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Story Hour
The Cask of Winter -4 July-
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<blockquote data-quote="ForceUser" data-source="post: 2809942" data-attributes="member: 2785"><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Gerdrogg strolled along the rocky shore of Lake Oski, feeling sated and immensely satisfied. Her belly was full, her sisters were unaware of her doings, and she possessed the most powerful weapon that she had ever encountered. The iron tang of human blood still lingered sweetly on her tongue, and she nibbled on a thigh bone with her pointed teeth. With one claw, she dragged Frostmourne carelessly behind her, point down. The sword still thrummed with the residue of the malevolent energies it had displayed during her sport, and she happily anticipated returning to her coven, killing her eldest sister Helkja, and taking over. Within a few weeks, she and her remaining sibling could capture many humans for their stewpot and drive the rest away. Her thoughts circled endlessly around ever-more grandiose ideas of consolidating power among the northern creatures and moving south into the fertile farmlands of men. She had once spoken to a passing pukje that had claimed that the humans made their homes against the coast, lingering there like flocks of seabirds. After eating the pukje, she had slipped out of the moor and journeyed several weeks south until she encountered a marvelous walled fort that lay hard against a rocky shore. Men indeed lived there, crawling about like juicy maggots waiting to be devoured. She had been forced to flee then, however, because she could not defeat the humans’ hateful witch mother. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"><em>But now I can return. With this blade, I can easily defeat any challengers to my power. First, though,</em> she smiled cruelly as she thought, <em>I will slay Helkja.</em></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Frostmourne flared dully, and a choking tendril of enmity closed around Gerdrogg’s consciousness. <em>Trolls,</em> it whispered.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">A magnificent idea occurred to Gerdrogg then. <em>Ho! I will first go north to the Trollfells and recruit an army, and then I will return and feed my sister to this sword!</em> The hag, drunk with power, cackled with pride at her cleverness. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Her long silhouette slithered across the rocky lakeshore in the fading light as she began to stride more purposefully along the beach. The sky ahead blazed orange behind the western peaks, but her eyes drifted across the lake to the Trollfells which lay beyond to the north. Behind her, indigo settled like a cloak across the land. She returned her gaze to the earth in front of her feet as she plodded on, lost in an internal world of blood and conquest.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">On the edge of her vision, something glinted sharply in the setting sun. She paused to look, and it glinted again. <em>Steel</em>, she realized. Someone was crawling in the dead grasses to the south, which struggled sporadically against the accumulated layers of snow and ice that weighed them down. The land southward sloped up, and trees sat upon the top of a crest of earth, looking down toward the shore like a line of sentinels. The metallic reflection from the dying sunlight had occurred some hundred yards from the beach, halfway between the tree line and the waves. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Grinning evilly, Gerdrogg summoned innate arcane power and faded from sight like a figure washed away from a watercolor canvass. She began to creep toward the place where she’d seen the glint.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"><em>North</em>, whispered Frostmourne in her subconscious. The hag hesitated, confused by her conflicting desires to catch this skulking creature and to journey north immediately at best speed.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">She shrugged, and began to advance upon the grassy field once again. She would go north as soon as she had caught, tortured, and feasted upon whoever was lurking. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"><em><strong>NORTH.</strong></em> The sword asserted itself violently, bludgeoning her with its will. Gerdrogg froze, locked in an agonizing struggle for supremacy of her own mind. She staggered to one knee and gasped. A piteous whine issued from her cracked lips, and then she quieted and stood.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"><em>This creature is not worth the effort,</em> Gerdrogg decided coolly. <em>I will go north immediately. My troll army awaits.</em> She returned to the lake shore and looked behind her. The land was now dark. Amidst the trees to the south, a faint white glow could be seen—not torches, but magic.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Still invisible, Gerdrogg summoned more arcane energy, binding it into the shape of four ruddy lit torches. With a whisk of her claw, the torches formed a line and began to hustle eastward along the shore, back the way she had come. Then she breathed deeply, causing yet more arcana to coalesce around her form. She waded into the dark and freezing waves of Lake Oski until they lapped above her head. Then she took in a lungful of water, kicked away from the rocky bottom, and disappeared into the black depths.