Menu
News
All News
Dungeons & Dragons
Level Up: Advanced 5th Edition
Pathfinder
Starfinder
Warhammer
2d20 System
Year Zero Engine
Industry News
Reviews
Dragon Reflections
Columns
Weekly Digests
Weekly News Digest
Freebies, Sales & Bundles
RPG Print News
RPG Crowdfunding News
Game Content
ENterplanetary DimENsions
Mythological Figures
Opinion
Worlds of Design
Peregrine's Next
RPG Evolution
Other Columns
From the Freelancing Frontline
Monster ENcyclopedia
WotC/TSR Alumni Look Back
4 Hours w/RSD (Ryan Dancey)
The Road to 3E (Jonathan Tweet)
Greenwood's Realms (Ed Greenwood)
Drawmij's TSR (Jim Ward)
Community
Forums & Topics
Forum List
Latest Posts
Forum list
*Dungeons & Dragons
Level Up: Advanced 5th Edition
D&D Older Editions
*TTRPGs General
*Pathfinder & Starfinder
EN Publishing
*Geek Talk & Media
Search forums
Chat/Discord
Resources
Wiki
Pages
Latest activity
Media
New media
New comments
Search media
Downloads
Latest reviews
Search resources
EN Publishing
Store
EN5ider
Adventures in ZEITGEIST
Awfully Cheerful Engine
What's OLD is NEW
Judge Dredd & The Worlds Of 2000AD
War of the Burning Sky
Level Up: Advanced 5E
Events & Releases
Upcoming Events
Private Events
Featured Events
Socials!
Twitch
YouTube
Facebook (EN Publishing)
Facebook (EN World)
Twitter
Instagram
TikTok
Podcast
Features
Top 5 RPGs Compiled Charts 2004-Present
Adventure Game Industry Market Research Summary (RPGs) V1.0
Ryan Dancey: Acquiring TSR
Q&A With Gary Gygax
D&D Rules FAQs
TSR, WotC, & Paizo: A Comparative History
D&D Pronunciation Guide
Million Dollar TTRPG Kickstarters
Tabletop RPG Podcast Hall of Fame
Eric Noah's Unofficial D&D 3rd Edition News
D&D in the Mainstream
D&D & RPG History
About Morrus
Log in
Register
What's new
Search
Search
Search titles only
By:
Forums & Topics
Forum List
Latest Posts
Forum list
*Dungeons & Dragons
Level Up: Advanced 5th Edition
D&D Older Editions
*TTRPGs General
*Pathfinder & Starfinder
EN Publishing
*Geek Talk & Media
Search forums
Chat/Discord
Menu
Log in
Register
Install the app
Install
Community
Playing the Game
Story Hour
The Cask of Winter -4 July-
JavaScript is disabled. For a better experience, please enable JavaScript in your browser before proceeding.
You are using an out of date browser. It may not display this or other websites correctly.
You should upgrade or use an
alternative browser
.
Reply to thread
Message
<blockquote data-quote="ForceUser" data-source="post: 2758643" data-attributes="member: 2785"><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Töskjel flew through the twilight realm that separated the mortal world from the land of the dead. A ghostly eagle, she beat immaterial pinions against insubstantial air as she sailed across a dim sky toward a coiling blackness that dwarfed the horizon. Below her, gray mountains sprawled like a sea of stormy rock, blurry and indistinct as dreams; ahead, malevolence sat upon the north like a festering contagion. She followed the lay of the Trollfell Mountains west to where it crawled from the womb of the glacier known as Hrungnir’s Hold—once upon the glacier, she turned south until she came to the place where the ice had carved the earth like daggers. Deep within Otrygg Fjord, she passed near by the blight that was Vvardenfell, the rugged city that was the seat of power of the Vitlings’ prince. At a distance of several miles, she saw nothing but darkness. With a prayer to Freyja, she slipped back into the world of men, where she soared high and immaterial below a dark thunderhead that threatened snow. The forest below her was thick with conifers and groaned under the strain of the gale-force wind that whipped through her insubstantial form. Soon, the storm would inundate the land with the winter’s bounty. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">With sharp avian eyes, she surveyed the terrain for signs of life, but found no man or animal beyond the need of shelter. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">She did, however, spy several vampires. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">The cold ones slipped between darkened trees in search of prey that had gone to ground. One that had been a berserker in life took on the form of a great bear and rushed into a narrow cave. Töskjel resisted the urge to follow it. Instead, she flew on toward the city, whose dark walls swallowed light and hope. Soaring to within a mile, she offered praise to her goddess with a shriek, and received the spirit body of a great horned owl. With that the gloom came alive.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Vampire spawn crawled upon the walls and battlements like spiders—too many to count. Beyond, guttering lights from within lodges and multi-story longhouses spoke of the captive population of slaves that provided food for the undead. In the centre of the city stood a mighty fortress of gray stone: dark, forbidding, and no doubt warded with potent magic.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Closer now to the source of evil, she crossed back to the border realm between this world and the next. In the shadow world, the castle loomed like a black mountain and shone with the ruddy light of a thousand runes of power. Had she been herself, she would have gasped at the force that this presumed—as an owl, her feeble squawk was swallowed by the noises of perdition from below. Coasting upon a ghostly updraft, she gazed at the streets in horror.