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The Cask of Winter -4 July-
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<blockquote data-quote="ForceUser" data-source="post: 2557797" data-attributes="member: 2785"><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Einar squatted in frigid mud and stared blearily at what appeared to be a massive pile of troll dung. His mead-drenched memories from the previous night were spotty, but he recalled boasting of his prowess and the feebleness of giants. Someone—he didn’t recall who—had challenged this assertion, and after the brawling had ended he had taken up his ax and swaggered into the winter night to prove his kinsman wrong. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Einar rubbed his throbbing skull and refocused on the two foot-tall mountain of muck before him. It appeared scattered, which was not uncommon—trolls often dug through their own waste for the choicest bits of what they hadn’t fully digested the first time around. Judging from the dispersal of the dung and the pattern of the tracks, the troll had lingered here for long minutes, busily combing through its feces. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Einar snorted and stood. The Hagmoor, he knew, stretched before him for several miles to the south of Lake Oski, but the thick fogs common to the moor in winter obscured vision beyond twenty paces. The vapors also dampened sound, which to Einar’s superstitious mind was devils’ work, meant to entrap the unwary. He had already sidestepped several patches of false ground which could consume a man entirely—traps lain by nökk or pukje*.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">The troll was easy enough to track—it had meandered off to the southwest several hours ago, no doubt looking for large game. It had devoured Sven yesterday, which meant that the beast was by this point ravenously hungry again. Trolls must eat constantly, and when meat was scarce they were known to eat each other.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Ruefully, Einar acknowledged to himself that his boasting had outstripped his skill; there was little chance that he could defeat a troll in single combat, even while wielding Angreiðr, unless he caught it asleep. He resolved to follow the creature until it slept, but he knew that there was little chance of that until it found a meal. He would have to pit his endurance against that of the troll and hope that he could avoid fatigue until after the fiend had eaten. He worried, though, because his kinsman Armod and his family lived near the moor’s northwestern edge upon the lake. If the troll wandered north and caught scent of the farmstead, there would be a slaughter. Luckily, the infernal mists of the Hagmoor worked to Einar’s advantage in this—not only would they obscure him from sight while he shadowed the troll across the moor, but they hampered both sound and smell also.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Resolved, Einar hefted his ax and his longspear and trotted into the billowing veil.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p style="text-align: center"><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">~~~~~~~~~~</p><p></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">The cold night upon the moor had been bearable for Louis, still under the effects of an <em>endure elements</em> spell from one of his late companions, but for Rurik it had been a test of fortitude with nowhere to lay but upon the damp, muddy earth, and nothing to shelter him but his sodden furs. They took turns on watch, but Louis had awoken late in the night to rapid mutterings and had discovered Rurik standing with Frostmourne in hand, apparently fast asleep. His mutterings sounded giantish, though Louis knew that Rurik did not speak the tongue of his jöten ancestors. Most disturbing by far had been the wisps of pale ether constricting around the cold-forged blade, and the dull blue glow of the nið-runes** etched upon it. This morning, Rurik seemed unaware of his nocturnal ramblings, and Louis feared which was truly the master—sword or warrior.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Louis’ troubles were many. He had wept at the deaths of his friends, the gnomes from Yoppletop and the erstwhile mercenary Tharonn, with whom he’d shared many a tavern tale. They had been bosom companions all, and some of them he’d known for years. Now he was stranded in some eerie northland bog with a giant who may or may not be possessed by his own sword, and worse—much, much worse—he was bereft of any mead with which to celebrate his friends’ passing. Damn that sprite! </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Louis heaved a heartfelt sigh and thought of Eriador, his homeland far to the south. He missed the welcoming bodies of his favorite women—Clare, Theresa, even Innica, when the mood struck her. How was she getting on? he wondered. Surely she’d forgiven him by now. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Louis scratched one of the stubby goat-horns upon his brow and stood. He sighed again dramatically. “Are you ready, then?” he asked of Rurik.