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Story Hour
The Cask of Winter -4 July-
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<blockquote data-quote="ForceUser" data-source="post: 2800508" data-attributes="member: 2785"><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Rurik cast about the frozen moor in dismay. “<em>It’s gone.</em>”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Here,” Einar pointed at the ground. He squatted near a brittle tuft of vegetation, his breath coalescing like a serpent in the misty air.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">The others gathered round. “What is it?” asked Stefano. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Near the Northman’s splayed fingers was a depression in the icy loam—that of an elongated foot. Einar shook his head, a grim expression on his face. “A hag,” he announced.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Then we are too late,” Stefano groaned, “Frostmourne has called to it a creature of darkness to carry on its quest.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“It wants to go north,” Rurik repeated dully.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Brilliant, half-wit,” said Louis as he twirled a copper piece, “Why in the world did you drop it in the mud then?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Rurik’s nostrils flared. “<em>You!</em>” the half-ogre lunged at the aelfborn with murder in his eyes. Louis darted behind Einar, and Stefano shouted, “Enough! Stop!”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Einar snorted and shoved Louis away from him contemptuously. The bard stumbled and gave a mocking half-bow.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Ilse, garbed in battle-scarred steel plate and sitting astride her barded black warhorse Germanicus, asked Einar calmly, “Can you track it?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Yes, shield-maiden,” he replied reverently.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Please do so.” She glared at Stefano from atop her warhorse as the Northman began to follow the trail.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“These tracks are no older than a day. We can catch it if we move swiftly,” Einar asserted. “From here we go west.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">For hours they followed the tracks through the leaden mists of the moor, and in doing so they meandered in a generally northward direction. Some time in the afternoon, Einar called a halt, a dark expression upon his face. “This hag appears confused, or is searching for something. She wanders. There is a farmstead nearby, on the edge of the moor near the shore of the lake. I fear for my kinsfolk there.” </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Is that Tryfing’s home?” asked Wigliff. Einar nodded, “His son Drott now heads the household.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Avido,” Stefano commanded, “Fly north to the lakeshore and find this farm. Report back in all haste with what you see.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Boss,” the raven replied, “I’m going to get lost in this fog. I can’t see anything.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Go, Avido,” Stefano replied. “Do your best.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">The bird squawked in irritation, alighting. “You’re the boss.” He cleaved into the mist and was gone. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Your raven <em>talks</em>,” Einar breathed. He regarded Stefano and Ilse with open wonder. “A shield-maiden and a prester of the Allfod*. My people are fortunate to be so thought of by the Church.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“We must hurry, Einar,” Stefano urged. “Take us there.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“<em>He</em> cannot run swiftly,” Einar replied, jerking a thumb at Rurik’s ironclad form, “But I will take us to the farm as fast as he can go.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Why don’t you have a horse?” asked Ilse to Rurik.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“No Oski steed can carry me,” replied the half-ogre dejectedly.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Enough talking,” Einar growled. “Now we must run.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Germanicus, sensing excitement, snorted hot vapor and stamped his massive hooves into the frozen earth.</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'">Gerdrogg breathed the cold, moist air and smiled around black, needle-like teeth. She was a young hag, full of vitality and wickedness, and she reveled in anticipation of the slaughter that Frostmourne promised her. The sword throbbed frigidly in her knobby, clawed fingers, sending unrelenting spikes of pain lancing along her arm, which thrilled her. In the recesses of her mind, something small and weak cried out for release, but whenever she focused upon that tiny bound thing, the sword choked down the thought and lured her away with visions of exquisite carnage. She did not mind this, for she often fantasized about entering the village of the humans upon the lake and gutting them in the snow for no other reason than to watch them die. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"><em>You’ll have it,</em> whispered a voice from within.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Gerdrogg cackled and gripped the hilt tighter. Inhaling again, she stopped. In a cracked, wheezy voice like jagged glass, she drawled, “I smell…<em>manflesh</em>.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"><em>Go,</em> Frostmourne commanded, flaring with hunger. Black ice congealed across the length of its rune-carved blade.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Grinning, Gerdrogg loped into the mist.</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'">Avido glided through the fog, intent upon spotting a break in the vapors. A lonely tree all gnarled with age and winter rushed at him from out of the gloom; instinctively, he pulled his wings in against his torso and dropped like a stone, narrowly avoiding it. Grumbling, he doubled back and landed upon an ice-laden branch. <em>This is ridiculous,</em> he fumed, <em>How am I supposed to find a farm or lakeshore in this fog? I can’t even see the ground. I don’t even know which way to go!