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">In the mortal world, the corridors of Vvardenfell were dark and quiet in anticipation of the inbound storm. In the spirit world, they roiled with the mayhem of Vvardenfell’s founding—the resonating echo of the battle between the ancient Skordi people that once inhabited this land and the treacherous Vitling turncoats, led by their dark prince and his undying huscarls, that made the land run red with their blood. Below her, the unquiet spirits of the unjustly slain reenacted their damnation again and again. Thousands of ghosts and revenants wailed their demises as they had for a thousand years. She reeled with empathy and sorrow as she banked away from the warded castle.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Ahead, on the edge of the spirit world and the deep shadows which lay beyond, a figure wreathed in cold fire materialized under the black clouds which now violently issued forth the snow that had been locked within their heights. The figure, trailing a curtain of jagged night, swooped toward Töskjel with unholy swiftness. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Recognition choked her heart with fear.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"><em>Maligant</em>.</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'">Louis glanced at the sleeping form of—Ingrid? Olga? Ella?—one more time before donning his boots and heavy furs and quietly slipping into the pre-dawn mists wafting in from the turbulent lake of the Oski. Jagged morning frost coated the snowy ground, which crunched like glass as he trudged up the hill to the hall of his host. Slipping silently behind the great carved doors, he trod cautiously back to his spot on the floor. As he passed a carved wooden column, a voice broke the stillness of the slumbering chamber. “Did she make a man of you?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Sh*t!” cried Louis, startled. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Sitting in a chair behind the column was the warrior, Einar, with his great-ax across his lap. An empty skin of mead dangled from one hand. His eyes bored into Louis dangerously. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Don’t do that!” Louis whispered harshly. A snoring man at his feet rolled over. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Einar stood and stepped close to Louis. From this distance, the bard could smell the reek of stale drink. “Take care that you do not abuse my lord’s hospitality,” the Vangal intoned ominously. He swayed a bit on his feet, but his eyes never left Louis.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Of course,” the bard replied smoothly. “I would never do anything to jeopardize our good relations.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Einar snorted and kicked the man at Louis’ feet. “Get up, Toki. Fetch wood to stoke the fire. The hall grows cold.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">The man awoke and sat up blearily. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Did you sleep?” asked Louis. Red streaks shot through Einar’s eyes.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">The warrior grunted in response, then resumed his chair. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Feeling awkward, Louis made his way back to the spot given him on the floor, near to the low-burning fire; it had taken little effort to entertain the Oski chieftain, Hrothgar, enough to have earned this “place of honor” next to the fire pit. A wretched pile of sleeping furs greeted him, and he longed once again for a hot bath and a clean shave. Yesterday, he’d heard that some crazy missionaries were on their way up from Athingburgh once the worst of the weather had passed. He glanced across the hall at Einar, who was sitting in his chair and absentmindedly petting a hound and fingering his ax. A suspicious gloom fell upon Louis then, and a chill ran up his spine.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"><em>If missionaries can come up, then we can go down,</em> Louis reasoned, <em>So why is he keeping us here?</em></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">His only answer was the wind.</span></p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="ForceUser, post: 2758643, member: 2785"] [font=Georgia]Töskjel flew through the twilight realm that separated the mortal world from the land of the dead. A ghostly eagle, she beat immaterial pinions against insubstantial air as she sailed across a dim sky toward a coiling blackness that dwarfed the horizon. Below her, gray mountains sprawled like a sea of stormy rock, blurry and indistinct as dreams; ahead, malevolence sat upon the north like a festering contagion. She followed the lay of the Trollfell Mountains west to where it crawled from the womb of the glacier known as Hrungnir’s Hold—once upon the glacier, she turned south until she came to the place where the ice had carved the earth like daggers. Deep within Otrygg Fjord, she passed near by the blight that was Vvardenfell, the rugged city that was the seat of power of the Vitlings’ prince. At a distance of several miles, she