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Story Hour
The Cask of Winter -4 July-
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<blockquote data-quote="ForceUser" data-source="post: 2761612" data-attributes="member: 2785"><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">”Can we talk?” Stefano peered into the gloom of the disheveled chapel, which was lit by a single guttering candle. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Ilse glanced at him over the refurbished altar. “I don’t see what there is to say. The Magistratum apparently sanctions your wizardry.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“I studied under one of the great minds of the south. He was an abjurer—a specialist in ways to defend against creatures of the Abyss.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Abjuration is also the magic of entrapping souls, is it not?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“It is more complicated than that.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Ilse stood up and wiped her hands upon her apron. “Of course. What of this bound demon of yours? Does the church sanction this too?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Avido is not a demon. He is a familiar. He…I summoned him with the permission of my superiors. The Vangals revere ravens as messengers of the gods.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“As they revere warrior maidens?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Stefano stood silent in the doorway. The night lurked behind him. The flickering shadows created by the beeswax candle made his face appear gaunt and hollow. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Why are we here, Reverend Barozzi?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Reverend Reifsnyder…Ilse. I have told you all that I can. We <em>are</em> missionaries, and we <em>are</em> here to minister to these Oski.” The wind howled forlornly behind him, kicking up accumulated sawdust and dirty snow from the doorway.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Ilse made as if to reply, but then her eyes widened and she reached for her weapon. Stefano stole a glance over his shoulder, and for an instant what he saw took his breath away.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">A massive figure stood behind him—a gigantic man with a sloping brow and scraggy hair and beard. Tusk-like incisors protruded from his lower jaw, and each meaty hand could, if he wished, engulf Stefano’s head. The priest stepped back reflexively and stumbled over the chapel’s threshold. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">The creature husked in a voice like crushed gravel, “Father. May I take confession?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Stefano recovered himself, waving Ilse down. She hesitated, then lowered her mace. “Of course, my son. You are Rurik, am I correct?” </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">The bestial man nodded and wrung his large hands. His shoulders exceeded the width of the doorway. A pained expression haunted his face.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Please,” Stefano swallowed, “Come inside.”</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'">Wigliff nodded slowly and tasted bitter bile as he digested the tidings. His brother Hyglack stood before him under the awning of a longhouse, a sympathetic expression on his face.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“That is all he said?” Wigliff asked.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Hyglack nodded, “Aye. But ye never know—win a few battles, bring honor to the Oski name, and ye may be welcome in father’s house again.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Wigliff snorted and kicked a drift of snow.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Well, what did ye expect? <em>Ye left,</em>” Hyglack said, exasperated. “Ye know how highly our lord values loyalty. Especially from his sons. Ye knew this when ye chose to go, so I hope it was werth it.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Wigliff looked up the hill at the lights burning in Hrothgar’s hall and brooded.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Hyglack sighed, “I’ll see ye later.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Wigliff leant against the house for a time, then he pushed off and marched through the snow toward a smaller home. At the entry he rapped upon the post. Moments later, a young woman wearily pushed aside the skins covering the door and looked at him in surprise. “Wigliff! By the Norns, what’re ye doin’ here?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Hello, Olga.” He noted the dark circles under her eyes. Her dress was disheveled. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Well, don’t stand there in the cold like a witless goat—come in.” He stepped inside, and she dropped the skins behind him. Her home was much as he remembered it, though there was more clutter than when he’d last come calling. Three years ago.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“D’ye want some supper? I have a bit of broth on the fire.” She bustled about the place, clearing a spot for him to sit. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Thanks,” he answered. He let his unfocused gaze meander around the room. Something was different.