The Cask of Winter -4 July-
HalfOrc HalfBiscuit
Adventurer
Forceuser said:
Now there's a piece of troll ecology I could have done without ...
ForceUser
Explorer
”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
“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
Lodow MoBo
First Post
Beautiful story of the heroic Louis the Saytr and his merry companions.
HalfOrc HalfBiscuit
Adventurer
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.
).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.
ForceUser
Explorer
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.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.
Bryon_Soulweaver
First Post
Nice, I think I shall read this.
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