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Story Hour
The Cask of Winter -4 July-
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<blockquote data-quote="ForceUser" data-source="post: 2759269" data-attributes="member: 2785"><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">The prince regarded the shimmering, translucent owl as it veered away from him. His eyes, flat bits of coal, saw through the many layers of magic that enshrouded it. Expressionless beneath his rangy black beard, he uttered a single, rasping word.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Töskjel.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">The owl screeched against the black arcana that bound the prince up in flight, and a blistering column of divine fire engulfed him—a maximized <em>flame strike</em>. An instant later, the fiery wreath had dissipated revealing his untouched, hovering form. It winked out an instant later.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"><em>An illusion,</em> Töskjel despaired, <em>Where is he?</em> As she craned her feathered head to look about, a force slammed into her from behind—her body, though incorporeal when materialized within the mortal world, was fully real to other creatures that walked the shadow realm. Eldritch energy ripped through her body as an impossibly strong grip seized her.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">She shrieked and twisted, but Maligant’s hand held her fast. His face remained impassive, registering no emotion. Töskjel beat her wings and scrabbled ineffectively. The prince’s dead eyes flickered, and she felt the energies binding her into the shape of an owl unravel violently. Suddenly, she was an old woman again, clawing feebly at the stone-like hand that held her by the windpipe, immobile. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Why have you come, crone?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Töskjel’s eyes flashed murder, but she said nothing.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Maligant regarded her. The restless dead thronged far below, and the cacophony of their grief wafted upward like smoke. “The ancestral memory you keep for your people is an old thing—older even than I. As old, perhaps, as Yggdrasil itself. Speak, or I will end your distinguished line forever.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Töskjel sputtered around his steely grasp. “My line ends with my death. The Oski have turned away from the old ways.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“The Celestine cancer has infected even your noble tribe? That is a sorrow.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">”It is the weave of my skein. It matters little if I die here by your hand or there in my bed.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“And yet you have come to spy upon my domain.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“I have seen your ruin.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">The prince squeezed. Töskjel choked helplessly, her rheumy eyes rolling back into her withered skull. Maligant’s visage twisted, revealing a violent sea of emotion, a deep upwelling of black hate that had sustained him for over a thousand years. But the spasm of rage passed an instant later, and his demeanor once again became impassive. “Speak.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“The Sleeper will soon awaken,” she gasped, “The Jöten will march upon Vvardenfell. They will reclaim that which was stolen.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Within the unholy nimbus of gray radiance that surrounded him, Maligant’s alabaster cheeks darkened with a faint upwelling of purloined blood. His brow furrowed, and his coal-black eyes glinted unfathomably. Hate glimmered there, perhaps, though Töskjel suspected it was fear. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">His hand tightened relentlessly. The witch coughed and gasped for breath that would not come. Her legs kicked uselessly.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">She shuddered. A voiceless prayer to the goddess Freyja—her mentor, her sustainer—escaped her lips. Suddenly her face bulged; her form swelled and exploded with rippling fur, and in an instant Maligant held not an old woman, but a massive dire bear. His grip slipped, and eight thousand pounds of predator plummeted toward the howling morass of wailing spirits far below. Töskjel flailed, roared, and winked out of existence the instant she impacted upon the frozen earth.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">At that very moment, hundreds of miles away in a tiny hut, the crone writhed in her bed with a wretched wail, and then immediately collapsed into a catatonic slumber. Her fetch, a dire wolf, growled and gnashed his teeth at unseen demons in the air. Then he sniffed the hand of his mistress, whined low in the back of his throat, and lay down upon the dirt floor with a heavy heart.