</em></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">He shook his feathered form violently to free it of an accumulated rime of icy water, and squawked forlornly at the cold. Avido wanted nothing more than to be perched upon a mantle above a roaring fire back at Oski Faste. <em>Well, a crunchy roach would be nice too,</em> he acknowledged. The boss always said that it was important to be as honest with oneself as one was with the gods. Avido didn’t know much about the gods—only what he’d gleaned while perched upon Stefano’s shoulder as the priest studied—but he did know that they valued honesty. <em>Except for the Laughing Rogue,</em> the bird mused. He seemed to be as interested in shiny things as Avido was.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">As the bird pondered theology, he shook himself again for warmth and hopped closer to the tree’s trunk, huddling against a nook. <em>Maybe I’ll just wait here for a while,</em> he thought. <em>I can find the boss later and tell him I got lost.</em> Avido felt a pang of conscience at that. <em>Well, what does he expect me to do? I’m not an owl!</em> He ruffled his feathers indignantly and cried out in frustration. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">In the distance, an echoing cry returned.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Startled, Avido stopped moving and strained to listen. <em>What was that?</em></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Again, a sound filtered across the fog, mute and desolate—a shrill cry of pain, cut suddenly short. Other sounds trickled out of the silence, as well; muffled shouts, clanging steel, and a high wail of pure sorrow that made him shiver empathetically.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Without another thought, Avido pushed his way through the dew-laden air with frantic momentum. As he closed, the sounds grew in variety and volume—he heard the terrified bleating of oxen, the panicked clucking of chickens, and the hysterical screams of human women.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Barreling through the pea-soup, he coughed reflexively as black smoke filled his lungs. Frightened, he beat upward through the now-warm and darkly roiling air until the sky burst forth—a gray thing, heavy with winter’s burden and twisting sympathetically with the scene below.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Avido stared in horror. The farmstead was ablaze, and dismembered and eviscerated human corpses lay strewn like discarded toys across the clearing. A girlish scream punctuated the air from within the burning longhouse, but was cut short with cruel finality. As he circled, something sinister strode out from within—lanky and dressed in tatters, with abnormally long arms and sickly green skin that was slick with a rubbery sheen. The figure stood hunched and dragged along behind it a great black sword that throbbed with vile energy. As Avido watched, the creature loped toward a crawling figure—a woman—and gleefully hacked her limbs off one at a time. The hag’s broken cries of delight wafted through the air like cinders of hate.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"><em>Oh, no</em>, thought Avido, <em>No, no, no. Gods, no.</em> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">With grief clogging his heart, he whirled away from the scene on the ground and raced southward.</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'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">*In their bid to convert the Vangals, the first Celestine missionaries associated the gods of the Northmen with their own. Pelor, who is head of the Celestine pantheon with his sister Wee Jas, came to be synonymous among the native converts of Rothland with the pagan god Wotan, who is known by a variety of other names—Har, Sigfod, Ygg, and Allfod. In Vangal legend, the wise Allfod kept two ravens, Hugin (thought) and Munin (memory), who served him as messengers.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"><em>Prester</em> is simply an old word for priest.</span></p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="ForceUser, post: 2800508, member: 2785"] [font=Georgia]Rurik cast about the frozen moor in dismay. “[i]It’s gone.[/i]” “Here,” Einar pointed at the ground. He squatted near a brittle tuft of vegetation, his breath coalescing like a serpent in the misty air. The others gathered round. “What is it?” asked Stefano. Near the Northman’s splayed fingers was a depression in the icy loam—that of an elongated foot. Einar shook his head, a grim expression on his face. “A hag,” he announced. “Then we are too late,” Stefano groaned, “Frostmourne has called to it a creature of darkness to carry on its quest.” “It wants to go north,” Rurik repeated dully. “Brilliant, half-wit,” said Louis as he twirled a copper piece, “Why in the world did you drop it in the mud then?” Rurik’s nostrils flared. “[i]You![/i]” the half-ogre lunged at the aelfborn with murder in his eyes. Louis darted behind Einar, and Stefano shouted, “Enough! Stop!” Einar snorted and shoved Louis away from him contemptuously. The bard stumbled and gave a mocking half-bow. Ilse, garbed in battle-scarred steel plate and sitting astride her barded black warhorse Germanicus, asked Einar calmly, “Can you track it?” “Yes, shield-maiden,” he replied reverently. “Please do so.” She glared at Stefano from atop her warhorse as the Northman began to follow the trail. “These tracks are no older than a day. We can catch it if we move swiftly,” Einar asserted. “From here we go west.” For hours they followed the tracks through the leaden mists of the moor, and in doing so they meandered in a generally northward direction. Some time in the afternoon, Einar called a halt, a dark expression upon his face. “This hag appears confused, or is searching for something. She wanders. There is a farmstead nearby, on the edge of the moor near the shore of the lake. I fear for my kinsfolk there.” “Is that