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“So yer back, then? For how long?” </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Wigliff shrugged. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Olga poured soup into a wooden bowl and handed it to him. “Careful, it’s hot. What did yer father say when ye saw him?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Wigliff took the bowl and looked into it. Bits of carrot and meat swirled within a greasy liquid. “He wouldn’t see me.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Ach,” she nodded, “Not surprising.” She sat down across from him.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“It’s good to see ye.” Her eyes shone large and luminous in the firelight. She appeared older, he thought, and more worn. Lines had appeared upon her face since the last time he’d seen her, creases of worry that folded the skin of her brow. Her hair, he realized, was in disarray.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Olga…I wanted to see you.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“I’m married now, Wigliff. To a good man.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">That, he realized suddenly, was the owner of the possessions that he’d not recognized. His eyes focused on a pair of heavy boots next to the door.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Who...?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Sven.” </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Wigliff nodded slowly. He’d overheard something about Sven yesterday—what was it*?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Ye can sleep by the fire tonight, if ye wish. My husband’s out hunting and won’t be back until the morning, but don’t you get any ideas.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“That’s fine,” he said, “Thank you.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">She nodded and stood. “I’ll find ye some furs.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">As she bustled about, Wigliff retreated to his place of comfort, the place around which he’d hovered all afternoon, the place in which he spent the majority of his days—the mindscape of the arcane, where figures, formulae, and strings of esoteric symbology danced before his inner eye. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Somewhere within his consciousness, a distant part of him felt an indistinct sense of loss. He quickly disregarded it.</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'">Rurik finished his tale. Stefano exhaled and considered this complication. He looked at the half-ogre. “Could you find this place where you left the sword again?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Rurik nodded miserably and said, “If Einar led me back to the place, yes.” Stefano scratched his pointed beard and glanced askew at Ilse. She met his gaze and nodded. “If his tale is true, this is a great danger.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Stefano regarded Rurik again. “His tale is true. And I agree.” He stood.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Time is short. Frostmourne has lain upon the ground for weeks, but in that time it may have been found by someone else. We must make preparations to depart at once. I will ask this—Einar?—to lead us back to the moor whereupon he found you and Louis.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Stefano stood before the sitting half-ogre. “Rurik. Do not be harsh with yourself. You meant well, and events clearly spiraled out of your grasp. This weapon is evil. You were right to want to destroy it, and your heart meant well when you cast it away. Pray with me, and then let us make haste.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Rurik clumsily kneeled and grasped the hem of Stefano’s robe like a drowning man that clutched the branch of a tree. Fervently, he prayed.</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'">*See post #1.</span></p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="ForceUser, post: 2761612, member: 2785"] [font=Georgia]”Can we talk?” Stefano peered into the gloom of the disheveled chapel, which was lit by a single guttering candle. Ilse glanced at him over the refurbished altar. “I don’t see what there is to say. The Magistratum apparently sanctions your wizardry.” “I studied under one of the great minds of the south. He was an abjurer—a specialist in ways to defend against creatures of the Abyss.” “Abjuration is also the magic of entrapping souls, is it not?” “It is more complicated than that.” Ilse stood up and wiped her hands upon her apron. “Of course. What of this bound demon of yours? Does the church sanction this too?” “Avido is not a demon. He is a familiar. He…I summoned him with the permission of my superiors. The Vangals revere ravens as messengers of the gods.” “As they revere warrior maidens?” Stefano stood silent in the doorway. The night lurked behind him. The flickering shadows created by the beeswax candle made his face appear gaunt and hollow. “Why are we here, Reverend Barozzi?” “Reverend Reifsnyder…Ilse. I have told you all that I can. We [i]are[/i] missionaries, and we [i]are[/i] here to minister to these Oski.” The wind howled forlornly behind him, kicking up