carried a strange presence about him, not unlike Lythdrae’s… but simultaneously different. His steps seemed lighter, his smile more welcoming. A general sense of peace and comfort pervaded the man. What an odd contrast, then, was the truly massive pike that he carried. Perhaps some giant had once held it, and had it wrestled from him by Ian. Who knew?
And the feathers… they seemed to almost protrude through his chain shirt, yet surely that must be an illusion of the style of decoration he uses. What tribe did he come from? There are none commonly known that do such a thing. And did he say that he came from Northwind? Perhaps it is some tradition from the southlands that he learned from a traveler.
Ian guided the group, but was accompanied by the largely silent elf. And elf, in Aksal! What a strange sight. Though some occasionally made the trip to Northwind, few ever ventured past the Great Blizzard, and most simply left after several years, retreating to their homes in Nysil or Esekar.
But, here he was, Ethras Arafil. More than competent in the wild lands, he was an invaluable addition to company when it came time to harvest the branches for the ill Arerath.
One might have speculated about the elf’s origin. Certainly, there were rumors amongst the local tribes, tales of wood elves in the Galmir Forest to the north. They were said to guard mystical and ancient treasures, but such stories were considered fairy tales by most. Some Ak lived so secluded they did not even know whether elves were real or not. Ethras would surely change their minds.
But this ranger was clearly not a wood elf. No, one thing could tell Daeman, the most experienced traveler of the group, precisely where Ethras was from. His platinum hair was a dead giveaway. Ethras hailed from the forest kingdom of Nysil, in eastern Arionor. The Kingdom of the Stars was a far ways off, but still the closest of all large elven lands to Aksal.
Just behind these two came the priest of the Eternal Traveler, Hrothgar Isfisker. His step was sure, as sure as a dwarf’s. He hummed softly as he easily pulled Arerath across the snowy ground. The way he wore his beard, somewhat unkempt… perhaps it was just because of his travels, but it could also indicate his heritage. Men of Thror decorated and groomed their facial hair more, if they had any at all. They took after their Ariol allies in Northwind.
Perhaps he was from Chantul, the wildest of all the human nations of Aksal. But, no… the sealskin cloak, the walrus tooth necklace, the narwhal horn carved into his holy symbol. This man was from a people who knew the sea. This man was from the raiding lands, Fjaldak, northernmost of human lands in all of Saern. Perhaps he had braved the tribal hostilities his people bear with the Chant and crossed their wooded lands, or perhaps he had sailed past Irgol’s Teeth in Ice Bay on his way south. Either would have been a great adventure and pleasing to his god, Fharlanghn.
Daeman made a mental note to ask them all about these things at a later time, perhaps around a fire in East Haven.
For the moment, though, the bard kept pace with the priest, the spear-wielder, and the ranger. He listened intently to whatever they had to say, and brought up his own questions, largely about recent events in his homeland. He had been away so long, there was much catching up to do.
From Hrothgar, he learned that the most newsworthy events were increasing fighting amongst the Fjal tribes, and further aggression from the frost giants of Wytelund. The white dragon known only as the Ice Queen, who had conquered and claimed Wytelund for her brood ages ago, was spurring her "people" on to raid the southern lands with greater frequency.
Arerath lay in the crude litter made from fir boughs, occasionally turning this way or that. His color seemed to be returning somewhat, but the Ariol youth remained largely unconscious in the warmth that had finally been provided to him. The best thing to do would be to get him near a roaring fire in East Haven, and certainly the others wouldn’t mind a sit around such a thing, either.
And finally, behind Arthur the pack dog, came Lythdrae. Silent and guarded, she simply seemed to vanish into the rear of the line, largely unnoticed amongst the flurry of commotion and introductions and talking going on at the front of the group. Though her cloak had been shed, and only a thin cloth separated her from the chill wind, she seemed to easily keep up with the rest of the group. It was not discomfort that kept her in the back, at least not physical discomfort. No, she choose to remain there for her own reasons, whatever they may be.
Though they made good time, the travel took slightly longer than expected, what with the sick wizard. After three more hours, the company of came upon a small rise. At the top, a large boulder protruded like a rounded spine, and the road curved around its leaning base. The trees left the hillock bare, unwilling to stand any more wind as they might find at its peak. Indeed, there was an audible whistle as the air whipped around the stone.
But from beneath this leaning, jutting rock, atop the low rise, the travelers were finally greeted by a pleasant site. Up ahead only a half mile was East Haven.
It was a small and strange community. To the north, where the six were now gathered, was the wooded wild land that stretched to the coast of Ice Bay. To the south was the Nasir River, flowing east to west between Northwind and Thror. The road ran alongside the frigid waters. South of that waterflow was the Fyrges Woods, the upland buffer zone between the humans and the frost giant denizens of the Jarl’s Crown Mountains, which loomed off in the distance. To the east was open plain and tundra, running on into the lands of Thror, the ancestral lands of Daeman Greensails.
And to the west, from this vantage point, the travelers could see the low, dark clouds, hanging in the air like a shield of dark iron, but swirling and fluid. They reached on to the horizon, darkening the whole land, which was already shadowed under the fast approaching nightfall. Sheets of gray and white fell from these clouds, and the ground was totally bleached beneath them. The snow and ice rose up, forming hills and mountains. But even this was blurred, as the already fallen snow whirled and spun back off the ground from the ferocious winds, forming a haze over the distant scene.
This was the Great Blizzard. They would have to cross it in order to reach Northwind.
But not tonight. Tonight, the six would descend into East Haven. The town itself was more of a large campground, sprung up around a rise along the Nasir River. It was a circular place. At the center, atop the mound, was a large mead hall. It rested upon a wide stone foundation, and was decorated with painted carvings in its wood, carvings depicting Ak legends and history, and revelry, too. The hall was enormous, and facing towards the Nasir, away from the party, they could just spy a massive carved dragon’s head jutting from the front, above the double doors. The smoke from what must have been the roaring fires within the fall poured from the mouth and nose of the great wooden wyrm.
Apart from the hall, and slightly lower on the hill, was a chaotic collection of buildings. Wood and stone, they were a range of sizes. Each had doorways emblazoned with the sign of some god. Pelor, Pholtus, Kord, Osprem, Procan, Telchur; all of these could be seen, and more. Even dark deities, who demanded appeasement from the peoples, were present. Who could miss the leering, half-demon face of Erythnul painted above a doorway smeared with animal blood and wreathed in the skulls of deer and bears?
These were the shrines. Travelers went to them to ask the god of their choice for good fortune before entering the Great Blizzard, or to give thanks for making it safely through.
