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<blockquote data-quote="ForceUser" data-source="post: 2844050" data-attributes="member: 2785"><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">The field called Hjalprek’s Doom stood stark and white against the dingy gray sky. It lurched westward, leaning like a sodden drunkard against the darkened Rößnecht mountains as though at any moment it would right itself and stagger away. To the east, the white-capped lake of the Oski churned, an iron sea. Within a mile of the shore, islands both craggy and verdant crowded each other like old women at market. Across the plain itself, small copses of black stone rose to meet the sky much as Edgtho said—all told, the expanse was miles long, sandwiched between the mountains and the lake, and sloped gradually upward to the foothills of the snowy peaks. Cleaving the mountains in half was Askjer Pass, a wedge-shaped gap that bridged the northern marches of this land belonging to the skordi tribes and the hinterlands of their enemies, the vitlings. Hjalprek’s Doom was a natural battlefield, a meeting-place for armies large and small, whose ghosts lingered long after their deeds had been forgotten, including, it was said, the tormented shades of the cowards that had fled under the chieftain Hjalprek. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Those very shades watched with impotent hatred as the priests and their company traversed their ancient prison under the warmth of the hateful sun; forsaken and immaterial while the light absorbed the darkness, they waited by the hundreds for dusk to come. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Seems benign enough,” puffed Louis to Stefano. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Even so,” returned the priest, “I don’t want to linger. I want to be gone by late afternoon. We’ll come back tomorrow if we have to.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Wigliff pointed, “Those stones appear to be plinths. Look, you can see that they supported some sort of platform.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Whatever they are, they’re huge,” said Ilse. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">As they closed, a peculiar sense of significance gripped Stefano. He dismounted and approached the ancient columns, which lingered upon the plain forlornly, no longer conveying the fearsome authority they had clearly once represented. By the structure and placement of the ancient rocks, as well as the careful and detailed carvings, they appeared religious in nature, though of what tradition Stefano could not judge. He spent several minutes circumnavigating the structure while the others spread out and clambered around.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“I found some writing!” yelled Louis, his voiced captured and propelled by the wind. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">When Stefano arrived, the bard was ruddy-faced and out of breath with excitement. “Look here,” he exclaimed, “It’s runic script!” </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Indeed it was. By Stefano’s estimation, the stone-carved symbols appeared to be some variation of Vangal runic iconography—not a written language in the strict sense, as the Vangals had none, but a collection of runes that possessed meaning in the Northman culture. Unfortunately, neither Wigliff nor Einar recognized the symbols upon the plinth. Wigliff did discover something interesting, however.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“These black stones,” he said, "Are not native to Thröngart.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p> <span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">After speculating about the meaning of the runes, the party resumed their inspection of the structure. High on the upthrust face of the toppled eastern plinth, Stefano soon made a startling discovery. “Louis!” he called excitedly. “Come here!”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">When the bard arrived, he gaped at the stonework that Stefano presented him. “This looks like ancient Thrycian!” Stefano nodded. “That’s right. Can you read it?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">”Unfortunately, I cannot. I know many tongues, but I have little use for a language that died out centuries ago.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“It’s not completely dead. A version of the Thrycian tongue is still in use in academics; church law is written in Thrycian, as is, of course, most copies of the sacred texts. And seminary students are still expected to learn rhetoric in the Thrycian tradition.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“So you can read it.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Stefano nodded, “And speak it. This is an old dialect, however, with which I am unfamiliar. Since I haven’t prepared the liturgy of comprehension, I will need to study it.” Stefano glanced at the sky, where the sun was beginning to droop toward the horizon.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Well, take your time,” Louis grinned. He trudged through the snow toward the others and explained. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">”Who are these…Thry-see-ans?” asked Einar, his brow furrowed in concentration.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Who were they, you mean,” replied Louis. “Don’t you read your scripture?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“He can’t read,” Wigliff said.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“I can so read!” Einar bellowed. “I know my words! I learnt them in Athingburgh from the presters! I can read my name and some of the church letters too!” </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Formidable,” noted Louis wryly. Ilse sighed.