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<blockquote data-quote="ForceUser" data-source="post: 2844100" data-attributes="member: 2785"><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Einar exhaled, blowing a plume of frosted nettles through his blond beard. Even under a gray sky twisting with thunderheads, he had to squint to discern the scimitar of ice that constituted Askjer Pass. The fissure meandered southeast from the lee side of the northern peak, and its many switchbacks and pitfalls lay concealed from the Northman’s practiced eye. He spat, and globs of spittle fell into his beard and froze. Grunting in annoyance, he pulled a wicked troll-bone knife from a sheath at his belt and began to saw delicately.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Oh, well done,” chortled Louis. The bard stamped his feet impatiently, bored at the delay in progress as the clerics discussed how best to utilize their litanies to protect everyone from the weather.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Einar deftly removed a shard of frozen saliva and scowled at the aelfborn’s luxurious and impractical white fox furs. “If water freezes when it meets air, a Vangal finds shelter. But I can’t feel the cold. The shield maiden’s blessing makes the air feel like summer.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“A hazard of continuing to live,” Louis remarked dryly, “Were it not for these magical wards, we’d have surely frozen to death by now.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“You’d have frozen to death, because you’re a fool,” Einar snorted. “An Oski boy of five would live.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“How?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“He’d burrow under the snow,” Wigliff interjected, wading up next to his cousin. “They’re done talking. It’s time to move.” Einar nodded.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“That’s preposterous!” </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">The barbarian ignored the bard and trudged toward the horses. Wigliff gave Louis a flat, disinterested glance, then replied, “If you are covered in snow, the heat in your body can’t escape into the air. You stay warm. The spirit folk of the far north know this. They build their cook fires in lodges of ice.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“The <em>far</em> north? How far north does this land go?” </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Wigliff merely shrugged and tramped to his steed.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“What madness,” Louis muttered. He waddled through a thigh-high drift of snow to his wide-eyed mount and glanced up the pass. The clouds concealed the mountaintops in misty grayness, and the pass looked like the prickly white tongue of some demon god, long and lolling. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Though he wasn’t cold, the bard shivered.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Louis,” clipped Ilse as Germanicus cantered past, enthusiastically gouging great clods of white powder and black soil from the frozen earth with every step. The templar’s long, flaxen braids bounced in counterpoint to the black destrier’s gait. Her great helm rested in her lap, visor open, between her scarred plate greaves. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Startled by the intrusion of a human voice into the craggy white sheet of emptiness surrounding him, Louis kicked at the stirrup three times before his foot finally found purchase. He hoisted himself shakily into the saddle and thrust his gaze away from looming peaks.</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'">Ilse brooded. The steep terrain of the pass proved difficult for Germanicus, and Einar insisted several times over the course of the day that they backtrack in a seeming haphazard pattern as he scoured the trail for dangers. Great sheets of snow-burdened ice sat atop and between enormous rocks full of jagged fissures, which looked like nothing so much as the shattered remains of a colossal stone giant’s beard. After Louis had nearly caused an avalanche with his nervous singing, Einar had threatened to break his jaw if he uttered another sound. Since then, all Ilse had heard was the sharp striking of steel-shod hooves on muffled stone and the whipping of the wind past her ears.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Since talking was not possible, she collapsed into her thoughts. <em>Vampires, </em>she seethed, glaring at Stefano as he huddled over his saddle against the bracing wind. There were layers to the theurgist’s secretiveness, and she understood that even now she did not know the full extent of the truth. He wore the silver collar of a church magistrate, as she did, but Stefano defied further categorization. In matters of immediate relevance, he was at once evasive and straightforward, yet when ministering to the Oski he was gentle—a trait which they mistrusted. Ironically, it was Stefano’s association with his own familiar, the raven Avido, which buoyed his standing among the Northmen in spite of his gentility. That the creature spoke the Vangal tongue suggested a pragmatic cleverness on the Reverend’s part which was not readily apparent in his demeanor. In matters of theology he seemed quite brilliant, if conventional, but his arcane powers clearly outshone his divine blessings. And though he seemed reverent of doctrine, he nevertheless projected an air of unspoken iconoclasm which worried her. Ilse knew little of theurgy, but to her the art seemed more suited to some fringe sect of the heterodoxy that the church proper.