Below this, on the flat lands around the rise, were a huge number of tents. Honestly, Ian was rather surprised by the sight of so many; never before had there been this number of travelers in East Haven! Fires were already being set and lit by various peoples, and there was a great deal of milling about, even this late in the evening.
Some tents housed Ak tribesmen and traders and hunters. These were clearly the tents of thick furs, drab in color but warm. Some were surrounded by anvils and hastily constructed forges. The dwarves of Gun Tharok claimed these. Others were brighter in color; thin tents of Ariol merchants come to the ends of the world to hawk their wares. Certainly, they caught the eye, but they couldn’t possibly be warm. Foolish southerners! And there were also tents whose doors were supported with the tusks of mammoths and mastodon. The skulls of these beasts rested atop the central poles of the tents, capping them, and smoke rolled out of the hollowed eye and nasal sockets. Orcs.
Beyond those were several abandoned lean-tos and deconstructed tents, free for any traveler who needed a place to stay for the night.
And so the six newfound, awkward companions arrived in the early shadows of night at East Haven.
VATTNISSE:
"This, my friends, is why we travel. Have you ever seen a more magnificent sight?" Hrothgar’s face splits in a huge smile. It had been an enjoyable trek once they had started marching; while walking, Ethras, Ian and himself had pointed out the occasional animal track or exotic plant for their compatriots as well as spotting what must have been a giant eagle, soaring high above. East Haven, however, was where his expertise ended and that of the city-dwellers began - hopefully, Lythdrae and Daeman would be as capable within this warren of tents and buildings as he and Ethras were outside of it. Actually, Hrothgar was somewhat uneasy - this was easily the biggest town he’d ever been to, but his companions didn’t need to know that. He swallows away his nervousness and digs a piece of greasy cloth out of his backpack.
"I took this thing off a goblin champion last winter, who again most probably got it off some orc’s body", he explains as he wraps the black iron of his morningstar’s cruelly spiked head in the cloth. "It is a fantastic weapon, but it also has a number of orcish tribal markings on it - might as well not take the chance that it belonged to a friend of those guys down there". He fastens the wrap and straightens up. "Bloody Moon, I think, though I’m no expert on orcish politics. Of course, the orcs here don’t show their tribal allegiances - if they did, they’d be at each others’ throats already". With a sudden jerk, he gets back into motion. "Now, let’s get a drink and some stew!"
ETHRAS ARAFIL:
Ethras smiled uneasily as the entered the establishment, glancing around at the various shrines that surrounded them. A few he recognized, for better or worse, but the majority of them were alien to him and his people. Regardless, the elf felt increasingly uneasy in these surroundings.
"I believe it would be wise to gather the necessary supplies before entering the Great Blizzard, friends." Ethras looked pointedly at Arerath. "The last thing we need is others getting ill... or him getting any worse." He smiled on this last point, gesturing to Arerath in a way that appeared more sympathetic than accusatory.
"Feel free to wander about and do what you will while I gather the proper equipment. Don't worry about me getting lost... I know your bootprints well enough!" He smirked and winked at Hrothgar.
WHITE TOYMAKER:
Unaccustomed to this forest of tents, Lythdrae checks her weapons before entering the northern town. Best that they be close on hand in such lands.
Looking about at her companions, she closes her eyes a moment in recollection before turning to the spear carrier.
"Ian, was it? Would you happen to know the safest path to whatever temple or shrine has been raised here to honor Pelor?"
SAERN:
As the six descend from the hillock and enter East Haven under the gloomy shadows of Aksal's settling dusk, they converse, and also draw closer to each other. Most of them are from the wilds, or at least used to scenes quite different from the ragged setting of East Haven. All but one: Daeman struggles with the might of all his small amount of self-restraint, trying not to run off amongst the tents and see what's to be found.
"You, there! Yes, you six! Crystals! I have crystals from the pyramids of Amun-kha, for only 8 crowns! Feel the magical power of the ancients!"
"Come in, come in, any who want to taste the finest cheese in the world! From Hestfall!"
These and other cries come from merchants, who had been putting away their tents, but are rejuvenated by the sight of another troupe of wanderers coming into their reach.
Meanwhile, a group of three dwarves sit to the left of the worn and muddy path into town, drinking in silence, their axes and hammers laying on the ground. They cast their eyes across the path, over to a pair of orcs examining what appear to be recently purchased blades. It doesn't take much common sense to stay clear of this bloodbath waiting to happen.
Further in, more small fires line the tangled grounds between the tents, and peoples of all colors and nations sit around, talking and drinking. Many look distraught, and murmur between each other. Some shake their heads, others look to the west, to the Great Blizzard, with fear in their eyes.
Passing close to one such group, a snippit of conversation can't possibly be missed. "When do you think the rangers will come back?"
"No idea."
"Better get used to sitting here, lads!"
IAN:
"Pelor? I believe I see a shrine to the Sun Father's honor over there, near the feast hall. Though to tell the truth, you will find Pelor's blessing to founder at times in these darkened lands, where his enemies are strong and tyranny is common. You may also wish to send a blessing to Trithereon, the Summoner, who is a staunch ally in the fight against oppression. You will find Trithereon's shrine by the triskelion above it, a tri-part rune."
Ian lifts his own symbol so that Lythdrae can see it closer.
"I myself will seek Trithereon's blessing at this time. I will see you all in the feast hall soon," Ian says, heading off to pay his respects.
VATTNISSE:
Hrothgar waves to Ethras as he disappears between the tents - recognising a kindred spirit, he has grown rather fond of the quiet elf over the short while they had travelled together. Hopefully he wouldn't run into any serious problems in the shops. With a measure of surprise, he then watches as his other companions scatter and peel off towards the shrines of their preferred deities. Fharlaghn maintains no shrines – instead, it could be argued that this entire township functioned as a temple to the Great Wanderer. Come to think of it, the entire multiverse was Fharlaghn’s playground, just as every new sight seen was a homage to the Traveller. The whole temple thing had always seemed completely unnecessary to Hrothgar. Still, it couldn’t hurt to pay one’s respects to Telchur, considering that they would have to enter a storm the next day. But that could wait a bit.