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Einar,” she explained patiently, “The Thrycians were those who were vanquished by our Redeemer. They once ruled the whole world, but they were decadent and evil, and the gods punished them for their arrogance and sinfulness.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“You <em>are</em> Redeemed, aren’t you?” goaded Louis.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Of course I am! I got a thing right here that says so!” And with that, the Northman dug into his furs and produced a small, crudely carved holy symbol of the Celestine Church. “See that? Means I’m Re-deemed!” Einar shoved the disk in Louis’ face proudly. The bard repressed the urge to burst out laughing. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Louis, stop it,” Ilse said sternly.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Go on, shieldmaiden. I’m listening!” said Einar eagerly. He stepped a little too close to her. “I like your hair.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Louis was positively rolling with mirth by now. Rurik grabbed him by his furs. “Let’s go see to the horses.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Ilse paused to repress her frustration. She let out a breath slowly, ignoring Einar’s expectant look. Finally, she continued. “The Redeemer was called by the gods to lead an army against the Thrycians. He gathered together all the people who had suffered under their rule and marched to their land in the south—far to the south, in Eriador. His army, it is said, numbered in the tens of thousands. But they were mostly peasants, and the legions of the Thrycian Empire were the most seasoned fighting force in the world. The Redeemer’s general, Cuthbert, worried about the coming battle, but the Redeemer told him ‘Fear not, for the hour of our redemption is at hand.’ Do you remember what happened next?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“The Redeemer destroyed the Thry-see-ans?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“That’s right. The indwelling spirit of the god Trithereon descended upon him in the midst of battle, and they destroyed the Thrycians—none escaped the gods’ judgment. The emperor and his legions were slain, the capitol and its inhabitants destroyed, and the surrounding land laid waste. What was once the seat of the mightiest empire in the world became…”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“…the Mournland!” finished Einar. “I remember this story. And the Redeemer died!”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“That’s right,” said Ilse, “The Redeemer sacrificed himself, as did Trithereon, to cleanse the world of its sinfulness. In making such a selfless choice, he redeemed us all in the eyes of the gods. That is why we worship, and that is why we are thankful.” </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“And Forseti became a god again!”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Ilse blinked. “What?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Forseti! God of law and justice! The presters told us that he had taken mortal form to help the Redeemer, and once it was done, he resumed his place among the gods!”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Ilse opened and closed her mouth a few times, processing this information. “You mean…Saint Cuthbert. When Trithereon died, the humble general of the Redeemer’s army was raised into the firmament to forever judge the worthiness of mankind’s actions.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Oh, right. I forgot what you southerners called him,” Einar confided, “You have funny names for the gods. Wotan is Pelor, Forseti is Cuthbert…the only one that makes any sense is calling Loki whatever you call him. He’s always going by some false name or other.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Ilse resolved then and there to have a lengthy conversation with Stefano regarding the spiritual education given the Vangals.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Einar,” she explained, “We do not call the gods by their names. We are not worthy. Don’t say Pelor anymore; call Him the Shining One or the Bright God.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“That’s silly. Can’t I call him Wotan? This is what my people have called him for a long time.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Ilse ground her teeth.</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'">“How’s it going?” asked Louis apprehensively. Stefano looked up from his book of scriptures where he had written notes in the margins. The sun was now a fiery ring that plummeted steadily toward the horizon. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“I think I’ve got it,” replied the theurgist. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">”Then let’s get the hell out of here,” urged the aelfborn. “You can tell us all about it when we’ve put some miles between us and this creepy dead battlefield.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">As the companions mounted up and rode away from the plain, the shades, unnoticed by the living, soundlessly wailed their frustrated rage at the vengeance denied them.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“This is a history,” Stefano announced that night, as the adventurers sat ringed around the fire and facing him. The camp was an outpost of orange light in an ocean of vast nothingness that swallowed everything but the ground beneath their feet. In the distance, the crashing of the waves upon the rocky shore of the lake rang rhythmically like church bells. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">He had copied as much of the text as he could into his notebook. Using his copy of the scriptures as a guide to translation, Stefano had rooted out enough common characters that he had been able to reconstruct most of the words in the Thrycian dialect used today in academic circles. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Here is what I have been able to discern. The plinths are a monument to the reign of an ancient Vangal lord called Orvjik Shield-biter. He was the vassal of a Vangal king whose name I had difficulty translating due to the age of the stone. In places the writing was worn away completely. All I could get for the name of this Vangal king was “M, “L,” “GAN.” There are characters missing in-between. Are either of those names familiar to the Oski?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Wigliff and Einar shook their heads. Stefano looked at Louis, who shrugged. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“In any event, in the inscriptions Orvjik claims victory over all the tribes of Thröngart, and proudly proclaims that he impaled over five hundred captured enemies, some of which took as many as three nights to die upon the stake.” Stefano paused to allow the gravity of that boast to sink in.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“The inscriptions also declare the location of Angrahöll, Orvjik’s seat of power. The plinths declare that it sits high in Askjer Pass, on the eastern face of the Skjöldr Mountains—I assume the Skjöldr and the Rößnecht are one and the same. According to the plinths, Orvjik had a thousand warriors in his household and three thousand head of cattle. However, the word used for ‘cattle’ is confusing, because in another context it can also mean ‘slave’. Orvjik declares himself an enemy of all jöten and of ‘southerners’.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Interesting,” breathed Louis. He considered, “Angrahöll, you say?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Hall of Torment,” Wigliff translated.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Lovely,” the bard replied, “Whoever this Orvjik was, he sounds like a nasty piece of work. Inhuman, even.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Ilse and Stefano exchanged a glance, which Louis intercepted.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Smirking, he said, “I suppose you want to find this place.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“There are many unanswered questions here,” replied Stefano. He counted them off using his fingers, “One, how did these people come to know the Thrycian tongue? According to our histories, the empire never conquered this land. Two, who was this warlord that conquered Thröngart? Three, the reference to cattle-slaves disturbs me greatly. Did they keep human chattel? If so, for what purpose? Four, who was this terrible king that the Oski have forgotten?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“It’s all in the past, prester,” Einar interjected, “We should worry about the present.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“The past informs the present,” Stefano responded, “And our understanding of these ancient events could prove crucial to the future of your people.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Crucial?” asked Wigliff. “In what way?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Yes,” said Ilse, “Do tell.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Stefano peered at the firelit faces regarding him. He said nothing at first, but sat down at the fire and wrapped his furs around him. The others waited patiently. Sensing that significant information was forthcoming, Louis uncurled from his mass of fox furs and sat up attentively.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Finally, the priest spoke. “I have not been entirely truthful with you, and for that I ask the gods’ forgiveness, and yours. My reason for coming to Rothland, and for bringing Reverend Reifsnyder along, is multifaceted. Along with a genuine need to give ministry to the Oski, I have been sent with another purpose in mind.” He leaned closer to the fire, warming his hands. He did not look at anyone, instead choosing to peer into the dazzling flames. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">After a few moments, he looked up and scanned the faces of his companions. Slowly, he asked them, “My friends, what do you know of vampires?”</span></p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="ForceUser, post: 2844050, member: 2785"] [font=Georgia]The field called Hjalprek’s Doom stood stark and white against the dingy gray sky. It lurched westward, leaning like a sodden drunkard against the darkened Rößnecht mountains as though at any moment it would right itself and stagger away. To the east, the white-capped lake of the Oski churned, an iron sea. Within a mile of the shore, islands both craggy and verdant crowded each other like old women at market. Across the plain itself, small copses of black stone rose to meet the sky much as Edgtho said—all told, the expanse was miles long, sandwiched between the mountains and the lake, and sloped gradually upward to the foothills of the snowy peaks. Cleaving the mountains in half was Askjer Pass, a wedge-shaped gap that bridged the northern marches of this land belonging to the skordi tribes and the hinterlands of their enemies, the vitlings. Hjalprek’s Doom was a natural battlefield, a meeting-place for armies large and small, whose ghosts lingered long after their deeds had been forgotten, including, it was said, the tormented shades of the cowards that had fled under the