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">The giant stood adjusting his mud- and blood-caked armor. Frostmourne lay quiescent upon his back. “Yes. Where are we going?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Oh, I don’t know. I thought we’d go…that way.” Louis pointed in a random direction.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Why?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Why not? It’s as good as any other, and we are bound to encounter civilization at some point.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Why don’t we head toward mountains? People live near mountains.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Certainly. Where, pray, are the mountains in this region, for I can see them not.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“I just meant, let’s find some.” </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Excellent idea. How should we do so?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“I don’t know. Mountains are often north,” Rurik huffed, thinking of his village far to the south, “let’s go north.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Splendid! And which way is that?” </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Rurik’s face darkened. “Don’t make fun of me. You’re always making fun of me.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“I’m simply asking, my good oaf, which direction north lies. I am a man of many talents, but woodcraft is not one of them.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“I don’t know.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“There is little you do know, is there? Very well, north is likely that way,” Louis lied smoothly, pointing in a different random direction.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“You’re making that up.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Rurik,” Louis began, as though talking to a child, “we must go <em>somewhere</em>.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“I’m just saying, let’s find north and go there.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Louis pulled at his curly brown hair in frustration. “Rurik, do you know who you remind me of? A particularly stubborn man I had occasion to meet back in Athingburgh. Why one day…” He launched into a tale of annoyance and exasperation, drawing Rurik in with glib words. In less than a minute, the half-ogre stood in rapt fascination with heavy-lidded eyes, swaying on his feet. Weaving sorcery deftly into the story, Louis <em>suggested</em>, “Why don’t you just shut up and follow me?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">At that Rurik started as if slapped, and tumbled out of his revere. He blinked for a few moments before narrowing his gaze at Louis. <em>Uh-oh</em>, the bard thought.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Rurik loomed over Louis and thrust a meaty finger at him. “You stay out of my head! You do that again and I’ll pound you good!”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Moving swiftly to change the subject, Louis said, “Look, we can try for north, okay? I don’t know which direction it is exactly, but if we find a tree we can check which side the moss grows on. Let’s go find a tree.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Okay,” said Rurik suspiciously. “Where are we going to find a tree?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Hmm, good question,” acknowledged Louis, “Why don’t we search for trees over here?” He pointed in the original random direction he had chosen.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Okay,” replied Rurik, “but stay out of my head. I mean it.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Of course! Here, I’ll sing a song to put you at ease.” And with that Louis produced with a flourish an exquisitely-carved wooden flute and began to accompany himself upon the instrument. The flute was crafted to resemble two women fornicating and was a legacy of the time Louis spent in certain disreputable hostels in the Genovan principality of Lagella. He sang a bawdy tavern favorite from southern Arbonne, and thus they whiled away the time as they trudged southeast across the icy moor.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p style="text-align: center"><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">~~~~~~~~~~</p><p></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Einar stopped tracking and raised his head. Some damn fool was <em>playing music</em>, a tavern song by the sound of it. None of his kin cared for such songs, only foreigners and drunken fools in Athingburgh in the south. He deliberated rapidly. This could work to his advantage—the troll had no doubt heard and was even now creeping upon this foolish southerner to satisfy his craving for flesh. