# The Cask of Winter  -4 July-



## ForceUser (Sep 6, 2005)

_Dramatis Personae​_
EINAR THE JOYOUS, a Vangal warrior, nephew of the Oski chieftain
LOUIS THE SATYR, an aelfborn bard from Arbonne
RURIK THE QUIET, a warrior with ogre blood
REVEREND STEFANO BAROZZI, a priest from Genova
REVEREND ILSE OF REIFSNYDER, a templar from Mordengard
WIGLIFF THE WISE, a scoundrel, son of the Oski chieftain and Einar’s cousin

TÖSKJEL, a voelva (witch)
HROTHGAR, lord of Oski Faste and chieftain of the Oski tribe, vassal of the Earl of Rothland
HALGA, Wigliff's sister

_Wigliff's brothers_
RAGNAR
HYGLACK
WULFGAR
HELFDANE THE FAT
EDGTHO
HERGER
RONETH

HENRI LECONTE, Bishop of Beauclerc
LUIGI LOCATI, Bishop of Ottschtul
LUKAS OF REIFSNYDER, Ilse's brother
ZURMLURD, a wizard
MENRIC, Bishop of Athingburgh
HARALD LEIFSSON, Earl of Rothland and vassal of King Otto of Mordengard

~~~~~~~~~~​
Einar slept. In his dreams, he strode across a battlefield with serpents writhing on his shoulders, whispering death in his ears. The Norns watched from above, silently unraveling the tapestries of lives well-lived; the skeins of brave men now feasting in Valhalla. Ahead of him loomed an army of the dead, clothed in human flesh and armed with fire. The moon god Mani hurled spears of silk from his chariot far overhead, and Einar pressed on, hewing through the dead, though they cared not, for no man could die twice. He surged toward a spire jutting from the ground like a gnarled tooth, and at the base of that spur of rock a figure waited. Older than living memory, the voelva Töskjel hunched over her knees, her bowed back no longer able to straighten. Her eyes glistened with foresight, and Einar knew fear. Around her, spirits shimmered: a ghostly honor guard of the fallen. The earth shuddered as Jormungand heaved; Einar teetered, then leapt a fissure and landed prone at Töskjel’s side. She peered down her warty nose and smiled through her beard, unperturbed by the flailing of the World Serpent. Her black gums smelled of rotting flesh as she wheezed and spoke.

_When the mead-hall of your ring-giver
lies silent from the death of axe-hands,
you will meet a herald of alfar seed
who flees the gnash of wolves’ teeth.
In a land of fire he will bandy Otan’s theft
to pay your weregild and enter halls long forgotten.
The wind-bowl will take him,
and the death of snakes will descend upon the world.
Lo! No table of fire will devour the earth’s bounty,
wound-bees will fill the sky as kings play the game of iron.
Only a pourer of beer, a spear-shaker,
will brave the arrow-dew to make the world aright._

Einar sagged under the weight of his Weïrd, and reached for his ax. The crone cackled and wagged a knotted finger, and he froze, unable to move. She bent down, her fetid breath upon his face, and kissed him with dry, leathern lips. Her eyes, points of black fire, blazed into him, and he lay transfixed by the burning in his soul. The world darkened, and he awoke.

He lay on the floor of his lord’s hall in Oski Faste between the girth of old Freggi Hairy-Breeks and the ale-soaked stench of Ulf the Angry. At his feet, a dog worried at a scrap from last night’s meal. In the haze of the smoky longhouse, women moved quietly, tending fires and mending clothes. It was early yet, but through the hole above the fire pit he spied the sky—dark, lusterless, and swirling with angry gray clouds. It would snow again today. 

Einar grunted and shifted aside the bulk of the sleeping warriors so he could rise. The dog growled at him, but he ignored it, stepping over the cur blearily and tromping to the doors. From there he staggered out into the biting morning cold. The fortified village of Oski Faste hunkered low against the hillock upon which it stood, as though trying to avoid the brunt of the slashing winds from the north. Einar walked to the edge of the hall’s wooden walk and observed the waters on Lake Oski as he relieved himself in the snow. Short, choppy whitecaps burst over leaden waves, and he knew that the coming storm would be the worst yet of the season. Finishing, he glanced around the wooden houses and palisades, seeing few of his kinsfolk outside today; only those whose duties required that they brave Ymir’s breath went hurriedly about their tasks.

Yawning, Einar turned to reenter the hall and break his fast when he spied a procession of men trudging up the slope beyond the palisade. His eyes widened, and he burst into the hall and bellowed, “Awake! Awake! The hunters return!” Then he barreled out of the lodge and down the slope toward the opening in the fence where guards were pulling back the wooden gate.

Five men bore litters through muddy ice, their faces filthy and grim. Upon the litters lay covered corpses, their cloaks hardened with frozen blood. Einar and the guards looked on grimly as the hunters approached, their breath manifesting a forest of icy air as they hauled their bleak load to the gates. No one spoke until a man named Olvir spat words like daggers. “It came at us out of the mists. A troll. Before we could draw swords, it had gutted Sven and sank its poisoned teeth into Thrand. We fought like bears, but Kjar and Hoketil joined them in death before the fiend retreated with its feast. Sven’s wife will not need to build a pyre; nothing of him remains, save this.” He handed Einar Sven’s sword. No blood marked it.

One of the guards, young Eyolf, spat upon the ground vehemently and spoke. “Aye, it’s tasted man-flesh now. We must hunt it down with spears and burn it ere it returns to plague our kinsmen.”

Olvir eyed Einar and gestured with his fist, “Is this not why the voelva bound your ax with runes of power? Your cousins say that no troll can long withstand it.”

“This is so,” Einar nodded, “I will put Angreiðr to its work before long. But for now, let us tend to our valiant dead. My lord uncle will hold a feast for them tonight in honor of their bravery.”

The hunters nodded solemnly. The guardsmen took a litter, Einar took another while two hunters took up the watch, and together the men marched through the ice-covered mud toward the looming hall perched upon the mount. 

An errant snowflake brushed Einar’s cheek, and he grinned in anticipation of the revelry and fighting to come. Even while he did so, a worry he did not apprehend coiled through his mind, leaving him with a vague discomfort. The mead that night soured in his mouth, which vexed him greatly, all the more because he could not fathom why.


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## ForceUser (Sep 6, 2005)

Link to character gallery here.


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## ForceUser (Sep 7, 2005)

In the depths of a frost-rimed forest far to the west of Oski Faste, a figure floundered through waist-high snow drifts, flailing wildly for purchase. Bundled in thick furs and wrapped in a woolen cloak, he panted heavily in the freezing cold, and felt numbing fire burn his lungs as he did so. His frantic exhalations hung in the still air, marking his passage as surely as the ploughed snow in his wake. Somewhere behind him, wolf-like howls punctuated the woodland like the sound of a dropping portcullis, sharp and increasingly violent. A surge of terror sent a rush of blood to his head and he staggered a moment, overcome with hopelessness. _I’ll never escape_, he despaired, _they’ll be upon me at any moment_.

From ahead, the sound of steel hewing through flesh resonated across the distance, followed by a brutally truncated yelp of pain. A hoarse, inarticulate battle cry wafted from the scene—Rurik. The half-ogre still lived, then.  Of all his companions, only Rurik possessed the strength of arms and the weapon to withstand their assailants, but even he would not live long. Soon, Louis knew, giant blood would stain the snow. 

_What the hell_, he thought, _there’s nowhere to run anyway._ He drew his silver-etched zweihander clumsily and tottered through the mountainous drifts in the direction of the exchange. He grinned ruefully under his week-old beard; what a story this would have made! The women would have swooned. The last stand of Louis the Satyr against a pack—no, a horde—of monstrous wolves born of ice. Through the trees up ahead, he spied a heavy ironclad figure swinging a gigantic black blade with frenzied abandon; beyond the figure, horse-sized forms that blended with the snow banks darted and growled in hatred. Louis hummed to himself, and a thrill of understanding burst through his muscles—the greatsword, normally an exquisite lump of steel with which he bore no proficiency, became an instrument of death in his hands in a single instant. The stolen prowess would last only moments, “but I’ll be dead soon anyway,” he muttered carelessly. “Ho, Rurik!” he cried, “Save some for me!”

From beneath his great helm, the half-ogre responded with a muffled bark, “Louis? Run! I can’t hold them!” The ancient giant-forged sword in his hand, Frostmourne, cleaved through bone and gristle as he yelled. Rurik’s armor was covered with ice, residue of the beasts’ frozen breath.

Louis giggled feverishly before dramatically mounting a snow bank. He brandished his weapon at the white wolves arrayed below him—five in all, each as big as a warhorse. A sixth lay bleeding at Rurik’s feet. “Hear me, dogs of Thrym! We may die this day, but the earth will drink the blood of you snowpiss coal-chewers before you have us at our last!”

Rurik surged with inspiration at Louis’ words and cried out, stepping into the teeth of his foes and pressing them furiously with his gargantuan black sword. Frostmourne arced overhead and found its mark—a winter wolf fell dead, opened from neck to breastbone. Two more beasts flanked him, and one spoke thickly in the tongue of men. “*I will bleed you slowly, little giant, and you will beg me for death before I grant it*.” The speaker lashed at Rurik with its teeth and found the joint between his bracer and vambrace, biting deep into his arm. With that he jerked violently, seeking to yank the half-ogre off his feet. Rurik flailed as the wolf savaged his arm, but was driven to the ground. As the other beasts closed for the kill, a bright sword-point flashed in the waning light, and a sanguine blossom burst through fur-clad flesh. The wolf mauling Rurik howled and released its grip, whirling upon the much smaller form of Louis and his silvery zweihander. 

“Come on then!” he yelled. In response, the winter wolf whined a fell laugh, stepping in pools of blood grown from its own flesh. 

“*I’ll have the man-price for that*,” it rasped, “*in man-flesh*.” 

“That’s a problem for you,” Louis responded blithely, “For I am not a man! Not strictly speaking.”

The pack encircled him menacingly as Rurik bled out his life in the snow, trying feebly to rise. “*It matters not*,” the wolf replied, “*I will eat your heart, and my brothers will devour your guts*.” 

Louis backed away steadily, anxiously aware that his brief expertise with the zweihander was rapidly fading. He made a show of snorting disdainfully in the wolf’s face, and felt its cold breath crystallize the sweat upon his brow. Over the beast’s shoulder, he could see that Rurik had risen to his knees, leaning unsteadily upon Frostmourne’s bulk. _So much trouble caused by that evil weapon_, he thought errantly. He stepped back again, and now he saw out of the corner of his eye that a wolf had flanked him. In moments he would be dragged to the ground and torn to pieces. He adjusted his stance to the left, flexing his grip upon his sword, and then his eyes widened. A beatific smile crossed his face underneath his woolen scarf.

“Rurik! Follow me!” he screamed before incanting a spell. Arcane energy converged at a spot at his feet, and a pool of thick, gooey grease spread rapidly through the trampled snow between him and his nearest assailants. He leapt past a gnarled bole of pine and ran for his life. Behind him, he heard Rurik clanking erratically, and the wolves’ renewed howls. 

“Louis! Where are we going?” the half-ogre bellowed.

“Shut up and run!” Louis screamed in response. It was close, he knew. He cackled wildly, knowing that Father Fortune had smiled on him today.

There. A pair of pine trees stood crossed like swords, alone in a narrow glade. He staggered to the spot and called out hysterically, “Guardian! I would pass!”

A bored voice responded from above the makeshift arch, “So. One comes yet again.”

“Good sprite, I have no time to bargain,” Louis began frantically. Excitement twisted his tongue to near-uselessness. “My friend and I must pass now!” Behind him, he heard the wolves’ cry of success as they entered the snowy glade and spied the half-ogre. 

“What care I? You may pass if you wish, fey-child, but your friend must follow the forms.” Louis could see that the guardian had apparated now, a tiny brown man with a pot belly and a long, white wispy beard, who sat upon a branch high up. “I’m looking forward to this,” the fey intoned conspiratorially as it rubbed its hands together. “It’s been some while since I’ve had a visitor.”

“Look,” Louis began, heroically suppressing his temper. Behind him, Rurik slashed and swung desperately at the winter wolf pack, which had learned caution around his mighty sword. Even so, Louis knew that in moments they would be finished. “Now’s not a good time. Ask anything of me for my friend’s safe passage and I will provide it. But I beg you, ask me now!”

The faerie calmly scratched its beard for a moment, and then flicked its glance in annoyance to the furious fighting behind the bard. Obviously put out by this turn of events, it replied grumpily, “Oh very well. Have you any spirits?” 

For an instant Louis felt poised to reply that he did not, but the moment of selfishness passed, and he dug frantically into his bag, retrieving a silver-capped drinking horn. He thrust it at the sprite. “Here,” he declared, “this is the finest mead from any brewer west of Hrosskel Fjord. Take it with my blessing! May we pass?” He glanced fearfully over his shoulder to see Rurik stagger and nearly fall again. He knew that if the giant fell a second time he would never live to stand up.

The miniscule fey reached out greedily for the horn, lifting it despite the fact that it dwarfed him. He uncapped it and drank deeply, then smacked his lips in approval. “Mmm, that’s quite good. Very well, your friend may pass.”

”Rurik!” Louis cried, “Watch where I go and follow me! Follow me now!” And with that, he stepped through the arch and vanished.

A spike of fear passed through the half-ogre’s sluggish mind, but he fought backward defensively, pace after pace, until he felt the trees at his shoulders. Just as he whirled to step through, he heard the inhalation of a winter wolf preparing to breathe a cone of icy vapor. He fell across the threshold with a cloud of stinging particles chasing him on, then felt no more.


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## Drowbane (Sep 9, 2005)

*Bump!!*

Great stuff man!

I hope to inspire such tales with Sainrith and party someday 

Consider this a bump.

Let us have more!  More I say!


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## Lazybones (Sep 9, 2005)

Augh, another ForceUser SH!  Dare I read, and risk getting sucked in to another promising story that will die a premature death (I'm looking at *you*, Vietnamese Adventures...). 

Ah, who am I kidding... I'll be watching this one too.


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## ForceUser (Sep 9, 2005)

Lazybones said:
			
		

> Augh, another ForceUser SH!  Dare I read, and risk getting sucked in to another promising story that will die a premature death (I'm looking at *you*, Vietnamese Adventures...).
> 
> Ah, who am I kidding... I'll be watching this one too.



Yeah, there's always that risk. On the other hand, both of those SHs died with their respective campaigns. I have a good feeling about this current campaign. Have a seat.  

(I do still miss the Vietnamese game.  :\  Easily my most ambitious project ever!)


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## HalfOrc HalfBiscuit (Sep 9, 2005)

I echo, second and otherwise agree with everything Lazybones said.   

I really loved your Vietnamese storyhour, Forceuser. It was one of the most stmospheric on the boards. From the first two posts this story looks like it could be a worthy successor - so I hope it lasts a whole lot longer.

Looking forward to the next update ...


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## ForceUser (Sep 10, 2005)

Einar squatted in frigid mud and stared blearily at what appeared to be a massive pile of troll dung. His mead-drenched memories from the previous night were spotty, but he recalled boasting of his prowess and the feebleness of giants. Someone—he didn’t recall who—had challenged this assertion, and after the brawling had ended he had taken up his ax and swaggered into the winter night to prove his kinsman wrong. 

Einar rubbed his throbbing skull and refocused on the two foot-tall mountain of muck before him. It appeared scattered, which was not uncommon—trolls often dug through their own waste for the choicest bits of what they hadn’t fully digested the first time around. Judging from the dispersal of the dung and the pattern of the tracks, the troll had lingered here for long minutes, busily combing through its feces. 

Einar snorted and stood. The Hagmoor, he knew, stretched before him for several miles to the south of Lake Oski, but the thick fogs common to the moor in winter obscured vision beyond twenty paces. The vapors also dampened sound, which to Einar’s superstitious mind was devils’ work, meant to entrap the unwary. He had already sidestepped several patches of false ground which could consume a man entirely—traps lain by nökk or pukje*.

The troll was easy enough to track—it had meandered off to the southwest several hours ago, no doubt looking for large game. It had devoured Sven yesterday, which meant that the beast was by this point ravenously hungry again. Trolls must eat constantly, and when meat was scarce they were known to eat each other.

Ruefully, Einar acknowledged to himself that his boasting had outstripped his skill; there was little chance that he could defeat a troll in single combat, even while wielding Angreiðr, unless he caught it asleep. He resolved to follow the creature until it slept, but he knew that there was little chance of that until it found a meal. He would have to pit his endurance against that of the troll and hope that he could avoid fatigue until after the fiend had eaten. He worried, though, because his kinsman Armod and his family lived near the moor’s northwestern edge upon the lake. If the troll wandered north and caught scent of the farmstead, there would be a slaughter. Luckily, the infernal mists of the Hagmoor worked to Einar’s advantage in this—not only would they obscure him from sight while he shadowed the troll across the moor, but they hampered both sound and smell also.

Resolved, Einar hefted his ax and his longspear and trotted into the billowing veil.

~~~~~~~~~~​
The cold night upon the moor had been bearable for Louis, still under the effects of an _endure elements_ spell from one of his late companions, but for Rurik it had been a test of fortitude with nowhere to lay but upon the damp, muddy earth, and nothing to shelter him but his sodden furs. They took turns on watch, but Louis had awoken late in the night to rapid mutterings and had discovered Rurik standing with Frostmourne in hand, apparently fast asleep. His mutterings sounded giantish, though Louis knew that Rurik did not speak the tongue of his jöten ancestors. Most disturbing by far had been the wisps of pale ether constricting around the cold-forged blade, and the dull blue glow of the nið-runes** etched upon it. This morning, Rurik seemed unaware of his nocturnal ramblings, and Louis feared which was truly the master—sword or warrior.

Louis’ troubles were many. He had wept at the deaths of his friends, the gnomes from Yoppletop and the erstwhile mercenary Tharonn, with whom he’d shared many a tavern tale. They had been bosom companions all, and some of them he’d known for years. Now he was stranded in some eerie northland bog with a giant who may or may not be possessed by his own sword, and worse—much, much worse—he was bereft of any mead with which to celebrate his friends’ passing. Damn that sprite! 

Louis heaved a heartfelt sigh and thought of Eriador, his homeland far to the south. He missed the welcoming bodies of his favorite women—Clare, Theresa, even Innica, when the mood struck her. How was she getting on? he wondered. Surely she’d forgiven him by now. 

Louis scratched one of the stubby goat-horns upon his brow and stood. He sighed again dramatically. “Are you ready, then?” he asked of Rurik.

The giant stood adjusting his mud- and blood-caked armor. Frostmourne lay quiescent upon his back. “Yes. Where are we going?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I thought we’d go…that way.” Louis pointed in a random direction.

“Why?”

“Why not? It’s as good as any other, and we are bound to encounter civilization at some point.”

“Why don’t we head toward mountains? People live near mountains.”

“Certainly. Where, pray, are the mountains in this region, for I can see them not.”

“I just meant, let’s find some.” 

“Excellent idea. How should we do so?”

“I don’t know. Mountains are often north,” Rurik huffed, thinking of his village far to the south, “let’s go north.”

“Splendid! And which way is that?” 

Rurik’s face darkened. “Don’t make fun of me. You’re always making fun of me.”

“I’m simply asking, my good oaf, which direction north lies. I am a man of many talents, but woodcraft is not one of them.”

“I don’t know.”

“There is little you do know, is there? Very well, north is likely that way,” Louis lied smoothly, pointing in a different random direction.

“You’re making that up.”

“Rurik,” Louis began, as though talking to a child, “we must go _somewhere_.”

“I’m just saying, let’s find north and go there.”

Louis pulled at his curly brown hair in frustration. “Rurik, do you know who you remind me of? A particularly stubborn man I had occasion to meet back in Athingburgh. Why one day…” He launched into a tale of annoyance and exasperation, drawing Rurik in with glib words. In less than a minute, the half-ogre stood in rapt fascination with heavy-lidded eyes, swaying on his feet. Weaving sorcery deftly into the story, Louis _suggested_, “Why don’t you just shut up and follow me?”

At that Rurik started as if slapped, and tumbled out of his revere. He blinked for a few moments before narrowing his gaze at Louis. _Uh-oh_, the bard thought.

Rurik loomed over Louis and thrust a meaty finger at him. “You stay out of my head! You do that again and I’ll pound you good!”

Moving swiftly to change the subject, Louis said, “Look, we can try for north, okay? I don’t know which direction it is exactly, but if we find a tree we can check which side the moss grows on. Let’s go find a tree.”

“Okay,” said Rurik suspiciously. “Where are we going to find a tree?”

“Hmm, good question,” acknowledged Louis, “Why don’t we search for trees over here?” He pointed in the original random direction he had chosen.

“Okay,” replied Rurik, “but stay out of my head. I mean it.”