</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, come out of the water! The hag is gone,” shouted Stefano. As he watched, the Northman, some twenty yards out, swam back toward the shore with powerful strokes. He touched bottom shortly and waded back to the group. A blistering wind from across the lake drove the watchers into the recesses of their cloaks. Einar’s teeth chattered violently as Ilse wrapped him in his furs, and Stefano summoned a cantrip and dried the barbarian with a gesture. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Einar rubbed his arms and legs, miraculously reprieved of the cold. “Thank you, prester.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Those torches probably weren’t even real,” noted Louis. “You can do that with magic.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“What now?” asked Wigliff.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“What lies beyond this lake?” asked Stefano.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“The Trollfells,” replied Einar, “We don’t go there. Sometimes the trolls get tired of eating each other and come down looking to feast on the flesh of men.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Louis rolled his eyes. “Trolls. Lovely.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“I think we should return to Oski Faste,” said Stefano. “Hrothgar should know about this. I don’t think we’re ready to fight our way through hordes of trolls.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“We must bury the dead, as well,” said Ilse.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Einar stared across the darkened lake, arms wrapped around his spear. “Töskjel lives out there.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Who?” asked Stefano.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Töskjel. The old voelva. When the Church came with its missionaries, she left the faste for an island upon the lake. If the hag swam north, it will find Töskjel’s home.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“That is unfortunate. May the gods protect her.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Einar looked at Stefano askance. “Yeah.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“What is a voelva?” asked Ilse.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Village priestess,” replied Louis, “I heard about them once. They were wise women, had the ear of their chieftains. Supposedly, they were very strong in the magic of the old ways. It’s been said of them that they could make it rain, talk to the earth, and take on the forms of beasts or spirits, depending upon who you asked.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">”Yes,” said Stefano, “They were pagan idolaters who refused to convert. The early missionaries were forced to eliminate them.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Einar bristled at Stefano’s words. “Töskjel is kin, and she served us well long before the Church got here. She left Oski Faste willingly when your missionaries came, and lives alone and forgotten upon that isle. <em>I will not hear her disrespected.</em>" His hand strayed to the throwing ax upon his belt, and his posture spoke of impending violence.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Stefano regarded Einar carefully. “I see.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">The moment, tense as a coiled serpent, stretched across several seconds.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Let’s get out of this gods-blasted wind, shall we?” quipped Louis. “I can’t feel my nose anymore.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">The waves crashed incessantly, blown ashore by a frenzied gale that cared nothing about the quarrels of men.</span></p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="ForceUser, post: 2809942, member: 2785"] [font=Georgia]Gerdrogg strolled along the rocky shore of Lake Oski, feeling sated and immensely satisfied. Her belly was full, her sisters were unaware of her doings, and she possessed the most powerful weapon that she had ever encountered. The iron tang of human blood still lingered sweetly on her tongue, and she nibbled on a thigh bone with her pointed teeth. With one claw, she dragged Frostmourne carelessly behind her, point down. The sword still thrummed with the residue of the malevolent energies it had displayed during her sport, and she happily anticipated returning to her coven, killing her eldest sister Helkja, and taking over. Within a few weeks, she and her remaining sibling could capture many humans for their stewpot and drive the rest away. Her thoughts circled endlessly around ever-more grandiose ideas of consolidating power among the northern creatures and moving south into the fertile farmlands of men. She had once spoken to a passing pukje that had claimed that the humans made their homes against the coast, lingering there like flocks of seabirds. After eating the pukje, she had slipped out of the moor and journeyed several weeks south until she encountered a marvelous walled fort that lay hard against a rocky shore. Men indeed lived there, crawling about like juicy maggots waiting to be devoured. She had been forced to flee then, however, because she could not defeat the humans’ hateful witch mother. [i]But now I can return. With this blade, I can easily defeat any challengers to my power. First, though,[/i] she smiled cruelly as she thought, [i]I will slay Helkja.