Tryfing’s home?” asked Wigliff. Einar nodded, “His son Drott now heads the household.” “Avido,” Stefano commanded, “Fly north to the lakeshore and find this farm. Report back in all haste with what you see.” “Boss,” the raven replied, “I’m going to get lost in this fog. I can’t see anything.” “Go, Avido,” Stefano replied. “Do your best.” The bird squawked in irritation, alighting. “You’re the boss.” He cleaved into the mist and was gone. “Your raven [i]talks[/i],” Einar breathed. He regarded Stefano and Ilse with open wonder. “A shield-maiden and a prester of the Allfod*. My people are fortunate to be so thought of by the Church.” “We must hurry, Einar,” Stefano urged. “Take us there.” “[i]He[/i] cannot run swiftly,” Einar replied, jerking a thumb at Rurik’s ironclad form, “But I will take us to the farm as fast as he can go.” “Why don’t you have a horse?” asked Ilse to Rurik. “No Oski steed can carry me,” replied the half-ogre dejectedly. “Enough talking,” Einar growled. “Now we must run.” Germanicus, sensing excitement, snorted hot vapor and stamped his massive hooves into the frozen earth. [center]~~~~~~~~~~[/center] Gerdrogg breathed the cold, moist air and smiled around black, needle-like teeth. She was a young hag, full of vitality and wickedness, and she reveled in anticipation of the slaughter that Frostmourne promised her. The sword throbbed frigidly in her knobby, clawed fingers, sending unrelenting spikes of pain lancing along her arm, which thrilled her. In the recesses of her mind, something small and weak cried out for release, but whenever she focused upon that tiny bound thing, the sword choked down the thought and lured her away with visions of exquisite carnage. She did not mind this, for she often fantasized about entering the village of the humans upon the lake and gutting them in the snow for no other reason than to watch them die. [i]You’ll have it,[/i] whispered a voice from within. Gerdrogg cackled and gripped the hilt tighter. Inhaling again, she stopped. In a cracked, wheezy voice like jagged glass, she drawled, “I smell…[i]manflesh[/i].” [i]Go,[/i] Frostmourne commanded, flaring with hunger. Black ice congealed across the length of its rune-carved blade. Grinning, Gerdrogg loped into the mist. [center]~~~~~~~~~~[/center] Avido glided through the fog, intent upon spotting a break in the vapors. A lonely tree all gnarled with age and winter rushed at him from out of the gloom; instinctively, he pulled his wings in against his torso and dropped like a stone, narrowly avoiding it. Grumbling, he doubled back and landed upon an ice-laden branch. [i]This is ridiculous,[/i] he fumed, [i]How am I supposed to find a farm or lakeshore in this fog? I can’t even see the ground. I don’t even know which way to go![/i] He shook his feathered form violently to free it of an accumulated rime of icy water, and squawked forlornly at the cold. Avido wanted nothing more than to be perched upon a mantle above a roaring fire back at Oski Faste. [i]Well, a crunchy roach would be nice too,[/i] he acknowledged. The boss always said that it was important to be as honest with oneself as one was with the gods. Avido didn’t know much about the gods—only what he’d gleaned while perched upon Stefano’s shoulder as the priest studied—but he did know that they valued honesty. [i]Except for the Laughing Rogue,[/i] the bird mused. He seemed to be as interested in shiny things as Avido was. As the bird pondered theology, he shook himself again for warmth and hopped closer to the tree’s trunk, huddling against a nook. [i]Maybe I’ll just wait here for a while,[/i] he thought. [i]I can find the boss later and tell him I got lost.[/i] Avido felt a pang of conscience at that. [i]Well, what does he expect me to do? I’m not an owl![/i] He ruffled his feathers indignantly and cried out in frustration. In the distance, an echoing cry returned. Startled, Avido stopped moving and strained to listen. [i]What was that?[/i] Again, a sound filtered across the fog, mute and desolate—a shrill cry of pain, cut suddenly short. Other sounds trickled out of the silence, as well; muffled shouts, clanging steel, and a high wail of pure sorrow that made him shiver empathetically. Without another thought, Avido pushed his way through the dew-laden air with frantic momentum. As he closed, the sounds grew in variety and volume—he heard the terrified bleating of oxen, the panicked clucking of chickens, and the hysterical screams of human women. Barreling through the pea-soup, he coughed reflexively as black smoke filled his lungs. Frightened, he beat upward through the now-warm and darkly roiling air until the sky burst forth—a gray thing, heavy with winter’s burden and twisting sympathetically with the scene below. Avido stared in horror. The farmstead was ablaze, and dismembered and eviscerated human corpses lay strewn like discarded toys across the clearing. A girlish scream punctuated the air from within the burning longhouse, but was cut short with cruel finality. As he circled, something sinister strode out from within—lanky and dressed in tatters, with abnormally long arms and sickly green skin that was slick with a rubbery sheen. The figure stood hunched and dragged along behind it a great black sword that throbbed with vile energy. As Avido watched, the creature loped toward a crawling figure—a woman—and gleefully hacked her limbs off one at a time. The hag’s broken cries of delight wafted through the air like cinders of hate. [i]Oh, no[/i], thought Avido, [i]No, no, no. Gods, no.[/i] With grief clogging his heart, he whirled away from the scene on the ground and raced southward. *In their bid to convert the Vangals, the first Celestine missionaries associated the gods of the Northmen with their own. Pelor, who is head of the Celestine pantheon with his sister Wee Jas, came to be synonymous among the native converts of Rothland with the pagan god Wotan, who is known by a variety of other names—Har, Sigfod, Ygg, and Allfod. In Vangal legend, the wise Allfod kept two ravens, Hugin (thought) and Munin (memory), who served him as messengers. [i]Prester[/i] is simply an old word for priest.[/font] [/QUOTE]
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