ForceUser
Explorer
I have updated the character gallery with the remaining PCs and posted the racial stats of aelfborn and half-ogres. Enjoy.
The Cask of Winter -4 July-
ForceUser
Explorer
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!
)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!
Herremann the Wise
First Post
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
ForceUser
Explorer
Herremann,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.
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.
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
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.
ForceUser
Explorer
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.
“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.
Shieldhaven
Explorer
Have I raved incoherently about how great this Story Hour is lately? 'Cuz, yeah.
Quoth the Haven, "More, more!"
Quoth the Haven, "More, more!"
ForceUser
Explorer
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.
“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.
ForceUser
Explorer
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.
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.
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.
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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