</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'">Wisps of shadow writhed around Maligant like a cloak. Still in the border realm of souls, he alighted upon a spectral tower. “Bera,” he said. The name ricocheted across the breadth of Vitland*, propelled by his towering will.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Minutes passed before a diminutive body manifested. A pale blond girl of eight, dressed in peasant garb, regarded him solemnly. Her eyes held the wisdom of lifetimes. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“My lord?” When she spoke, her voice was both girlish and ancient.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“The sons of Thrym begin to stir. It is time to reclaim the tribes.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Slowly, the girl nodded.</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'">Ilse looked unbelievingly at the interior of the tiny chapel that sat behind Hrothgar’s hall, a stone’s throw from Lake Oski. Many of the planks had been removed from the floor, the eaves were full of birds’ nests, the thatch upon the roof had rotted away in places, all but three of the pews had disappeared, and the vessel for the altar flame, which should have been lit with oil year-round, sat cold and empty. The shutters on the northern window had long since blown away, and dirty snow had compiled in the corners. She turned to the Oski woman, Lofnheid, who had been charged with maintaining the chapel by the departing priest two years ago. “What is the meaning of this?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Lofnheid glared at her sullenly. In a thick northland accent, she said, “Last year, vinter came early and stayed late. Ve needed firevood.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“You do not ransack a church for firewood!” Ilse responded hotly.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">The woman, twice her age and two-thirds her height, nonetheless thrust her ruddy, chapped face into Ilse’s and angrily retorted, “Eye’ll be damned if me children freeze to death to preserve your bloody church!”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Ilse locked gazes with the woman for long moments. She saw the fierceness lodged in her eyes, an intensity born from carving a life out of an inhospitable wilderness. Slowly, she relented, releasing a tension that she had not realized she’d been keeping. “Well,” she said, “We need to fix it. Can you help me find some wood?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Lofnheid looked at her suspiciously before slowly nodding. “Me brother is a carpenter. Ve’ll see vhat he has in his verkshop. Come.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Ilse followed her across the frozen mud trails that constituted streets in the tiny community of Oski Faste. She estimated that no more than two hundred souls lived under the protection of Lord Hrothgar. She wondered again at the assignment of two clerics to this barren land. She looked at the sky—it was scarce past midday, and yet twilight approached! Reverend Barozzi had assured her that this was the sun’s normal course this far north, but it still unnerved her.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Well, hello,” said a silky voice to her left. The voice spoke in Sturmmen that was tinged with an Arbonnese accent. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Leaning against a longhouse was a short man wrapped in the white furs of snow foxes. His hair was thick, curly, and reddish brown, and his brown eyes danced with amusement. He was handsome in the way of a courtier, but had a burgeoning beard to match the local men. He was slightly shorter than she, and as he stepped forward and extended his hand, he moved with a grace that belied his bulky dress. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">She held out her hand like a soldier, but he gripped it in both of his, turned it over, and kissed her palm lightly, while the hint of a smile played at the corners of his mouth. His eyes never left hers. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">A tingle of something she refused to think of as pleasure twirled in her stomach as she quickly withdrew her hand. “You are Louis, the Arbonnese bard.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">He stepped closer to her, improperly so. “I see that my reputation has preceded me.” He winked at Lofnheid, who beamed at him.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Ilse grimaced. “Indeed. You may cease your advances. I do not consort with pagans.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Pagan!” he exclaimed as though offended. “What, because I am aelfborn? I’ll have you know, madam—“</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“—Reverend,” she interrupted sternly.