saw nothing but darkness. With a prayer to Freyja, she slipped back into the world of men, where she soared high and immaterial below a dark thunderhead that threatened snow. The forest below her was thick with conifers and groaned under the strain of the gale-force wind that whipped through her insubstantial form. Soon, the storm would inundate the land with the winter’s bounty. With sharp avian eyes, she surveyed the terrain for signs of life, but found no man or animal beyond the need of shelter. She did, however, spy several vampires. The cold ones slipped between darkened trees in search of prey that had gone to ground. One that had been a berserker in life took on the form of a great bear and rushed into a narrow cave. Töskjel resisted the urge to follow it. Instead, she flew on toward the city, whose dark walls swallowed light and hope. Soaring to within a mile, she offered praise to her goddess with a shriek, and received the spirit body of a great horned owl. With that the gloom came alive. Vampire spawn crawled upon the walls and battlements like spiders—too many to count. Beyond, guttering lights from within lodges and multi-story longhouses spoke of the captive population of slaves that provided food for the undead. In the centre of the city stood a mighty fortress of gray stone: dark, forbidding, and no doubt warded with potent magic. Closer now to the source of evil, she crossed back to the border realm between this world and the next. In the shadow world, the castle loomed like a black mountain and shone with the ruddy light of a thousand runes of power. Had she been herself, she would have gasped at the force that this presumed—as an owl, her feeble squawk was swallowed by the noises of perdition from below. Coasting upon a ghostly updraft, she gazed at the streets in horror. In the mortal world, the corridors of Vvardenfell were dark and quiet in anticipation of the inbound storm. In the spirit world, they roiled with the mayhem of Vvardenfell’s founding—the resonating echo of the battle between the ancient Skordi people that once inhabited this land and the treacherous Vitling turncoats, led by their dark prince and his undying huscarls, that made the land run red with their blood. Below her, the unquiet spirits of the unjustly slain reenacted their damnation again and again. Thousands of ghosts and revenants wailed their demises as they had for a thousand years. She reeled with empathy and sorrow as she banked away from the warded castle. Ahead, on the edge of the spirit world and the deep shadows which lay beyond, a figure wreathed in cold fire materialized under the black clouds which now violently issued forth the snow that had been locked within their heights. The figure, trailing a curtain of jagged night, swooped toward Töskjel with unholy swiftness. Recognition choked her heart with fear. [i]Maligant[/i]. [center]~~~~~~~~~~~~[/center] Louis glanced at the sleeping form of—Ingrid? Olga? Ella?—one more time before donning his boots and heavy furs and quietly slipping into the pre-dawn mists wafting in from the turbulent lake of the Oski. Jagged morning frost coated the snowy ground, which crunched like glass as he trudged up the hill to the hall of his host. Slipping silently behind the great carved doors, he trod cautiously back to his spot on the floor. As he passed a carved wooden column, a voice broke the stillness of the slumbering chamber. “Did she make a man of you?” “Sh*t!” cried Louis, startled. Sitting in a chair behind the column was the warrior, Einar, with his great-ax across his lap. An empty skin of mead dangled from one hand. His eyes bored into Louis dangerously. “Don’t do that!” Louis whispered harshly. A snoring man at his feet rolled over. Einar stood and stepped close to Louis. From this distance, the bard could smell the reek of stale drink. “Take care that you do not abuse my lord’s hospitality,” the Vangal intoned ominously. He swayed a bit on his feet, but his eyes never left Louis. “Of course,” the bard replied smoothly. “I would never do anything to jeopardize our good relations.” Einar snorted and kicked the man at Louis’ feet. “Get up, Toki. Fetch wood to stoke the fire. The hall grows cold.” The man awoke and sat up blearily. “Did you sleep?” asked Louis. Red streaks shot through Einar’s eyes. The warrior grunted in response, then resumed his chair. Feeling awkward, Louis made his way back to the spot given him on the floor, near to the low-burning fire; it had taken little effort to entertain the Oski chieftain, Hrothgar, enough to have earned this “place of honor” next to the fire pit. A wretched pile of sleeping furs greeted him, and he longed once again for a hot bath and a clean shave. Yesterday, he’d heard that some crazy missionaries were on their way up from Athingburgh once the worst of the weather had passed. He glanced across the hall at Einar, who was sitting in his chair and absentmindedly petting a hound and fingering his ax. A suspicious gloom fell upon Louis then, and a chill ran up his spine. [i]If missionaries can come up, then we can go down,[/i] Louis reasoned, [i]So why is he keeping us here?[/i] His only answer was the wind.[/font] [/QUOTE]
Insert quotes…
Verification
Post reply
Community
Playing the Game
Story Hour
The Cask of Winter -4 July-
Top