“Of course! Here, I’ll sing a song to put you at ease.” And with that Louis produced with a flourish an exquisitely-carved wooden flute and began to accompany himself upon the instrument. The flute was crafted to resemble two women fornicating and was a legacy of the time Louis spent in certain disreputable hostels in the Genovan principality of Lagella. He sang a bawdy tavern favorite from southern Arbonne, and thus they whiled away the time as they trudged southeast across the icy moor.

~~~~~~~~~~​
Einar stopped tracking and raised his head. Some damn fool was _playing music_, a tavern song by the sound of it. None of his kin cared for such songs, only foreigners and drunken fools in Athingburgh in the south. He deliberated rapidly. This could work to his advantage—the troll had no doubt heard and was even now creeping upon this foolish southerner to satisfy his craving for flesh. 

Excellent! When the troll leapt upon the southerner, Einar would leap upon the troll, surprising it. He briefly considered waiting until the troll had eaten, but in his excitement discarded the idea—such action was prudent, but no skald would sing of it. A battle would be a far better tale than one in which he simply decapitated the fiend in its sleep, and Einar would risk two-to-one odds as long as he wielded Angreiðr. He jogged vigorously toward the vapid strains echoing flatly through the mists and wondered if the southerner would survive the troll’s assault.  _It is of little consequence_, he decided. What mattered most was that his first strike bit deep and decisively. He grinned at the imminent combat and restrained a whoop of joy.



*A nökk is an evil fey that lives in watery places and plays tricks upon people, and a pukje is a small, revolting creature similar to a goblin.

**A nið-rune is a rune carved to curse a particular person or group, and is considered a grave and serious insult. In the case of Frostmourne, undead are the offended group. Frostmourne is a _+1 cold iron undead-bane large longsword_ with an array of special purpose powers. By this point in the campaign, the PCs were aware that the sword was 1) forged by frost giants to fight undead, 2) quite evil, and 3) intelligent and filled with malign purpose.


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## Lodow MoBo (Sep 11, 2005)

I'm offended.  Louis knew exactly where he was going.


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## Hjorimir (Sep 11, 2005)

Louis could get lost in a cul-de-sac.


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## Drowbane (Sep 11, 2005)

*::coughbumpcough::*



			
				Lodow MoBo said:
			
		

> I'm offended.  Louis knew exactly where he was going.






			
				Hjorimir said:
			
		

> Louis could get lost in a cul-de-sac.




I know Lodow plays Louis... I suppose Hjorimir plays the 1/2 Ogre?


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## Hjorimir (Sep 11, 2005)

Einar the Joyous here.


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## HalfOrc HalfBiscuit (Sep 13, 2005)

Forceuser said:
			
		

> Einar rubbed his throbbing skull and refocused on the two foot-tall mountain of muck before him. It appeared scattered, which was not uncommon—trolls often dug through their own waste for the choicest bits of what they hadn’t fully digested the first time around. Judging from the dispersal of the dung and the pattern of the tracks, the troll had lingered here for long minutes, busily combing through its feces.




Now there's a piece of troll ecology I could have done without ...


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## ForceUser (Sep 13, 2005)

HalfOrc HalfBiscuit said:
			
		

> Now there's a piece of troll ecology I could have done without ...



It's important to establish that trolls are _foul_.


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## ForceUser (Sep 18, 2005)

”What was that?” said Rurik.

“Hmm?” Louis muttered, continuing to play.

“Stop it,” said Rurik. “Stop! I heard something.” Louis, losing his rhythm, blew a discordant note, winced at his mistake, and took the flute away from his mouth. He glanced back at the tense form of the warrior and rolled his eyes.

The half-ogre drew Frostmourne and peered into the mists that hung bloated with freezing vapor. He saw nothing beyond five paces in any direction, and the sounds of him and Louis stopped flat, as though fallen abruptly from a cliff into a hungry void.

“There’s nothing there,” Louis exclaimed. He waved his hand dismissively and put the flute back to his lips.

“Something is,” Rurik replied. His armor creaked as he shifted his weight.

It pounced in a flash from out of the fog. A massive form, gray and haggard with taut skin and scraggy hair, lunged toward Rurik, long arms akimbo. Ten black filthy claws, each as long as a dagger, sliced through the air seeking to rend through the half-ogre’s mud-caked armor. The troll reeked of sweat, feces, and carrion. 

“Aaahhh!” screamed Louis as he backpedaled, dropping the exquisite flute.

Rurik met the charge head-on. The troll’s clawed hand scrabbled across Rurik’s breastplate and found purchase at a joint, deeply gouging his flesh. The fighter grunted in pain as he swung Frostmourne with all his might, cleaving through flesh, bone, and gristle. The troll howled in pain and writhed away from the blow, but did not relent. Its long arms surrounded Rurik, and even hunched it towered over him by at least two feet. He gagged as its foul stench seared his nostrils.

From behind Rurik, Louis had recovered himself. He incanted, and a burst of shimmering green sparkles exploded around the troll before settling on its warty skin. It snarled savagely as it shook its head and ducked instinctively, avoiding blindness. 

The creature rose up from its crouch and swung at Rurik twice; the half-ogre took a blow on his shield and another under his carapace. Blood flowed free and sticky inside his armor, and he shifted his stance to favor his left side. He jerked his head back an instant before the troll’s toothy mouth took it off. 

“Rraaghh!” Rurik cried and hewed at it again, carving flesh from its crooked body. He watched with dismay as its wounds begin to close even as he made them.

Just then came a whooping cry, and from out of the mist charged a Vangal warrior wielding a longspear. He ran the eight-foot spear through the troll from behind, whose eyes widened in startled fury as a spearhead burst through its stomach, spraying black ichors upon Rurik. The warrior, lanky and blond, immediately dropped the weapon, leaving it dangling in the troll’s body. With a fierce bellow of “Oski!” he drew a heavy ax and gripped it with two hands. Upon the blade of the ax, mystic runes pulsed with green energy. Louis noted madness in the warrior’s wide, white eyes.

The troll whirled upon the newcomer furiously, smacking Rurik in the shoulder with the haft of the longspear protruding from its back. Before it could rend into the Vangal, however, Louis incanted a second time, and the spongy earth under the troll’s feet grew slimy and viscous. The giant tottered, clawed wildly for balance, and fell upon its face.

“Yes!” cried Louis.

“Ha!” whooped the Vangal. 

Rurik said nothing, but brought his blade down brutally upon the troll’s prone body. It thrashed in a paroxysm of pain as the blow severed its spine. Still regenerating, it struggled to rise, but before it could do so the Vangal whirled in a flourish and brought his enchanted ax down upon its neck with ferocious force. At the moment of wounding the runes upon the ax flared white, and then winked out as the beheaded giant twitched once, reflexively, and lay still.

The Vangal danced back and pointed emphatically at the dead troll. “You saw that, yes? The killing blow was mine! Mine!”

The barbarian’s northland accent was so thick that it took Louis a moment to process what he had said. He studied the fellow, who stood tall even for a northman, though he came no higher than Rurik’s shoulder. The barbarian huffed and bent over, drained of whatever mad vigor had possessed him during the battle. Red-faced under his blond beard, he uncorked a flagon and drank deeply. Louis looked at the decapitated troll and the ax, now quiescent upon the fellow’s back, and replied diplomatically, “Certainly. The victory was yours.”

“Yes, mine!” the Vangal blustered. He turned to Rurik and laughed merrily as though the two were sharing some private joke. Rurik, who had opened his visor, appeared nonplussed. 

Einar sized the southerners up as he drank. The big man obviously carried jöten* blood in his veins—this made him trollborn, by Einar’s measure. No true man stood so tall and broad-shouldered, nor possessed such an oxen-like brow. And that sword! It had certainly been forged by giants, for he doubted that many men could lift it, let alone wield it. Bemused, he turned to examine the smaller man and nearly dropped his flagon.

_When the mead-hall of your ring-giver
lies silent from the death of axe-hands,
you will meet a herald of alfar seed
who flees the gnash of wolves’ teeth._

The small fellow regarded Einar with open curiosity and a hint of amusement. His demeanor suggested a capriciousness of character, the effect of which was augmented by his wild, curly hair, his dark almond-shaped eyes, and the small horns protruding from his brow. His clothes underneath the rugged northland furs were of flimsy southland quality—all bright colors and exorbitant fashions—and hung upon his pack were a horn and a set of pipes. In his hand he held a strange muddy flute, and strapped upon his back was, incongruously, a silver greatsword of southern design. Einar knew at once that this man was not a man entirely, and for a moment that realization stole his courage.

Louis watched with amusement as the northman gaped at him—a common reaction to his aelfborn heritage. “Well met, brave warrior,” he offered, “I am Louis the Satyr, and this is Rurik the Quiet. Thank you for your help against the troll—it came upon us most unexpectedly.” At this Rurik snorted. 

Louis continued, “Could you be so kind as to tell us where we are? I’m afraid we’re lost.”

“You stand upon the Hagmoor, which lies south of Lake Oski,” replied Einar gruffly, recovering himself. “What is a say-tur?”

“A fey, goodman. Such blood runs within my veins.”

_…you will meet a herald of alfar seed…_

“Where do you come from?” Einar asked suspiciously.

“Well, that’s hard to explain, for I fear that we do not know from whence we fled. We had been on an expedition through Vitland when we were set upon by minions of the Winter King. Have you heard of him?”

In fact, Einar had. The Winter King was legendary across Rothland, a fell wolf that allied with the jöten of old and came down from the lands of moving ice during the longest winters. With him he brought his pack to prey upon all the Vangals, Vitling and Skordi clans alike. 

_… who flees the gnash of wolves’ teeth._

“Yes, I know of this Winter King,” replied Einar pensively, “He has not come to Lake Oski since the time of my father’s grandfather. You have fled far. How did you come to be here?”

“It’s…difficult to explain,” Louis hedged. “What is your name, good sir?”

“I am Einar, called the Joyous. My tribe is called the Oski, for the lake is ours.”

“I see. Well, Einar, my friend and I are lost, cold, and low on provisions. We would greatly appreciate any hospitality that your tribe can offer us. We can pay with gold.”

“A man cannot eat gold,” Einar replied, “But I will take you to my village where you may succor my chief for a place inside his hall. The worst of the winter is not yet come. No southerner will survive it without shelter.” Louis rankled inwardly at the barbarian’s matter-of-fact tone, for he prided himself on his resourcefulness.

Einar retrieved his longspear from the troll’s corpse, then removed a large sack from his pack and placed the troll’s head within it. With a heave he threw the burden over his shoulder and turned to look at Louis. “Here is my bargain—I will take you to Oski Faste where you will find food and warmth upon my endorsement to my chief. In return, you will not forswear me when I speak of my victory over this troll. You and the trollborn were present and helped, but it was I who defeated it, yes?”

“With my very eyes, I saw that the battle did indeed unfold in this manner,” Louis agreed wryly.

“Good,” Einar grunted. He strode briskly eastward through the fog. “Follow me,” came his voice across the moor, “And be swift, for it is dangerous to linger here.”

“Very well, let us depart in haste. Rurik?” Louis glanced at the half-ogre, and his eyes narrowed with concern. “Rurik?”

The fighter swayed hypnotically, Frostmourne in hand, and unknown to Louis, faced northward. “Rurik,” Louis said tentatively, “We must go. Our guide will leave us behind.”

The arm wielding Frostmourne jerked, and Rurik lurched forward behind it like a puppet on a string. A low growl escaped Rurik’s throat, and with heroic effort he stopped and turned to face Louis. Sweat glistened on his forehead.

“It’s that damn sword, isn’t it?” asked the bard.

“Yes…” the half-ogre rumbled, intensity furrowing his brow. “It wants to go north.”

“Well, we’re following Einar, so tell it no and let’s move,” Louis declared impatiently.

“It’s hard to tell it no,” Rurik answered. “It is demanding more of me every day.”

“Then leave it,” Louis snapped, “for we must depart at once.”

Rurik regarded the blade indecisively. It seemed a venomous thing in his hand, alive and willful. Frostmourne possessed great power, but at what cost? He thought of his comrades who had died wresting the blade from the grasp of the hill giant who’d carried it. He thought of the insane dreams of slaughter he’d had nightly since the sword’s awakening, the sleepwalking, and the recurring visions of the chamber of black ice to which the sword longed to journey. He thought of the deaths of his most recent companions, torn to pieces by the jötens’ hellish wolves. Anger welled up in him then, tinged with despair, and with a heave he cast the sword aside. Frostmourne raged in his mind at this betrayal, and as it fell in the ice-rimed mud he saw the runes come alive along the blade’s length. Laboriously, he turned to walk away.

“Let’s _go_,” Louis insisted. The bard trotted after Einar impatiently, then turned back to look at him.

Rurik began to follow, but as he did so Frostmourne hammered into his mind like a battering ram, driving deep into the core of his psyche and assaulting the very essence of his will. Rurik swooned, his mind buckled dangerously, and he nearly gave in to the overpowering demand that he retrieve the weapon from the earth where it lay. But as he thought of his dead friends fury fueled his rebellion, and he roared, “_Get out of my head!_”

And with that, the spell upon him broke. Stealing a final hateful glance at the throbbing sword, Rurik jogged to catch up with Louis and the two—aelfborn and trollborn—soon disappeared into the belly of the billowing fog.

For long minutes, Frostmourne lay upon the ground and seethed. Then, slowly, its rancor dimmed, and it exhaled invisible tendrils of Taint that soon drifted upon the still air like the arms of some corrupt octopus.

The blade burned with cold fire and waited.



*Giant


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## Lodow MoBo (Sep 19, 2005)

Beautiful story of the heroic Louis the Saytr and his merry companions.


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## HalfOrc HalfBiscuit (Sep 19, 2005)

Excellent writing and very intrguing story so far, ForecUser. (Not tha I expected anyhthing less, of course   ).

Was the scene with Rurik discarding Frostmourne part of character background or was it played out? And if it was the latter, did you expect it? It seems pretty clear we haven't seen the last of the blade.


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## ForceUser (Sep 19, 2005)

HalfOrc HalfBiscuit said:
			
		

> Excellent writing and very intrguing story so far, ForecUser. (Not tha I expected anyhthing less, of course   ).
> 
> Was the scene with Rurik discarding Frostmourne part of character background or was it played out? And if it was the latter, did you expect it? It seems pretty clear we haven't seen the last of the blade.



Rob (Rurik's player) surprised me by ditching the sword; I didn't see that coming. Since the sword's awakening near the beginning of the campaign (the story hour begins 6-7 sessions in), there'd been dramatic tension regarding who was really in control, Rurik or Frostmourne. Rob was loathe to give the sword up at first because it was so powerful, but Rurik was raised in the church and had decided several sessions ago to dispose of it safely. Events got away from him, however, and before he knew it, he was far away from any religious center where he could ask the clergy for help. At first it seemed out of character for Rurik to dump it in the mud, but when I thought about it it made sense considering the trauma Rurik and Louis had faced. Though to be honest, I think Rob just didn't want to deal with having an evil intelligent sword in his character's possession anymore. Frostmourne tried to assert itself when he left it, forcing a Will save against a _charm monster_ spell, but Rob got lucky and rolled a natural 20 on Rurik's saving throw, thus opening up a whole new direction for the Frostmourne subplot, which filled me with a sense of glee at having carte blanche to drive forward with the sword's desires. As you suspect, it's not much of a spoiler to note that it will be seen again.


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## Bryon_Soulweaver (Sep 19, 2005)

Nice, I think I shall read this.


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## Hjorimir (Sep 19, 2005)

Lodow MoBo said:
			
		

> Beautiful story of the heroic Louis the Saytr and his merry companions.




After what you pulled on Saturday I am guessing at least one character wouldn't agree that he was your merry companion!


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## Lodow MoBo (Sep 20, 2005)

Hjorimir said:
			
		

> After what you pulled on Saturday I am guessing at least one character wouldn't agree that he was your merry companion!





No one was even hurt.  Besides, I believe you need me.  Louis only needs stongs drink and fine women, but i believe you need Louis.  Hmmm so very interesting....ahhhh ..... Just one more minute ..... Yep I feel great about the situation.


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## ForceUser (Sep 24, 2005)

Far to the south of frozen Rothland, in a kingdom called Mordengard in a land known as Eriador, a carriage trimmed in silver-and-blue and flying the symbol of the Celestine Church—three interlocking silver rings—rumbled along a rutted road on a bleary winter morning. Flanking the coach was a small cadre of church soldiers atop destriers, which snorted tufts of steamy breath in defiance of the brisk wind that whipped at them from across the Eisenmark plain. Within, a priest sat in contemplation as his thoughts burrowed deep into ecclesiastical matters. His unfocused gaze engulfed the leaden sky that formed an airy counterpart to the gray farmlands that swallowed the horizon in all directions. His eyes were as dark as his ebon hair, which he kept short in the style of his people in the balmy Genovan Principalities far to the south. He wore stiff priestly robes, well-starched, in dyes of gray and blue. At his neck a silver collar denoted his status as a member of the Magistratum*. Beside him on the pillowed bench stood a raven, which plucked occasionally at its glossy feathers with its horny black beak.

Time passed, and as the wagon trundled on toward its destination, the bird cocked its head at the priest and spoke in the Vangal tongue. “Boss, I’m bored.”

The priest blinked, disturbed from his reverie, and sighed at the bird without looking at it. “Yes, I know, Avido. Why don’t you read the scriptures?”

“Because the scriptures are boring and don’t translate well into the barbaric language you chose for me. For which I would again like to thank you,” the raven replied sarcastically. It hopped twice toward the seated priest. “I want to stretch my wings. Look for food.”

“The last time I let you do so you became distracted by the play of sunlight upon a river and disappeared for three days.”

“I got lost.”

“My point exactly.”

The bird squawked and flapped its wings. “Let me out, boss. I have to poop. You don’t want me to crap inside this posh carriage, do you? I mean, I will if I have to, but…”

The priest shook his head before cracking the sidecar door. With a cry of avian delight, the raven darted through the opening, took wing, and was gone. He would not return for a day and a half.

Hours passed, and the priest’s thoughts meandered once again to the task that had put him on this journey. In the town of Beauclerc in the kingdom of Arbonne, which lay several hundred miles to the east across the mountainous divide called simply the Alps, the Reverend Stefano Barozzi had spent the past autumn administering affairs for his mentor, Henri Leconte, the Bishop of Beauclerc. Although Stefano technically worked under the authority of the Archdiocese of Verúccia in distant Genova, the Bishop of Beauclerc held some authority within the Magistratum and thus, was mentor and confessor for several Blesséd that were under his charge—clerics, paladins, and others filled with the gods’ Grace.

Stefano reminisced about the day shortly after the autumn equinox when Leconte had knocked at the door of his cell at Beauclerc.

_“Am I interrupting?”

“I am repositing arcanography for daily use, Father, but your presence is by no means an interruption. Please, enter.”  

“Thank you. How are your studies progressing?”

“I have successfully transposed the sum of several glyphic differentials into a postulate that has merit within the theological schema suggested in the works of Clovis of León. It remains to be seen whether this approach will yield a new understanding of the relationship between the arcane and the divine. Clovis suggested that the schism between the two is false, but I have still failed to discern the root commonality.”

“The schism is likely in method, not in form. In any case, I do not have the luxury of engaging you on this topic today. Have you perchance read Brother Donal’s report from Athingburgh?”

“I haven’t. I’ve been closeted here, in study and in prayer. What news?”

“Donal met a stranger upon the road to one of the outlying communities. The fellow invited him to share his fire, then fell upon him in the night. Manes noctu**.”

“He survived, of course, to write the letter.”

“Yes, and after dispatching the fiend he deduced it to be of a lower order. Which, suggests, of course…”

“…that one or more of a higher order inhabits the region.”

“Exactly.”

“Troubling. What will you do?”

“I’m sending you there before winter takes root. There’s a colony of converts in a place called Oski Faste, near where Brother Donal encountered the beast. I’ve pulled strings in Savognaie; you’re to be assigned to the Mission*** through next fall. Minister to these people, heal their ills of body and spirit, encourage their belief in the one true faith, and be acutely mindful of vampires. If it seems a reasonable risk, destroy any you may find. If not, withdraw and send word to me through Athingburgh—Menric is archbishop there, and he’ll pass on your reports unmolested. Report as regularly as you are able.”

“I will. Am I going alone?”

“No. I’m going to purchase a mark of passage across Franconia_† _so that you may journey to Ottschtul in Mordengard. There is a templar there who is noted for the strength of her powers against the unliving."

“You are speaking of Ilse of Reifsnyder, who wields Saint Carlo’s holy mace.”

“Just so. I intend to have her assigned to the Mission, both for her expertise in dealing with undead, and for her potential candidacy within the order. Observe her, but do not reveal the true nature of the assignment until we have reviewed her merits.”

“It will be as you say.”

“Good. As well, I have learned that a son of Oski Faste studies under the mage Zurmlurd, near Ottschtul upon the Eisenmark. I will issue a sending to Zurmlurd and arrange a meeting. The wizard has donated large sums to the church in Mordengard and might be inclined to part with his apprentice for a time, given the nature of the mission. He has little love for the Arbonnese, but far less for the undead.”

“When will I depart?”

“As soon as I can make the arrangements. A week, perhaps. You may take confession with me any evening after Vespers between now and then.”

“I will do so tonight. Tomorrow I will summon a familiar, by your leave. I am aware of the dangers inherent in veering too far into diablerie, but as devils go the familiar is rather benign. The northmen, it is said, cling to their superstitions, blending them with the civilized practices of our faith. In their ancient belief, Otan the Wise possessed two ravens, Hugin and Munin, who brought him tidings each day. A raven would be a useful tool in helping to establish authority and legitimacy among the barbarians.”

“Given the circumstances, I will allow this. Let me leave you to your studies, then. I’ll await you tonight in my chamber.”

“Thank you, Father. Good day.”_

A rap upon the carriage window startled Stefano from his recollection. Banquo, sergeant-at-arms and church knight, leant over his saddle and gestured.  Stefano opened the coach’s door. “Yes?”

“Brother Camillo’s rode on ahead to make arrangements at an inn, Brother. We’ll be lodging soon. Tomorrow we’ll make Ottschtul, barring troubles.”

”Thank you, Brother. When we’re settled I’ll lead a service and take confessions.”

“Most kind, Stefano. Shortly, then.” The knight nodded and spurred his horse back to the front of the coach.

Stefano looked at the sky, wondered where Avido had gotten off to this time, and sighed.






*The arm of the church that is home to clerics, paladins, and variants thereof. The Magistratum is counterpart to the Pastorate, under whose purview the majority of the laity and parish priests take office. Sound familiar? Not being a theology student myself but wanting to add a semblance of religious authenticity to my campaign world, I fully admit that I have lifted whole cloth the structure of the Church of Oronthan from Sepulchrave II’s _Tales of Wyre_. The biggest difference between Sep’s church and mine is that his is monotheistic, while I use a modified pantheon of the standard D&D gods for my Celestine Church. The patriarchs of both religions, however, are called the Bright God. I’m such a fanboi—I couldn’t resist.  Three guesses who the Bright God is in the standard D&D pantheon.

By the way, if you haven’t read Sep’s story hour by now, I can only marvel at how you’ve gotten to this thread while somehow bypassing his. I strongly recommend that you read Sepulchrave II—immediately!—if you have not already done so.

**Lit. “spirit of the dead which walks by night.” A vampire.

***The Mission is the wing of the church devoted to proselytizing and converting heathens. It falls under the purview of the Magistratum. If you’re a Sep fan, you know this already.

†Franconia is a disputed region rich in arable land and mineral resources that lies between Arbonne and Mordengard. The two kingdoms have warred over it, inconclusively, for a century. The Peacock War, as it is known, is a difficulty for the Celestine Church, which is the state religion of both kingdoms. Church officials are one of the few factions that can buy passage from one country to the other unmolested, though Mord and Arbonnese priests are generally unwelcome in the opposing country. Stefano, as a Genovan subject as well as a priest, is a doubly-neutral party in the conflict, and thus the perfect person for the assignment.


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## HalfOrc HalfBiscuit (Sep 26, 2005)

ForceUser said:
			
		

> I fully admit that I have lifted whole cloth the structure of the Church of Oronthan from Sepulchrave II’s Tales of Wyre.




Well, if you're going to steal, steal from the best!   

This is really looking good ForceUser - in fact my only criticism is that there should be several pages of story posts for me to catch up on.   

Now you've let on that the story doesn't start from the beginning of the campaign, I have to ask: Was this the campaign with the infamous near-TPK by ogres that generated rather a heated discussion elsewhere on these boards?


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## Hjorimir (Sep 26, 2005)

HalfOrc HalfBiscuit said:
			
		

> Now you've let on that the story doesn't start from the beginning of the campaign, I have to ask: Was this the campaign with the infamous near-TPK by ogres that generated rather a heated discussion elsewhere on these boards?




No, that is an entirely different group of players.


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## Hjorimir (Nov 3, 2005)

ForceUser has been very busy with school. I'm confident once he has time he'll drop in and post again.


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## ForceUser (Nov 4, 2005)

Swamped. But what's funny is that even in the midst of school projects, I get to slip my favorite hobby in. Attached is a copy of a creative writing assignment I recently completed for my Geography class. Creative writing for geography? I didn't believe it either until I saw the assignment prompt, which suggested that students make their papers "interesting" so that the professor wouldn't get bored reading them. So this is what I came up with.


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## Hjorimir (Nov 4, 2005)

Neat adventure, ForceUser! What did your professor think?


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## Funeris (Nov 4, 2005)

Great Story ForceUser.  I'm glad I stumbled across it.

I'll be watching 

~Fune


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## ForceUser (Nov 5, 2005)

Hjorimir said:
			
		

> Neat adventure, ForceUser! What did your professor think?



I'll let you know when I find out. He encouraged us to be creative, but I still felt like it was a bit of a risk.


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## ForceUser (Nov 29, 2005)

_Holy City of Heilbronn, 
County of Üttembach
25 December, 1060

Dear sister,

Today I completed my pilgrimage to the sacred shrine of our Redeemer. What a throng of seekers there was! Knights and peasants, artisans and merchants, maidens and nobles knelt together in awe at this the place where our Redeemer was visited by the Spirit of Freedom and took up his righteous cause. As I touched the holy stone which guards the cave’s entrance, my heart was filled with o’erwhelming love for him that sacrificed all for us. I felt a bond with my fellow pilgrims, as intense in that moment as any I’ve felt within our family and our church. Later we spoke and shared bread and water as we described our experiences. It has been long since I’ve felt such profound yet simple joy. I am reminded again of why I joined the ministry, and thankful again for the gods’ divine Blessing. Tonight I will attend Yuletide mass, and tomorrow I will begin the compilation of my notes upon the highland people of the lower Hems*. 

I wish that you could be here as well! After the turn of the year, I intend to visit mother and father at Reifsynder before returning to duty at Ottschtül. I hope that you will be there when I arrive; it has been too long since we saw one another—the Magistratum seems to be doing its very best to keep me at duties abroad. It is my hope that Bishop Locati will allow us some time together before our service sends us apart once again. I have much to tell you. 

I hope this letter finds you in good health and happiness. If we do miss each other at Ottschtül, write a letter and the Right Reverend will send it along.

Yours in love and faith,
Lukas_

Ilse folded the letter and sighed. She would not be seeing her brother as they’d hoped—her orders had arrived, and she once again supressed a pang of anger at her inexplicable reassignment from the Temple to the Mission; in her mind, a demotion. She wasn’t a missionary, she was a church knight, one blessed with a divine calling to smite the enemies of her faith. Seemingly at odds with her fair complexion and womanly figure were her battle scars and calloused hands. She had grit under her fingernails. She wielded the mace, not the pen. _Why me?_ she asked herself again as she walked through the courtyard of the Basilica of Saint Adelbard. As she approached the portcullis, a temple sergeant exited the guardhouse and waved.

“He’s in here, Reverend.” 

“Thank you, Arnolf.” She followed him into the warmth of the building, where a merry fire sparked. Outside, the gray sky belched droplets of wet snow than fell leaden and straight.   

Ilse spotted the newcomer and inquired perfunctorily, “Wigliff of Oski Faste?”

The small man seated before her wore simple, well-spun local garb, but had the rugged demeanor of a Northman. His dark eyes huddled close to a hawkish nose centered high in a lean, sallow face. Close-cropped blond hair swaddled his head. He smirked briefly and spoke in accented Sturmmen, “Hello.”

“I am Reverend Ilse of Reifsynder. I will accompany you and Reverend Barozzi north when he arrives tomorrow. Allow me to show you to your accommodations. This way.” He followed her into the frigid, soggy twilight across the courtyard. The Northman did not speak, which suited Ilse well. She was not in the mood for banter. She noted as they walked that the Vangal was shorter than her, and that he bore neither arms nor armor. Under his coat, however, she spied a strange assortment of small wooden sticks hanging upon a thin leather belt. Wands. Though she knew little of Wigliff, it made sense that he bore the trappings of magic. His master Zurmlurd was a noted magician. She looked away when she noticed him observing her. 

“Here is your room,” she announced. The small cell was six feet by seven feet across, with a stone floor and a straw cot. A washbasin sat upon a plain table in the corner, and a book of scripture lay upon the bed.

Wigliff glanced at the dingy chamber and pursed his lips. “Thanks,” was all he said.

“The bell will toll for dinner soon, and afterward for Vespers. Mass is at dawn. If you require a confessor, there is a priest on duty within the fane.”

“Thanks,” he said again, with obvious disinterest. Ilse frowned.

“Very well. I will call upon you when Reverend Barozzi arrives.” She paused as he nodded absentmindedly and tossed his pack upon the cot. As he sat upon the cot, he began to take off his boots. Frowning again, Ilse withdrew.

_Why was I chosen for this?_, she wondered again.