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Reverend, of course. My apologies. I’ll have you know, Reverend, that I am a devout servant of the Celestine Church.” When he said the word “devout,” he tipped his head and smiled in such a way that butterflies fluttered around her stomach once again. <em>I have got to get away from this man,</em> she thought. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">She reached out and gripped his shoulder. He smiled at her warmly. Then she pushed him roughly back to the distance of an arm’s length, and his smile faltered. “Brother Louis,” Ilse began, “Perhaps you can help us serve the gods today, since as you no doubt know, it is in fact Sunday. There is much repair work that must be done upon the chapel.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Ah,” Louis replied, “Hm. Well, you see, dear Reverend—”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Lofnheid embraced Louis and giggled, “Do come, good skald! I shall enjoy your stories vhile ve do the gods’ verk. Besides, ve need a strong man to cut and lift the lumber.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Ilse smiled and gestured toward the workshop. “After you.” </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Louis grimaced.</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'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">*Homeland of the Vitlings.</span></p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="ForceUser, post: 2759269, member: 2785"] [font=Georgia]The prince regarded the shimmering, translucent owl as it veered away from him. His eyes, flat bits of coal, saw through the many layers of magic that enshrouded it. Expressionless beneath his rangy black beard, he uttered a single, rasping word. “Töskjel.” The owl screeched against the black arcana that bound the prince up in flight, and a blistering column of divine fire engulfed him—a maximized [i]flame strike[/i]. An instant later, the fiery wreath had dissipated revealing his untouched, hovering form. It winked out an instant later. [i]An illusion,[/i] Töskjel despaired, [i]Where is he?[/i] As she craned her feathered head to look about, a force slammed into her from behind—her body, though incorporeal when materialized within the mortal world, was fully real to other creatures that walked the shadow realm. Eldritch energy ripped through her body as an impossibly strong grip seized her. She shrieked and twisted, but Maligant’s hand held her fast. His face remained impassive, registering no emotion. Töskjel beat her wings and scrabbled ineffectively. The prince’s dead eyes flickered, and she felt the energies binding her into the shape of an owl unravel violently. Suddenly, she was an old woman again, clawing feebly at the stone-like hand that held her by the windpipe, immobile. “Why have you come, crone?” Töskjel’s eyes flashed murder, but she said nothing. Maligant regarded her. The restless dead thronged far below, and the cacophony of their grief wafted upward like smoke. “The ancestral memory you keep for your people is an old thing—older even than I. As old, perhaps, as Yggdrasil itself. Speak, or I will end your distinguished line forever.” Töskjel sputtered around his steely grasp. “My line ends with my death. The Oski have turned away from the old ways.” “The Celestine cancer has infected even your noble tribe? That is a sorrow.” ”It is the weave of my skein. It matters little if I die here by your hand or there in my bed.” “And yet you have come to spy upon my domain.” “I have seen your ruin.” The prince squeezed. Töskjel choked helplessly, her rheumy eyes rolling back into her withered skull. Maligant’s visage twisted, revealing a violent sea of emotion, a deep upwelling of black hate that had sustained him for over a thousand years. But the spasm of rage passed an instant later, and his demeanor once again became impassive. “Speak.” “The Sleeper will soon awaken,” she gasped, “The Jöten will march upon Vvardenfell. They will reclaim that which was stolen.” Within the unholy nimbus of gray radiance that surrounded him, Maligant’s alabaster cheeks darkened with a faint upwelling of purloined blood. His brow furrowed, and his coal-black eyes glinted unfathomably. Hate glimmered there, perhaps, though Töskjel suspected it was fear. His hand tightened relentlessly. The witch coughed and gasped for breath that would not come. Her legs kicked uselessly. She shuddered. A voiceless prayer to the goddess Freyja—her mentor, her sustainer—escaped her lips. Suddenly her face bulged; her form swelled and exploded with rippling fur, and in an instant Maligant held not an old woman, but a massive dire bear. His grip slipped, and eight thousand pounds of predator plummeted toward the howling morass of wailing spirits far below. Töskjel flailed, roared, and winked out of existence the instant she impacted upon the frozen earth. At that very moment, hundreds of miles away in a tiny hut, the crone writhed in her bed with a wretched wail, and then immediately collapsed into a catatonic slumber. Her fetch, a dire wolf, growled and gnashed his teeth at unseen demons in the air. Then he sniffed the hand of