Instead, Hrothgar drags the litter straight up to the meadhall. Once there, he checks his backpack, along with the improvised litter and the equipment carried by Arthur, with the bouncers in the hall’s antechamber. After his attempts at some friendly chatter with the pair of dour dwarves policing the door falls completely flat, he manoeuvres Arerath and Arthur inside and finds a spot close to a hearth. "Pardon me, miss", he hails a passing waitress, "but I need to thaw out this kid. He’ll need warm broth and a serious slug of firewater, and, if possible, I’d like stew, bread, hard cheese and a pitcher of ale". As she leaves, he absentmindedly leans back and takes off his heavy cloak, while scratching Arthur’s ear. When the waitress comes back, he’ll ask her about those missing rangers, but until then, he’ll be quite content with enjoying the warmth and watching the crowd. Perhaps there would be somebody he knew there?
SAERN:
As Hrothgar turns away from the girl, a middle-aged man draws near with a quizzical look on his face and a curious posture, his eyes fixed intently on the Fjal priest. It only lasts for a brief instant; he sees something, and his face breaks into a hearty smile and his body straightens.
"Well met, fellow Wanderer!" he calls out. The man is tall yet stocky, and with a square face framed by his dirty white hair. It hangs thick upon his head and wraps down to his chin, where it forms a thick but well-groomed beard, cut almost into a square. Such is the typical style of the men of Thror.
He wears a thick cloak, shaggy and brown, wrapped around his shoulders and falling all the way to the floor. His clothes beneath look warm, comfortable, and plain, but there clearly hangs a cord around his neck bearing a wooden circle depecting Fharlanghn's sign.
Despite this warm gesture, the face is unfamiliar.
VATTNISSE:
With a delighted smile, Hrothgar jumps to his feet and grabs the stranger’s forearm. "Strength to you and your clansmen, Wayfarer. This is a most pleasant surprise". At a deeper level, however, Hrothgar is far from surprised. Where else would be a more natural place to meet a priest of Fharlaghn than at a waymeet like this one? "Allow me to ease your journey. Please sit down and share my meal with me, and permit me to partake of your wisdom. This place looks like an army encampment. Why the tenseness among the travellers? And why are there so many gathered here?" Surely a crowd this size must be unusual, Hrothgar thought to himself, only belatedly realising that he actually did not have the faintest idea of how big the city of Northwind actually was. When he and Ian had decided to journey to Northwind, he had originally thought it was perhaps four times the size of this place, but that estimate was already clearly very, very wrong. Perhaps this crowd was completely normal? Where were the Northwind-dwellers when he needed them?
ETHRAS ARAFIL:
Having seen what preparations his companions had already made, Ethras set himself to the task of gathering any other items he felt they lacked. Heavy winter blankets, short poles for creating a lean-to in an emergency, medical supplies (including potent alcohols for promoting an increase in body temperature), scarves, hoods, and snowshoes.
In addition to these rather mundane prepartions, Ethras also searched for an alchemist or other such vendor who could provide potions for braving extreme temperatures just in case such a situation would arise.
SAERN:
It takes very little inquiry for the elf to find directions to the tent of an Ariol magician. Knocking on the post outside the tent flap, a call comes from within the green canvas structure. "Just one moment!" Certainly enough, less than a minute later, the flap opens and an acrid smell, like the bubbling mineral pools of a geyser, wafts out of the tent. A short, thin man, balding and clad in well-worn gray linen, with a pair of spectacles on his nose, juts his head out and squints at the visitor.
"Oh, an elf! Come in, come in. You are the first of your kind that I have seen outside the walls of Northwind! I do so wish I could get back. Dreadful business, being stranded out here for so long."
SAERN:
"I suppose I have a moment to rest my feet here with you," the man says with a smile. "My name is Frindel. I need not take any food from you, though I thank you for the offer. I can get it from the cooks any time I want! You see, this is my mead hall. I own this place, and as such, am the closest thing East Haven has to a town elder or a leader of any kind. Ah, and it's been rough holding such a responsibility over the last several weeks."
"The problem is that the Stormwalker tribe has stopped sending us their ranger guides. Without them, we're all as good as lost and dead inside that dread storm. 'Course, that isn't the real trouble. No, if it weren't for the disappearances, the Stormwalkers would still be here!"
"I'll take it from the look on your face that you're new enough to not have heard the news. Well, then! It's been a while since I've had to spread the news; I thought those days were finished when I settled down."
"Sevral weeks ago, one of the guides and their wards failed to come through the Great Blizzard. Certainly it's sad, but not unusual. Some perish every year trying to cross. But then, in that same week, another group vanished. We were worried here, but continued on with the normal traveling. But when the third guide failed to come through, we knew something was terribly wrong inside the storm."
"Gerdan, that's the brother of the Stormwalker's chief, came across the River and told me that his people would not risk the Great Blizzard again. Not while this danger loomed. Well, obviously, this couldn't be! No one can come in and out of the city except by boat and this trail, and there's precious few boats between Northwind and the rest of Aksal. No, we're vital, we are."
"So, some dwarves volunteered to go in, and never came back out. Then some strong and brave men, and they dissappeared, too. Finally, Gerdan's brother by marriage came across the Nasir with some other hunters, said they were willing to try and solve the problem. Now, the others who went in may well have just gotten lost and died in the snows. They should have known better, but there was no stopping them. I figured that if anyone had a chance of doing something, it was the Stormwalkers. It's in their blood, you know?"
"Unlike the others, we heard something back from that party. They took a boy with them, a youth attempting to prove his manhood. This was to be his rite of passage, I understand. Two days after they left, he came back, alone. We couldn't get anything out of him at first, but then... then he started talking, about monsters in the snows. They ambushed the rangers, tore them limb from limb! The boy was just out of reach from the initial assault, and he ran. He blames himself now, but it is no fault of his. It's providence, in fact, that he made it back! We'd still not know what was happening in there if it weren't for him."
"Unfortunately, all the travelers and traders are bottled up here until we can get through the storm again. It's a bad situation. Already dealing with about one knifing a day, sometimes more." Frindel looks wistfully down at the table, obviously disheartened and strained.
VATTNISSE:
"Hmmmm…. These are grim tidings indeed. I am sorry to hear a few impedes the travels of many". Hrothgar’s jaw sets and his eyes harden. "That cannot stand. While I cannot make any promises, my compatriots are both fearless and formidable warriors. It would surprise me greatly if they would not be interested in some monster-hunting - I, for one, already itch to break some monstrous skulls".
"They should be here within an hour or so - you can ask them then. Meanwhile, I need to reinvigorate this one - and I would certainly like to talk to the rescued youth, if possible. No matter how little he saw, he has still seen more than any others". Inwardly, Hrothgar beams with pleasure and thanks Fharlaghn - after this pleasant journey, even further adventures awaited!