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Excellent! When the troll leapt upon the southerner, Einar would leap upon the troll, surprising it. He briefly considered waiting until the troll had eaten, but in his excitement discarded the idea—such action was prudent, but no skald would sing of it. A battle would be a far better tale than one in which he simply decapitated the fiend in its sleep, and Einar would risk two-to-one odds as long as he wielded Angreiðr. He jogged vigorously toward the vapid strains echoing flatly through the mists and wondered if the southerner would survive the troll’s assault. <em>It is of little consequence</em>, he decided. What mattered most was that his first strike bit deep and decisively. He grinned at the imminent combat and restrained a whoop of joy.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">*A nökk is an evil fey that lives in watery places and plays tricks upon people, and a pukje is a small, revolting creature similar to a goblin.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">**A nið-rune is a rune carved to curse a particular person or group, and is considered a grave and serious insult. In the case of Frostmourne, undead are the offended group. Frostmourne is a <em>+1 cold iron undead-bane large longsword</em> with an array of special purpose powers. By this point in the campaign, the PCs were aware that the sword was 1) forged by frost giants to fight undead, 2) quite evil, and 3) intelligent and filled with malign purpose.</span></p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="ForceUser, post: 2557797, member: 2785"] [font=Georgia]Einar squatted in frigid mud and stared blearily at what appeared to be a massive pile of troll dung. His mead-drenched memories from the previous night were spotty, but he recalled boasting of his prowess and the feebleness of giants. Someone—he didn’t recall who—had challenged this assertion, and after the brawling had ended he had taken up his ax and swaggered into the winter night to prove his kinsman wrong. Einar rubbed his throbbing skull and refocused on the two foot-tall mountain of muck before him. It appeared scattered, which was not uncommon—trolls often dug through their own waste for the choicest bits of what they hadn’t fully digested the first time around. Judging from the dispersal of the dung and the pattern of the tracks, the troll had lingered here for long minutes, busily combing through its feces. Einar snorted and stood. The Hagmoor, he knew, stretched before him for several miles to the south of Lake Oski, but the thick fogs common to the moor in winter obscured vision beyond twenty paces. The vapors also dampened sound, which to Einar’s superstitious mind was devils’ work, meant to entrap the unwary. He had already sidestepped several patches of false ground which could consume a man entirely—traps lain by nökk or pukje*. The troll was easy enough to track—it had meandered off to the southwest several hours ago, no doubt looking for large game. It had devoured Sven yesterday, which meant that the beast was by this point ravenously hungry again. Trolls must eat constantly, and when meat was scarce they were known to eat each other. Ruefully, Einar acknowledged to himself that his boasting had outstripped his skill; there was little chance that he could defeat a troll in single combat, even while wielding Angreiðr, unless he caught it asleep. He resolved to follow the creature until it slept, but he knew that there was little chance of that until it found a meal. He would have to pit his endurance against that of the troll and hope that he could avoid fatigue until after the fiend had eaten. He worried, though, because his kinsman Armod and his family lived near the moor’s northwestern edge upon the lake. If the troll wandered north and caught scent of the farmstead, there would be a slaughter. Luckily, the infernal mists of the Hagmoor worked to Einar’s advantage in this—not only would they obscure him from sight while he shadowed the troll across the moor, but they hampered both sound and smell also. Resolved, Einar hefted his ax and his longspear and trotted into the billowing veil. [center]~~~~~~~~~~[/center] The cold night upon the moor had been bearable for Louis, still under the effects of an [i]endure elements[/i] spell from one of his late companions, but for Rurik it had been a test of fortitude with nowhere to lay but upon the damp, muddy earth, and nothing to shelter him but his sodden furs. They took turns on watch, but Louis had awoken late in the night to rapid mutterings and had discovered Rurik standing with Frostmourne in hand, apparently fast asleep. His mutterings sounded giantish, though Louis knew that Rurik did not speak the tongue of his jöten ancestors. Most disturbing by far had been the wisps of pale ether constricting around the cold-forged blade, and the dull blue glow of the nið-runes** etched upon it. This morning, Rurik seemed unaware of his nocturnal ramblings, and Louis feared which was truly the master—sword or warrior. Louis’ troubles were many. He had wept at the deaths of his friends, the gnomes from Yoppletop and the erstwhile mercenary Tharonn, with whom he’d shared many a tavern tale. They had been bosom companions all, and some of them he’d known for years. Now he was stranded in some eerie northland bog with a giant who may or may not be possessed by his own sword, and worse—much, much worse—he was bereft of any mead with which to celebrate his friends’ passing. Damn that sprite! Louis heaved