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Ilse’s knowledge of vampires represented the essence of a templar’s training—concise and factual, with an emphasis on achieving destruction. Vampires sought to beguile the mind. Vampires sought to slake their unholy thirst upon human blood. Vampires crawled like spiders in the dark corners of civilization, posing as ordinary people as they lured innocents to their deaths. Vampires crumpled when staked with wood through the heart, and they feared righteousness, holiness and the life-sustaining gaze of the sun. When you turn them, put all your might behind it because they are quick beyond mortal ability. Destroy them with daylight. Incinerate them with fire. Give them no quarter and no opportunity to capture your will.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Where Ilse knew action, Stefano spoke of history. <em>Vampires have plagued humanity for over a thousand years,</em> he had said, <em>but there is no evidence of their existence from before the Reckoning. Have you ever wondered why?</em></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"><em></em></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"><em>No, </em>Ilse had replied truthfully.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"><em>It is believed that they came from the north, </em>he’d continued. <em>According to what is known, they likely originated here, somewhere in Rothland. My mission, in part, is to seek out proof of their northern origin.</em></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"><em></em></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"><em>Why?</em> Ilse had asked.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"><em>That we may learn how to better find them and destroy them, </em> he had replied simply. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Germanicus jerked his head violently and flattened his ears. Reflexively, Ilse halted him. She leaned forward in her saddle and whispered to the horse, “What is it, my friend?” Glancing up the pass, she saw that Einar had crouched behind a jagged outcropping of rock, out of the wind, and had laid his longspear on the snow before him. He turned his head back and forth as though trying to hear a sound. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“What’s going on?” whispered Louis in her ear. The bard sat poised astride his horse a dozen yards below her. Ilse frowned at him over her shoulder. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Louis waved. “It’s okay, you can whisper back. I’ll hear you.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Einar heard something,” Ilse replied.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">The barbarian stood up and ambled toward Rurik. They conferred a moment, and then the Northman moved to Stefano. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Einar’s ignoring me. Rurik says there’s danger.” As the bard spoke, the half-giant readied his greataxe, letting it dangle from one huge gauntleted fist. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Einar approached Ilse. “Winter men,” he spoke lowly, “Lesser giants. They live in these mountains, hunt in bands.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Are they dangerous?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“They are fierce. Old ones tell stories of the winter men hunting trolls in packs, like wolves. I heard one call to another. Their voices sound like the cries of warriors dying on the field. They are watching us right now.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Ilse’s skin crawled. She peered ahead and above into the cracks of the world which dwarfed them, but saw nothing except stone and ice on a scale that numbed her senses. “What do we do?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“We prepare ourselves for battle and continue.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">She nodded. As Einar shuffled off toward Wigliff, she said, “Wait.” She dug into her belt pouch and produced a pair of plain silver rings. Invoking a litany, she felt divine energy coalesce around her, and with practiced familiarity she willed it into the bands. “Here, wear this. It will protect you from injury. Stay close to me, or the spell will fail.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Appearing awed, Einar reverently placed the ring upon his right hand. Ilse removed her gauntlet and did the same. “Thank you, shield maiden,” he breathed. He bowed his head respectfully and strode toward Wigliff. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Up the jagged slope, Stefano summoned litanies of his own, and shrouded himself in arcane energy. Wigliff had produced a polished, twiggy wand, which he gripped tightly.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Prepare for battle,” Ilse whispered to Louis. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Wait, what? What’s going on?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">The templar dug her heels into the destrier’s flanks, and he ambled forward slowly, testing each step with a daintiness that belied his massive size.</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'">Tense hours passed, and most of their magical defenses faded. The sky blackened and belched forth dense flurries of snow that ripped down the canyon in immense white sheets. Even warded from the elements, Stefano began to realize that his unprotected face ached as though a thousand tiny needles stood upright underneath his skin. Spurring his steed, he rode up to Einar. He had to shout to make himself heard over the din.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“This is no good! We need to find shelter! It’s too cold, and it’s going to be dark soon! Are there any caves?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“No!” shouted the Vangal over the wind, “No caves! Our enemies are cunning—they will let the storm devour us!”