WHITE TOYMAKER:
After Ian's polite denunciation of the Sun Father, Lythdrae sets off toward Pelor's shrine unsure of what she might find in such a strange land.
As much trouble as she's had accepting the idea of benevolent deities in the past, she could scarcely imagine a religion doing any better than a school by trying to demean another.
"Those at the top," she murmurs to herself as she walks, "don't need to talk down those below. And those below will drive off those who might raise them up if they try."
Clasping her hands tightly together, Lythdrae bows her head to cast her face into shadow as she grimaces briefly.
Ethras smiles meekly as the magician greets him.
"Well met, sir. My companions and I are seeking a long trek in this harsh climate and I would like to know what elixirs you have to combat such conditions."
"Hmm... elixirs and potions, I have some...." the man dissappears into his tent for a moment, but can still be heard yammering on through the material. "Although, I'm not completely sure where you think you are going. Unless you're demon hunters! Yes, that's what you are. You must have heard that other sage's postulations on Abyssal influences upon the Great Blizzard! Aha, well, good luck to you, demon hunter, but I'm afraid I don't have any of the demon-slaying elixirs you've asked for." The man pops just his head back out of the tent as he finishes his sentence, his eyes grossly distorted and swollen by the spectacles upon his face. He blinks a few times in a befuddled manner.
Frindel looks over at the ailing mage. "I can certainly take such a one off your hands. Should be a simple thing to nurse him back to health, no need to slow you down, friend. Now, I will speak my mind and say that I discourage you from going into that storm. We've already lost so many, and they were confident and sure as you are. Nevertheless, I'll not go out of my way to stop you. We all walk roads in our lives, and if this be yours, then you must go to it. Perhaps the Wanderer has blessed you to succeed where others have failed.
"In any event, the boy's still here. We found him just three days ago, and there's a Stormwalker coming to pick him up, I'm sure. But, the tribesman most likely won't arrive until the day after tomorrow or the next day. So, you've got plenty of time to talk to him. I can tell you everything he'll say right now, though. Prattles on about demons and such." By the tone in his voice, Frindel seems frustrated.
Lythdrae approaches the top of the hill. She pauses for a moment just within the ring of temples and shrines, half hiding in the shadow of the mead hall as she looks at the building dedicated to Pelor. It's a rather large shrine, a pale, bleached wooden wall painted with sun symbols in each of the cardinal directions, with the largest facing east. The timber double-doors stand just a bit ajar beneath this sign, as if they are nominally kept closed, but no one really cares enough to go through the trouble of enforcing the policy. There is no roof on the cylindrical structure; it is just a thick round wall, perhaps twenty feet in height. A pair of torches shine just outside the door- torches with unnaturally golden flames.
This is an important moment for the young woman. Her mind and heart race as she contemplates entering through those thick doors, and what the reaction will be of any who may be inside.
-------------
Ian has no such hesitation as he approaches the shrine of Trithereon. It is a minor structure, not even a building at all. Three great timber posts are anchored deep into the ground in a triangle, with tops pointed like a palisade wall. Each of the poles has a part of the god's symbol carved into it. No one is around as the feathered warrior draws close. It looks like he will have peace and solitude as he offers up his prayers.
"We might just take you up on that kind offer, my friend", Hrothgar replies to Frindel. "I am a fair healer myself, but sometimes neither skill nor magic can fully cure the problem - I suspect that what young Arerath really needs in order to make a full recovery is time and relaxation".
Hrothgar thoughtfully scratches his scraggly beard. "Demons, eh? Is the stripling touched in the head after his ordeal, or do you think there might be something to it?" As far as he knew, Hrothgar had never encountered a demon before, and the only one he really knew anything about was the fiercely aggressive Kostchtchie, who was widely worshipped by both giants and men in Wytelund. Sure, the old crones of his bleak homelands used to invoke demons to explain a wide variety of ills and afflictions, but that had always seemed petty and illogical to him. Why would evil monsters from other realities bother with curdling milk or afflicting children with measles? Surely they had better things to do. Similarly, any demon occupying itself with waylaying furriers and scrimshaw traders had to be a pathetic specimen. "He’s probably just confused, I wager", Hrothgar says with some certainty. "Many attribute the unknown to the demonic. It is probably just some unusually cunning snow goblins, or some similarly mundane creature".
For several long moments, Lythdrae stares at the building, torn between urges to bolt, to look further in, to wait for a guide... or other dark whisperings, faint and barely intelligible but distantly tantalizing.
Perhaps someday she would be able to enter the light without fear, but that would never come to be if she didn't take that first step; she couldn't expect to face the Pillar of Light if she couldn't muster the courage to enter a backwater shrine.
"The duelist who never arrives forfeits by default," she reminds herself with a laugh that utterly fails to reassure her. Unclenching her fists through force of will, she slowly edges forward, almost as much sneaking into the shrine as entering it.
Frindel nods his head. "My thoughts exactly. There was some sage come up to East Haven a while back, just when the lad's group was setting off. He kept talking about the possibility of demons in the Blizzard. Bunch of dross, if you ask me, but no one did. Now everyone thinks demons are lurking out there, especially the poor boy. 'Course, that addle-brained tome-reader who's responsible packed up and went to Thror before the lad could get back, so he can't undo what he started, assuming he even would were he here. Ah, well."
---------------------
Lythdrae places a hand on the heavy door. It resists moving, but that must be due to it dragging on the soft ground. A great creak emits from the wood as she presses it open.
A warm breeze rushes past her as she steps through the threshold. Despite the simple structure and lack of a roof, there is no snow on the ground, nor is it muddy. A layer opf dry straw lines the dirt. There are a few wide poles, pale carved trunks of trees engraved with sun symbols, scattered about the interior. Five in all, they form a ring within the round walls, and at the center of that sits a small marble pedestal. Atop it glows a ball of golden light, the seeming source of the pleasant warmth and of a soothing glow. A man kneels before it.
His dress is simple- heavy wool robes, a faded white-gray. A well-worn stole of gold cloth hands around his kneck, touching the ground. His old, wrinkled hands are held in prayer, his head, bald on top with a wring of auburn around the edges, is bent in silent supplication. Without moving from this posture, he speaks.
"Welcome to the Sun Lord's house. Please, enter friend."
A slight figure from the next table, clutching a mug of warmed ale in chapped hands, leans over to Hrothgar and nods towards the recumbent Arerath. From the dark confines of his fur-lined hood peer out thin features betraying a mixed human and elven heritage, pale blue eyes and blond hair.
"What happened to him?" he says, his accent indicating his origins far to the south.