~~~~~~~~~~​
Ilse studied Stefano. The man was shorter than she, with short well-groomed hair, manicured hands, and a carefully neutral expression upon his narrow face. He was swarthy in the way of a southerner and like her wore the silver collar of a member of the Magistratum. She knew little about this Genovan priest save that he was said to be an ecclesiastical scholar and, like her, was blessed with divine powers. Presumably, this made him a member of either the Temple or the Inquisition. 

He did not look like a templar. 

For his part, Stefano took the measure of the woman who towered before him. Clearly, she was a warrior—her bearing and posture spoke of a lifetime of rigid discipline. He knew through Archbishop Leconte that she was well schooled in theology, though her learning no doubt centered less on metaphysics and more on the application of doctrine. He knew that she had a twin brother, Lukas, who was also a member of the Magistratum. He knew that she was a faithful knight of the temple, and had been honored by the Bishop of Ottschtül with possession of a holy relic. 

Stefano smiled and gestured to the simple flanged mace that hung at her hip. “Is that it?” he asked.

She nodded once, sternly. “Yes.” 

“_La Maza de San Carlo_” he breathed. “Are the stories true?”

“Mostly,” she grinned. “To my knowledge, I do not have a member of the angelic host keeping counsel with me, nor does Saint Karl whisk me into the heavens upon Remembrance Day.”

“Pity. That would be a sight,” chuckled Stefano.

“Reverend Barozzi,” Ilse intoned, “Why me? My skills, my blessings, not to mention the Mace of Saint Karl, are wasted upon barbarians.”

”We are here to serve the church, Reverend Reifsynder, in whatever capacity she sees fit.”

“I am not questioning the wisdom of the bishopric. I am seeking to understand my role in this mission. I have never been good at public speaking. My strength is here.” She made a fist.

“That is exactly why you are needed, Reverend. The Vangals are barbaric and undisciplined. They respect strength primarily. You can bring discipline. You can bring strength. You can serve as an example of the rewards of faith in a way that they can understand.”

“I am a woman. Will they respect me?”

Stefano shifted uncomfortably. “Women sometimes fight, and sometimes hold property among them. One of their most cherished beliefs is in angelic warrior maidens that lead those who died bravely to their just reward. They are called valkyries. They have incorporated this bit of paganism into their worship of the Celestine.”

“And, through me, you wish to use this.”

“Nothing so deceitful. They will respect a strong woman, especially one that is a warrior. They will listen to you, and thus, we will be able to teach them.”

Ilse regarded him intently. Stefano waited patiently. Finally, she said, “What about this Wigliff?”

”As I understand it,” Stefano replied, “He is the wayward son of the Oski thane. He knows the land, and he can teach us more about his people. The land and its inhabitants are harsh, so he has value as a guide.”

“He does not seem particularly pious.”

“That is surprising, given his mentor. Zurmlurd is a well-known practitioner of our faith.”

”He is a wizard. How can this be?”

“He does not consort with demons; in fact, he is said to have taken the Uncaring One as his patron in the mystic arts.”

”So he is a Fractionalist**.”

”He is an honest man, and loyal to the mother church.”

“If you say so.” Ilse shifted her gaze across the Basilica’s battlements. Patches of dingy snow hugged drifts of rugged farmland that waited for spring. She turned back to Stefano. “Is that everything?”

A spike of concern surged through Stefano. “Yes,” he lied. “Will you be prepared to leave in the morning?”

Ilse stared at him. The moment slithered forward like a sinuous snake, and Stefano kept his gaze steady. He refrained from swallowing. Finally, she nodded. “Good day, Reverend Barozzi,” she said.

As she walked away down the battlement, Stefano turned, closed his eyes, leaned upon a crenellation, and prayed for forgiveness.





*The Hem mountain range, which borders the continent of Eriador on the west.

**The Fractionalists are a burgeoning faction within the Celestine Church that believes that the gods can be worshiped individually, rather than as a collective. There is fierce theological debate within the church over this issue, though the Primate has not taken an official position.


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## Shieldhaven (Nov 29, 2005)

Woohoo!  Update!

And super cool, ForceUser.  More, more!

Haven


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## HalfOrc HalfBiscuit (Nov 30, 2005)

What Shieldhaven said ... doubled.


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## ForceUser (Dec 2, 2005)

Töskjel flew through the twilight realm that separated the mortal world from the land of the dead. A ghostly eagle, she beat immaterial pinions against insubstantial air as she sailed across a dim sky toward a coiling blackness that dwarfed the horizon. Below her, gray mountains sprawled like a sea of stormy rock, blurry and indistinct as dreams; ahead, malevolence sat upon the north like a festering contagion. She followed the lay of the Trollfell Mountains west to where it crawled from the womb of the glacier known as Hrungnir’s Hold—once upon the glacier, she turned south until she came to the place where the ice had carved the earth like daggers. Deep within Otrygg Fjord, she passed near by the blight that was Vvardenfell, the rugged city that was the seat of power of the Vitlings’ prince. At a distance of several miles, she saw nothing but darkness. With a prayer to Freyja, she slipped back into the world of men, where she soared high and immaterial below a dark thunderhead that threatened snow. The forest below her was thick with conifers and groaned under the strain of the gale-force wind that whipped through her insubstantial form. Soon, the storm would inundate the land with the winter’s bounty. 

With sharp avian eyes, she surveyed the terrain for signs of life, but found no man or animal beyond the need of shelter. 

She did, however, spy several vampires. 

The cold ones slipped between darkened trees in search of prey that had gone to ground. One that had been a berserker in life took on the form of a great bear and rushed into a narrow cave. Töskjel resisted the urge to follow it. Instead, she flew on toward the city, whose dark walls swallowed light and hope. Soaring to within a mile, she offered praise to her goddess with a shriek, and received the spirit body of a great horned owl. With that the gloom came alive.

Vampire spawn crawled upon the walls and battlements like spiders—too many to count. Beyond, guttering lights from within lodges and multi-story longhouses spoke of the captive population of slaves that provided food for the undead. In the centre of the city stood a mighty fortress of gray stone: dark, forbidding, and no doubt warded with potent magic.

Closer now to the source of evil, she crossed back to the border realm between this world and the next. In the shadow world, the castle loomed like a black mountain and shone with the ruddy light of a thousand runes of power. Had she been herself, she would have gasped at the force that this presumed—as an owl, her feeble squawk was swallowed by the noises of perdition from below. Coasting upon a ghostly updraft, she gazed at the streets in horror.

In the mortal world, the corridors of Vvardenfell were dark and quiet in anticipation of the inbound storm. In the spirit world, they roiled with the mayhem of Vvardenfell’s founding—the resonating echo of the battle between the ancient Skordi people that once inhabited this land and the treacherous Vitling turncoats, led by their dark prince and his undying huscarls, that made the land run red with their blood.  Below her, the unquiet spirits of the unjustly slain reenacted their damnation again and again. Thousands of ghosts and revenants wailed their demises as they had for a thousand years. She reeled with empathy and sorrow as she banked away from the warded castle.

Ahead, on the edge of the spirit world and the deep shadows which lay beyond, a figure wreathed in cold fire materialized under the black clouds which now violently issued forth the snow that had been locked within their heights. The figure, trailing a curtain of jagged night, swooped toward Töskjel with unholy swiftness. 

Recognition choked her heart with fear.

_Maligant_.

~~~~~~~~~~~~​
Louis glanced at the sleeping form of—Ingrid? Olga? Ella?—one more time before donning his boots and heavy furs and quietly slipping into the pre-dawn mists wafting in from the turbulent lake of the Oski. Jagged morning frost coated the snowy ground, which crunched like glass as he trudged up the hill to the hall of his host. Slipping silently behind the great carved doors, he trod cautiously back to his spot on the floor. As he passed a carved wooden column, a voice broke the stillness of the slumbering chamber. “Did she make a man of you?”

“Sh*t!” cried Louis, startled. 

Sitting in a chair behind the column was the warrior, Einar, with his great-ax across his lap. An empty skin of mead dangled from one hand. His eyes bored into Louis dangerously. 

“Don’t do that!” Louis whispered harshly. A snoring man at his feet rolled over. 

Einar stood and stepped close to Louis. From this distance, the bard could smell the reek of stale drink. “Take care that you do not abuse my lord’s hospitality,” the Vangal intoned ominously. He swayed a bit on his feet, but his eyes never left Louis.

“Of course,” the bard replied smoothly. “I would never do anything to jeopardize our good relations.”

Einar snorted and kicked the man at Louis’ feet. “Get up, Toki. Fetch wood to stoke the fire. The hall grows cold.”

The man awoke and sat up blearily. 

“Did you sleep?” asked Louis. Red streaks shot through Einar’s eyes.

The warrior grunted in response, then resumed his chair. 

Feeling awkward, Louis made his way back to the spot given him on the floor, near to the low-burning fire; it had taken little effort to entertain the Oski chieftain, Hrothgar, enough to have earned this “place of honor” next to the fire pit. A wretched pile of sleeping furs greeted him, and he longed once again for a hot bath and a clean shave. Yesterday, he’d heard that some crazy missionaries were on their way up from Athingburgh once the worst of the weather had passed. He glanced across the hall at Einar, who was sitting in his chair and absentmindedly petting a hound and fingering his ax. A suspicious gloom fell upon Louis then, and a chill ran up his spine.

_If missionaries can come up, then we can go down,_ Louis reasoned, _So why is he keeping us here?_

His only answer was the wind.


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## Fiasco (Dec 2, 2005)

Great stuff, this story hour is very well written.  I hope for the heroes sake they don't have to take on the vampire city any time soon...


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## Hjorimir (Dec 2, 2005)

Fiasco said:
			
		

> Great stuff, this story hour is very well written.  I hope for the heroes sake they don't have to take on the vampire city any time soon...



Me too!


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## ForceUser (Dec 2, 2005)

The prince regarded the shimmering, translucent owl as it veered away from him. His eyes, flat bits of coal, saw through the many layers of magic that enshrouded it. Expressionless beneath his rangy black beard, he uttered a single, rasping word.

“Töskjel.”

The owl screeched against the black arcana that bound the prince up in flight, and a blistering column of divine fire engulfed him—a maximized _flame strike_. An instant later, the fiery wreath had dissipated revealing his untouched, hovering form. It winked out an instant later.

_An illusion,_ Töskjel despaired, _Where is he?_ As she craned her feathered head to look about, a force slammed into her from behind—her body, though incorporeal when materialized within the mortal world, was fully real to other creatures that walked the shadow realm. Eldritch energy ripped through her body as an impossibly strong grip seized her.

She shrieked and twisted, but Maligant’s hand held her fast. His face remained impassive, registering no emotion. Töskjel beat her wings and scrabbled ineffectively. The prince’s dead eyes flickered, and she felt the energies binding her into the shape of an owl unravel violently. Suddenly, she was an old woman again, clawing feebly at the stone-like hand that held her by the windpipe, immobile. 

“Why have you come, crone?”

Töskjel’s eyes flashed murder, but she said nothing.

Maligant regarded her. The restless dead thronged far below, and the cacophony of their grief wafted upward like smoke. “The ancestral memory you keep for your people is an old thing—older even than I. As old, perhaps, as Yggdrasil itself. Speak, or I will end your distinguished line forever.”

Töskjel sputtered around his steely grasp. “My line ends with my death. The Oski have turned away from the old ways.”

“The Celestine cancer has infected even your noble tribe? That is a sorrow.”

”It is the weave of my skein. It matters little if I die here by your hand or there in my bed.”

“And yet you have come to spy upon my domain.”

“I have seen your ruin.”

The prince squeezed. Töskjel choked helplessly, her rheumy eyes rolling back into her withered skull. Maligant’s visage twisted, revealing a violent sea of emotion, a deep upwelling of black hate that had sustained him for over a thousand years. But the spasm of rage passed an instant later, and his demeanor once again became impassive. “Speak.”

“The Sleeper will soon awaken,” she gasped, “The Jöten will march upon Vvardenfell. They will reclaim that which was stolen.”

Within the unholy nimbus of gray radiance that surrounded him, Maligant’s alabaster cheeks darkened with a faint upwelling of purloined blood. His brow furrowed, and his coal-black eyes glinted unfathomably. Hate glimmered there, perhaps, though Töskjel suspected it was fear. 

His hand tightened relentlessly. The witch coughed and gasped for breath that would not come. Her legs kicked uselessly.

She shuddered. A voiceless prayer to the goddess Freyja—her mentor, her sustainer—escaped her lips. Suddenly her face bulged; her form swelled and exploded with rippling fur, and in an instant Maligant held not an old woman, but a massive dire bear. His grip slipped, and eight thousand pounds of predator plummeted toward the howling morass of wailing spirits far below. Töskjel flailed, roared, and winked out of existence the instant she impacted upon the frozen earth.

At that very moment, hundreds of miles away in a tiny hut, the crone writhed in her bed with a wretched wail, and then immediately collapsed into a catatonic slumber. Her fetch, a dire wolf, growled and gnashed his teeth at unseen demons in the air. Then he sniffed the hand of his mistress, whined low in the back of his throat, and lay down upon the dirt floor with a heavy heart.

~~~~~~~~~~​
Wisps of shadow writhed around Maligant like a cloak. Still in the border realm of souls, he alighted upon a spectral tower. “Bera,” he said. The name ricocheted across the breadth of Vitland*, propelled by his towering will.

Minutes passed before a diminutive body manifested. A pale blond girl of eight, dressed in peasant garb, regarded him solemnly. Her eyes held the wisdom of lifetimes. 

“My lord?” When she spoke, her voice was both girlish and ancient.

“The sons of Thrym begin to stir. It is time to reclaim the tribes.”