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“We can’t worry about them right now! I can feel the cold through my elemental ward! I did not know that was possible!”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“The gods are no longer protecting us?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“They are, but we have reached the limits of human endurance. It’s just too cold!”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Einar cursed. “Cover your face, prester! Thrym scorns us! I will find a place out of the wind! Come—forward! Up the pass!”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Maybe we should turn around!”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“No! Forward, or we die! There is no shelter behind us!” Einar turned and began to fight upward against the icy wind, which cut like shards of glass. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Riding further into the teeth of that hellish gale seemed like suicide to Stefano, but he did not argue. He watched as down the trail behind him, swirling snow obscured his horse’s tracks, fanning the dry powder on the ground to smooth-brushed ridges which formed, toppled, and reformed in moments. His companions were now nothing but shadowy silhouettes of riders hunkered over their steeds. Panic gnawed at his stomach as he registered their peril. <em>Bright One</em>, he prayed, <em>deliver us from our folly</em>.</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'">Doubled over in her saddle against the wind, Ilse grasped the radiant mace of San Carlo* and concentrated with desperate intensity, forcing lips she could not feel to form the correct syllables of a healing litany. A warm blue glow spread outward from her core, repelling the cold and thawing her extremities. She gasped as fire lanced through her now-feeling body, but within moments the sharp tingling began its inexorable slide back into the dull ache of frostbite. She struggled to stave off despair.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Ahead, she saw only the outline of Stefano’s horse, and behind only Wigliff’s. Somewhere ahead, lost in the blistering shroud of snow, Einar worked to save their lives. Ilse fumed at her helplessness against the monstrous adversary which sought to bury them. A single thought scrolled through her head relentlessly—<em>The horses will freeze soon. The horses will freeze.</em></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">The bulky shadow in front of Ilse stumbled and pitched its rider into the snow. “Stefano!” she yelled, but her voice could not overpower the wind. She urged Germanicus forward, but before she arrived, Rurik appeared and dragged the priest out of the drift into which he’d been tossed. The giant cradled Stefano gently, like a shepherd would a lamb, and unhooked his thick bearskin cloak to wrap around the priest. He swaddled Stefano like an infant, and then he grabbed the reins of the priest’s horse and handed them to Ilse. Nothing but the bare steel of his armor protected Rurik from the storm now. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">As they trudged agonizingly forward, Einar appeared bounding through the snow. “Follow me! Hurry!”</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'">Stefano awoke from numbing sleep and heaved with shivers that wracked his entire body. Stinging pain soared through his limbs, and Ilse grimaced sympathetically as a blue glow faded from her outstretched hand. She stood and walked toward Rurik, who sat with his arms crossed and back against the boulder. The half-giant’s plate armor rattled audibly above the noise of the wind. Nestled in the lee of a gigantic boulder that Einar had located, the party evaded the brunt of the storm, but swirling winds kicked small twisters of snow across the tiny camp as the barbarian struggled to light a fire. Wigliff’s cantrip of flame had failed to sustain itself long enough to be of any use, and Stefano chuckled darkly at the irony of freezing to death inside a ring of everburning torches. Thankfully, he had insisted that Avido stay behind with the Oski. The pampered bird had taken little convincing.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Time stumbled interminably, and Stefano once again felt numbness creeping through his limbs. Ilse lay exhausted in her furs on the craggy earth, and Louis huddled near Wigliff. Einar worked diligently, relentlessly, with a small bit of dry moss and a stick, shielding his efforts from the storm with his body. His hands seemed little more than gnarled claws, his fingers blackened from frostbite at the tips. Stefano fought off lethargy and struggled to the barbarian’s side. He took Einar’s hands in his and with enormous effort, summoned the last of his healing power. A spear of yellow light enveloped Einar, and when the glow faded his hands were once again whole. He grunted his thanks and returned to the task of building a fire. Stefano crawled back to his spot behind the boulder and wrapped his furs tighter about him. Eventually, his thoughts drifted, and in his mind’s eye he soared above the mountains, surrounded by a dazzling golden light that illuminated the world. Distantly, he realized that he was freezing to death. Praising the Shining One, he stretched out his arms, turned his face to the gleaming sun, and smiled.