Ethras quirks a brow, his eyes widening a bit at the old man's statements.
"Er... well... I was really just looking for a few potions to help us face the elements of nature out in the cold, but now you've piqued my interest. Tell me more of these demons you speak of. I had not heard such news until now."
Like a cloud across the sun, confusion sets in upon the elderly alchemist's face. "You don't know about the demons, but you're a demon hunter? Well, that doesn't make any sense." He sighs. "Elves will be elves, I suppose. What in the heavens is that supposed to mean, and where did I hear it? Oh, I suppose it doesn't really matter." He returns his gaze to Ethras for just a moment with a vacant expression, quickly followed by a brilliant flash of memory. Then his mouth shot off like a bolt.
"Oh, you asked about the demons! Yes, yes. There was a sage, Tamerth, perhaps you've heard of him? No? Ah, well; he was here some days ago, but left for Thror. A pitty, or you'd be able to talk to him yourself. I'm sure he could give you more information than I can. Certainly he could, since he's the one who told me! What?
"Oh, yes, Tamerth. You see, he made a wonderful postulation that the frost giants in the Jarl's Crowns may be channeling the powers of a demon by the name of Kostchtchie. Apparently, he's quite prominent amongst their kind. I'm sure you could more information in a tome in Northwind. Of course, none of us can get there. So, I suppose you can't.
"Ahem, yes. As Kostchtchie resides in the Infinite Layers of the Abyss (which I personally believe to be limited to 666 layers, but I'm not planar scholar, so my opinion probably doesn't much matter), Tamerth made the deduction that it is quite possible that demons could be seeping through planar rifts within the Great Blizzard, and may indeed be the root cause of our current crises! Isn't that fascinating? Dreadful, to be sure, but fascinating nonetheless, wouldn't you say?"
If one didn't know better, one might think he said all of that on a single breath.
As he looks up at the newcomer, Hrothgar has to exert considerable willpower not to stare like some awestruck child. A half-elf! The wonders of this place never seemed to cease. Those louts back home would never believe him when he told them about this…
With some effort, Hrothgar refocuses his mind to the question at hand. "Actually, I’m not entirely sure. I wish I could say with certainty that he underestimated the effects of this region’s relatively cold weather and thus was underprepared for it, but it hasn’t really been cold at all yet. So my best guess is that he was already beset by some malady and that our weather exacerbated it". His villagers would probably have blamed demonic possession, or even vampires; Hrothgar can’t help but let out a derisive snicker at their ignorance and superstition, but recovers quickly. "I’ll ask him about his overall health when he gets a bit better." Hrothgar turns his attention back to the exotic stranger. "Now, if I may ask, what has made you journey to this far-flung outpost?".
Ethras stares as the man rattles off his tale, his jaw slowly going slack as he forgets to blink. When the man finishes, Ethras composes himself and offers a polite nod.
"Well... thank you very much for the info. I will certainly keep it in mind. Good evening to you."
Ethras offered a friendly wave and began to walk back to the tent where he had last seen his friends headed into. In his mind, he was going over everything he had learned about demons back home... and wondered if any of it would be relevant here.
The stranger glances away dismissively from the prone mage, and focuses on Hrothgar. Ignoring the cleric's question, he replies, "Are you planning on tackling the Blizzard? I've been stuck here over a week since the "demon problem" blew up and I'm pretty desperate to get out of this fly-speck town." He gazes down at his mug and shudders. "Only barbarians drink warm beer."
He then fixes Hrothgar with an intense, assessing look. "Are you with a larger party? Your mage appears to have fallen by the wayside, perhaps you could do with a new one? I'm travelling the North to seek my fortune, maybe sorting out the Blizzard could be a good opportunity for us? The name is Nedd Ostlersson, wizard by trade." He sticks out a slim hand in Hrothgar's direction.
It is only when the man speaks, and draws her out of her reverie, that Lythdrae realizes that she had stopped halfway through the doorway to stare. If Pelor's power was indeed diminished in these parts, she might be grateful for it.
She pulls herself the rest of the way inside before carefully closing the door and looking about for a safe place to set her pack and rest. The weather might not be so bad as she had been lead to believe, but the travel had certainly grown wearisome. She can't expect the priest (or whomever he might be) to cease his prayers to answer her questions, but she needn't stand about and grow ever more fatigued in waiting for him.
And just what is that light he prays before anyway? Surely a god as widely worshiped as Pelor has better things to do than visit with the one priest praying to him in what passes for a town here? Whatever it is, she can't deny that it catches her eye and won't easily let go.
Frindel raises his eyes at the comments of the half-elf. Slowly shifting his gaze back to Hrothgar, he says, "The boy is sleeping now, and it is late. There will be time to talk with him in the morning. In the meantime, I think our new 'friend' here could use some further gleaning." His tone is less than jovial.
----------------------
The man at the alter of Pelor stands and turns, looking upon Lythdrae with a smile. With just a hint of probing and confusion, he speaks. "What brings you to this place?" The way he faintly stresses the word you informs Lythdrae that her appearance is somewhat unusual in such a shrine. Nevertheless, he still seems amiable enough.
The half-elf leans aggressively towards the older priest. "Glean away, pal. But forgive me if I do some gleaning of my own. For a supposed follower of the Traveller, you seem surprisingly reluctant to travel beyond the confines of this hall. Some of us aren't too scared or old to get up and deal with this, instead of sipping weak beer and telling stories by a warm fire."
He turns back to Hrothgar. "So like I said, do you have companions who can help us save the womenfolk" - he looked pointedly at Frindel - "from the horrors of the storm?" He snorts derisively at Frindel and then settles back in his chair, waiting for an answer from Hrothgar.
|
|
Inwardly, Hrothgar groans in despair. This conversation was going nowhere real fast - at this point, Hrothgar was halfway expecting Frindel to whip out a blade and administer the ritual slashing of the half-elf’s face that served as a prelude to a duel. An honour-fight already? Worst of all, he would probably have to serve as the duel’s arbiter, and the one thing he really did not need now was to judge a fight of justice. Too many rules, especially with two men this different… Frindel was probably too peaceable for that sort of behaviour; indeed, it was hard to picture any hostel operator as being that aggressive or prickly. Obviously the two of them must have some sort of unpleasant shared history, or, more likely, mannerisms were different further south. On the other hand, the party could most definitely use some unbridled aggression if there were demons or other foes out in the storm, and if the southerner fought the way he talked, he would probably be very useful. Still, he did not like being hurried by a stranger. He’d let it pass this time, though.