Slowly, the girl nodded.

~~~~~~~~~~​
Ilse looked unbelievingly at the interior of the tiny chapel that sat behind Hrothgar’s hall, a stone’s throw from Lake Oski. Many of the planks had been removed from the floor, the eaves were full of birds’ nests, the thatch upon the roof had rotted away in places, all but three of the pews had disappeared, and the vessel for the altar flame, which should have been lit with oil year-round, sat cold and empty. The shutters on the northern window had long since blown away, and dirty snow had compiled in the corners. She turned to the Oski woman, Lofnheid, who had been charged with maintaining the chapel by the departing priest two years ago. “What is the meaning of this?”

Lofnheid glared at her sullenly. In a thick northland accent, she said, “Last year, vinter came early and stayed late. Ve needed firevood.”

“You do not ransack a church for firewood!” Ilse responded hotly.

The woman, twice her age and two-thirds her height, nonetheless thrust her ruddy, chapped face into Ilse’s and angrily retorted, “Eye’ll be damned if me children freeze to death to preserve your bloody church!”

Ilse locked gazes with the woman for long moments. She saw the fierceness lodged in her eyes, an intensity born from carving a life out of an inhospitable wilderness. Slowly, she relented, releasing a tension that she had not realized she’d been keeping. “Well,” she said, “We need to fix it. Can you help me find some wood?”

Lofnheid looked at her suspiciously before slowly nodding. “Me brother is a carpenter. Ve’ll see vhat he has in his verkshop. Come.”

Ilse followed her across the frozen mud trails that constituted streets in the tiny community of Oski Faste. She estimated that no more than two hundred souls lived under the protection of Lord Hrothgar. She wondered again at the assignment of two clerics to this barren land. She looked at the sky—it was scarce past midday, and yet twilight approached! Reverend Barozzi had assured her that this was the sun’s normal course this far north, but it still unnerved her.

“Well, hello,” said a silky voice to her left. The voice spoke in Sturmmen that was tinged with an Arbonnese accent. 

Leaning against a longhouse was a short man wrapped in the white furs of snow foxes. His hair was thick, curly, and reddish brown, and his brown eyes danced with amusement. He was handsome in the way of a courtier, but had a burgeoning beard to match the local men. He was slightly shorter than she, and as he stepped forward and extended his hand, he moved with a grace that belied his bulky dress. 

She held out her hand like a soldier, but he gripped it in both of his, turned it over, and kissed her palm lightly, while the hint of a smile played at the corners of his mouth. His eyes never left hers. 

A tingle of something she refused to think of as pleasure twirled in her stomach as she quickly withdrew her hand. “You are Louis, the Arbonnese bard.”

He stepped closer to her, improperly so. “I see that my reputation has preceded me.” He winked at Lofnheid, who beamed at him.

Ilse grimaced. “Indeed. You may cease your advances. I do not consort with pagans.”

“Pagan!” he exclaimed as though offended. “What, because I am aelfborn? I’ll have you know, madam—“

“—Reverend,” she interrupted sternly.

“Reverend, of course. My apologies. I’ll have you know, Reverend, that I am a devout servant of the Celestine Church.” When he said the word “devout,” he tipped his head and smiled in such a way that butterflies fluttered around her stomach once again. _I have got to get away from this man,_ she thought. 

She reached out and gripped his shoulder. He smiled at her warmly. Then she pushed him roughly back to the distance of an arm’s length, and his smile faltered. “Brother Louis,” Ilse began, “Perhaps you can help us serve the gods today, since as you no doubt know, it is in fact Sunday. There is much repair work that must be done upon the chapel.”

“Ah,” Louis replied, “Hm. Well, you see, dear Reverend—”

Lofnheid embraced Louis and giggled, “Do come, good skald! I shall enjoy your stories vhile ve do the gods’ verk. Besides, ve need a strong man to cut and lift the lumber.”

Ilse smiled and gestured toward the workshop. “After you.” 

Louis grimaced.






*Homeland of the Vitlings.


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## HalfOrc HalfBiscuit (Dec 2, 2005)

Excellent stuff, Force user. Very well written and evocative. Your world is already revealed as having a depth that many never get close to. And the characters are also already standing out as individuals. Looking forward to more ....


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## ForceUser (Dec 3, 2005)

”Can we talk?” Stefano peered into the gloom of the disheveled chapel, which was lit by a single guttering candle. 

Ilse glanced at him over the refurbished altar. “I don’t see what there is to say. The Magistratum apparently sanctions your wizardry.”

“I studied under one of the great minds of the south. He was an abjurer—a specialist in ways to defend against creatures of the Abyss.”

“Abjuration is also the magic of entrapping souls, is it not?”

“It is more complicated than that.”

Ilse stood up and wiped her hands upon her apron. “Of course. What of this bound demon of yours? Does the church sanction this too?”

“Avido is not a demon. He is a familiar. He…I summoned him with the permission of my superiors. The Vangals revere ravens as messengers of the gods.”

“As they revere warrior maidens?”

Stefano stood silent in the doorway. The night lurked behind him. The flickering shadows created by the beeswax candle made his face appear gaunt and hollow. 

“Why are we here, Reverend Barozzi?”

“Reverend Reifsnyder…Ilse. I have told you all that I can. We _are_ missionaries, and we _are_ here to minister to these Oski.” The wind howled forlornly behind him, kicking up accumulated sawdust and dirty snow from the doorway.

Ilse made as if to reply, but then her eyes widened and she reached for her weapon. Stefano stole a glance over his shoulder, and for an instant what he saw took his breath away.

A massive figure stood behind him—a gigantic man with a sloping brow and scraggy hair and beard. Tusk-like incisors protruded from his lower jaw, and each meaty hand could, if he wished, engulf Stefano’s head. The priest stepped back reflexively and stumbled over the chapel’s threshold. 

The creature husked in a voice like crushed gravel, “Father. May I take confession?”

Stefano recovered himself, waving Ilse down. She hesitated, then lowered her mace. “Of course, my son. You are Rurik, am I correct?” 

The bestial man nodded and wrung his large hands. His shoulders exceeded the width of the doorway.  A pained expression haunted his face.

“Please,” Stefano swallowed, “Come inside.”

~~~~~~~~~~​
Wigliff nodded slowly and tasted bitter bile as he digested the tidings. His brother Hyglack stood before him under the awning of a longhouse, a sympathetic expression on his face.

“That is all he said?” Wigliff asked.

Hyglack nodded, “Aye. But ye never know—win a few battles, bring honor to the Oski name, and ye may be welcome in father’s house again.”

Wigliff snorted and kicked a drift of snow.

“Well, what did ye expect? _Ye left,_” Hyglack said, exasperated. “Ye know how highly our lord values loyalty. Especially from his sons. Ye knew this when ye chose to go, so I hope it was werth it.”

Wigliff looked up the hill at the lights burning in Hrothgar’s hall and brooded.

Hyglack sighed, “I’ll see ye later.”

Wigliff leant against the house for a time, then he pushed off and marched through the snow toward a smaller home. At the entry he rapped upon the post. Moments later, a young woman wearily pushed aside the skins covering the door and looked at him in surprise. “Wigliff! By the Norns, what’re ye doin’ here?”

“Hello, Olga.” He noted the dark circles under her eyes. Her dress was disheveled. 

“Well, don’t stand there in the cold like a witless goat—come in.” He stepped inside, and she dropped the skins behind him. Her home was much as he remembered it, though there was more clutter than when he’d last come calling. Three years ago.

“D’ye want some supper? I have a bit of broth on the fire.” She bustled about the place, clearing a spot for him to sit. 

“Thanks,” he answered. He let his unfocused gaze meander around the room. Something was different.

“So yer back, then? For how long?” 

Wigliff shrugged. 

Olga poured soup into a wooden bowl and handed it to him. “Careful, it’s hot. What did yer father say when ye saw him?”

Wigliff took the bowl and looked into it. Bits of carrot and meat swirled within a greasy liquid. “He wouldn’t see me.”

“Ach,” she nodded, “Not surprising.” She sat down across from him.

“It’s good to see ye.” Her eyes shone large and luminous in the firelight. She appeared older, he thought, and more worn. Lines had appeared upon her face since the last time he’d seen her, creases of worry that folded the skin of her brow. Her hair, he realized, was in disarray.

“Olga…I wanted to see you.”

“I’m married now, Wigliff. To a good man.”

That, he realized suddenly, was the owner of the possessions that he’d not recognized. His eyes focused on a pair of heavy boots next to the door.

“Who...?”

“Sven.” 

Wigliff nodded slowly. He’d overheard something about Sven yesterday—what was it*?

“Ye can sleep by the fire tonight, if ye wish. My husband’s out hunting and won’t be back until the morning, but don’t you get any ideas.”

“That’s fine,” he said, “Thank you.”

She nodded and stood. “I’ll find ye some furs.”

As she bustled about, Wigliff retreated to his place of comfort, the place around which he’d hovered all afternoon, the place in which he spent the majority of his days—the mindscape of the arcane, where figures, formulae, and strings of esoteric symbology danced before his inner eye. 

Somewhere within his consciousness, a distant part of him felt an indistinct sense of loss. He quickly disregarded it.

~~~~~~~~~~​
Rurik finished his tale. Stefano exhaled and considered this complication. He looked at the half-ogre. “Could you find this place where you left the sword again?”

Rurik nodded miserably and said, “If Einar led me back to the place, yes.” Stefano scratched his pointed beard and glanced askew at Ilse. She met his gaze and nodded. “If his tale is true, this is a great danger.”

Stefano regarded Rurik again. “His tale is true. And I agree.” He stood.

“Time is short. Frostmourne has lain upon the ground for weeks, but in that time it may have been found by someone else. We must make preparations to depart at once. I will ask this—Einar?—to lead us back to the moor whereupon he found you and Louis.”

Stefano stood before the sitting half-ogre. “Rurik. Do not be harsh with yourself. You meant well, and events clearly spiraled out of your grasp. This weapon is evil. You were right to want to destroy it, and your heart meant well when you cast it away. Pray with me, and then let us make haste.”

Rurik clumsily kneeled and grasped the hem of Stefano’s robe like a drowning man that clutched the branch of a tree. Fervently, he prayed.





*See post #1.


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## monboesen (Dec 3, 2005)

This is a wonderfully written story. Please keep on writing


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## Shieldhaven (Dec 3, 2005)

Three updates in three days, and a _great_ story to boot.

Wow.

Rock on!

Haven


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## ForceUser (Dec 3, 2005)

I have updated the character gallery with the remaining PCs and posted the racial stats of aelfborn and half-ogres. Enjoy.


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## ForceUser (Dec 13, 2005)

I've been writing like mad lately, just not for my story hour. (If you want to see what I _have_ been writing, view attached. Warning: it is dense literary criticism.  )

The week of finals is upon me here at San Diego State University, and I've got exams from now until December 21st. _After_ then, however, I will be blissfully free to write as often as I like until the beginning of the spring semester in mid-January. Yay!


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## Herremann the Wise (Dec 14, 2005)

ForceUser said:
			
		

> I've been writing like mad lately, just not for my story hour. (If you want to see what I _have_ been writing, view attached. Warning: it is dense literary criticism.  )
> 
> The week of finals is upon me here at San Diego State University, and I've got exams from now until December 21st. _After_ then, however, I will be blissfully free to write as often as I like until the beginning of the spring semester in mid-January. Yay!




Hi ForceUser,

I've been meaning to comment for a while on your Story Hour but the Shakespeare Essay has forced my hand. Firstly I'd like to commend you on an excellent story hour. There is a richness to your writing and  the world you write about that purely blossoms upon the page. Please if possible, keep it up.

Secondly on your essay, you provide a very lucid and solid argument. Unfortunately, my second job is as a maths tutor so technically, that means I'm supposed to a) have no idea about Shakespeare and b) have no competency when it comes to writing. I do my best to defy the stereotype.     In my completely unprofessional opinion, any response that highlights Shakespeare as entertainment rather some type of allegorical sermon is on the money.

I will never forget the first time I studied shakespeare (I think it was back in 1987). Our class as diligent as it was wrote our poxy responses and handed them in along with a cassette recording of us reading a scene. We SO had no idea. Mrs Smith when handing back the assignments looked sternly at the class before calling out a name and then ripping their response to pieces. We were in total shock as she did this for the entire class. She ripped up the work of all 28 students. 

She then told us (excuse my paraphrasing): *Shakespeare is not read! Shakespeare is performed and thus watched, heard and felt. For the rest of your academic careers please remember this. I want this redone for tomorrow. Any reference to a book, or lines upon a page or something that does not convey that Shakespeare was performed and that person will be out of my class and you can go back to Charlotte's Web with the idiots in the next class.*

Best lesson I think I ever had.

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise


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## ForceUser (Dec 14, 2005)

Herremann the Wise said:
			
		

> Hi ForceUser,
> 
> I've been meaning to comment for a while on your Story Hour but the Shakespeare Essay has forced my hand. Firstly I'd like to commend you on an excellent story hour. There is a richness to your writing and  the world you write about that purely blossoms upon the page. Please if possible, keep it up.
> 
> ...



Herremann,

Thank you (and, belatedly, thanks to everyone else who's shared kind comments!) I love writing.

That is a _great_ story! It brought a smile to my face, so let me share one of my own. When I was 14, my English teacher led us into _Romeo & Juliet_; my first experience with the bard. After reading and discussing the play for a week, as well as watching the classic Roman Polanski film version, she made us go home over a weekend, commanding us to commit ten lines to memory--any ten lines we wanted from anywhere in the play. On Monday, one after another, sullen children slouched up to the front of the classroom to mumble half-hearted and ill-remembered verse. When my turn came, I strode up nervously, but belted out Romeo's entire opening speech from Act 2 scene 2, the one that begins "_But soft, what light from yonder window breaks?_" I fixed my gaze on a point in the back corner of the room and vigorously intoned all 34 lines while waving my arms dramatically. When I finished, everyone just stared at me until Mrs. Beatty started clapping. I seem to recall bewilderment from my peers, a sort of "Where the heck did _that_ come from?" response. It was then that I knew I _loved_ Shakespeare.

In your story, I'd have been the geek sitting in the front row who "got it" without the teacher having to metaphorically slap me across the face--had I been in your class, the scenario would have included the following:

*Look here at ForceUser's paper! This is how you address Shakespeare!* And I'd have sunk low in my chair, mortified at the glares from my classmates, but secretly thrilled at the recognition.

Literature! I love this stuff.


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## ForceUser (Dec 15, 2005)

Hjorimir said:
			
		

> Neat adventure, ForceUser! What did your professor think?



I got my geology paper back today--39 points out of a possible 40. He liked it.


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## ForceUser (Dec 20, 2005)

Rurik cast about the frozen moor in dismay. “_It’s gone._”

“Here,” Einar pointed at the ground. He squatted near a brittle tuft of vegetation, his breath coalescing like a serpent in the misty air.

The others gathered round. “What is it?” asked Stefano. 

Near the Northman’s splayed fingers was a depression in the icy loam—that of an elongated foot. Einar shook his head, a grim expression on his face. “A hag,” he announced.

“Then we are too late,” Stefano groaned, “Frostmourne has called to it a creature of darkness to carry on its quest.”

“It wants to go north,” Rurik repeated dully.

“Brilliant, half-wit,” said Louis as he twirled a copper piece, “Why in the world did you drop it in the mud then?”

Rurik’s nostrils flared. “_You!_” the half-ogre lunged at the aelfborn with murder in his eyes. Louis darted behind Einar, and Stefano shouted, “Enough! Stop!”

Einar snorted and shoved Louis away from him contemptuously. The bard stumbled and gave a mocking half-bow.

Ilse, garbed in battle-scarred steel plate and sitting astride her barded black warhorse Germanicus, asked Einar calmly, “Can you track it?”

“Yes, shield-maiden,” he replied reverently.

“Please do so.” She glared at Stefano from atop her warhorse as the Northman began to follow the trail.

“These tracks are no older than a day. We can catch it if we move swiftly,” Einar asserted. “From here we go west.”

For hours they followed the tracks through the leaden mists of the moor, and in doing so they meandered in a generally northward direction. Some time in the afternoon, Einar called a halt, a dark expression upon his face. “This hag appears confused, or is searching for something. She wanders. There is a farmstead nearby, on the edge of the moor near the shore of the lake. I fear for my kinsfolk there.” 

“Is that Tryfing’s home?” asked Wigliff. Einar nodded, “His son Drott now heads the household.”

“Avido,” Stefano commanded, “Fly north to the lakeshore and find this farm. Report back in all haste with what you see.”

“Boss,” the raven replied, “I’m going to get lost in this fog. I can’t see anything.”

“Go, Avido,” Stefano replied. “Do your best.”

The bird squawked in irritation, alighting. “You’re the boss.” He cleaved into the mist and was gone. 

“Your raven _talks_,” Einar breathed. He regarded Stefano and Ilse with open wonder. “A shield-maiden and a prester of the Allfod*. My people are fortunate to be so thought of by the Church.”

“We must hurry, Einar,” Stefano urged. “Take us there.”

“_He_ cannot run swiftly,” Einar replied, jerking a thumb at Rurik’s ironclad form, “But I will take us to the farm as fast as he can go.”

“Why don’t you have a horse?” asked Ilse to Rurik.

“No Oski steed can carry me,” replied the half-ogre dejectedly.

“Enough talking,” Einar growled. “Now we must run.”

Germanicus, sensing excitement, snorted hot vapor and stamped his massive hooves into the frozen earth.

~~~~~~~~~~​
Gerdrogg breathed the cold, moist air and smiled around black, needle-like teeth. She was a young hag, full of vitality and wickedness, and she reveled in anticipation of the slaughter that Frostmourne promised her. The sword throbbed frigidly in her knobby, clawed fingers, sending unrelenting spikes of pain lancing along her arm, which thrilled her. In the recesses of her mind, something small and weak cried out for release, but whenever she focused upon that tiny bound thing, the sword choked down the thought and lured her away with visions of exquisite carnage. She did not mind this, for she often fantasized about entering the village of the humans upon the lake and gutting them in the snow for no other reason than to watch them die. 

_You’ll have it,_ whispered a voice from within.

Gerdrogg cackled and gripped the hilt tighter. Inhaling again, she stopped. In a cracked, wheezy voice like jagged glass, she drawled, “I smell…_manflesh_.”

_Go,_ Frostmourne commanded, flaring with hunger. Black ice congealed across the length of its rune-carved blade.

