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Story Hour
The Cask of Winter -4 July-
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<blockquote data-quote="ForceUser" data-source="post: 2549186" data-attributes="member: 2785"><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"><span style="font-size: 10px">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. <em>I’ll never escape</em>, he despaired, <em>they’ll be upon me at any moment</em>.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"><span style="font-size: 10px"></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"><span style="font-size: 10px">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. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"><span style="font-size: 10px"></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"><span style="font-size: 10px"><em>What the hell</em>, he thought, <em>there’s nowhere to run anyway.</em> 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!”</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"><span style="font-size: 10px"></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"><span style="font-size: 10px">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.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"><span style="font-size: 10px"></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"><span style="font-size: 10px">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!”</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"><span style="font-size: 10px"></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"><span style="font-size: 10px">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. “<strong>I will bleed you slowly, little giant, and you will beg me for death before I grant it</strong>.” 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. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"><span style="font-size: 10px"></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"><span style="font-size: 10px">“Come on then!” he yelled. In response, the winter wolf whined a fell laugh, stepping in pools of blood grown from its own flesh. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"><span style="font-size: 10px"></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"><span style="font-size: 10px">“<strong>I’ll have the man-price for that</strong>,” it rasped, “<strong>in man-flesh</strong>.” </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"><span style="font-size: 10px"></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"><span style="font-size: 10px">“That’s a problem for you,” Louis responded blithely, “For I am not a man! Not strictly speaking.”</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"><span style="font-size: 10px"></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"><span style="font-size: 10px">The pack encircled him menacingly as Rurik bled out his life in the snow, trying feebly to rise. “<strong>It matters not</strong>,” the wolf replied, “<strong>I will eat your heart, and my brothers will devour your guts</strong>.” </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"><span style="font-size: 10px"></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"><span style="font-size: 10px">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. <em>So much trouble caused by that evil weapon</em>, 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.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"><span style="font-size: 10px"></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"><span style="font-size: 10px">“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. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"><span style="font-size: 10px"></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"><span style="font-size: 10px">“Louis! Where are we going?” the half-ogre bellowed.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"><span style="font-size: 10px"></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"><span style="font-size: 10px">“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.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"><span style="font-size: 10px"></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"><span style="font-size: 10px">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!”</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"><span style="font-size: 10px"></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"><span style="font-size: 10px">A bored voice responded from above the makeshift arch, “So. One comes yet again.”</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"><span style="font-size: 10px"></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"><span style="font-size: 10px">“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. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"><span style="font-size: 10px"></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"><span style="font-size: 10px">“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.”</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"><span style="font-size: 10px"></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"><span style="font-size: 10px">“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!”</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"><span style="font-size: 10px"></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"><span style="font-size: 10px">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?” </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"><span style="font-size: 10px"></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"><span style="font-size: 10px">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.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"><span style="font-size: 10px"></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"><span style="font-size: 10px">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.”</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"><span style="font-size: 10px"></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"><span style="font-size: 10px">”Rurik!” Louis cried, “Watch where I go and follow me! Follow me now!” And with that, he stepped through the arch and vanished.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"><span style="font-size: 10px"></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"><span style="font-size: 10px">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.</span></span></p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="ForceUser, post: 2549186, member: 2785"] [font=Georgia][size=2]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]I’ll never escape[/i], he despaired, [i]they’ll be upon me at any moment[/i]. 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. [i]What the hell[/i], he thought, [i]there’s nowhere to run anyway.[/i] 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. “[b]I will bleed you slowly, little giant, and you will beg me for death before I grant it[/b].” 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. “[b]I’ll have the man-price for that[/b],” it rasped, “[b]in man-flesh[/b].” “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. “[b]It matters not[/b],” the wolf replied, “[b]I will eat your heart, and my brothers will devour your guts[/b].” 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. [i]So much trouble caused by that evil weapon[/i], 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.[/size][/font] [/QUOTE]
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