"I am indeed part of a bigger group", Hrothgar answers the half-elf. "We are most definitely going to Northwind, and I, for one, would be quite happy if I could solve the mysteries of this storm along that way. It cannot be tolerated that a few monsters, whoever they might be, impedes the journeys of the many". In fact, Hrothgar had already come to see this problem in religious terms - surely Fharlanghn did not approve of this unnatural barrier to unfettered travel. "Having said that, I cannot speak for all of them. We will discuss this further when they sojourn here in a short while. Until then, you would suggest that you enjoy this establishment's hospitality - any drink is better than none at all". Hopefully that would satisfy the relentless half-elf for now. Where were his companions when he needed them?
The half-elf nods, seemingly satisfied. "Fine, we'll wait for your companions." He gazes into his mug, studiously ignoring Frindel.
Ethras moved quickly but politely through the crowds outside on his way to the tent he had seen his companions headed towards before. A chill found its way to him despite his ample clothing. It was not a chill of the air, however, it was a chill of foreboding.
Demons... he thought to himself. Could these truly be the monsters my people have battled for ages? Or is it merely a moniker the locals have given to whatever beast plagues their travels?
As he ducked into the large meeting tent, Ethras shook the chill off in the warmth of the fire and tossed back his hood as he glanced around the room for his companions. His previous look of concern melted away instantly, replaced with a confident smile. He knew that no matter what evil lie ahead, he would not face it alone.
Lythdrae pauses for a moment, unnerved by the priest's vague question. What about her was he questioning? No matter, a simple answer was easy enough.
"I come chasing answers. It seemed wisest to ask here before traveling on to Northwind."
Ethras is bolstered in his mind as he thinks back to the epic tales of the elves battling against the demons time and time again in the Old Wolrd before humans, lending their grace and magical might to stand side by side with dwarves on the slopes of mountains while hordes of fiends descended upon them. And though the wars were brutal, never once did the elven lands fall!
There was Kilin, the archer who killed a lord of the netherworld with a single shot from his bow. Ethras had always particularly liked stories of Kilin. With the power of the elven gods swelling inside of him, the archer stood atop a great tree and launched an arrow half a mile to cleanly split the head of the demonic general as he advanced towards the forest land of Nysil.
Even in recent times, the Nysil elves had fought a constant shadow war with Ashurlak, a swamped city to the south where mad warlocks built temples and ziggurats to their dark masters.
Now was not a time for dispair; now was a time for excitement in preparation of joining the ways of his people! After passing the guards at the door, Ethras steps boldly into the mead hall. He spies Hrothgar sitting with two others that he doesn't recognize, and Arerath still lying on the make-shift bed of branches.
-----------------------
Inside the shrine, the man smiles. "The hour is late, but travelers are always welcome to this humble abode of Pelor. His light shines eternally in our souls, even during the darkest night, and so these doors will always be open. The hour is late, but if you have questions, you may ask them. I will answer as best I can."
-----------------------
Frindel casts a scathing look towards the half-elf, holding it for a moment, before seeming to heave it off and look back towards Hrothgar. "Friend, I am suddenly quite tired. The hour is late, and I have certain duties to attend to. You and your companions, all of them," he looks back to Vraasht harshly, "are welcome to stay within the hall tonight. I will take this one," Frindel points to Arerath, "and see to his recovery. You will find furs along the walls that can be taken down and used for bedding and blankets. We are well prepared to serve and care for visitors here." Somehow, that last bit seemed aimed at Vraasht. Frindel stands and says, "I will take you to the young boy in the morning, where you can ask your questions." With that, he goes to the door, requests the aid of one of the dwarves, and moves Arerath away somewhere.
Hrothgar now sits in uncomfortable silence with the half-elf, but not for long. In an instant, Ethras approaches, back from his trip through East Haven.
Nedd nods towards the approaching elf and asks Hrothgar, "Is this one with you?"
Ian doesn't waste much time at the shrine... after all, Trithereon is not one to require long worship. The priest who erected the shrine is himself probably quite smashed up at the feasthall.
Thank you for my continued freedom, Grandfather...
Tossing a couple of coppers into the coffer, Ian leaves and heads up the hill, seeking Hrothgar.
Before he enters, he glances sidelong at the shrine to Pelor, its doors drifting slightly in the wind.
Hmm... might as well...
Ian decides to check on his new companion and maybe give an offering to Pelor as well, and changes direction.
The Sun Father needs all the help he can get around here...
Daeman looks up from his newly purchased cheese to realize that he has lost sight with his companions. Cursing himself for his innattentiveness Daeman pulls himself away from his shopping spree, determined to reunite with one of his fellows.
That is, until he stumbled across an angry pair of orcs locked in a staring contest with three dwarves.
Without hesitation Daeman approaches the dwarves with a smile. "Greetings fellow travelers! I do hate to intrude upon your evening but I couldn't help but notice your dour expressions. If there's something about that can keep dwarves angry this close to a mead hall then I can't help but be a little worried. What seems to be the trouble?"
The door to thr shrine creaks open as Ian slips in. Looking past Lythdrae's shoulder, the priest smiles again. "Well, it seems to be a busy night, doesn't it? Welcome, traveler. Have you come seeking questions, too, or just to bask in the warmth and comfort of Pelor?"
--------------
One of the dwarves, witha bright red beard, looks to Daeman with an amazed, and angry, look. "Shove off, you-"
"Hold there, Grimol," says another with dark brown hair, wiry and thick and covered with braids. He speaks in the Dwarven tongue, and a strange smile creeps across his face. "Let's see what fun th' pasty c'n give us." He catches an odd look in the young man's eye, a form of recognition for his words. "D'ye speak dwarf, lad?" The third, another black bearded one, chuckles.
"No sir I'm afraid not (bluff 20). Why, is there something I could help with perhaps friend dwarf?"
Daeman had hoped he could smooth their tempers, but it seemed he was going to get to have some fun with them instead. He didn't know what game they were at but Daeman knew he was already holding most of the cards. His father always taught him that knowledge was power, and he knew something that the dwarves didn't.
this is going to be fun he thinks to himself as he flashes his best smile...
Lythdrae's inquisition changes to a scowl, and she turns to rummage through her bag before pulling out a book. She draws her knife carefully, just long enough to slice a single page from the book before sheathing the blade again.
"If you can answer any of these, you have my gratitude." She holds the page out toward the priest carefully.
- Can a soul be condemned from conception or birth?
- If so, how do the gods of light manage to sleep at night?
- Can the fallen prove themselves, or angels be corrupted? (In other words, is your relationship with the gods dynamic or static?)