Grinning, Gerdrogg loped into the mist.

~~~~~~~~~~​
Avido glided through the fog, intent upon spotting a break in the vapors. A lonely tree all gnarled with age and winter rushed at him from out of the gloom; instinctively, he pulled his wings in against his torso and dropped like a stone, narrowly avoiding it. Grumbling, he doubled back and landed upon an ice-laden branch. _This is ridiculous,_ he fumed, _How am I supposed to find a farm or lakeshore in this fog? I can’t even see the ground. I don’t even know which way to go!_

He shook his feathered form violently to free it of an accumulated rime of icy water, and squawked forlornly at the cold. Avido wanted nothing more than to be perched upon a mantle above a roaring fire back at Oski Faste. _Well, a crunchy roach would be nice too,_ he acknowledged. The boss always said that it was important to be as honest with oneself as one was with the gods. Avido didn’t know much about the gods—only what he’d gleaned while perched upon Stefano’s shoulder as the priest studied—but he did know that they valued honesty. _Except for the Laughing Rogue,_ the bird mused. He seemed to be as interested in shiny things as Avido was.

As the bird pondered theology, he shook himself again for warmth and hopped closer to the tree’s trunk, huddling against a nook. _Maybe I’ll just wait here for a while,_ he thought. _I can find the boss later and tell him I got lost._ Avido felt a pang of conscience at that. _Well, what does he expect me to do? I’m not an owl!_ He ruffled his feathers indignantly and cried out in frustration. 

In the distance, an echoing cry returned.

Startled, Avido stopped moving and strained to listen. _What was that?_

Again, a sound filtered across the fog, mute and desolate—a shrill cry of pain, cut suddenly short. Other sounds trickled out of the silence, as well; muffled shouts, clanging steel, and a high wail of pure sorrow that made him shiver empathetically.

Without another thought, Avido pushed his way through the dew-laden air with frantic momentum. As he closed, the sounds grew in variety and volume—he heard the terrified bleating of oxen, the panicked clucking of chickens, and the hysterical screams of human women.

Barreling through the pea-soup, he coughed reflexively as black smoke filled his lungs. Frightened, he beat upward through the now-warm and darkly roiling air until the sky burst forth—a gray thing, heavy with winter’s burden and twisting sympathetically with the scene below.

Avido stared in horror. The farmstead was ablaze, and dismembered and eviscerated human corpses lay strewn like discarded toys across the clearing. A girlish scream punctuated the air from within the burning longhouse, but was cut short with cruel finality. As he circled, something sinister strode out from within—lanky and dressed in tatters, with abnormally long arms and sickly green skin that was slick with a rubbery sheen. The figure stood hunched and dragged along behind it a great black sword that throbbed with vile energy. As Avido watched, the creature loped toward a crawling figure—a woman—and gleefully hacked her limbs off one at a time. The hag’s broken cries of delight wafted through the air like cinders of hate.

_Oh, no_, thought Avido, _No, no, no. Gods, no._ 

With grief clogging his heart, he whirled away from the scene on the ground and raced southward.








*In their bid to convert the Vangals, the first Celestine missionaries associated the gods of the Northmen with their own. Pelor, who is head of the Celestine pantheon with his sister Wee Jas, came to be synonymous among the native converts of Rothland with the pagan god Wotan, who is known by a variety of other names—Har, Sigfod, Ygg, and Allfod. In Vangal legend, the wise Allfod kept two ravens, Hugin (thought) and Munin (memory), who served him as messengers.

_Prester_ is simply an old word for priest.


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## Shieldhaven (Dec 21, 2005)

Have I raved incoherently about how great this Story Hour is lately?  'Cuz, yeah.

Quoth the Haven, "More, more!"


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## ForceUser (Dec 23, 2005)

When they came upon the farmstead, nothing stirred but the cutting wind, blown like a razor down from the mountains, across the white-capped lake, and through their hearts. They entered the steading silently, with weapons drawn and spells ready upon their lips, but a quick search around the decimated husk of what was once a human hearth yielded ample bodies, but no foe.

“Ulfr…Finna…Egill…that little one, that looks like Gudmund’s son…” said Wigliff quietly, taking stock of the carnage.

Einar seethed. “Too slow. Odd’s blood, too slow!”

“We should bury the dead,” said Louis. He averted his eyes from what appeared to be a woman’s dismembered corpse. 

Ilse dismounted and knelt beside the body of an old man. “What is this?” she asked, reaching out. When she withdrew her gauntlet, black ice flaked away. The man’s dead eyes looked like frozen cataracts, and his body was covered in a rime of frost.

Stefano examined a small boy beside her that had been cleaved in twain. “It wasn’t enough to hack these people to pieces—Frostmourne had to steal their lives’ warmth. The blade, Rurik. Can it do this?”

The half-ogre nodded from within his helm. He did not remove his visor. His posture spoke of coiled tension.

“Boss…” Avido began, flapping his wings awkwardly. He clawed onto Stefano’s shoulder tightly.

“I know, Avido. We will mourn the dead later.” The priest raised his voice, “Einar, can you track it? We must find this monster.”

Recovering as if from a fugue, the barbarian nodded darkly and began to cast about for evidence of the hag’s passage. 

“We should bury the dead,” repeated Louis, “We should bury them.”

“No,” said Stefano, “We have no time. Avido.” He gently lifted the bird in both hands and held him to his chest. “Return to the Oksi. Tell them what has happened.”

“But, boss, I…”

“We will speak of it later, Avido. The Oski must know of this. Tell them to send warriors—there is still danger here.”

The bird nodded miserably. Stefano tossed it into the air, where it caught wing and began to ascend. 

Ilse watched Avido depart. “Your familiar seems…distraught. How strange.”

“Aren’t you?” replied Stefano wearily. He took in the bloody scene. “I have never before seen such brutality.”

“I have. It is common for raiding parties of Arbonnese knights to burn our fields and hamlets along the Franconian border.”

“The Arbonnese accuse Mord soldiers of much the same.”

“I don’t doubt it. War makes men into animals, and the wars of kings are godless, much as they invoke their divine rights. Konrad coveted Franconia’s wealth, nothing more, as did Roland*.” 

Germanicus snorted misty vapor and nudged Ilse's shoulder, so she patted his nose. “It is the Franconians, caught between two kingdoms’ greed, who have suffered the most.”

“The subjects of Arbonne and Mordengard have suffered as well,” Stefano said, “They have lost their innocence.”

“No,” replied Ilse, “They have forfeited their righteousness. They did so the moment they followed their kings into a sovereign country on the pretense of pursuing hereditary claim.”

“You are an idealist, Reverend Reifsnyder.”

“That is why I serve the Church and not the king, Reverend Barozzi.”

They stood in silence. After a time, Ilse spoke, “We should pray for these people.”

Stefano nodded, “When Einar returns. This loss affects him more than any of us, except perhaps for Rurik.” He glanced at the giant, who had begun to gather bodies with Louis and Wigliff. 

“Does he blame himself?” asked Ilse.

“I cannot conceive of how he would not feel some modicum of guilt, despite being granted the gods’ absolution,” said Stefano. “He has a gentle soul.”

“He was a mercenary, Reverend Barozzi, and fought in Franconia. He killed for gold.” She noted the look of surprise on Stefano’s face. “Or did he not tell you?”

Stefano watched the giant carefully lift the decimated body of a young man. He sighed, “No.”

“Ah.”

Einar reappeared, longspear in hand, with a wild expression upon his blond bearded face. “The hag follows the coast, which runs north for several miles before turning west. If we travel due northwest through the forest, we can catch it. If we are _swift_.” This last remark he hurled across the farmyard, where it struck Rurik like an arrow. The big warrior flinched and bowed his head.

“Come on! That’s enough of that,” barked Louis, “Just lead us to the damned thing.” He patted Rurik on one hulking vambrace.

Einar set his jaw and glowered at the bard, “Don’t tell me what to do, elf.”

“We should go,” interjected Wigliff, “There’s not much light left.” The sun had begun a slow plummet to the horizon.

“He’s right,” affirmed Ilse, “We don’t want to fight this monster in the dark.” She remounted Germanicus, who pranced impatiently.

“Wait!” Stefano raised his hand, palm outward, “A prayer.”

Einar instantly knelt and lowered his head. Rurik lumbered to one knee, and Louis followed suit more slowly, searching for a relatively dry patch of earth. Wigliff remained standing, his eyes on the far-off waters of the lake.

After a brief benediction, they stood. Einar glowered at Rurik and Louis again before jogging toward the tree line. “Try to keep up,” he snarled as he brushed past them. Angreiðr thumped against his cloak as he vaulted across the rough earth.

Louis looked at the half-ogre in sympathy. “Don’t worry about him, man. This isn’t your fault."

“No,” growled Rurik, “It’s yours.”

The gigantic warrior thundered ahead, pumping his arms and legs in an effort to keep up with Einar, who had already vanished in the murk between the evergreens. 

Louis stumbled along behind the others, stung.









* *The Peacock War*—The kingdoms of Mordengard and Arbonne have warred over territorial rights to the north-coastal regions of Lustria and Franconia since the year 971. Franconia is rich in minerals and arable land, and it was once a colony of the Genovan city-state Lagella, whose crest sports a peacock. Nearly one hundred years ago, in 969, King Konrad IV of Mordengard invaded Franconia, and in 970 King Roland II of Arbonne claimed hereditary title to the land and made war against Konrad. Lagella supported Roland initially, but it soon became apparent that the Arbonnese king desired all the land for himself. In 1002 Konrad’s grandson Mikal won the port city of Tulan after a long siege, and renamed it Durmstrang. Shortly after that he conquered all of Lustria, making it a duchy for his brother-in-law. 58 years later, the war for Franconia continues.


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## ForceUser (Dec 26, 2005)

Gerdrogg strolled along the rocky shore of Lake Oski, feeling sated and immensely satisfied. Her belly was full, her sisters were unaware of her doings, and she possessed the most powerful weapon that she had ever encountered. The iron tang of human blood still lingered sweetly on her tongue, and she nibbled on a thigh bone with her pointed teeth. With one claw, she dragged Frostmourne carelessly behind her, point down. The sword still thrummed with the residue of the malevolent energies it had displayed during her sport, and she happily anticipated returning to her coven, killing her eldest sister Helkja, and taking over. Within a few weeks, she and her remaining sibling could capture many humans for their stewpot and drive the rest away. Her thoughts circled endlessly around ever-more grandiose ideas of consolidating power among the northern creatures and moving south into the fertile farmlands of men. She had once spoken to a passing pukje that had claimed that the humans made their homes against the coast, lingering there like flocks of seabirds. After eating the pukje, she had slipped out of the moor and journeyed several weeks south until she encountered a marvelous walled fort that lay hard against a rocky shore. Men indeed lived there, crawling about like juicy maggots waiting to be devoured. She had been forced to flee then, however, because she could not defeat the humans’ hateful witch mother.  

_But now I can return. With this blade, I can easily defeat any challengers to my power. First, though,_ she smiled cruelly as she thought, _I will slay Helkja._

Frostmourne flared dully, and a choking tendril of enmity closed around Gerdrogg’s consciousness. _Trolls,_ it whispered.

A magnificent idea occurred to Gerdrogg then. _Ho! I will first go north to the Trollfells and recruit an army, and then I will return and feed my sister to this sword!_ The hag, drunk with power, cackled with pride at her cleverness. 

Her long silhouette slithered across the rocky lakeshore in the fading light as she began to stride more purposefully along the beach. The sky ahead blazed orange behind the western peaks, but her eyes drifted across the lake to the Trollfells which lay beyond to the north. Behind her, indigo settled like a cloak across the land. She returned her gaze to the earth in front of her feet as she plodded on, lost in an internal world of blood and conquest.

On the edge of her vision, something glinted sharply in the setting sun. She paused to look, and it glinted again. _Steel_, she realized. Someone was crawling in the dead grasses to the south, which struggled sporadically against the accumulated layers of snow and ice that weighed them down. The land southward sloped up, and trees sat upon the top of a crest of earth, looking down toward the shore like a line of sentinels. The metallic reflection from the dying sunlight had occurred some hundred yards from the beach, halfway between the tree line and the waves. 

Grinning evilly, Gerdrogg summoned innate arcane power and faded from sight like a figure washed away from a watercolor canvass. She began to creep toward the place where she’d seen the glint.

_North_, whispered Frostmourne in her subconscious. The hag hesitated, confused by her conflicting desires to catch this skulking creature and to journey north immediately at best speed.

She shrugged, and began to advance upon the grassy field once again. She would go north as soon as she had caught, tortured, and feasted upon whoever was lurking. 

_*NORTH.*_ The sword asserted itself violently, bludgeoning her with its will. Gerdrogg froze, locked in an agonizing struggle for supremacy of her own mind. She staggered to one knee and gasped. A piteous whine issued from her cracked lips, and then she quieted and stood.

_This creature is not worth the effort,_ Gerdrogg decided coolly. _I will go north immediately. My troll army awaits._ She returned to the lake shore and looked behind her. The land was now dark. Amidst the trees to the south, a faint white glow could be seen—not torches, but magic.

Still invisible, Gerdrogg summoned more arcane energy, binding it into the shape of four ruddy lit torches. With a whisk of her claw, the torches formed a line and began to hustle eastward along the shore, back the way she had come. Then she breathed deeply, causing yet more arcana to coalesce around her form. She waded into the dark and freezing waves of Lake Oski until they lapped above her head. Then she took in a lungful of water, kicked away from the rocky bottom, and disappeared into the black depths.

~~~~~~~~~~​
“Einar, come out of the water! The hag is gone,” shouted Stefano. As he watched, the Northman, some twenty yards out, swam back toward the shore with powerful strokes. He touched bottom shortly and waded back to the group. A blistering wind from across the lake drove the watchers into the recesses of their cloaks. Einar’s teeth chattered violently as Ilse wrapped him in his furs, and Stefano summoned a cantrip and dried the barbarian with a gesture. 

Einar rubbed his arms and legs, miraculously reprieved of the cold. “Thank you, prester.”

“Those torches probably weren’t even real,” noted Louis. “You can do that with magic.”

“What now?” asked Wigliff.

“What lies beyond this lake?” asked Stefano.

“The Trollfells,” replied Einar, “We don’t go there. Sometimes the trolls get tired of eating each other and come down looking to feast on the flesh of men.”

Louis rolled his eyes. “Trolls. Lovely.”

“I think we should return to Oski Faste,” said Stefano. “Hrothgar should know about this. I don’t think we’re ready to fight our way through hordes of trolls.”

“We must bury the dead, as well,” said Ilse.

Einar stared across the darkened lake, arms wrapped around his spear. “Töskjel lives out there.”

“Who?” asked Stefano.

“Töskjel. The old voelva. When the Church came with its missionaries, she left the faste for an island upon the lake. If the hag swam north, it will find Töskjel’s home.”

“That is unfortunate. May the gods protect her.”

Einar looked at Stefano askance. “Yeah.”

“What is a voelva?” asked Ilse.

“Village priestess,” replied Louis, “I heard about them once. They were wise women, had the ear of their chieftains. Supposedly, they were very strong in the magic of the old ways. It’s been said of them that they could make it rain, talk to the earth, and take on the forms of beasts or spirits, depending upon who you asked.”

”Yes,” said Stefano, “They were pagan idolaters who refused to convert. The early missionaries were forced to eliminate them.”

Einar bristled at Stefano’s words. “Töskjel is kin, and she served us well long before the Church got here. She left Oski Faste willingly when your missionaries came, and lives alone and forgotten upon that isle. _I will not hear her disrespected._" His hand strayed to the throwing ax upon his belt, and his posture spoke of impending violence.

Stefano regarded Einar carefully. “I see.”

The moment, tense as a coiled serpent, stretched across several seconds.

“Let’s get out of this gods-blasted wind, shall we?” quipped Louis. “I can’t feel my nose anymore.”

The waves crashed incessantly, blown ashore by a frenzied gale that cared nothing about the quarrels of men.


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## Dancer (Dec 27, 2005)

Just jumping in to say that I'm loving this story hour.  I hope to post my own story hour someday and I hope I can do half as well as this one.

Force, you do a wonderful job with the descriptive nature of your world (and the dialogue, action, well, all of it really)

Anyway, just letting you know you've got another fan.


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## ForceUser (May 23, 2006)

Stefano cowered against the blistering cold, acutely aware of the tenuous coil of his consciousness that threatened to devolve into panicked incoherency. The wind raged like a netherworld beast full of malice and spite, hungrily seeking to dethrone him from life and cast him into an eternal freezing darkness. A whirlpool of snow swallowed him, and though he shut his eyes against the ravaging storm, he saw the peril of his situation in his mind’s eye: he was going to die. 

Beside him he felt the bulk, if not the warmth, of one of his companions. Somewhere close, he knew, Einar worked desperately to grant them a quiver of flame with which to repulse the icy tempest. They had prepared confidently, with multiple endowments of _endure elements_ passed around like pipe tobacco, so assured in their arcane protections that they had not given the cold another thought. 

Yet their magical wards had failed them; here in the mountains, beyond the scope of human affinity, the storm had penetrated their defenses with the disdainful ease of a master duelist disarming a novice. Never before had Stefano known a cold like this, which sought his heart like a grotesque gnawing worm. His extremities, he knew, still existed, though he could not feel his fingers, limbs, or toes. His ears were lumps against the icy shroud of his wolf-fur hat and heavy hood; his nose was merely an inconvenient protuberance preventing him from burying his face an inch deeper into his fur-lined cloak. 

The companions squatted in the lee of the wind against an ancient boulder, which perched precariously upon an overlook that faced the pass up which they had traveled earlier that day. Even out of the direct force of the gale, which was heightened to god-like fury by the funneled shape of the pass, the eddies of frosty vapor created a hellish vortex which caught them up and mocked their efforts to find solace. Stefano wondered at the fate of the horses, for which no protections beyond sturdy blankets had been offered. “They’re hardy beasts,” Louis had quipped before they had departed Oski Faste, “They’ll likely fare better than we will.”

It had been a calculated risk to push on into the mountains in the midst of winter, but one which, given the circumstances, both Ilse and Stefano had felt was necessary. Without the protection of magic against the cold, of course, the expedition would have been postponed until the spring. But bolstered by the simple abjurations which had never failed them, they had noted the coming storm perfunctorily and continued with their planning. Einar had pointed out the likely severity of the approaching morass, and they had listened respectfully, but in the end they decided that due to the combination of their magicks and Einar’s wilderland skill, the challenge would be minimal. Lulled by an overbearing sense of competency, they had marched up the western peaks flanking Askjer Pass and into the throat of the storm. 

In time, a sullen warmth began to spread through Stefano’s core, as though a hearth had appeared nearby and miraculously radiated life. He began to feel quite comfortable in his perch against the rock, so much so that he relaxed his posture and leant against the person behind him. “Perhaps I’ll doze,” he decided, “While Einar stokes the fire.” 

As he drifted into numbing sleep, a flicker of memory reverberated through his rapidly dissipating thoughts.

~~~~~~~~~~​
“Rise, cousin,” grumbled Hrothgar from his high-backed chair. “Wotan’s herald has told me of the peril you faced.” Dutifully, Einar stood.

Stefano glared at Avido, who hunkered in a distinctly un-birdlike posture of sheepishness on the elaborately-carved crest of Hrothgar’s seat. The familiar, having been sent by Stefano to convey the tragic fate of Tryfing’s household, had apparently chosen not to disavow the chieftain of the notion that he was the gods’ messenger, and had been accorded high honors by the awestruck thane. Standing behind Hrothgar’s throne was a pair of flaxen-haired girls, the chieftain’s nieces, who giggled as they patted and hand-fed the raven millet from their stores and worms from the earth beneath the hall. 

“The hag escaped us,” intoned Stefano, “she is likely in the Trollfells by now, following whatever purpose the sword requires.”

Hrothgar regarded Stefano knowingly, a haggard look in his eye. “All who journey there find the same wyrd in the gullet of a troll. The slaughter of my kin stokes me to rage, more so that it will go unavenged.” He sighed wearily and cast a morose look at the fire. “What will you do now?”

Ilse and Stefano exchanged glances. The theurgist continued. “We lack information, my lord. We need to know the lore of your people—your victories, your tragedies, and your histories. Ancient enemies and allies concern us. There is much that we do not know.”

“Had we a skald, he would versify a fine poem indeed, for our people are of a valiant line that stretches back to the beginning,” the chieftain mused. “But we have had none in that tradition for some time.” Einar thought of Töskjel and said nothing. 

Hrothgar looked up at the fire-hole in the roof of his hall, which led to blackness that hovered above the crackling fire pit. “The land is our lore now.”

“Pardon, great lord, but of what lore do you speak?” inquired the aelfborn, Louis. “I have learned much of the skordi people in my travels, but little of the Oski tribe.”

“It has always been so,” replied the thane, “For we are not a boastful clan. Our history is marked upon the land.”

“Hjalprek’s Doom,” someone murmured from near the fire. Many voices repeated the utterance sagely. Hrothgar nodded, and seeing the looks of ignorance upon the faces of the southlanders, said, “The plain where we met in battle the last great troll advance. It lies west of here, near the eastern slopes of the Rößnecht* peaks leading up to Askjer Pass. It is a monument to the bravery of our ancestors and the weakness of the straw men that fled.”

“Straw men?” asked Ilse.

“Cowards,” responded Louis, “Though I’d be hard pressed to stand my ground while a horde of trolls bore down upon me.”

“Pfah,” spat Einar, “You’d run.”

Louis looked at the Northman with a wounded expression.

“I do not see how an ancient battlefield could aid us,” Stefano declared.

“Legend says that many an army has been repulsed upon that slope,” offered a passing serving-woman.

“Helga speaks true,” said Wigliff’s brother Edgtho, nodding. “There are stories of standing stones that grip the land in pockets.” He held his fingers upward in a gripping gesture for emphasis. 

“Stories? You’ve never seen them?” asked Louis.

Several of the Oski stared at him in horror. Einar replied curtly, “Only a fool would stir the wrath of the dead.”

“The straw men were denied paradise,” Hrothgar explained, “Those that fought and died now revel in Wotan’s hall until the end of days, but those that fled in fear roam the field of their betrayal, it is said. We do not go there.”

“Standing stones,” Stefano mused, “Could tell us something about your history.”

Edgtho gaped at the priest. “Prester,” he implored, “It is not wise! If you are caught on the Doom at night…”

“We can enter and leave by daylight, then,” Stefano said, warming to the notion. “We could use a guide, of course.”

Einar scratched his blond beard and grunted. A log, half-consumed by flame, cracked and fell within the cook-fire, launching a swirl of embers high into the air; carried upon an updraft, they soared into the night void where they winked out one by one.     

“We’ll need horses,” the Northman began.






* Rößnecht is pronounced “Rooss’nekt.” The “ß” is a letter of the German alphabet called an estset. They generally use it whenever we’d use “ss” in English. It’s my new favorite letter of the alphabet.


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## ForceUser (May 23, 2006)

The field called Hjalprek’s Doom stood stark and white against the dingy gray sky. It lurched westward, leaning like a sodden drunkard against the darkened Rößnecht mountains as though at any moment it would right itself and stagger away.  To the east, the white-capped lake of the Oski churned, an iron sea. Within a mile of the shore, islands both craggy and verdant crowded each other like old women at market. Across the plain itself, small copses of black stone rose to meet the sky much as Edgtho said—all told, the expanse was miles long, sandwiched between the mountains and the lake, and sloped gradually upward to the foothills of the snowy peaks. Cleaving the mountains in half was Askjer Pass, a wedge-shaped gap that bridged the northern marches of this land belonging to the skordi tribes and the hinterlands of their enemies, the vitlings. Hjalprek’s Doom was a natural battlefield, a meeting-place for armies large and small, whose ghosts lingered long after their deeds had been forgotten, including, it was said, the tormented shades of the cowards that had fled under the chieftain Hjalprek. 

Those very shades watched with impotent hatred as the priests and their company traversed their ancient prison under the warmth of the hateful sun; forsaken and immaterial while the light absorbed the darkness, they waited by the hundreds for dusk to come. 

“Seems benign enough,” puffed Louis to Stefano. 

“Even so,” returned the priest, “I don’t want to linger. I want to be gone by late afternoon. We’ll come back tomorrow if we have to.”

Wigliff pointed, “Those stones appear to be plinths. Look, you can see that they supported some sort of platform.”

“Whatever they are, they’re huge,” said Ilse. 

As they closed, a peculiar sense of significance gripped Stefano. He dismounted and approached the ancient columns, which lingered upon the plain forlornly, no longer conveying the fearsome authority they had clearly once represented. By the structure and placement of the ancient rocks, as well as the careful and detailed carvings, they appeared religious in nature, though of what tradition Stefano could not judge. He spent several minutes circumnavigating the structure while the others spread out and clambered around.

“I found some writing!” yelled Louis, his voiced captured and propelled by the wind. 

When Stefano arrived, the bard was ruddy-faced and out of breath with excitement. “Look here,” he exclaimed, “It’s runic script!” 

Indeed it was. By Stefano’s estimation, the stone-carved symbols appeared to be some variation of Vangal runic iconography—not a written language in the strict sense, as the Vangals had none, but a collection of runes that possessed meaning in the Northman culture. Unfortunately, neither Wigliff nor Einar recognized the symbols upon the plinth. Wigliff did discover something interesting, however.

“These black stones,” he said, "Are not native to Thröngart.”

 After speculating about the meaning of the runes, the party resumed their inspection of the structure. High on the upthrust face of the toppled eastern plinth, Stefano soon made a startling discovery. “Louis!” he called excitedly. “Come here!”

When the bard arrived, he gaped at the stonework that Stefano presented him. “This looks like ancient Thrycian!” Stefano nodded. “That’s right. Can you read it?”

”Unfortunately, I cannot. I know many tongues, but I have little use for a language that died out centuries ago.”

“It’s not completely dead. A version of the Thrycian tongue is still in use in academics; church law is written in Thrycian, as is, of course, most copies of the sacred texts. And seminary students are still expected to learn rhetoric in the Thrycian tradition.”

“So you can read it.”

Stefano nodded, “And speak it. This is an old dialect, however, with which I am unfamiliar. Since I haven’t prepared the liturgy of comprehension, I will need to study it.” Stefano glanced at the sky, where the sun was beginning to droop toward the horizon.

“Well, take your time,” Louis grinned. He trudged through the snow toward the others and explained. 

”Who are these…Thry-see-ans?” asked Einar, his brow furrowed in concentration.

“Who were they, you mean,” replied Louis. “Don’t you read your scripture?”

“He can’t read,” Wigliff said.

“I can so read!” Einar bellowed. “I know my words! I learnt them in Athingburgh from the presters! I can read my name and some of the church letters too!” 

“Formidable,” noted Louis wryly. Ilse sighed.

“Einar,” she explained patiently, “The Thrycians were those who were vanquished by our Redeemer. They once ruled the whole world, but they were decadent and evil, and the gods punished them for their arrogance and sinfulness.”

“You _are_ Redeemed, aren’t you?” goaded Louis.

“Of course I am! I got a thing right here that says so!” And with that, the Northman dug into his furs and produced a small, crudely carved holy symbol of the Celestine Church. “See that? Means I’m Re-deemed!” Einar shoved the disk in Louis’ face proudly. The bard repressed the urge to burst out laughing. 
“Louis, stop it,” Ilse said sternly.

“Go on, shieldmaiden. I’m listening!” said Einar eagerly. He stepped a little too close to her. “I like your hair.”

Louis was positively rolling with mirth by now. Rurik grabbed him by his furs. “Let’s go see to the horses.”

Ilse paused to repress her frustration. She let out a breath slowly, ignoring Einar’s expectant look. Finally, she continued. “The Redeemer was called by the gods to lead an army against the Thrycians. He gathered together all the people who had suffered under their rule and marched to their land in the south—far to the south, in Eriador. His army, it is said, numbered in the tens of thousands. But they were mostly peasants, and the legions of the Thrycian Empire were the most seasoned fighting force in the world. The Redeemer’s general, Cuthbert, worried about the coming battle, but the Redeemer told him ‘Fear not, for the hour of our redemption is at hand.’ Do you remember what happened next?”

“The Redeemer destroyed the Thry-see-ans?”

“That’s right. The indwelling spirit of the god Trithereon descended upon him in the midst of battle, and they destroyed the Thrycians—none escaped the gods’ judgment. The emperor and his legions were slain, the capitol and its inhabitants destroyed, and the surrounding land laid waste. What was once the seat of the mightiest empire in the world became…”

“…the Mournland!” finished Einar. “I remember this story. And the Redeemer died!”

“That’s right,” said Ilse, “The Redeemer sacrificed himself, as did Trithereon, to cleanse the world of its sinfulness. In making such a selfless choice, he redeemed us all in the eyes of the gods. That is why we worship, and that is why we are thankful.” 

“And Forseti became a god again!”

Ilse blinked. “What?”

“Forseti! God of law and justice! The presters told us that he had taken mortal form to help the Redeemer, and once it was done, he resumed his place among the gods!”

Ilse opened and closed her mouth a few times, processing this information. “You mean…Saint Cuthbert. When Trithereon died, the humble general of the Redeemer’s army was raised into the firmament to forever judge the worthiness of mankind’s actions.”

“Oh, right. I forgot what you southerners called him,” Einar confided, “You have funny names for the gods. Wotan is Pelor, Forseti is Cuthbert…the only one that makes any sense is calling Loki whatever you call him. He’s always going by some false name or other.”

Ilse resolved then and there to have a lengthy conversation with Stefano regarding the spiritual education given the Vangals.

“Einar,” she explained, “We do not call the gods by their names. We are not worthy. Don’t say Pelor anymore; call Him the Shining One or the Bright God.”

“That’s silly. Can’t I call him Wotan? This is what my people have called him for a long time.”

Ilse ground her teeth.