chieftain Hjalprek. Those very shades watched with impotent hatred as the priests and their company traversed their ancient prison under the warmth of the hateful sun; forsaken and immaterial while the light absorbed the darkness, they waited by the hundreds for dusk to come. “Seems benign enough,” puffed Louis to Stefano. “Even so,” returned the priest, “I don’t want to linger. I want to be gone by late afternoon. We’ll come back tomorrow if we have to.” Wigliff pointed, “Those stones appear to be plinths. Look, you can see that they supported some sort of platform.” “Whatever they are, they’re huge,” said Ilse. As they closed, a peculiar sense of significance gripped Stefano. He dismounted and approached the ancient columns, which lingered upon the plain forlornly, no longer conveying the fearsome authority they had clearly once represented. By the structure and placement of the ancient rocks, as well as the careful and detailed carvings, they appeared religious in nature, though of what tradition Stefano could not judge. He spent several minutes circumnavigating the structure while the others spread out and clambered around. “I found some writing!” yelled Louis, his voiced captured and propelled by the wind. When Stefano arrived, the bard was ruddy-faced and out of breath with excitement. “Look here,” he exclaimed, “It’s runic script!” Indeed it was. By Stefano’s estimation, the stone-carved symbols appeared to be some variation of Vangal runic iconography—not a written language in the strict sense, as the Vangals had none, but a collection of runes that possessed meaning in the Northman culture. Unfortunately, neither Wigliff nor Einar recognized the symbols upon the plinth. Wigliff did discover something interesting, however. “These black stones,” he said, "Are not native to Thröngart.” After speculating about the meaning of the runes, the party resumed their inspection of the structure. High on the upthrust face of the toppled eastern plinth, Stefano soon made a startling discovery. “Louis!” he called excitedly. “Come here!” When the bard arrived, he gaped at the stonework that Stefano presented him. “This looks like ancient Thrycian!” Stefano nodded. “That’s right. Can you read it?” ”Unfortunately, I cannot. I know many tongues, but I have little use for a language that died out centuries ago.” “It’s not completely dead. A version of the Thrycian tongue is still in use in academics; church law is written in Thrycian, as is, of course, most copies of the sacred texts. And seminary students are still expected to learn rhetoric in the Thrycian tradition.” “So you can read it.” Stefano nodded, “And speak it. This is an old dialect, however, with which I am unfamiliar. Since I haven’t prepared the liturgy of comprehension, I will need to study it.” Stefano glanced at the sky, where the sun was beginning to droop toward the horizon. “Well, take your time,” Louis grinned. He trudged through the snow toward the others and explained. ”Who are these…Thry-see-ans?” asked Einar, his brow furrowed in concentration. “Who were they, you mean,” replied Louis. “Don’t you read your scripture?” “He can’t read,” Wigliff said. “I can so read!” Einar bellowed. “I know my words! I learnt them in Athingburgh from the presters! I can read my name and some of the church letters too!” “Formidable,” noted Louis wryly. Ilse sighed. “Einar,” she explained patiently, “The Thrycians were those who were vanquished by our Redeemer. They once ruled the whole world, but they were decadent and evil, and the gods punished them for their arrogance and sinfulness.” “You [i]are[/i] Redeemed, aren’t you?” goaded Louis. “Of course I am! I got a thing right here that says so!” And with that, the Northman dug into his furs and produced a small, crudely carved holy symbol of the Celestine Church. “See that? Means I’m Re-deemed!” Einar shoved the disk in Louis’ face proudly. The bard repressed the urge to burst out laughing. “Louis, stop it,” Ilse said sternly. “Go on, shieldmaiden. I’m listening!” said Einar eagerly. He stepped a little too close to her. “I like your hair.” Louis was positively rolling with mirth by now. Rurik grabbed him by his furs. “Let’s go see to the horses.” Ilse paused to repress her frustration. She let out a breath slowly, ignoring Einar’s expectant look. Finally, she continued. “The Redeemer was called by the gods to lead an army against the Thrycians. He gathered together all the people who had suffered under their rule and marched to their land in the south—far to the south, in Eriador. His army, it is said, numbered in the tens of thousands. But they were mostly peasants, and the legions of the Thrycian Empire were the most seasoned fighting force in the world. The Redeemer’s general, Cuthbert, worried about the coming battle, but the Redeemer told him ‘Fear not, for the hour of our redemption is at hand.’ Do you remember what happened next?” “The Redeemer destroyed the Thry-see-ans?” “That’s right. The indwelling spirit of the god Trithereon descended upon him in the midst of battle, and they destroyed the Thrycians—none escaped the gods’ judgment. The emperor and his legions were slain, the capitol and its inhabitants destroyed, and the surrounding land laid waste. What was once the seat of the mightiest empire in the world became…” “…the Mournland!” finished Einar. “I remember this story. And the Redeemer died!” “That’s right,” said Ilse, “The Redeemer sacrificed himself, as did Trithereon, to cleanse the world of its sinfulness. In making such a selfless choice, he redeemed us all in the eyes of the gods. That is why we worship, and that is why we are thankful.” “And Forseti became a god again!” Ilse blinked. “What?” “Forseti! God of law and justice! The