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<blockquote data-quote="ForceUser" data-source="post: 2844046" data-attributes="member: 2785"><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Stefano cowered against the blistering cold, acutely aware of the tenuous coil of his consciousness that threatened to devolve into panicked incoherency. The wind raged like a netherworld beast full of malice and spite, hungrily seeking to dethrone him from life and cast him into an eternal freezing darkness. A whirlpool of snow swallowed him, and though he shut his eyes against the ravaging storm, he saw the peril of his situation in his mind’s eye: he was going to die. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Beside him he felt the bulk, if not the warmth, of one of his companions. Somewhere close, he knew, Einar worked desperately to grant them a quiver of flame with which to repulse the icy tempest. They had prepared confidently, with multiple endowments of <em>endure elements</em> passed around like pipe tobacco, so assured in their arcane protections that they had not given the cold another thought. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Yet their magical wards had failed them; here in the mountains, beyond the scope of human affinity, the storm had penetrated their defenses with the disdainful ease of a master duelist disarming a novice. Never before had Stefano known a cold like this, which sought his heart like a grotesque gnawing worm. His extremities, he knew, still existed, though he could not feel his fingers, limbs, or toes. His ears were lumps against the icy shroud of his wolf-fur hat and heavy hood; his nose was merely an inconvenient protuberance preventing him from burying his face an inch deeper into his fur-lined cloak. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">The companions squatted in the lee of the wind against an ancient boulder, which perched precariously upon an overlook that faced the pass up which they had traveled earlier that day. Even out of the direct force of the gale, which was heightened to god-like fury by the funneled shape of the pass, the eddies of frosty vapor created a hellish vortex which caught them up and mocked their efforts to find solace. Stefano wondered at the fate of the horses, for which no protections beyond sturdy blankets had been offered. “They’re hardy beasts,” Louis had quipped before they had departed Oski Faste, “They’ll likely fare better than we will.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">It had been a calculated risk to push on into the mountains in the midst of winter, but one which, given the circumstances, both Ilse and Stefano had felt was necessary. Without the protection of magic against the cold, of course, the expedition would have been postponed until the spring. But bolstered by the simple abjurations which had never failed them, they had noted the coming storm perfunctorily and continued with their planning. Einar had pointed out the likely severity of the approaching morass, and they had listened respectfully, but in the end they decided that due to the combination of their magicks and Einar’s wilderland skill, the challenge would be minimal. Lulled by an overbearing sense of competency, they had marched up the western peaks flanking Askjer Pass and into the throat of the storm. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">In time, a sullen warmth began to spread through Stefano’s core, as though a hearth had appeared nearby and miraculously radiated life. He began to feel quite comfortable in his perch against the rock, so much so that he relaxed his posture and leant against the person behind him. “Perhaps I’ll doze,” he decided, “While Einar stokes the fire.” </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">As he drifted into numbing sleep, a flicker of memory reverberated through his rapidly dissipating thoughts.</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'">“Rise, cousin,” grumbled Hrothgar from his high-backed chair. “Wotan’s herald has told me of the peril you faced.” Dutifully, Einar stood.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Stefano glared at Avido, who hunkered in a distinctly un-birdlike posture of sheepishness on the elaborately-carved crest of Hrothgar’s seat. The familiar, having been sent by Stefano to convey the tragic fate of Tryfing’s household, had apparently chosen not to disavow the chieftain of the notion that he was the gods’ messenger, and had been accorded high honors by the awestruck thane. Standing behind Hrothgar’s throne was a pair of flaxen-haired girls, the chieftain’s nieces, who giggled as they patted and hand-fed the raven millet from their stores and worms from the earth beneath the hall. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“The hag escaped us,” intoned Stefano, “she is likely in the Trollfells by now, following whatever purpose the sword requires.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Hrothgar regarded Stefano knowingly, a haggard look in his eye. “All who journey there find the same wyrd in the gullet of a troll. The slaughter of my kin stokes me to rage, more so that it will go unavenged.” He sighed wearily and cast a morose look at the fire. “What will you do now?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Ilse and Stefano exchanged glances. The theurgist continued. “We lack information, my lord. We need to know the lore of your people—your victories, your tragedies, and your histories. Ancient enemies and allies concern us. There is much that we do not know.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Had we a skald, he would versify a fine poem indeed, for our people are of a valiant line that stretches back to the beginning,” the chieftain mused. “But we have had none in that tradition for some time.” Einar thought of Töskjel and said nothing. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Hrothgar looked up at the fire-hole in the roof of his hall, which led to blackness that hovered above the crackling fire pit. “The land is our lore now.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Pardon, great lord, but of what lore do you speak?” inquired the aelfborn, Louis. “I have learned much of the skordi people in my travels, but little of the Oski tribe.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“It has always been so,” replied the thane, “For we are not a boastful clan. Our history is marked upon the land.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Hjalprek’s Doom,” someone murmured from near the fire. Many voices repeated the utterance sagely. Hrothgar nodded, and seeing the looks of ignorance upon the faces of the southlanders, said, “The plain where we met in battle the last great troll advance. It lies west of here, near the eastern slopes of the Rößnecht* peaks leading up to Askjer Pass. It is a monument to the bravery of our ancestors and the weakness of the straw men that fled.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Straw men?” asked Ilse.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Cowards,” responded Louis, “Though I’d be hard pressed to stand my ground while a horde of trolls bore down upon me.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Pfah,” spat Einar, “You’d run.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Louis looked at the Northman with a wounded expression.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“I do not see how an ancient battlefield could aid us,” Stefano declared.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Legend says that many an army has been repulsed upon that slope,” offered a passing serving-woman.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Helga speaks true,” said Wigliff’s brother Edgtho, nodding. “There are stories of standing stones that grip the land in pockets.” He held his fingers upward in a gripping gesture for emphasis. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Stories? You’ve never seen them?” asked Louis.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Several of the Oski stared at him in horror. Einar replied curtly, “Only a fool would stir the wrath of the dead.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“The straw men were denied paradise,” Hrothgar explained, “Those that fought and died now revel in Wotan’s hall until the end of days, but those that fled in fear roam the field of their betrayal, it is said. We do not go there.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Standing stones,” Stefano mused, “Could tell us something about your history.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Edgtho gaped at the priest. “Prester,” he implored, “It is not wise! If you are caught on the Doom at night…”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“We can enter and leave by daylight, then,” Stefano said, warming to the notion. “We could use a guide, of course.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Einar scratched his blond beard and grunted. A log, half-consumed by flame, cracked and fell within the cook-fire, launching a swirl of embers high into the air; carried upon an updraft, they soared into the night void where they winked out one by one. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“We’ll need horses,” the Northman began.</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'">* Rößnecht is pronounced “Rooss’nekt.” The “ß” is a letter of the German alphabet called an estset. They generally use it whenever we’d use “ss” in English. It’s my new favorite letter of the alphabet.</span></p><p> <span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="ForceUser, post: 2844046, member: 2785"] [font=Georgia]Stefano cowered against the blistering cold, acutely aware of the tenuous coil of his consciousness that threatened to devolve into panicked incoherency. The wind raged like a netherworld beast full of malice and spite, hungrily seeking to dethrone him from life and cast him into an eternal freezing darkness. A whirlpool of snow swallowed him, and though he shut his eyes against the ravaging storm, he saw the peril of his situation in his mind’s eye: he was going to die. Beside him he felt the bulk, if not the warmth, of one of his companions. Somewhere close, he knew, Einar worked desperately to grant them a quiver of flame with which to repulse the icy tempest. They had prepared confidently, with multiple endowments of [i]endure elements[/i] passed around like pipe tobacco, so assured in their arcane protections that they had not given the cold another thought. Yet their magical wards had failed them; here in the mountains, beyond the scope of human affinity, the storm had penetrated their defenses with the disdainful ease of a master duelist disarming a novice. Never before had Stefano known a cold like this, which sought his heart like a grotesque gnawing worm. His extremities, he knew, still existed, though he could not feel his fingers, limbs, or toes. His ears were lumps against the icy shroud of his wolf-fur hat and heavy hood; his nose was merely an inconvenient protuberance preventing him from burying his face an inch deeper into his fur-lined cloak. The companions squatted in the lee of the wind against an ancient boulder, which perched precariously upon an overlook that faced the pass up which they had traveled earlier that day. Even out of the direct force of the gale, which was heightened to god-like fury by the funneled shape of the pass, the eddies of frosty vapor created a hellish vortex which caught them up and mocked their efforts to find solace. Stefano wondered at the fate of the horses, for which no protections beyond sturdy blankets