~~~~~~~~~~​
“How’s it going?” asked Louis apprehensively. Stefano looked up from his book of scriptures where he had written notes in the margins. The sun was now a fiery ring that plummeted steadily toward the horizon. 

“I think I’ve got it,” replied the theurgist. 

”Then let’s get the hell out of here,” urged the aelfborn. “You can tell us all about it when we’ve put some miles between us and this creepy dead battlefield.”

As the companions mounted up and rode away from the plain, the shades, unnoticed by the living, soundlessly wailed their frustrated rage at the vengeance denied them.

“This is a history,” Stefano announced that night, as the adventurers sat ringed around the fire and facing him. The camp was an outpost of orange light in an ocean of vast nothingness that swallowed everything but the ground beneath their feet. In the distance, the crashing of the waves upon the rocky shore of the lake rang rhythmically like church bells. 

He had copied as much of the text as he could into his notebook. Using his copy of the scriptures as a guide to translation, Stefano had rooted out enough common characters that he had been able to reconstruct most of the words in the Thrycian dialect used today in academic circles. 

“Here is what I have been able to discern. The plinths are a monument to the reign of an ancient Vangal lord called Orvjik Shield-biter. He was the vassal of a Vangal king whose name I had difficulty translating due to the age of the stone. In places the writing was worn away completely. All I could get for the name of this Vangal king was “M, “L,” “GAN.” There are characters missing in-between. Are either of those names familiar to the Oski?”

Wigliff and Einar shook their heads. Stefano looked at Louis, who shrugged. 

“In any event, in the inscriptions Orvjik claims victory over all the tribes of Thröngart, and proudly proclaims that he impaled over five hundred captured enemies, some of which took as many as three nights to die upon the stake.” Stefano paused to allow the gravity of that boast to sink in.

“The inscriptions also declare the location of Angrahöll, Orvjik’s seat of power. The plinths declare that it sits high in Askjer Pass, on the eastern face of the Skjöldr Mountains—I assume the Skjöldr and the Rößnecht are one and the same. According to the plinths, Orvjik had a thousand warriors in his household and three thousand head of cattle. However, the word used for ‘cattle’ is confusing, because in another context it can also mean ‘slave’. Orvjik declares himself an enemy of all jöten and of ‘southerners’.”

“Interesting,” breathed Louis. He considered, “Angrahöll, you say?”

“Hall of Torment,” Wigliff translated.

“Lovely,” the bard replied, “Whoever this Orvjik was, he sounds like a nasty piece of work. Inhuman, even.”

Ilse and Stefano exchanged a glance, which Louis intercepted.

Smirking, he said, “I suppose you want to find this place.”

“There are many unanswered questions here,” replied Stefano. He counted them off using his fingers, “One, how did these people come to know the Thrycian tongue? According to our histories, the empire never conquered this land. Two, who was this warlord that conquered Thröngart? Three, the reference to cattle-slaves disturbs me greatly. Did they keep human chattel? If so, for what purpose? Four, who was this terrible king that the Oski have forgotten?”

“It’s all in the past, prester,” Einar interjected, “We should worry about the present.”

“The past informs the present,” Stefano responded, “And our understanding of these ancient events could prove crucial to the future of your people.”

“Crucial?” asked Wigliff. “In what way?”

“Yes,” said Ilse, “Do tell.”

Stefano peered at the firelit faces regarding him. He said nothing at first, but sat down at the fire and wrapped his furs around him. The others waited patiently. Sensing that significant information was forthcoming, Louis uncurled from his mass of fox furs and sat up attentively.

Finally, the priest spoke. “I have not been entirely truthful with you, and for that I ask the gods’ forgiveness, and yours. My reason for coming to Rothland, and for bringing Reverend Reifsnyder along, is multifaceted. Along with a genuine need to give ministry to the Oski, I have been sent with another purpose in mind.” He leaned closer to the fire, warming his hands. He did not look at anyone, instead choosing to peer into the dazzling flames. 

After a few moments, he looked up and scanned the faces of his companions. Slowly, he asked them, “My friends, what do you know of vampires?”


----------



## ForceUser (May 23, 2006)

Einar exhaled, blowing a plume of frosted nettles through his blond beard. Even under a gray sky twisting with thunderheads, he had to squint to discern the scimitar of ice that constituted Askjer Pass. The fissure meandered southeast from the lee side of the northern peak, and its many switchbacks and pitfalls lay concealed from the Northman’s practiced eye. He spat, and globs of spittle fell into his beard and froze. Grunting in annoyance, he pulled a wicked troll-bone knife from a sheath at his belt and began to saw delicately.

“Oh, well done,” chortled Louis. The bard stamped his feet impatiently, bored at the delay in progress as the clerics discussed how best to utilize their litanies to protect everyone from the weather.

Einar deftly removed a shard of frozen saliva and scowled at the aelfborn’s luxurious and impractical white fox furs. “If water freezes when it meets air, a Vangal finds shelter. But I can’t feel the cold. The shield maiden’s blessing makes the air feel like summer.”

“A hazard of continuing to live,” Louis remarked dryly, “Were it not for these magical wards, we’d have surely frozen to death by now.”

“You’d have frozen to death, because you’re a fool,” Einar snorted. “An Oski boy of five would live.”

“How?”

“He’d burrow under the snow,” Wigliff interjected, wading up next to his cousin. “They’re done talking. It’s time to move.” Einar nodded.

“That’s preposterous!” 

The barbarian ignored the bard and trudged toward the horses. Wigliff gave Louis a flat, disinterested glance, then replied, “If you are covered in snow, the heat in your body can’t escape into the air. You stay warm. The spirit folk of the far north know this. They build their cook fires in lodges of ice.”

“The _far_ north? How far north does this land go?” 

Wigliff merely shrugged and tramped to his steed.

“What madness,” Louis muttered. He waddled through a thigh-high drift of snow to his wide-eyed mount and glanced up the pass. The clouds concealed the mountaintops in misty grayness, and the pass looked like the prickly white tongue of some demon god, long and lolling. 

Though he wasn’t cold, the bard shivered.

“Louis,” clipped Ilse as Germanicus cantered past, enthusiastically gouging great clods of white powder and black soil from the frozen earth with every step. The templar’s long, flaxen braids bounced in counterpoint to the black destrier’s gait. Her great helm rested in her lap, visor open, between her scarred plate greaves. 

Startled by the intrusion of a human voice into the craggy white sheet of emptiness surrounding him, Louis kicked at the stirrup three times before his foot finally found purchase. He hoisted himself shakily into the saddle and thrust his gaze away from looming peaks.

~~~~~~~~~~​
Ilse brooded. The steep terrain of the pass proved difficult for Germanicus, and Einar insisted several times over the course of the day that they backtrack in a seeming haphazard pattern as he scoured the trail for dangers. Great sheets of snow-burdened ice sat atop and between enormous rocks full of jagged fissures, which looked like nothing so much as the shattered remains of a colossal stone giant’s beard. After Louis had nearly caused an avalanche with his nervous singing, Einar had threatened to break his jaw if he uttered another sound. Since then, all Ilse had heard was the sharp striking of steel-shod hooves on muffled stone and the whipping of the wind past her ears.

Since talking was not possible, she collapsed into her thoughts. _Vampires, _she seethed, glaring at Stefano as he huddled over his saddle against the bracing wind. There were layers to the theurgist’s secretiveness, and she understood that even now she did not know the full extent of the truth. He wore the silver collar of a church magistrate, as she did, but Stefano defied further categorization. In matters of immediate relevance, he was at once evasive and straightforward, yet when ministering to the Oski he was gentle—a trait which they mistrusted. Ironically, it was Stefano’s association with his own familiar, the raven Avido, which buoyed his standing among the Northmen in spite of his gentility. That the creature spoke the Vangal tongue suggested a pragmatic cleverness on the Reverend’s part which was not readily apparent in his demeanor. In matters of theology he seemed quite brilliant, if conventional, but his arcane powers clearly outshone his divine blessings. And though he seemed reverent of doctrine, he nevertheless projected an air of unspoken iconoclasm which worried her. Ilse knew little of theurgy, but to her the art seemed more suited to some fringe sect of the heterodoxy that the church proper.

Ilse’s knowledge of vampires represented the essence of a templar’s training—concise and factual, with an emphasis on achieving destruction. Vampires sought to beguile the mind. Vampires sought to slake their unholy thirst upon human blood. Vampires crawled like spiders in the dark corners of civilization, posing as ordinary people as they lured innocents to their deaths. Vampires crumpled when staked with wood through the heart, and they feared righteousness, holiness and the life-sustaining gaze of the sun. When you turn them, put all your might behind it because they are quick beyond mortal ability. Destroy them with daylight. Incinerate them with fire. Give them no quarter and no opportunity to capture your will.

Where Ilse knew action, Stefano spoke of history. _Vampires have plagued humanity for over a thousand years,_ he had said, _but there is no evidence of their existence from before the Reckoning. Have you ever wondered why?

No, _Ilse had replied truthfully.

_It is believed that they came from the north, _he’d continued. _According to what is known, they likely originated here, somewhere in Rothland. My mission, in part, is to seek out proof of their northern origin.

Why?_ Ilse had asked.

_That we may learn how to better find them and destroy them, _ he had replied simply. 

Germanicus jerked his head violently and flattened his ears. Reflexively, Ilse halted him. She leaned forward in her saddle and whispered to the horse, “What is it, my friend?” Glancing up the pass, she saw that Einar had crouched behind a jagged outcropping of rock, out of the wind, and had laid his longspear on the snow before him. He turned his head back and forth as though trying to hear a sound. 

“What’s going on?” whispered Louis in her ear. The bard sat poised astride his horse a dozen yards below her. Ilse frowned at him over her shoulder. 

Louis waved. “It’s okay, you can whisper back. I’ll hear you.”

“Einar heard something,” Ilse replied.

The barbarian stood up and ambled toward Rurik. They conferred a moment, and then the Northman moved to Stefano. 

“Einar’s ignoring me. Rurik says there’s danger.” As the bard spoke, the half-giant readied his greataxe, letting it dangle from one huge gauntleted fist. 

Einar approached Ilse. “Winter men,” he spoke lowly, “Lesser giants. They live in these mountains, hunt in bands.”

“Are they dangerous?”

“They are fierce. Old ones tell stories of the winter men hunting trolls in packs, like wolves. I heard one call to another. Their voices sound like the cries of warriors dying on the field. They are watching us right now.”

Ilse’s skin crawled. She peered ahead and above into the cracks of the world which dwarfed them, but saw nothing except stone and ice on a scale that numbed her senses. “What do we do?”

“We prepare ourselves for battle and continue.”

She nodded. As Einar shuffled off toward Wigliff, she said, “Wait.” She dug into her belt pouch and produced a pair of plain silver rings. Invoking a litany, she felt divine energy coalesce around her, and with practiced familiarity she willed it into the bands. “Here, wear this. It will protect you from injury. Stay close to me, or the spell will fail.”

Appearing awed, Einar reverently placed the ring upon his right hand. Ilse removed her gauntlet and did the same. “Thank you, shield maiden,” he breathed. He bowed his head respectfully and strode toward Wigliff.  

Up the jagged slope, Stefano summoned litanies of his own, and shrouded himself in arcane energy. Wigliff had produced a polished, twiggy wand, which he gripped tightly.

“Prepare for battle,” Ilse whispered to Louis. 

“Wait, what? What’s going on?”

The templar dug her heels into the destrier’s flanks, and he ambled forward slowly, testing each step with a daintiness that belied his massive size.

~~~~~~~~~~​
Tense hours passed, and most of their magical defenses faded. The sky blackened and belched forth dense flurries of snow that ripped down the canyon in immense white sheets. Even warded from the elements, Stefano began to realize that his unprotected face ached as though a thousand tiny needles stood upright underneath his skin. Spurring his steed, he rode up to Einar. He had to shout to make himself heard over the din.

“This is no good! We need to find shelter! It’s too cold, and it’s going to be dark soon! Are there any caves?”

“No!” shouted the Vangal over the wind, “No caves! Our enemies are cunning—they will let the storm devour us!”

“We can’t worry about them right now! I can feel the cold through my elemental ward! I did not know that was possible!”

“The gods are no longer protecting us?”

“They are, but we have reached the limits of human endurance. It’s just too cold!”

Einar cursed. “Cover your face, prester! Thrym scorns us! I will find a place out of the wind! Come—forward! Up the pass!”

“Maybe we should turn around!”

“No! Forward, or we die! There is no shelter behind us!” Einar turned and began to fight upward against the icy wind, which cut like shards of glass. 

Riding further into the teeth of that hellish gale seemed like suicide to Stefano, but he did not argue. He watched as down the trail behind him, swirling snow obscured his horse’s tracks, fanning the dry powder on the ground to smooth-brushed ridges which formed, toppled, and reformed in moments. His companions were now nothing but shadowy silhouettes of riders hunkered over their steeds. Panic gnawed at his stomach as he registered their peril. _Bright One_, he prayed, _deliver us from our folly_.

~~~~~~~~~~​
Doubled over in her saddle against the wind, Ilse grasped the radiant mace of San Carlo* and concentrated with desperate intensity, forcing lips she could not feel to form the correct syllables of a healing litany. A warm blue glow spread outward from her core, repelling the cold and thawing her extremities. She gasped as fire lanced through her now-feeling body, but within moments the sharp tingling began its inexorable slide back into the dull ache of frostbite. She struggled to stave off despair.

Ahead, she saw only the outline of Stefano’s horse, and behind only Wigliff’s. Somewhere ahead, lost in the blistering shroud of snow, Einar worked to save their lives. Ilse fumed at her helplessness against the monstrous adversary which sought to bury them. A single thought scrolled through her head relentlessly—_The horses will freeze soon. The horses will freeze._

The bulky shadow in front of Ilse stumbled and pitched its rider into the snow. “Stefano!” she yelled, but her voice could not overpower the wind. She urged Germanicus forward, but before she arrived, Rurik appeared and dragged the priest out of the drift into which he’d been tossed. The giant cradled Stefano gently, like a shepherd would a lamb, and unhooked his thick bearskin cloak to wrap around the priest. He swaddled Stefano like an infant, and then he grabbed the reins of the priest’s horse and handed them to Ilse. Nothing but the bare steel of his armor protected Rurik from the storm now. 

As they trudged agonizingly forward, Einar appeared bounding through the snow. “Follow me! Hurry!”

~~~~~~~~~~​
Stefano awoke from numbing sleep and heaved with shivers that wracked his entire body. Stinging pain soared through his limbs, and Ilse grimaced sympathetically as a blue glow faded from her outstretched hand. She stood and walked toward Rurik, who sat with his arms crossed and back against the boulder. The half-giant’s plate armor rattled audibly above the noise of the wind. Nestled in the lee of a gigantic boulder that Einar had located, the party evaded the brunt of the storm, but swirling winds kicked small twisters of snow across the tiny camp as the barbarian struggled to light a fire. Wigliff’s cantrip of flame had failed to sustain itself long enough to be of any use, and Stefano chuckled darkly at the irony of freezing to death inside a ring of everburning torches. Thankfully, he had insisted that Avido stay behind with the Oski. The pampered bird had taken little convincing.

Time stumbled interminably, and Stefano once again felt numbness creeping through his limbs. Ilse lay exhausted in her furs on the craggy earth, and Louis huddled near Wigliff. Einar worked diligently, relentlessly, with a small bit of dry moss and a stick, shielding his efforts from the storm with his body. His hands seemed little more than gnarled claws, his fingers blackened from frostbite at the tips. Stefano fought off lethargy and struggled to the barbarian’s side. He took Einar’s hands in his and with enormous effort, summoned the last of his healing power. A spear of yellow light enveloped Einar, and when the glow faded his hands were once again whole. He grunted his thanks and returned to the task of building a fire. Stefano crawled back to his spot behind the boulder and wrapped his furs tighter about him. Eventually, his thoughts drifted, and in his mind’s eye he soared above the mountains, surrounded by a dazzling golden light that illuminated the world. Distantly, he realized that he was freezing to death. Praising the Shining One, he stretched out his arms, turned his face to the gleaming sun, and smiled.








*A minor relic, this _+1 mace_ doubles as a divine focus. It is radiant because when she wields it, it casts a white glow that burns the wicked.


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## Shieldhaven (May 23, 2006)

And just think, earlier today I was wondering when I'd see another update to this marvelous story hour.

In an adventure like this one, who needs monsters?  It certainly looks bad enough for our heroes at this point.

Haven


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## HalfOrc HalfBiscuit (May 24, 2006)

Excellent stuff, Force User. Hoping for more soon ...


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## Vymair (May 31, 2006)

School's out for summer, which means more gaming goodness for all of us as ForceUser will have more time on his hands.  I'm guessing it will mean more updates as well...


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## ForceUser (Jun 7, 2006)

Skuld sniffed the scything breeze that wafted up the craggy pass, inhaling sharply once, then again, before wresting a nose-full of bracing air into his powerful lungs. With a gangling, warty arm, he reached over his hulking shoulder and scratched the small of his back. Even for a mountain troll, Skuld was immense. His head, half again the height and width of his next largest brood mate’s, lolled at an odd angle, jutting out between his gigantic, mismatched shoulders. Tufts of anemic fur sprouted from the numerous warts upon his body like wisps of winter air, and his enormous paws, each powerful enough to crush a grown man’s torso, ambled restlessly over his tensely-crouched body. Even squatting, Skuld towered twelve feet above the ground. At his feet rested the remains of a great forest pine, crudely banded at the top in iron. 

Skuld searched the horizon with black, beady eyes. He savored the scent for a moment before releasing his breath in a careless shudder that wracked his entire form. Something climbed below him. It smelled like death. 

Groaning to his gnarled feet, he duck-walked to the precipice and looked down the narrow trail that generations of trolls had worn into the bare rock. Miles away below him, a murder of crows twisted through a fixed point in the sky in lazy patterns. _There. Death_. 

Obeying the rumbling in his many stomachs, Skuld began the tedious trek down the mountain toward the scene, half-formed thoughts of feasting upon ripe carrion flitting through his dim consciousness. His primal mind whirled around a single creative thought. _The smallings fought the greenlings. The greenlings lost. Or the smallings._ After several minutes, he drew the only logical conclusion: _Food_. He made the trollish equivalent of a grin—a fierce grimace, all gums and tusks—and took a short fall, landing atop the cracked bones of forgotten meals. The snapping of the bones under his weight startled him, and he smashed the thirty-pound skull of a smalling into shards of dust with an errant flick of his club. Distracted by the mess, he poked among the bones for several minutes. _No meat_, he finally concluded. But now he had forgotten the reason that he’d left his comfortable perch, and so he squatted in the ruins of his victims and dug at a particularly protruding lump on his belly. He scored it with his black claws several times until it healed, re-healed, and re-healed again, building the mass of scar tissue until it protruded well beyond his uncured elk-skin furs. He grunted in amusement at his cleverness, but became alarmed at the pangs of hunger that caused his mouth to salivate uncontrollably. He picked up the femur of a greenling, about six feet long, and gnawed on it._ What do?_ He thought fiercely.

The dying scream of a greenling woke Skuld from his worried revere. _Close_, he reasoned. _Food_. He lumbered to his feet again and continued down the mountain. Below him, behind a towering sheaf of ice, sounds of frenzied fighting erupted. White vapors rose from behind the sheaf in great barreling mists as dying bodies vented heat into the air and guts into the snow. Skuld belched happily, and his empty stomachs rumbled at the idea of gnawing upon steaming guts. _Food close. Close food. Close_. To his right, away upon the sloped plain of ice that crusted the mountainside, a trio of fuming greenlings, fifteen hundred pounds of thick greenish-gray flesh between them, howled upon sighting the foe still hidden from Skuld’s vision, and broke into a gamboling charge. They tore furiously into the unseen enemy, and Skuld watched without interest as the forearm of a greenling sailed into view, tumbling end over end through the air and spewing black troll blood in a cartwheel of gore. It bounced against a boulder and flopped into a tall snow bank, still clawing at the air as it disappeared.