- What is the Pillar of Light?
The page trails off into a series of runes, sharp and instinctively disturbing, which seem to be scribed by a different hand altogether. They are, in fact, Infernal text: Be the shackles forged in the loftiest peaks of heavens or the vilest pits of hell, I shall not be enslaved.
The attendant's smile fails, simply vanishing from his face and leaving a look of shock. His eyes rove about the letter, and a look comes into his countenance. Horror? Disgust? "Elysium's waters soothe my soul," he whispers. Then, nervous, he raises suspicious, worried eyes.
"I'm afraid I cannot help you. It is very late, and I must retire. I hope you have somewhere to spend the night. Now, I'm afraid I must ask you to leave." With that, he thrusts the paper back to Lythdrae and turns his back on her and the recently enetered Ian, coming to face the altar again. He takes no steps towards it, but hangs his head with his eyes shut. He seems to wait, tense, to hear the footsteps and the creaking that will let him know the travelers have gone.
------------------
"Aye, lad! Well, then, y'see we been in a 'competion' o' sorts wi' th' gray skins over yonder. We both b'claiming a proud heritage, both o' blood an' o' drink!" He looks back to his companions. They smile and laugh. One waves his hand, as if encouraging the speaker to continue. "Ther' been some 'misunderstandings' earlier in th' day. But, we be of friendly disposition and wish t' make amends. It be the case, tho', tha' th' orcs ain't interested in talkin' t' us 'bout it. So, we would be gracious if'n a third party, such's yerself, could give 'em a kind of 'peace offering.'"
He looks back over his shoulder to another dwarf, and once again speaking in his native tongue, says, "Get the horse piss."
Ian tenses, realizing that perhaps he has come in at the wrong time, and disrupted a meeting that may have gone smoother without his presence.
And yet...
"I bring a small tribute to the Bringer of Light, good sir. I bring some light of my own.
"Perhaps my offering will provide proper... illumination.
"Come to the feasthall with me, Lythdrae. It seems obvious to me that this man has things to think about."
Without a glance at the priest, holds open the door and offers his hand to Lythdrae.
As Ian speaks, Lythdrae takes her time in folding the page and carefully tucking it into her book before repacking and gathering her things. Petty, she has to acknowledge at least to herself, but if this is how it will be, so it will be, and as is too often the case, there is naught she can do to change it.
"Very well," she passes a hand over her face to conceal a grimace, "I had hoped that the Sun Father's children might have the capacity to see beyond darkness, but it seems not."
Turning to the attendant as she stands by the door, she allows her outrage to show for a rare moment. "Pray to your God, 'priest.' Tell him that you turned away a soul searching for light. I heard it said once that a hungry man is not a wise one, but it seems the same can be said of the rest."
Seemingly unaware of her hand tracing... something... in the air at her side, she storms out of the shrine suddenly aware of the exhaustion that has sunk into her, and turns back to Ian. "You know these parts. Where is the hall?"
"Wait!" the priest calls from behind her. He quickly jogs up to Lythdrae, and locks her with a an anguished gaze. Then he speaks, softly, forceully, and quickly. "I do not know your story, and I'm not sure I want to. But, I can do this at least: when the roads reopen, get to Northwind. Go to the Pillar of Light. They can do for you, what I cannot. I am but a humble rural priest, and I am sorry that I have failed you, and my god. Now, please, leave me be." This time, he does not turn away, but stands watching with a forlorn look as he waits for the pair to exit the shrine.
Ian carries a little tune as he leads Lythdrae towards the feasthall, but once they are out of earshot of the priest, he pauses and asks,
"So... what just happened?"
Daeman walks confidantly toward the pair of irritable orcs holding a rather warm tankard of equestrian excretions. His mind a Storm with whirring thoughts.
"Equestrian exrement heh, thats good...hmmm... surely I can squeeze that into a song somehow"
"I wonder how much of that orcs expression is confusion, and how much is seething homicidal rage."
"I need a plan..."
"Wait!.... Why do these dwarves keep a ready supply of horse pee?"
And just before the orcs can approach to stop him Daeman finds inspiration.
Walking towards the orcs he raises the tankard "Hail friends I come bringing gifts and fair tidings fro...." and then he barges suddenly and erratically past the orcs and into their tent, making his charge appear to be an accidental stumble (bluff 25). As the two orcs follow him in (probably with the intent of doing something unpleasant) he whispers with impish importance.
"Hold there, I need your help to take those dwarves down a peg or two. All I need is a few moments of your time and the three of us can make a dwarf swallow a tankard of horse piss" He flicks a coin toward one of them. "Here is a silver piece just to hear me out."
Play by play: Assuming he doesn't get shived Daemans next move is to get one of the orcs to stand outside and make sure none of the dwarves try to eavesdrop. Then he pours the piss into one of his own canteens and casts presitidigitation (asking the remaining orc to make some noise to cover the sound of his verbal components) he uses the spell to clean the empty canteen and the pee he no doubt spilled and to chill the urine and change the smell coming from the canteen from that of pee to that of fine dwarven brandy. Daeman has spent his life around port taverns so hopefully he has a convincing memory to draw from. Next he casts silent image (the area encomapassing the tent and a ten foot cube outside of it in the direction of the dwarves) of a typical looking orc holding a tankard identical to the one the dwarves gave to Daeman.
Then he will walk back over to the dwarves (his magically pleasnt smelling piss canteen in tow) concentrating on his spell and making his orc illusion walk out displaying the tankard and a pleasant smile to the dwarves. [Daeman will explain his plan at length to the orc and got a 15 for a diplomacy check if one is needed.]
"Well friends I've got great news! At first yonder orcs refused to believe you had good intentions. But I talked to them and explained how badly you wanted to patch things up. They not only agreed to your token of amends but they offered thier own brew they said they purchased long ago and have been saving for a special occasion! (He holds out the canteen) Their leader wants to toast together to signal your fresh start. At this point Daemans orc illusion will raise his tankard signaling the dwarf to drink and begin to raise the tankard to his mouth. Hopefully with the dwarf following suit. (bluff 17)
Daeman will also be preparing to bolt since the piss only smells like fine brandy.
So what did just happen? Lythdrae thinks for a moment after Ian raises the question. After a loud sigh, she speaks.
"In brief, circumstances beyond my control have risen up and made my life more difficult yet again." She draws closer to him to speak softly and reduce the chance of being overheard, "and what was your role in the fiasco? You said something about offering light and then the sphere glowed more brightly?"