a heartfelt sigh and thought of Eriador, his homeland far to the south. He missed the welcoming bodies of his favorite women—Clare, Theresa, even Innica, when the mood struck her. How was she getting on? he wondered. Surely she’d forgiven him by now. Louis scratched one of the stubby goat-horns upon his brow and stood. He sighed again dramatically. “Are you ready, then?” he asked of Rurik. The giant stood adjusting his mud- and blood-caked armor. Frostmourne lay quiescent upon his back. “Yes. Where are we going?” “Oh, I don’t know. I thought we’d go…that way.” Louis pointed in a random direction. “Why?” “Why not? It’s as good as any other, and we are bound to encounter civilization at some point.” “Why don’t we head toward mountains? People live near mountains.” “Certainly. Where, pray, are the mountains in this region, for I can see them not.” “I just meant, let’s find some.” “Excellent idea. How should we do so?” “I don’t know. Mountains are often north,” Rurik huffed, thinking of his village far to the south, “let’s go north.” “Splendid! And which way is that?” Rurik’s face darkened. “Don’t make fun of me. You’re always making fun of me.” “I’m simply asking, my good oaf, which direction north lies. I am a man of many talents, but woodcraft is not one of them.” “I don’t know.” “There is little you do know, is there? Very well, north is likely that way,” Louis lied smoothly, pointing in a different random direction. “You’re making that up.” “Rurik,” Louis began, as though talking to a child, “we must go [i]somewhere[/i].” “I’m just saying, let’s find north and go there.” Louis pulled at his curly brown hair in frustration. “Rurik, do you know who you remind me of? A particularly stubborn man I had occasion to meet back in Athingburgh. Why one day…” He launched into a tale of annoyance and exasperation, drawing Rurik in with glib words. In less than a minute, the half-ogre stood in rapt fascination with heavy-lidded eyes, swaying on his feet. Weaving sorcery deftly into the story, Louis [i]suggested[/i], “Why don’t you just shut up and follow me?” At that Rurik started as if slapped, and tumbled out of his revere. He blinked for a few moments before narrowing his gaze at Louis. [i]Uh-oh[/i], the bard thought. Rurik loomed over Louis and thrust a meaty finger at him. “You stay out of my head! You do that again and I’ll pound you good!” Moving swiftly to change the subject, Louis said, “Look, we can try for north, okay? I don’t know which direction it is exactly, but if we find a tree we can check which side the moss grows on. Let’s go find a tree.” “Okay,” said Rurik suspiciously. “Where are we going to find a tree?” “Hmm, good question,” acknowledged Louis, “Why don’t we search for trees over here?” He pointed in the original random direction he had chosen. “Okay,” replied Rurik, “but stay out of my head. I mean it.” “Of course! Here, I’ll sing a song to put you at ease.” And with that Louis produced with a flourish an exquisitely-carved wooden flute and began to accompany himself upon the instrument. The flute was crafted to resemble two women fornicating and was a legacy of the time Louis spent in certain disreputable hostels in the Genovan principality of Lagella. He sang a bawdy tavern favorite from southern Arbonne, and thus they whiled away the time as they trudged southeast across the icy moor. [center]~~~~~~~~~~[/center] Einar stopped tracking and raised his head. Some damn fool was [i]playing music[/i], a tavern song by the sound of it. None of his kin cared for such songs, only foreigners and drunken fools in Athingburgh in the south. He deliberated rapidly. This could work to his advantage—the troll had no doubt heard and was even now creeping upon this foolish southerner to satisfy his craving for flesh. Excellent! When the troll leapt upon the southerner, Einar would leap upon the troll, surprising it. He briefly considered waiting until the troll had eaten, but in his excitement discarded the idea—such action was prudent, but no skald would sing of it. A battle would be a far better tale than one in which he simply decapitated the fiend in its sleep, and Einar would risk two-to-one odds as long as he wielded Angreiðr. He jogged vigorously toward the vapid strains echoing flatly through the mists and wondered if the southerner would survive the troll’s assault. [i]It is of little consequence[/i], he decided. What mattered most was that his first strike bit deep and decisively. He grinned at the imminent combat and restrained a whoop of joy. *A nökk is an evil fey that lives in watery places and plays tricks upon people, and a pukje is a small, revolting creature similar to a goblin. **A nið-rune is a rune carved to curse a particular person or group, and is considered a grave and serious insult. In the case of Frostmourne, undead are the offended group. Frostmourne is a [i]+1 cold iron undead-bane large longsword[/i] with an array of special purpose powers. By this point in the campaign, the PCs were aware that the sword was 1) forged by frost giants to fight undead, 2) quite evil, and 3) intelligent and filled with malign purpose.[/font] [/QUOTE]
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