Skuld closed upon the now mouth-watering feast awaiting him just out of sight. As he approached, a slender figure sheathed in carnage and malice stepped into view. Judging by its flaccid, swaying breasts, it was female, though the emaciated cage of its chest and jutting skeletal frame belied any other traces of femininity. Beneath its rags, its skin, a swarthy green, reminded Skuld of black mud at the bottom of a lake. The creature’s size surprised the troll, as it was much smaller than the greenlings it had piled into gory heaps behind it. It was a tiny thing next to him, standing no taller than his knees, and more slender even than his fingers. In its hands, the creature wielded a black blade larger than itself. The sword, coated in a rime of dark frost, swayed in its fragile claws, as though its touch somehow caused the little creature pain. Beneath the frost, strange symbols that Skuld could not fathom glowed faintly blue. The she-thing’s chest heaved as it gulped in huge breaths of winter air, and it glowered at Skuld with eyes that shone with fervent hate. 

Skuld realized that his entire body stood in rigid tension. 

_Here. Death_.

The runes upon the black blade flared blue, and the she-thing swooned. Pointing a haggard claw at Skuld, it croaked in the speech of giants. “You. Troll. I must find the other side of the crevasse. I have come to awaken the Sleeper.”

Its voice sounded like sharp, broken things behind Skuld’s eyes. He drooled, "*Guh*?”

“Lead me.”

Skuld stood in confusion for a moment. The she-thing waded toward him through the snow, fearlessly, dragging the sword behind it. Some animal instinct in him rebelled then, and he hauled the pine tree around in a mighty arc, intent on crushing the small creature that somehow caused him to fear. But before his blow landed, the she-thing vanished from sight. Skuld shattered the frozen ice at his feet before him, causing an avalanche to careen down the mountainside, picking up momentum as it lunged six thousand feet to the evergreen forest hugging the lower slopes of the peak. Confused, he stood upon the newly-created precipice and cast about for some sign of the she-thing.

A shriek sounded from behind Skuld, followed by a deep, icy pain unlike anything he had ever experienced. He felt something slice apart the tendons in his leg, and he staggered, attempting to regain his balance. Dropping his club, he windmilled his arms and toppled over the ledge which was all that remained from the movement of rock, snow and ice that continued to grumble far below him like an angry god. Losing his balance, Skuld slipped over the edge, dropped a hundred feet, bounced hideously upon a snatch of craggy rocks, fell again, rolled, and slid off the side of the mountain, overlooking oblivion for an instant, arms outstretched, legs akimbo. He felt a weightless disorientation as the sky became the earth became the clouds became the mountain became the evergreens far below, which looked like tiny tufts of grass between his toes on a summer day. Childlike, uncomprehending, Skuld grinned.

~~~~~~~~~~​
Stefano awoke to warmth and pressure. His entire body tingled with feverish pinpricks of heat. Weakly, he tried to lift his arms and could not—panicking, he coughed and opened his eyes. He lay trapped within heavy furs, close to a small camp fire that reddened his cheek. The black sky engulfed everything except the immediate surroundings. Tiny flecks of snow drifted lazily through the air and swooped behind his lashes. He blinked rapidly to clear his vision. 

“Welcome back,” said a voice from above him. Louis stepped into view, squatting beside the fire. The bard studied him with concern.

“What happened?” croaked Stefano. His voice felt raspy and distant. 

Ilse replied from somewhere in the darkness. “You nearly died. But Einar got the fire started.”

Stefano struggled against the weight of the furs. “The storm?”

“Gone, for now,” said Louis, “But our barbaric friend thinks it will pick up again.”

“Where are the others?”

“Tending the horses,” replied Ilse, “It was close. Einar’s survival skills are remarkable.”

“Then he saved me.”

”Not exactly.” Ilse stepped into view and gestured in the aelfborn’s direction. “Louis had the idea to wrap you in his furs and bury you in a drift of snow until the Einar got the fire going. Being buried in snow can apparently…”

“…keep you warm. Yes, I overheard.” Stefano turned his head to the bard, who grinned and scratched his beard. “Thank you.”

The bard shrugged, “You’re welcome.” The aelfborn stood and dusted snow off of his trousers. “I should go see if they need any help. It’s going to be dawn soon. Such as it is.”

Ilse stoked the flames. “You should get some rest. It’s going to be a long day.”

“We didn’t lose any horses?”

“No. Einar saved them all.”

Stefano nodded, relieved. Intending to rest his eyes for a moment, he relaxed and lay back upon the furs. In an instant he slumbered, riding currents of half-formed thoughts into distant dreams. 

~~~~~~~~~~​
Another day slipped by, and another, as Rurik, Einar, Wigliff, Ilse, Stefano and Louis struggled up Askjer Pass. Airborne eddies of snow howled across the brows of the travelers as they continued their staggering march higher into the Rößnecht mountain chain, which thrust against the sky like the jawbone of the World Serpent Jormungand. Coached by Einar and harsh experience, the spellcasters managed their mystical energies with a miserly appreciation for the unexpected. Near dusk of the third day within the mountains, Einar called a halt against a colossal slab of meandering ice-veined rock that jutted hundreds of feet above them along the trail’s north face. 

“Here we leave the pass and climb the mountain. We will go tomorrow. If you’re right, prester”—he nodded at Stefano—“then there will be a passage up the northern peak nearby. Somewhere above us, where we cannot see—Angrahöll. Orvjik’s realm.”

For a moment, none spoke. They sat upon their horses and reflected as they watched the sun flee the approach of night. Breaking the reverie, Louis dismounted noisily and stretched his arms. His horned head made an odd silhouette in the ruddy glow of sunset. “I suppose we should expect all sorts of nastiness tomorrow. But at least the storm has blown itself away and those ‘Winter Men’ have left us alone. What a headache that would have been.” 

“They’re still here,” grunted Wigliff. He clambered off his horse and stamped the snow to warm his feet. 

“What? You’re not serious!”

Einar smirked. “Heh. He’s right. They’ve been shadowing us along the southern ridgeline since we entered the pass. I expect them to attack within a day or so.”

Rurik removed his helm and scanned the terrain, craning his neck to see the top of the cliff walls that formed Askjer Pass. “Will they come straight on, or double back?”

“What would you do?” asked Ilse as she tapped San Carlo’s mace against her greave. 

“I’d try to get behind us,” said Wigliff.

“Yeah,” Einar agreed. “So let’s not give them a flank. We make camp here, against the north face. Double watches. Everyone guards—even you, fop.”

“But…" The bard began to protest, then waved his hand in an indistinct gesture of resignation. "Fine. Whatever.” 

~~~~~~~~~~​
They came in the predawn grayness, during Rurik’s watch, while Louis lounged sulkily on his sleeping furs and played a game of dice by himself. The half-ogre, weary and disinclined to tolerate Louis’ offhand luxuriousness before daybreak, had moved just beyond the encampment and attempted to watch the southern wall of the pass closely. But his eyes burned, dry and abused by the unrelenting winter wind through the channel between the peaks, and he found it difficult to concentrate enough to distinguish movement atop the rocky outcrops. 

Bored with his game, Louis sighed and rummaged through his pack looking for the rind of cheese he’d brought with him from Oski Faste. None of the others knew about it, of course, and he never unwrapped it in plain view. His selfishness was not spiteful, but reflexive, welling up from a deeply engrained sense of entitlement that ground against the savagery of his present circumstances. Nibbling on the frozen hunk of cheese, he lamented again the tediousness of adventuring, which by his estimation was only surpassed by the tediousness of sedentary life. Louis wanted nothing more than to enjoy life, to woo, drink, dance and fornicate. He controlled his passions as best he could, but mirrored as they were by bouts of black ennui, he often felt battered by the tides of his own emotions. Raised in the Celestine faith, his guilt for his lustful and gluttonous sins stalked him in quiet moments, and he sometimes despaired at his shameful excesses. The church taught that, as a being born of demonic blood—scripture made no distinction between fey and fiend—he walked an especially wretched road to Redemption. 

Caught up in a sudden melancholy humor, Louis failed to notice the threat until he heard a multitude of laboring breaths from above. A large form, bulky, white-furred and man-like, dropped from the cliff above and crashed into the camp like thunder. Startled, Louis recoiled from a blast of hot breath that smelled of carrion and rolled away from the pounding club that drove a six-inch divot into the patch of icy earth he’d occupied an instant before.

Wallowing upon his back in the trampled snow, Louis threw his arms up in front of his face. 

“Aaaaagghhh!” he screamed. 

The creature, a shadowy mass of shaggy sinew bearing a wide, fang-lined hole for a mouth, locked gazes with the bard for an instant. It its watery black eyes, he saw a frightening inhuman intelligence. Then it roared, and he reeled, drowning in the hopeless cries of a thousand dying men.


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## ForceUser (Jun 20, 2006)

”Louis!” roared Rurik. Choking up his grip on the single-edged Vangal greataxe, Rurik charged the brutish thing that towered over the cowering bard. He felt a thrill of fear lance up his spine as the creature yodeled savagely, but rage pushed him forward into the fray before he realized just how frightening the thing was. Its barrel chest and keg-like belly tottered atop a pair of short, thickly-muscled legs that splayed outward as it hauled back on an enormous iron-banded greatclub. In another moment, it would bring that gigantic hunk of wood down onto Louis’ head with skull-shattering force. 

Bellowing, Rurik slammed into the creature like a raging titan, hurling his entire weight into his axe in an overhead arc that split the predawn sky. With the precision of a butcher, he buried the axe head deep in the creature’s torso, cleaving through its collarbone and half a dozen ribs so that only the haft was visible against the backdrop of spraying blood. Its keening cry cut short, the Winter Man gurgled, staggered, and fell to the ground with a heavy thump. Over the sound of his own heaving breath, which reverberated inside his helm like the crashing tide, Rurik heard more unholy cries from overhead. Looking up, a veritable army of white-furred, club-wielding savages bounded down the near-vertical cliff face with eerie skill. 

“Louis, get up!” Rurik snarled.

Howling, several of the Winter Men leapt the remaining distance to the camp, wildly bawling and swinging their clubs. One ricocheted from wall to boulder, making a whirling attack on Einar’s supine form. As the club crashed down, the barbarian rolled to his right, evading the blow, and suddenly conjured an ax and a dagger into his hands with lightning dexterity. As the creature’s momentum carried it forward, he rolled left again, burying the dagger into its groin to the hilt while simultaneously hooking its ankle with his ax. Leaving the dagger where he buried it, he stood and heaved upward as it flew past, sweeping the brute headfirst into the snow in a single, fluid movement. A gout of winter air burst from his lungs like a cough of smoke, the only sign of his exertion, as he twisted to face the next foe that bore down upon him.

Rurik heard chanting, and then a lance of fire seared a black line of charred fur and flesh between the shoulder blades of one of the creatures. It screamed and turned to face Wigliff, who brandished a polished wand of cherry wood as though it was a sword. Clearly in great pain, the furry giant bellowed at the wizard’s apprentice and staggered toward him, swinging its greatclub as though to ward off any further bolts of fire. Wigliff neatly sidestepped its half-hearted charge and recovered his bow.

On the ground, Stefano awoke to chaos. Three creatures howled past him, intent on some victim to his right periphery. Without hesitation, the theurgist barked, “_Animas occaeco!_” and vanished from sight. Then he stood up, stepped away from the fray, and began to analyze the situation.

Louis rolled to his feet and peered at the incoming throng of gigantic furry man-beasts. Summoning the mystic energies that infused his fey being, he pointed dramatically at the mass of Winter Men descending from overhead and spouted a dirty limerick that didn’t make sense, even to him. An umbrella of streaming colors burst above the campsite and engulfed the invading creatures. Several of them dropped their clubs and began to scream, blinded by the glittering faerie dust that coated their now appallingly iridescent forms. With that, Louis moved the hell out of the way of the fighting. 

As Ilse stood, one of the creatures thundered into her ribs with its club, lifting her several feet into the air and tossing her back against a boulder. She gasped and doubled over as her bones splintered and gouged into her organs. Coughing blood, the templar planted her feet, gripped Saint Carlo’s mace in both hands, and smote her enemy with the fury of the gods. White energy cascaded from her calloused hands, drew up the length of the weapon, and coalesced for an instant around the flanged head. As she brought it crashing down, she screamed, “Champion* defend me!” A sickening crunch reverberated through her arms as something hard gave way under the force of the blow, and with a burst of holy radiance, her foe crumpled.

Einar, dodging a clumsy swing from one of his attackers, pitched the ax in his hand across the battlefield and into the throat of a Winter Man which threatened the shield maiden. As the creature dropped its weapon, fell to its knees and grasped the fatal wound with trembling paws, Einar ducked under his attacker’s guard and scooped up his greataxe Angreiðr. The giant-slaying runes upon the weapon smoldered to life at the touch of his hands, splaying green radiance across the gathered combatants. Facing his enemy, he smiled grimly and summoned his rage. 

~~~~~~~~~~​
Frostmourne bent Gerdrogg’s wasted figure against the killing winter gale and forced her legs forward, over and over. The hag, frostbitten, sleep-deprived and starving, would not survive for long—very possibly, she would freeze to death in this storm. But that was of no consequence to the sword, provided it reached its goal before she expired. Frostmourne sensed the Sleeper as a burden upon its consciousness, a directionless beacon that frustrated the sword’s perception. Somewhere close, upon this mountain peak, he slumbered. The sword did not know where. Frostmourne controlled its frustration with difficulty, for it could not afford for the hag to lose any more fingers to the black frostbite that welled up from inside its own sheath of cold steel. It could not afford to be deposited in the snow so close to the end of its quest. 

Somewhere deep within, Gerdrogg wailed piteously. Frostmourne silenced her with little effort, shoving the hag’s consciousness back down into the dark places of her own psyche. Her constant mewling annoyed the sword, and it longed to be free of her. 

Frostmourne crouched the hag’s body beside an upthrust jag of layered stone and planted itself into the snow. It sent its senses out in a black vapor which ignored the wind, seeking, searching. At the center of the miasma, the hag shivered uncontrollably, a fit of convulsions that gave the sword pause. Irritated, it realized that the frail meat sack would die sooner than it had anticipated if it did not seek shelter. Troll dens—many now empty—littered the mountainside, so Frostmourne jerked the hag’s body up and trudged toward one. The blue runes upon the black blade pulsed with anger. 

Soon. It must be soon.

~~~~~~~~~~​
Einar, wielding Angreiðr, carved a swath through the Winter Men with a fury that sent them scuttling like vermin. Rurik, too, fought with vigor, channeling days of anxiety and frustration and fear into great cleaving swings which hacked off limbs and sent sheets of giant blood steaming into the icy air. Ilse, having knitted together her bones and sealed her ruptured organs with a great burst of holy power, fought with tactical precision and weary determination. Wigliff, sensing victory, conserved his _wand of scorching ray_ and peppered their adversaries with a rapid blitz of arrows. Invisible, Stefano moved among his friends and healed broken bones and twisted joints with litanies that summoned golden healing light. When the Winter Men broke ranks and fled, the party pursued. Louis, having shifted his form to that of a true satyr, darted toward their fleeing assailants with fey swiftness. As the Winter Men scrambled back up the sheer slope, he stamped his cloven hoof, wiggled his fingers and spoke, conjuring under the giants a thick slab of grease on the vertical surface of the cliff, some thirty feet up. They fell screaming, and the companions made short, vicious work of them. Angreiðr’s green glow dimmed.

The adventurers stood panting in the morning sun which now clawed its way over the mountain to the east. Jets of white fog streamed from every mouth into the orange light. No one spoke for some time, but the sense of accomplishment buoyed their spirits. They had needed this victory. 

Later, Einar led them up the narrow cleft where water had long ago seeped, frozen, expanded, and split the rock apart. Leading their horses carefully, they spent the better part of the day clinging to the sheer face of the mountain and hoping that the winds would remain steady and continue to blow the storm east over Lake Oski and toward the distant Trollfells, where Frostmourne struggled to reach shelter for the fading hag that bore it. 

Late in the day, they came upon a weathered trail covered by stone and ice, which widened to a comfortable eight feet across as it circled upward along the eastern face of the peak. Far below, Hjalprek’s Doom lay like a blanket upon the earth, sloping down to the distant shore of the white-capped lake. 

“We’re close now,” was all Einar had said. Their earlier sense of satisfaction became a tired alertness at this announcement. They rubbed their faces, readied their weapons and spells, and trod the path warily. Soon the trail leveled off as it continued through a gap in the mountainside. Ahead, a plateau of rock nestled within a fold in the mount. Upon that plateau stood an unfathomable structure that seemed to pulse with dormant energy. 

“Gods…” whispered Stefano. 

“What is that?” gaped Louis.

“It’s…is that the hall?” asked Rurik.

“I don’t know,” replied Wigliff in a hushed voice. “I have never seen the like.”

“Whoever this Orvjik was, he was not a man. This was not built by men,” rumbled Einar.

“No,” growled Ilse, “most certainly not.”

A jagged dagger of red-veined crystal stood before them, clawing viscously at the sky. It stood hundreds of feet tall, and perhaps a hundred feet in diameter at its base, which was ringed by massive curving spikes of bone-like material. In the redness of sunset it seemed to glow with hideous vitality, a monument to some unfathomable evil which lurked within it. 

“Gods, I hope nobody’s home,” said Louis.

They looked at one another. Rurik began to secure the horses to a rocky outcropping, and Wigliff moved to help him. They prepared in silence, grasping magical foci, loosening wands and scrolls in their containers, sharpening weapons and tightening straps on armor. Louis whistled nervously to himself. When they had finished, Stefano uttered a brief benediction as the final strands of light played across the darkening sky.

“Let’s do it,” growled Einar. 

They set to work.

~~~~~~~~~~​
Inside the troll den, Gerdrogg huddled upon a patch of lichen which the trolls had apparently cultivated as bedding. The cave hovel provided shelter from the storm winds which lashed the slope outside, but the coldness on the mountain pervaded everywhere, seeping through the hag’s limbs and into her torso, clutching at her weakly-beating heart. Frostmourne listened for some time as Gerdrogg’s breathing slowed and finally ceased. The hag’s consciousness no longer struggled against it—she had gone.

A gruesome rage descended over the sword, and it filled the cave with lashing tentacles of pure malice. The lichen wilted, blackened and died; Gerdrogg’s corpse shriveled and sunk in upon itself like rotted fruit. 

In the midst of black hatred for all weak bags of flesh, Frostmourne at first failed to notice the being which had appeared before it. It regarded the sword coolly, with detached interest, for over an hour before stirring.

“You seek the Sleeper,” it said eventually, with a voice as sublime as water eroding stone.

*YES!* roared Frostmourne empathically. The being standing before it had the appearance of a nude human woman, but possessed alabaster skin and wild stone-gray hair. Her eyes were flints of onyx, and could the sword have smelled her, it would have inhaled a rich aroma of damp earth and wet iron. 

The oread appeared unmoved by Frostmourne’s anger. “I am the Mountain,” she spoke. “Your presence is a blight. If I help you fulfill your purpose, you must go and never return.”

*YESYESAGREEDANYTHINGANYTHINGTAKEMETAKEMETAKEME.*

Distastefully, the fey conjured a shroud of tightly-packed earth around the sword and lifted it at arms’ length. 

“Come, then,” she said, and stepped into the earthen wall as though gliding through still water.

Frostmourne exulted.






*i.e. Heironeous


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## HalfOrc HalfBiscuit (Jun 20, 2006)

Cool update, as ever, ForceUser.

And I'm guessing that Frostmourne being (re?)united with the Sleeper (whatever that is) ain't going to be good news for the PCs ....


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## Sidereal Knight (Jun 21, 2006)

There is a big problem with story hours like this one:

Getting to the end.

Darn it, I'm craving more.  ForceUser, keep those updates coming!


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## ForceUser (Jun 22, 2006)

They approached the crystal spire with apprehension. The gigantic bones which ringed the structure at erratic intervals seemed to be the ribs of some great creature—or a multitude of great creatures—stood on end, and seemed to serve no useful purpose other than to inspire dread. Closer to the tower, they could see beyond the ring of bones, to the grounds littered with debris and haphazardly piled mounds of earth. In the glow from the dying sun, the entrance to the hall, a single arch perhaps seven feet tall, seemed black and ominous from without the fossilized fence. From there, no heraldic symbols appeared to flank the entryway; no insignia of any kind marred the jagged, angular surfaces of the spire. 

The companions spread out as they entered the yard, and under Stefano’s cautious admonition, Louis and Wigliff set off to circumnavigate the structure. In the midst of this foray, they discovered an oddity—a gigantic pile of icy gray earth next to an even larger hole in the ground, adjacent to the spire by some twenty feet, out of sight of the entryway. The gap in the ground yawned like the maw of some stony beast. 

“What do you think?” asked the bard.

Wigliff pondered for a moment. “Something big.”

While the bard and the wizard’s apprentice studied the grounds, the others moved into the debris-littered yard with their torches thrust before them. Approaching the entryway, Einar recoiled and in a low voice growled, “Prester.”

Stefano stepped forward to see a portal that looked very much like a vertical, quivering pool of blood. It flickered brightly in sympathy with the fire from the barbarian’s torch. Beneath the reflective sheen, the surface devoured light. Stefano examined the portal closely, careful not to touch it. After a moment he said, “Ilse.”

The templar stood forth, holding Saint Carlo’s mace aloft like a holy beacon. Now the bloody pool roiled, reflecting the soft white radiance cast from the relic. Underneath, what was black became bright red. 

“What is it?” she asked.

“I have never encountered the like,” replied the theurgist. 

“What should we do?” asked Einar grimly. 

“Wait for the others.”

Rurik, upon spying the portal, forced down the remains of his last meal which threatened to come back up, and stepped away from the spire. “I’ll…guard the approach until you get this sorted,” he announced.