[/i] Frostmourne flared dully, and a choking tendril of enmity closed around Gerdrogg’s consciousness. [i]Trolls,[/i] it whispered. A magnificent idea occurred to Gerdrogg then. [i]Ho! I will first go north to the Trollfells and recruit an army, and then I will return and feed my sister to this sword![/i] The hag, drunk with power, cackled with pride at her cleverness. Her long silhouette slithered across the rocky lakeshore in the fading light as she began to stride more purposefully along the beach. The sky ahead blazed orange behind the western peaks, but her eyes drifted across the lake to the Trollfells which lay beyond to the north. Behind her, indigo settled like a cloak across the land. She returned her gaze to the earth in front of her feet as she plodded on, lost in an internal world of blood and conquest. On the edge of her vision, something glinted sharply in the setting sun. She paused to look, and it glinted again. [i]Steel[/i], she realized. Someone was crawling in the dead grasses to the south, which struggled sporadically against the accumulated layers of snow and ice that weighed them down. The land southward sloped up, and trees sat upon the top of a crest of earth, looking down toward the shore like a line of sentinels. The metallic reflection from the dying sunlight had occurred some hundred yards from the beach, halfway between the tree line and the waves. Grinning evilly, Gerdrogg summoned innate arcane power and faded from sight like a figure washed away from a watercolor canvass. She began to creep toward the place where she’d seen the glint. [i]North[/i], whispered Frostmourne in her subconscious. The hag hesitated, confused by her conflicting desires to catch this skulking creature and to journey north immediately at best speed. She shrugged, and began to advance upon the grassy field once again. She would go north as soon as she had caught, tortured, and feasted upon whoever was lurking. [i][B]NORTH.[/B][/I] The sword asserted itself violently, bludgeoning her with its will. Gerdrogg froze, locked in an agonizing struggle for supremacy of her own mind. She staggered to one knee and gasped. A piteous whine issued from her cracked lips, and then she quieted and stood. [i]This creature is not worth the effort,[/i] Gerdrogg decided coolly. [i]I will go north immediately. My troll army awaits.[/i] She returned to the lake shore and looked behind her. The land was now dark. Amidst the trees to the south, a faint white glow could be seen—not torches, but magic. Still invisible, Gerdrogg summoned more arcane energy, binding it into the shape of four ruddy lit torches. With a whisk of her claw, the torches formed a line and began to hustle eastward along the shore, back the way she had come. Then she breathed deeply, causing yet more arcana to coalesce around her form. She waded into the dark and freezing waves of Lake Oski until they lapped above her head. Then she took in a lungful of water, kicked away from the rocky bottom, and disappeared into the black depths. [center]~~~~~~~~~~[/center] “Einar, come out of the water! The hag is gone,” shouted Stefano. As he watched, the Northman, some twenty yards out, swam back toward the shore with powerful strokes. He touched bottom shortly and waded back to the group. A blistering wind from across the lake drove the watchers into the recesses of their cloaks. Einar’s teeth chattered violently as Ilse wrapped him in his furs, and Stefano summoned a cantrip and dried the barbarian with a gesture. Einar rubbed his arms and legs, miraculously reprieved of the cold. “Thank you, prester.” “Those torches probably weren’t even real,” noted Louis. “You can do that with magic.” “What now?” asked Wigliff. “What lies beyond this lake?” asked Stefano. “The Trollfells,” replied Einar, “We don’t go there. Sometimes the trolls get tired of eating each other and come down looking to feast on the flesh of men.” Louis rolled his eyes. “Trolls. Lovely.” “I think we should return to Oski Faste,” said Stefano. “Hrothgar should know about this. I don’t think we’re ready to fight our way through hordes of trolls.” “We must bury the dead, as well,” said Ilse. Einar stared across the darkened lake, arms wrapped around his spear. “Töskjel lives out there.” “Who?” asked Stefano. “Töskjel. The old voelva. When the Church came with its missionaries, she left the faste for an island upon the lake. If the hag swam north, it will find Töskjel’s home.” “That is unfortunate. May the gods protect her.” Einar looked at Stefano askance. “Yeah.” “What is a voelva?” asked Ilse. “Village priestess,” replied Louis, “I heard about them once. They were wise women, had the ear of their chieftains. Supposedly, they were very strong in the magic of the old ways. It’s been said of them that they could make it rain, talk to the earth, and take on the forms of beasts or spirits, depending upon who you asked.” ”Yes,” said Stefano, “They were pagan idolaters who refused to convert. The early missionaries were forced to eliminate them.” Einar bristled at Stefano’s words. “Töskjel is kin, and she served us well long before the Church got here. She left Oski Faste willingly when your missionaries came, and lives alone and forgotten upon that isle. [i]I will not hear her disrespected.[/i]" His hand strayed to the throwing ax upon his belt, and his posture spoke of impending violence. Stefano regarded Einar carefully. “I see.” The moment, tense as a coiled serpent, stretched across several seconds. “Let’s get out of this gods-blasted wind, shall we?” quipped Louis. “I can’t feel my nose anymore.” The waves crashed incessantly, blown ashore by a frenzied gale that cared nothing about the quarrels of men.[/font] [/QUOTE]
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