his mistress, whined low in the back of his throat, and lay down upon the dirt floor with a heavy heart. [center]~~~~~~~~~~[/center] Wisps of shadow writhed around Maligant like a cloak. Still in the border realm of souls, he alighted upon a spectral tower. “Bera,” he said. The name ricocheted across the breadth of Vitland*, propelled by his towering will. Minutes passed before a diminutive body manifested. A pale blond girl of eight, dressed in peasant garb, regarded him solemnly. Her eyes held the wisdom of lifetimes. “My lord?” When she spoke, her voice was both girlish and ancient. “The sons of Thrym begin to stir. It is time to reclaim the tribes.” Slowly, the girl nodded. [center]~~~~~~~~~~[/center] Ilse looked unbelievingly at the interior of the tiny chapel that sat behind Hrothgar’s hall, a stone’s throw from Lake Oski. Many of the planks had been removed from the floor, the eaves were full of birds’ nests, the thatch upon the roof had rotted away in places, all but three of the pews had disappeared, and the vessel for the altar flame, which should have been lit with oil year-round, sat cold and empty. The shutters on the northern window had long since blown away, and dirty snow had compiled in the corners. She turned to the Oski woman, Lofnheid, who had been charged with maintaining the chapel by the departing priest two years ago. “What is the meaning of this?” Lofnheid glared at her sullenly. In a thick northland accent, she said, “Last year, vinter came early and stayed late. Ve needed firevood.” “You do not ransack a church for firewood!” Ilse responded hotly. The woman, twice her age and two-thirds her height, nonetheless thrust her ruddy, chapped face into Ilse’s and angrily retorted, “Eye’ll be damned if me children freeze to death to preserve your bloody church!” Ilse locked gazes with the woman for long moments. She saw the fierceness lodged in her eyes, an intensity born from carving a life out of an inhospitable wilderness. Slowly, she relented, releasing a tension that she had not realized she’d been keeping. “Well,” she said, “We need to fix it. Can you help me find some wood?” Lofnheid looked at her suspiciously before slowly nodding. “Me brother is a carpenter. Ve’ll see vhat he has in his verkshop. Come.” Ilse followed her across the frozen mud trails that constituted streets in the tiny community of Oski Faste. She estimated that no more than two hundred souls lived under the protection of Lord Hrothgar. She wondered again at the assignment of two clerics to this barren land. She looked at the sky—it was scarce past midday, and yet twilight approached! Reverend Barozzi had assured her that this was the sun’s normal course this far north, but it still unnerved her. “Well, hello,” said a silky voice to her left. The voice spoke in Sturmmen that was tinged with an Arbonnese accent. Leaning against a longhouse was a short man wrapped in the white furs of snow foxes. His hair was thick, curly, and reddish brown, and his brown eyes danced with amusement. He was handsome in the way of a courtier, but had a burgeoning beard to match the local men. He was slightly shorter than she, and as he stepped forward and extended his hand, he moved with a grace that belied his bulky dress. She held out her hand like a soldier, but he gripped it in both of his, turned it over, and kissed her palm lightly, while the hint of a smile played at the corners of his mouth. His eyes never left hers. A tingle of something she refused to think of as pleasure twirled in her stomach as she quickly withdrew her hand. “You are Louis, the Arbonnese bard.” He stepped closer to her, improperly so. “I see that my reputation has preceded me.” He winked at Lofnheid, who beamed at him. Ilse grimaced. “Indeed. You may cease your advances. I do not consort with pagans.” “Pagan!” he exclaimed as though offended. “What, because I am aelfborn? I’ll have you know, madam—“ “—Reverend,” she interrupted sternly. “Reverend, of course. My apologies. I’ll have you know, Reverend, that I am a devout servant of the Celestine Church.” When he said the word “devout,” he tipped his head and smiled in such a way that butterflies fluttered around her stomach once again. [i]I have got to get away from this man,[/i] she thought. She reached out and gripped his shoulder. He smiled at her warmly. Then she pushed him roughly back to the distance of an arm’s length, and his smile faltered. “Brother Louis,” Ilse began, “Perhaps you can help us serve the gods today, since as you no doubt know, it is in fact Sunday. There is much repair work that must be done upon the chapel.” “Ah,” Louis replied, “Hm. Well, you see, dear Reverend—” Lofnheid embraced Louis and giggled, “Do come, good skald! I shall enjoy your stories vhile ve do the gods’ verk. Besides, ve need a strong man to cut and lift the lumber.” Ilse smiled and gestured toward the workshop. “After you.” Louis grimaced. *Homeland of the Vitlings.[/font] [/QUOTE]
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