Louis and Wigliff returned and reported.

“No other entryways? You’re sure?” asked Stefano.

“Near as can tell,” Louis replied breezily, “Just that big hole in the ground. Is that really a wall of blood? How marvelous!” He dipped his fingers into the wetly glistening doorway.

“Louis!” several of the others exclaimed in unison.

“Warm. Wet. Sticky,” he declared, withdrawing his hand. He sniffed his fingers, “Smells like iron. It’s blood. But it’s magical—it didn’t soil my glove. See?” He held up a grimy mitten, which appeared bloodless. 

Einar scratched his beard. “So this is the entrance to the hall. There is no other way.”

“It’s an entrance,” replied Stefano, “but I’m not convinced that it leads inside. Who knows what’s on the other side of that…door?”

“What are you thinking?” asked Wigliff.

“It could be an extraspatial aperture. Or an illusion. Or a trap.”

“Sure. But it’s here, and we don’t know another way inside. Unless you want to try the hole in the ground, but we don’t know where that leads either. And whatever made it was pretty big, and could still be around.”

The companions stood in silence for a while, looking at each other, at the spire, at Rurik standing several meters away, trying to listen to the conversation without approaching too closely. Finally, Einar pursed his lips and whistled.  “So…who’s going first?”

 “Fine, I’ll go,” said Louis.

This led to a chorus of discussion from the others. “We can’t just stand here,” Louis sighed, “It’s remarkably boring. I’ll just pop through and see what I can see. I don’t suppose it would hurt to ward me first, though.” He posed dramatically and waited.

“You are such a fool,” said Einar. 

“Pish-tosh. I don’t see you volunteering.”

“Because I’m not a fool.”

Louis winked at him. 

Stefano laid his hand upon Louis’ shoulder, “I will cloak you from sight. Be quick, the spell doesn’t last very long.”

“Okay.”

“Ready?”

Louis turned to face the portal of blood, focusing on the concentric ripples in its otherwise placid surface. He breathed in deeply, exhaled, and ignored the small rational part of his mind which had begun to scream at him in abject terror. “Yes!”

“_Animas occaeco!_” Strands of mystical energy warped the visible spectrum of light away from the aelfborn, and he winked out of view. There was a momentary pause, and then a human-sized absence dove into the bloody passage, causing it to ripple and roil proportionately. At the same moment, inky clouds of blood exploded into the crystalline structure surrounding the portal, whorled below the surface like water trapped under glass, and dispersed upward into the spire. 

“Oh, that can’t be good,” noted the theurgist.

~~~~~~~~~~​
“Aagghhh!” cried Louis as he stumbled across the threshold into what appeared to be an asymmetrical, crystalline anteroom. Invisible, he fell to his knees and fervently searched his body for puncture wounds. He felt as though someone had leeched him head to toe, and then ripped all of the leeches off at once. Woozy, he staggered to his feet and spent several long moments coming to terms with the experience.

“That,” he rasped to the shadows, “was awful! Owww! _Sh*t! F*ck!_”

Catching his breath, Louis realized that even with his keen aelfborn eyes, he could barely see five feet in front of him. Keeping to the wall behind him, which felt cool to the touch, he slid along its surface until he came to an opening. Beyond it was a larger chamber, and a vaulted ceiling which disappeared from sight overhead. From somewhere up there, dim reddish light flickered and refracted through the spire’s crystalline interior, which accounted for the red tincture that the dim light—such as it was—possessed. He took a deep breath, but smelled nothing except stale dry air and the dust of ages. He listened for a moment, heard nothing he could identify as recognizable sounds, and decided that the coast was clear. But the others were going to have to figure that out for themselves, because there was no way in hell he was going to jump back through that portal.

~~~~~~~~~~​
“He’s not coming back,” rumbled Einar.

Stefano closed his eyes, looking inwardly at the lattice of his dweomer, “Give him some more time. The spell has not yet…wait, never mind. It just faded. He is no longer invisible.” He opened his eyes and looked at the others soberly.

“Well,” began Ilse, “I guess it’s our turn.” Turning to Einar, she handed him one of her platinum rings and invoked the litany that bolstered his fortitude with her own. “Stay close,” she reminded him.

“Right. I’ll go next.” And with that, he leapt through the portal.

“Rurik!” shouted Wigliff, “Come on! We’re going in!” Gripping his _wand of scorching ray_ in one hand and his _wand of grease_ in the other, Wigliff dove inside.

Stefano grimaced, summoned the protection of the Celestine against Taint, and stepped through carefully.

Rurik hustled forward hesitantly, just in time to watch Ilse heft her shield and mace, lower her visor, and march through the wall of blood.

He stared at the quivering pool and vacillated—he had never wanted to not do something so badly in his whole life. The swirling portal terrified him in a way no foe had ever done—on the battlefield, everyone fought for a cause. Even ogres and giants, fearsome brutes whom Rurik had often faced during his service to the Earl of Rothland, served their own masters, and were fathomable in that way. But here was a thing beyond the scope of his experience which was undeniably alien and irrepressibly evil. Nothing he understood had prepared him for this, except his brush with Frostmourne. At the thought of that weapon, he recalled the death and suffering it had caused, which was somehow, he felt, linked to this ancient vampiric overlord, and he grew angry. Using his anger as a shield, he snarled at the sanguine aperture and charged.

~~~~~~~~~~​
As the others stood coughing or wheezing, holding themselves or leaning upon one another, Louis grinned and bowed, “Welcome!” 

“Why…didn’t you warn us?” gasped Stefano. Ignoring the glowering barbarian, Louis retorted, “You’re joking, right?”

Ilse snapped, “Forget it. Let me have a look at all of you. Rurik, hold still!” The half-giant, nauseated, reeled upon the floor. 

“Just give it a moment,” continued Louis cheerfully, “It’s positively the most unpleasant experience I’ve ever mischanced to have, but the sensation will pass.”

Einar spit invective at the bard and leaned upon his axe. 

“Language!” Louis chuckled, “Really, I would have thought that you of all people would be able to deal with it. I’m surprised.”

Einar gulped down air and glared murder at Louis.

Steadying himself on his staff, Stefano peered around the interior of the spire. Ilse’s mace, still in hand, lit the crystalline walls with soft white radiance, which reflected and refracted throughout the chamber, dispelling the shadows. “Fascinating,” murmured the theurgist, “The entire structure seems to be composed of this blood crystal, inside and out.”

“Take a look in the next room,” suggested Louis.

Stefano did so, and nodded admiringly at the intense lattice of crystalline growths punctuating the great hollow interior of the spire. Lobes of crystal appeared at irregular elevations, suggesting more chambers. “Let’s spread out,” he said, “And see if we can’t find some way up. Given that this is meant to be a lord’s hall, it stands to reason that the most important rooms will be in the upper levels of the tower.”

They spent several minutes combing through the refuse-strewn lower floor, which was haphazardly partitioned with walls but not ceilings. Everywhere they went, the light from their magic items and torches cast deceptive and strange patterns throughout the tower, mingling and blending with each other as well as the faint red glow from above. It cast a weird kaleidoscope of colors onto people and objects, but the volume of light was low, resulting in a myriad of shifting shadows that confounded the senses. 

Louis, picking his way through a debris-strewn room with Einar, stubbed his booted foot on something heavy, yet yielding. “What’s that?” he exclaimed reflexively.

Einar waved his torch over the object, “It’s…a dead mountain goat. A very large one.” He poked it with his boot. “Frozen.”

Eyes wide, they stared at each other for a moment.

“We should probably…”

“Where’s the prester?”

At that moment, a deafening bestial roar reverberated through the interior of the spire, which began to shake as though a jöten was hammering upon the wall with a club the size of Rothland itself. They heard their companions shout and scream, and then the hammering intensified—_boomboomboomboom*BOOM**BOOMBOOM*_—as something frighteningly large bore down upon them with savage ferocity.


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## HalfOrc HalfBiscuit (Jun 22, 2006)

Excellent update. And real cliff-hanger ending ... don't keep us waiting too long!


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## Shieldhaven (Jun 22, 2006)

Wonderful stuff, as always!  I'm glad to see you updating again.

Also, are we going to see an update to the Rogues' Gallery thread?

Haven


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## ForceUser (Jun 22, 2006)

Shieldhaven said:
			
		

> Wonderful stuff, as always!  I'm glad to see you updating again.
> 
> Also, are we going to see an update to the Rogues' Gallery thread?
> 
> Haven



The story hour is so far behind events in the actual campaign that the characters still haven't caught up to the stats offered in the rogue's gallery thread. The current group is knocking on 11th level, and there have been some significant developments (to put it mildly) since they discovered Angrahöll. I'm hoping to bring events forward by updating more often. 

I agree that it's about time for a new addition to the rogue's gallery. I'll post the monster they're about to face next time I update.


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## ForceUser (Jul 4, 2006)

It gnashed its teeth with a sound like clashing swords. The wyrm, all fangs and claws and armored scales that sliced the air like shards of ice, was hoary the way the mountains were ancient, a relic of a time when gods walked the earth and humanity raised its feeble arms in fearful supplication of those beings that bled rivers and cleaved fjords from the frozen coast. It roared, a rib-rattling thunderstorm, shaking the geodesic walls of the spire cataclysmically. Crystal fragments rained like daggers, tumbling and shattering on the crust of the earthen floor. The creature’s blue-white scales expanded, contracted and rippled with the motion of its gigantic six-legged body as it thundered toward Ilse, Wigliff and Stefano. Its claws, glowing spears of ice, cracked the floor, and its several rows of sword-like teeth grated within the wyrm’s wide, flat head as it swept into the central chamber. A halo of frost enshrouded its reptilian girth, which penetrated their wards and caused their extremities to immediately contort and numb with frostbite. 

With difficulty, Stefano performed the complicated gestures of an _invisibility_ spell and disappeared from sight. Wigliff darted toward a doorway, evading the searching bite of the wyrm’s massive, groaning head. Ilse, suddenly facing down the beast alone, grimaced and set her shield for a rush. But from somewhere behind her, Louis’ clear voice rang out a rousing tune of valor, and as she took a breath with renewed confidence, Einar’s hoarse shout of “Oski!” sounded from her right, and then the big barbarian was charging in front of her, bearing down fearlessly upon the wyrm. The Vangal hacked carelessly with Angreiðr, which ricocheted off the monster’s scaly hide, drawing sparks. 

The waves of numbing cold seized them again, and they gasped and shuddered at the unnaturalness of it. From behind the creature, a throaty yell and a hurried clanging signaled Rurik’s arrival to the fray. From the shadowy corner in which Wigliff hunkered, a lance of fire leapt across the distance and sprawled across the wyrm’s flank, and the creature thrashed and shuddered as the _scorching ray_ left a hideous black scar along its torso. Enraged, it bit down upon Einar, impaling him upon its armada of icy fangs. The barbarian screamed, in pain and in rage, and Ilse echoed his cry, gasping and doubling over as bloody blisters sprouted like wildflowers upon her skin—the link forged by the _shield other_ spell wreaking the balance of the injury. Leaving a chunk of flesh behind as he wrenched himself free of the wyrm’s toothy maw, Einar whirled and planted his axe deep inside the unarmored wattle of the monster’s neck. Frosty blood spewed out, searing the barbarian with terrible cold, and Ilse reeled sympathetically with his pain. 

Staggering away from the melee, Ilse concentrated until a warm white glow from within her breast filled the cavernous room, and with a prayer, her grievous wounds healed. As she resolved herself to reenter the battle, two more gouts of flame erupted from the fringes of the fighting to score the wyrm with fire. The smell of burning flesh filled the ground floor of the structure, and choking smoke sizzled away from the monster’s body as it lurched in agony. Stefano, having reappeared, cradled his frostbitten hands and hugged the spire wall, as far from the beast as he could get. Rurik hacked savagely at its armored flank, to little effect. 

The wyrm roared again and reared upon its hindmost pair of legs, bringing four of its claws to bear upon Einar. It tore into him with savagery, and Ilse fell to her knees and nearly blacked out from the pain. She drew upon her faith and determination in that moment, and stood, focusing upon her companion’s welfare—Einar was nearly dead on his feet, and he wobbled in a rapidly-freezing pool of his own blood. As she staggered forward, Louis swept in, a green glow upon his hand, and infused Einar with life. Stefano, too, a golden energy radiating from his core, braved the teeth and cold to heal the struggling barbarian. Ilse arrived, and with the wyrm thrashing and towering over her, invoked her most powerful litany of healing in defiance of the creature’s threat, and laid her gauntleted hand upon the tall Oski warrior’s shoulder. White light exploded from the point of contact, and with that, Einar’s many wounds became tiny pink scars.

The barbarian grinned madly, still caught in the throes of his rage, and assaulted the wyrm with vigorous abandon. He drove his axe into the creature’s armored throat, again and again, and Ilse joined him, swinging her blessed mace with bone-crushing force. At its flank, Rurik all but severed the wyrm’s tail with an inhumanly powerful stroke, and Wigliff burned it once again with a streaming jet of fire from his wand. The wyrm tottered, and Ilse ran beside its laboring head. With all the strength of her faith, she swung Saint Carlo's mace in an overhand arc, and buried it deep within the monster’s skull. With a hollow whimper, the frost wyrm staggered, slalomed sideways, and fell with a shuddering crash. The light in its ancient eyes slowly faded, and with it faded the aura of frost.

The heroes sagged, exhausted in their victory.

~~~~~~~~~~​
“A frost wyrm,” Einar marveled, panting and leaning heavily upon Angreiðr. Frozen blood caked his body. “I have only heard of such creatures in legend.”

“Oh, they’re real enough,” replied Stefano, “wyrms are dangerous relics of the ancient world. We’re quite fortunate.” The theurgist cast _prestidigitation_ and cleaned the dirt and blood from Einar’s body with a wordless gesture.

“Let’s hope that’s all the danger this tower has to offer,” said Louis, “I don’t know if we can handle another fight like that.”

“Don’t get your hopes up,” snorted Wigliff as he cleaned the rime of frost from his cherry wood wand. “Something’s causing that red glow.”

“I saw a human body in the other room,” Louis mentioned. “I think it was the beast’s lair. I’m going to take a look.”

“I’ll go with you,” coughed Einar.

Frozen to the husk of a dead mountain goat and quashed between bits of rubble, they discovered the half-pulverized, mummified remains of a person. He wore ragged bits of what must have once been fine garments underneath his frayed winter furs. With a word and a gesture, Louis cast _detect magic_. 

”There’s magic here!” he whispered excitedly.

“What kind?” Einar rumbled suspiciously. “I’ve had my fill for today.”

“Oh, er, there’s really no way to know,” declared Louis, who had never studied spellcraft in his life. “But these bracers possess a strong magical aura! And…something else. Can you help me clear these rocks? I need to turn him over.”

After much straining and groaning, they managed to clear the debris, and after carefully separating the corpse from the icy earth, they discovered a tattered satchel slung to the body’s crushed hip. 

“It’s a bag,” said Einar.

“No, no, you idiot! Here, give me your knife.”

Einar handed the bard Saxgrimmr, which was two feet long and carved from the leg bone of a troll. 

“How charming,” Louis quipped as he gripped the weapon delicately. Sawing carefully, he peeled away the bag to reveal a horseshoe-shaped object, wrapped in cloth, that was over a foot in width. 

“What’s that? Is that it?” asked the barbarian.

“Yes,” Louis breathed, “It’s a lyre. A magic lyre.”

Reverently, the bard removed the rotted strips of cloth to reveal an instrument of hideous magnificence. It had two curved arms connected at the upper end by a crossbar, and appeared to be made of exquisite mahogany, with ivory carvings that resembled a pair of writhing skeletons, one on each arm of the instrument. 

“What’s a liar? Besides a person worthy of death?”

Louis scowled at the Vangal. “A lyre is a type of harp, you dolt. It was traditionally used by the ancient Thrycians to accompany a singer or reciter of poetry. This is a very special one…I can feel the energy inside it calling to me.”

“Yeah, great. Give me the bracers and let’s go.”

“Get them yourself.” Louis stood up, reverently cradling the skeletal lyre. 

“Whatever,” growled the barbarian. Reaching down, he snapped the skeleton’s hands off at the wrists and divested it of the magic bracers. “Huh,” he said, inspecting them, “it’s Mani.” 

“The god?”

“Yeah, look.” Einar held them up for Louis’ perusal. The grimy bracers appeared to be covered in mother-of-pearl, and delicate carvings depicted the Vangal god Mani driving his moon chariot and filling the night sky with light.

“Interesting. There’s some coin here, too.”

Stefano stepped into the lair. “Are you two finished?”

“Yes!” said Louis. “Stefano, perchance are you able to identify the properties of magical items?”

“Yes…”

“Are we ready?” barked Ilse from the other room. Louis cringed.

“Another time,” said Stefano.

“Right,” said Louis. He helped Einar gather the spilled platinum and gold coins, and they rejoined the others in the main chamber.

“I found a stair going up,” announced Rurik. “It’s back this way.”

“Let’s get on with it, then,” growled Ilse.

~~~~~~~~~~​
They climbed the crystal stair that encircled the interior of the spire, leading to the strange formations a hundred feet above the hulking corpse of the wyrm. Crystalline stalactites hung perilously from the tower’s narrowing ceiling in an inverted inner spire, which the stair began to circle. Reddish light, refracted from somewhere above, infused the structure around them. Arriving at a platform whose upper view was obscured by the hanging inner spire, they stopped. Louis pursed his lips and said, “Be as quiet as you can. I’ll take a look ahead, okay?”

“Be careful,” whispered Ilse sternly. 

Louis flashed the templar a mischievous grin, “Of course,” and began to sneak up the stair. 

“Wait,” snapped Wigliff, “Do you hear…flapping wings?”

The gargoyles, cruelly caparisoned in curving horns and jagged spikes, dove upon the party from above, slashing with their wicked claws. Their red eyes glowed fiercely, and they attacked without making any sounds except the flapping of their stony bat-like wings. One of them raked a long gouge along Stefano’s spine, and as the theurgist screamed and buckled, the other gargoyle slammed into Ilse, lifting her off her feet and pitching her toward the platform’s edge, which jutted over empty space six stories above the tower’s debris-filled floor. Scrambling for balance, Ilse dropped to her knees and grabbed at the floor, arresting the motion that would have sent her sprawling over the side. 

Driving with his longspear, Einar jabbed at the nearest gargoyle, penetrating its rock-like hide with all the force he could muster. “Rargh!” he screamed in frustration, as a blow which would have skewered a man merely drove a few inches into the monster’s body. He dropped the spear and pulled Angreiðr from his back. 

Stefano, in pain, raised his quarterstaff to ward off further attacks and pressed his back against the wall of the tower, keeping as far away from the ledge as possible. Wigliff darted a short distance up the stairs, drawing his shortbow. Rurik pulled his greatsword from its sheath on his back and swiped at a gargoyle, striking only air. 

Still airborne, the creatures swept down upon the party again—one plummeted toward Einar, wrenching an arc of blood from his body with a triumphant swipe of its claw. The other rushed Rurik, throwing the force of its momentum behind its boulder-like weight as it drove into the half-ogre’s body with a bone-jarring impact. Rurik, standing near the platform’s edge, dropped his blade and pinwheeled his arms for balance, grasping at the creature, at his comrades, anything. His flailing found no purchase, and he toppled over the edge and tumbled through the air toward the brittle flotsam far below. 

“Rurik!” shouted Louis.

The gargoyle chuckled darkly, its mouth all leering tusks, and it whirled through the air to make another pass.


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## Destan (Jul 9, 2006)

Mr. FU -

I wandered over here after first seeing (and admiring) your rogues gallery info. That thread actually inspired me to "guide" my own players toward a Norse/Viking type of setting within my current campaign world. Also loved the named weapons of your players - I'd like to encourage that with my own group, as well, if my players are interested.

I'm sorta rambling, and I've not yet finished the story hour thread, but just wanted to say that what you have here appears very impressive.  In a day when it seems that everyone's turning toward plane-hopping technomagic bigger-badder-more types of styles, your campaign smacks of an original, primeval core of D&D goodness with just enough mystery to keep players coming back time and again.  Very, very well done. 

Looking forward to more,
D

P.S. Loved the Shakespeare dialogue with the inimitable Herremann.

P.S.S. (or is it P.P.S.?) There were a series of books around Ljos and Dok Alfar (I think that was the spelling) back in the, oh, early 80s. Your stories remind me of those, but I can't for the life of me remember the (female?) author. I know that's not much to go on, but if you have any ideas, please kick 'em my way.


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## ForceUser (Jul 11, 2006)

Thanks man.



			
				Destan said:
			
		

> P.S.S. (or is it P.P.S.?) There were a series of books around Ljos and Dok Alfar (I think that was the spelling) back in the, oh, early 80s. Your stories remind me of those, but I can't for the life of me remember the (female?) author. I know that's not much to go on, but if you have any ideas, please kick 'em my way.



Are you perhaps thinking of Elizabeth Boyer's Wizard War series of books? I haven't read them, but that's what I found on Google. I do recall reading a Norse-inspired fantasy book involving the ljos- and dokkalfar as a teen, but I don't remember the name. There's also Guy Gavriel Kay's _Fionavar _trilogy, in which the light and dark elves appear. Fionavar, incidentally, is what I've named my campaign setting--Kay's just that inspiring. The primary inspiration for this campaign, however, is Walt Simonson's epic run on _The Mighty Thor_ in the 1980s.


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## Destan (Jul 12, 2006)

Elizabeth Boyer. That's it.  Thanks!  I remember loving those books, but I'm not sure if that's due to the fact I was a kid or whether those would still stand up today. Anyway, your tale is evocative of a great, _real_, unique setting. Just superb stuff.

As for Mr. G.G. Kay - I've read him since he first popped out after the Tolkien work. My faves are Tigana, Song for Arbonne, and Lions of Al-Rassan.  Liked Tapestry but didn't love it; didn't enjoy the Byzantine two-part series as much as I would have hoped. Tigana and SoA are wondrous, however. (I think I noticed Arbonne was the name of one of your campaign world's nations.)

Take care,
D


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