had been offered. “They’re hardy beasts,” Louis had quipped before they had departed Oski Faste, “They’ll likely fare better than we will.” It had been a calculated risk to push on into the mountains in the midst of winter, but one which, given the circumstances, both Ilse and Stefano had felt was necessary. Without the protection of magic against the cold, of course, the expedition would have been postponed until the spring. But bolstered by the simple abjurations which had never failed them, they had noted the coming storm perfunctorily and continued with their planning. Einar had pointed out the likely severity of the approaching morass, and they had listened respectfully, but in the end they decided that due to the combination of their magicks and Einar’s wilderland skill, the challenge would be minimal. Lulled by an overbearing sense of competency, they had marched up the western peaks flanking Askjer Pass and into the throat of the storm. In time, a sullen warmth began to spread through Stefano’s core, as though a hearth had appeared nearby and miraculously radiated life. He began to feel quite comfortable in his perch against the rock, so much so that he relaxed his posture and leant against the person behind him. “Perhaps I’ll doze,” he decided, “While Einar stokes the fire.” As he drifted into numbing sleep, a flicker of memory reverberated through his rapidly dissipating thoughts. [center]~~~~~~~~~~[/center] “Rise, cousin,” grumbled Hrothgar from his high-backed chair. “Wotan’s herald has told me of the peril you faced.” Dutifully, Einar stood. Stefano glared at Avido, who hunkered in a distinctly un-birdlike posture of sheepishness on the elaborately-carved crest of Hrothgar’s seat. The familiar, having been sent by Stefano to convey the tragic fate of Tryfing’s household, had apparently chosen not to disavow the chieftain of the notion that he was the gods’ messenger, and had been accorded high honors by the awestruck thane. Standing behind Hrothgar’s throne was a pair of flaxen-haired girls, the chieftain’s nieces, who giggled as they patted and hand-fed the raven millet from their stores and worms from the earth beneath the hall. “The hag escaped us,” intoned Stefano, “she is likely in the Trollfells by now, following whatever purpose the sword requires.” Hrothgar regarded Stefano knowingly, a haggard look in his eye. “All who journey there find the same wyrd in the gullet of a troll. The slaughter of my kin stokes me to rage, more so that it will go unavenged.” He sighed wearily and cast a morose look at the fire. “What will you do now?” Ilse and Stefano exchanged glances. The theurgist continued. “We lack information, my lord. We need to know the lore of your people—your victories, your tragedies, and your histories. Ancient enemies and allies concern us. There is much that we do not know.” “Had we a skald, he would versify a fine poem indeed, for our people are of a valiant line that stretches back to the beginning,” the chieftain mused. “But we have had none in that tradition for some time.” Einar thought of Töskjel and said nothing. Hrothgar looked up at the fire-hole in the roof of his hall, which led to blackness that hovered above the crackling fire pit. “The land is our lore now.” “Pardon, great lord, but of what lore do you speak?” inquired the aelfborn, Louis. “I have learned much of the skordi people in my travels, but little of the Oski tribe.” “It has always been so,” replied the thane, “For we are not a boastful clan. Our history is marked upon the land.” “Hjalprek’s Doom,” someone murmured from near the fire. Many voices repeated the utterance sagely. Hrothgar nodded, and seeing the looks of ignorance upon the faces of the southlanders, said, “The plain where we met in battle the last great troll advance. It lies west of here, near the eastern slopes of the Rößnecht* peaks leading up to Askjer Pass. It is a monument to the bravery of our ancestors and the weakness of the straw men that fled.” “Straw men?” asked Ilse. “Cowards,” responded Louis, “Though I’d be hard pressed to stand my ground while a horde of trolls bore down upon me.” “Pfah,” spat Einar, “You’d run.” Louis looked at the Northman with a wounded expression. “I do not see how an ancient battlefield could aid us,” Stefano declared. “Legend says that many an army has been repulsed upon that slope,” offered a passing serving-woman. “Helga speaks true,” said Wigliff’s brother Edgtho, nodding. “There are stories of standing stones that grip the land in pockets.” He held his fingers upward in a gripping gesture for emphasis. “Stories? You’ve never seen them?” asked Louis. Several of the Oski stared at him in horror. Einar replied curtly, “Only a fool would stir the wrath of the dead.” “The straw men were denied paradise,” Hrothgar explained, “Those that fought and died now revel in Wotan’s hall until the end of days, but those that fled in fear roam the field of their betrayal, it is said. We do not go there.” “Standing stones,” Stefano mused, “Could tell us something about your history.” Edgtho gaped at the priest. “Prester,” he implored, “It is not wise! If you are caught on the Doom at night…” “We can enter and leave by daylight, then,” Stefano said, warming to the notion. “We could use a guide, of course.” Einar scratched his blond beard and grunted. A log, half-consumed by flame, cracked and fell within the cook-fire, launching a swirl of embers high into the air; carried upon an updraft, they soared into the night void where they winked out one by one. “We’ll need horses,” the Northman began. * Rößnecht is pronounced “Rooss’nekt.” The “ß” is a letter of the German alphabet called an estset. They generally use it whenever we’d use “ss” in English. It’s my new favorite letter of the alphabet. [/font] [/QUOTE]
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