"Eh, what d'ye say, there, lad?" The dwarf eyes Daeman with suspicion. "I, er, got to admit; I did'n' expect this type o' response." He sniffs the proferred ale. "Dwarven? Where in the Hells did they get dwarven ale? Those bastards! Lads, they be murders and theives, taking our ale!" He looks back at Daeman. "Stand aside, whelp! There's t' be bloodshed, and ye don't want t' be in the middle!"
He reaches for an axe, while the other two dwarves run quickly into the tent and reapper in second, settling helms on their heads and holding hammers in their hands. Their eyes bespeak of the coming violence as they stare down the grinning, tankard-wielding "leader" of the orcs across the way.
Hold there friends! Befor you do anything rash I have a confession to make. The bramdy was originally in my possetion. They offered some orcish pigs blood concoction as their actual token of forgiveness and... well I switched it with this brandy I'd been saving. We all know northern orcs couldn't brew warm water and make it taste right so I was afraid their ernest offering would offend you.
If you dwarves are bound and set to violence against these orcs then at least wait until they deserve it. I'd hate to see dwarven honor besmirched by attacking an enemy that bears nothing but gifts of peace.
(bluff 23)
Please drink, if nothing else then as a favor to me. I'd hate to see this night filled with violence when everyone already has so many worries.
(diplomacy 13)
"What? Ye switched it on us? Bah! This doing's had th' fun leeched out o' it! Get ye away a'fore th' pig there drink his piss and comes t' lop yer head off." He mutters in Dwarven as he turns, "Godsdamned humans! You give them the slightest task and they bungle it all."
One of the orcs steps out of the tent to see how things are going. He looks at the conjured image, grinning and holding his tankard, snorts, and turns his eyes expectantly and still not very warmly at Daeman. The dwarf has his back to the whole thing.
Well the good news is that the orcs and dwarves will be too busy complaining about me to kill each other, at least for now.
Daeman trudges off toward the mead hall. As he does so he forces his illusion to turn to the curious orc and give a final shrug of the shoulders and a dissapointed expresiion before he releases the spell and the image fades from existance.
Daeman turns to ask anyone on the street whether they have seen a large feathered warrior with a huge spear recently. He figures tracking down his companions will be easier if he follows Ian sightings.
Ethras makes his way towards the Hrothgar and the other man's table, smiling and waving as he pulls up a chair, his keen elven hearing picking up their conversation even through the din of the crowd.
"What proposal is it that we're discussing here?" The elf looked to the newcomer, raising an eyebrow and smiling slightly. "Greetings."
Ethras lets his traveling gear slide off in a heap beside his chair and props his longbow up against the table.
Nedd nods curtly in the direction of Ethras as a greeting, seemingly unfazed by the newcomer's exotic looks. "Nedd Ostlersson, travelling wizard. I was talking to your friend here about busting through this blizzard. Your mage has keeled over, and I can fill in, at least until we get to Northwind."
Nedd pauses and frowns for a moment. "What are your names, anyway? And who else is in your group?"
Ethras smiles in response to the man. "Well met, Nedd. I am Ethras Arafil, a ranger by trade. It is regrettable that our friend has fallen ill. I do hope his recovery goes well. I suppose we should be thankful that he was able to at least make it this far. If he had taken ill much sooner, I fear the elements may have taken him." Ethras tips his head reverently and then looks back up. "So... you're a mage as well, then? I'm sure your services will be most useful in our journey if that is the case."
A large, powerful hand grips Daeman's shoulder. "Where you think you go?" an unmistakeably orcish voice intones. "We want to see dwarves cry and scream as they drink horse piss! You have not delivered promise. You keep promise, or we hurl you into river!" The creature spins Daeman around, his mouth a toothy grin. The other orc stands behind him, tapping one hand with the throwing axe he holds in the other.
"River is very cold," the second one chuckles.
Daeman was hoping to get some fun without bloodshed. However these orcs have obviously not learned some key points to northern culture. Daeman then decides it's time these orcs learned about what happens when you issue a death threat to an Ak.
"Now see friend why did you have to go and say something like that?"
"YOU POISONED THE DWARVES DRINK? FIENDS!"
Daeman steps away from the orc as he yells, quickly breaking his grasp and moving to a stable position. A dagger flashes into his hand before he hurls it toward the orc holding the ax. Before the dagger completes it's flight Daeman's shortsword is ready in his hand.
[five foot step away with a standard attack in the surprise round. Hopefully they are flat footed using quick draw to ready his weapons]
Ranged attack: 13 damage 4
initiative: 11
The axe-wielder emits a grunt of surprise and pain, and there is a audible thunk as the dagger flies into his shoulder. Swatting at the wound and coming away with a bloody hand, the orc looks up at Daeman with hateful eyes. "You die!" he yells.
However, unseen behind the orcs are the three dwarves. They had not given up their close watch of the orcish tent, and now they draw hammers and axes and move quickly to join the fight. Though they make no effort to conceal their movements, they refrain from shouting. Distracted the orcs don't notice their approach.
Daeman, quick in foot and mind, finds himself ready and able to strike again before the surprised orcs get a chance to react further, and even before the dwarves get close.
Daeman grabs the leather strap of his lute and pulls slinging the instrument into a ready position on his open hand. He holds his shortsword by his pinky as he uses his thumb and fore finger to stum only six quick notes. The last one hanging in the air long after the lute is spun back to a position of rest and the shortsword is again readied to strike.
A casual observer might have missed that, as the last note was hit, the dwarves regripped their weapons in unison. Their movements and Daeman's seem somehow in tandem driven by the magical rythem unleashed by his music.
Even as that last note continues to hang on the chill northern air, the dwarves advance.
"What? You play a song for us before we kill you? How nic-" the wounded orc begins his taunt, but cannot finish it before a dwarven hammer lands solidly into his back. With an "oomph" as his breath is evicted from his body, and a squishing noise, the brute collapses, unconscious and possibly dying.
The other one whirls and sees his fallen companion. "No one kills Bloody Moon tribe and lives!" he belows out in rage. One of the dwarves charges towards him with a waraxe, but the orc sidesteps and dodges the head of the weapon, then drives his elbow powerfully into his side, sending him off balance and falling away. Another dwarf falls in right behind the first, however, and uses his axe to dig into the orc's exposed leg. The savage belows in pain and twists back again.
Now circled by Daeman and three recovered dwarves, and limping slightly on a gashed calf, the orc draws his own weapon, a battleaxe, and stands at the ready, turning and watching for an approaching foe. "Come to me, pale skins! I draw your blood and laugh while drinking it!" he taunts.