accumulated sawdust and dirty snow from the doorway. Ilse made as if to reply, but then her eyes widened and she reached for her weapon. Stefano stole a glance over his shoulder, and for an instant what he saw took his breath away. A massive figure stood behind him—a gigantic man with a sloping brow and scraggy hair and beard. Tusk-like incisors protruded from his lower jaw, and each meaty hand could, if he wished, engulf Stefano’s head. The priest stepped back reflexively and stumbled over the chapel’s threshold. The creature husked in a voice like crushed gravel, “Father. May I take confession?” Stefano recovered himself, waving Ilse down. She hesitated, then lowered her mace. “Of course, my son. You are Rurik, am I correct?” The bestial man nodded and wrung his large hands. His shoulders exceeded the width of the doorway. A pained expression haunted his face. “Please,” Stefano swallowed, “Come inside.” [center]~~~~~~~~~~[/center] Wigliff nodded slowly and tasted bitter bile as he digested the tidings. His brother Hyglack stood before him under the awning of a longhouse, a sympathetic expression on his face. “That is all he said?” Wigliff asked. Hyglack nodded, “Aye. But ye never know—win a few battles, bring honor to the Oski name, and ye may be welcome in father’s house again.” Wigliff snorted and kicked a drift of snow. “Well, what did ye expect? [i]Ye left,[/i]” Hyglack said, exasperated. “Ye know how highly our lord values loyalty. Especially from his sons. Ye knew this when ye chose to go, so I hope it was werth it.” Wigliff looked up the hill at the lights burning in Hrothgar’s hall and brooded. Hyglack sighed, “I’ll see ye later.” Wigliff leant against the house for a time, then he pushed off and marched through the snow toward a smaller home. At the entry he rapped upon the post. Moments later, a young woman wearily pushed aside the skins covering the door and looked at him in surprise. “Wigliff! By the Norns, what’re ye doin’ here?” “Hello, Olga.” He noted the dark circles under her eyes. Her dress was disheveled. “Well, don’t stand there in the cold like a witless goat—come in.” He stepped inside, and she dropped the skins behind him. Her home was much as he remembered it, though there was more clutter than when he’d last come calling. Three years ago. “D’ye want some supper? I have a bit of broth on the fire.” She bustled about the place, clearing a spot for him to sit. “Thanks,” he answered. He let his unfocused gaze meander around the room. Something was different. “So yer back, then? For how long?” Wigliff shrugged. Olga poured soup into a wooden bowl and handed it to him. “Careful, it’s hot. What did yer father say when ye saw him?” Wigliff took the bowl and looked into it. Bits of carrot and meat swirled within a greasy liquid. “He wouldn’t see me.” “Ach,” she nodded, “Not surprising.” She sat down across from him. “It’s good to see ye.” Her eyes shone large and luminous in the firelight. She appeared older, he thought, and more worn. Lines had appeared upon her face since the last time he’d seen her, creases of worry that folded the skin of her brow. Her hair, he realized, was in disarray. “Olga…I wanted to see you.” “I’m married now, Wigliff. To a good man.” That, he realized suddenly, was the owner of the possessions that he’d not recognized. His eyes focused on a pair of heavy boots next to the door. “Who...?” “Sven.” Wigliff nodded slowly. He’d overheard something about Sven yesterday—what was it*? “Ye can sleep by the fire tonight, if ye wish. My husband’s out hunting and won’t be back until the morning, but don’t you get any ideas.” “That’s fine,” he said, “Thank you.” She nodded and stood. “I’ll find ye some furs.” As she bustled about, Wigliff retreated to his place of comfort, the place around which he’d hovered all afternoon, the place in which he spent the majority of his days—the mindscape of the arcane, where figures, formulae, and strings of esoteric symbology danced before his inner eye. Somewhere within his consciousness, a distant part of him felt an indistinct sense of loss. He quickly disregarded it. [center]~~~~~~~~~~[/center] Rurik finished his tale. Stefano exhaled and considered this complication. He looked at the half-ogre. “Could you find this place where you left the sword again?” Rurik nodded miserably and said, “If Einar led me back to the place, yes.” Stefano scratched his pointed beard and glanced askew at Ilse. She met his gaze and nodded. “If his tale is true, this is a great danger.” Stefano regarded Rurik again. “His tale is true. And I agree.” He stood. “Time is short. Frostmourne has lain upon the ground for weeks, but in that time it may have been found by someone else. We must make preparations to depart at once. I will ask this—Einar?—to lead us back to the moor whereupon he found you and Louis.” Stefano stood before the sitting half-ogre. “Rurik. Do not be harsh with yourself. You meant well, and events clearly spiraled out of your grasp. This weapon is evil. You were right to want to destroy it, and your heart meant well when you cast it away. Pray with me, and then let us make haste.” Rurik clumsily kneeled and grasped the hem of Stefano’s robe like a drowning man that clutched the branch of a tree. Fervently, he prayed. *See post #1.[/font] [/QUOTE]
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