presters told us that he had taken mortal form to help the Redeemer, and once it was done, he resumed his place among the gods!” Ilse opened and closed her mouth a few times, processing this information. “You mean…Saint Cuthbert. When Trithereon died, the humble general of the Redeemer’s army was raised into the firmament to forever judge the worthiness of mankind’s actions.” “Oh, right. I forgot what you southerners called him,” Einar confided, “You have funny names for the gods. Wotan is Pelor, Forseti is Cuthbert…the only one that makes any sense is calling Loki whatever you call him. He’s always going by some false name or other.” Ilse resolved then and there to have a lengthy conversation with Stefano regarding the spiritual education given the Vangals. “Einar,” she explained, “We do not call the gods by their names. We are not worthy. Don’t say Pelor anymore; call Him the Shining One or the Bright God.” “That’s silly. Can’t I call him Wotan? This is what my people have called him for a long time.” Ilse ground her teeth. [center]~~~~~~~~~~[/center] “How’s it going?” asked Louis apprehensively. Stefano looked up from his book of scriptures where he had written notes in the margins. The sun was now a fiery ring that plummeted steadily toward the horizon. “I think I’ve got it,” replied the theurgist. ”Then let’s get the hell out of here,” urged the aelfborn. “You can tell us all about it when we’ve put some miles between us and this creepy dead battlefield.” As the companions mounted up and rode away from the plain, the shades, unnoticed by the living, soundlessly wailed their frustrated rage at the vengeance denied them. “This is a history,” Stefano announced that night, as the adventurers sat ringed around the fire and facing him. The camp was an outpost of orange light in an ocean of vast nothingness that swallowed everything but the ground beneath their feet. In the distance, the crashing of the waves upon the rocky shore of the lake rang rhythmically like church bells. He had copied as much of the text as he could into his notebook. Using his copy of the scriptures as a guide to translation, Stefano had rooted out enough common characters that he had been able to reconstruct most of the words in the Thrycian dialect used today in academic circles. “Here is what I have been able to discern. The plinths are a monument to the reign of an ancient Vangal lord called Orvjik Shield-biter. He was the vassal of a Vangal king whose name I had difficulty translating due to the age of the stone. In places the writing was worn away completely. All I could get for the name of this Vangal king was “M, “L,” “GAN.” There are characters missing in-between. Are either of those names familiar to the Oski?” Wigliff and Einar shook their heads. Stefano looked at Louis, who shrugged. “In any event, in the inscriptions Orvjik claims victory over all the tribes of Thröngart, and proudly proclaims that he impaled over five hundred captured enemies, some of which took as many as three nights to die upon the stake.” Stefano paused to allow the gravity of that boast to sink in. “The inscriptions also declare the location of Angrahöll, Orvjik’s seat of power. The plinths declare that it sits high in Askjer Pass, on the eastern face of the Skjöldr Mountains—I assume the Skjöldr and the Rößnecht are one and the same. According to the plinths, Orvjik had a thousand warriors in his household and three thousand head of cattle. However, the word used for ‘cattle’ is confusing, because in another context it can also mean ‘slave’. Orvjik declares himself an enemy of all jöten and of ‘southerners’.” “Interesting,” breathed Louis. He considered, “Angrahöll, you say?” “Hall of Torment,” Wigliff translated. “Lovely,” the bard replied, “Whoever this Orvjik was, he sounds like a nasty piece of work. Inhuman, even.” Ilse and Stefano exchanged a glance, which Louis intercepted. Smirking, he said, “I suppose you want to find this place.” “There are many unanswered questions here,” replied Stefano. He counted them off using his fingers, “One, how did these people come to know the Thrycian tongue? According to our histories, the empire never conquered this land. Two, who was this warlord that conquered Thröngart? Three, the reference to cattle-slaves disturbs me greatly. Did they keep human chattel? If so, for what purpose? Four, who was this terrible king that the Oski have forgotten?” “It’s all in the past, prester,” Einar interjected, “We should worry about the present.” “The past informs the present,” Stefano responded, “And our understanding of these ancient events could prove crucial to the future of your people.” “Crucial?” asked Wigliff. “In what way?” “Yes,” said Ilse, “Do tell.” Stefano peered at the firelit faces regarding him. He said nothing at first, but sat down at the fire and wrapped his furs around him. The others waited patiently. Sensing that significant information was forthcoming, Louis uncurled from his mass of fox furs and sat up attentively. Finally, the priest spoke. “I have not been entirely truthful with you, and for that I ask the gods’ forgiveness, and yours. My reason for coming to Rothland, and for bringing Reverend Reifsnyder along, is multifaceted. Along with a genuine need to give ministry to the Oski, I have been sent with another purpose in mind.” He leaned closer to the fire, warming his hands. He did not look at anyone, instead choosing to peer into the dazzling flames. After a few moments, he looked up and scanned the faces of his companions. Slowly, he asked them, “My friends, what do you know of vampires?”[/font] [/QUOTE]
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The Cask of Winter -4 July-
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