</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'">*A minor relic, this <em>+1 mace</em> doubles as a divine focus. It is radiant because when she wields it, it casts a white glow that burns the wicked. </span></p><p> <span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="ForceUser, post: 2844100, member: 2785"] [font=Georgia]Einar exhaled, blowing a plume of frosted nettles through his blond beard. Even under a gray sky twisting with thunderheads, he had to squint to discern the scimitar of ice that constituted Askjer Pass. The fissure meandered southeast from the lee side of the northern peak, and its many switchbacks and pitfalls lay concealed from the Northman’s practiced eye. He spat, and globs of spittle fell into his beard and froze. Grunting in annoyance, he pulled a wicked troll-bone knife from a sheath at his belt and began to saw delicately. “Oh, well done,” chortled Louis. The bard stamped his feet impatiently, bored at the delay in progress as the clerics discussed how best to utilize their litanies to protect everyone from the weather. Einar deftly removed a shard of frozen saliva and scowled at the aelfborn’s luxurious and impractical white fox furs. “If water freezes when it meets air, a Vangal finds shelter. But I can’t feel the cold. The shield maiden’s blessing makes the air feel like summer.” “A hazard of continuing to live,” Louis remarked dryly, “Were it not for these magical wards, we’d have surely frozen to death by now.” “You’d have frozen to death, because you’re a fool,” Einar snorted. “An Oski boy of five would live.” “How?” “He’d burrow under the snow,” Wigliff interjected, wading up next to his cousin. “They’re done talking. It’s time to move.” Einar nodded. “That’s preposterous!” The barbarian ignored the bard and trudged toward the horses. Wigliff gave Louis a flat, disinterested glance, then replied, “If you are covered in snow, the heat in your body can’t escape into the air. You stay warm. The spirit folk of the far north know this. They build their cook fires in lodges of ice.” “The [i]far[/i] north? How far north does this land go?” Wigliff merely shrugged and tramped to his steed. “What madness,” Louis muttered. He waddled through a thigh-high drift of snow to his wide-eyed mount and glanced up the pass. The clouds concealed the mountaintops in misty grayness, and the pass looked like the prickly white tongue of some demon god, long and lolling. Though he wasn’t cold, the bard shivered. “Louis,” clipped Ilse as Germanicus cantered past, enthusiastically gouging great clods of white powder and black soil from the frozen earth with every step. The templar’s long, flaxen braids bounced in counterpoint to the black destrier’s gait. Her great helm rested in her lap, visor open, between her scarred plate greaves. Startled by the intrusion of a human voice into the craggy white sheet of emptiness surrounding him, Louis kicked at the stirrup three times before his foot finally found purchase. He hoisted himself shakily into the saddle and thrust his gaze away from looming peaks. [center]~~~~~~~~~~[/center] Ilse brooded. The steep terrain of the pass proved difficult for Germanicus, and Einar insisted several times over the course of the day that they backtrack in a seeming haphazard pattern as he scoured the trail for dangers. Great sheets of snow-burdened ice sat atop and between enormous rocks full of jagged fissures, which looked like nothing so much as the shattered remains of a colossal stone giant’s beard. After Louis had nearly caused an avalanche with his nervous singing, Einar had threatened to break his jaw if he uttered another sound. Since then, all Ilse had heard was the sharp striking of steel-shod hooves on muffled stone and the whipping of the wind past her ears. Since talking was not possible, she collapsed into her thoughts. [i]Vampires, [/i]she seethed, glaring at Stefano as he huddled over his saddle against the bracing wind. There were layers to the theurgist’s secretiveness, and she understood that even now she did not know the full extent of the truth. He wore the silver collar of a church magistrate, as she did, but Stefano defied further categorization. In matters of immediate relevance, he was at once evasive and straightforward, yet when ministering to the Oski he was gentle—a trait which they mistrusted. Ironically, it was Stefano’s association with his own familiar, the raven Avido, which buoyed his standing among the Northmen in spite of his gentility. That the creature spoke the Vangal tongue suggested a pragmatic cleverness on the Reverend’s part which was not readily apparent in his demeanor. In matters of theology he seemed quite brilliant, if conventional, but his arcane powers clearly outshone his divine blessings. And though he seemed reverent of doctrine, he nevertheless projected an air of unspoken iconoclasm which worried her. Ilse knew little of theurgy, but to her the art seemed more suited to some fringe sect of the heterodoxy that the church proper. Ilse’s knowledge of vampires represented the essence of a templar’s training—concise and factual, with an emphasis on achieving destruction. Vampires sought to beguile the mind. Vampires sought to slake their unholy thirst upon human blood. Vampires crawled like spiders in the dark corners of civilization, posing as ordinary people as they lured innocents to their deaths. Vampires crumpled when staked with wood through the heart, and they feared righteousness, holiness and the life-sustaining gaze of the sun. When you turn them, put all your might behind it because they are quick beyond mortal ability. Destroy them with daylight. Incinerate them with fire. Give them no quarter and no opportunity to capture your will. Where Ilse knew action, Stefano spoke of history. [i]Vampires have plagued humanity for over a thousand years,[/i] he had said, [i]but there is no evidence of their existence from before the Reckoning. Have you ever wondered why? No, [/i]Ilse had replied truthfully. [i]It is believed that they came from the north, [/i]he’d continued. [i]According to what is known, they likely originated here, somewhere in Rothland. My mission, in part, is to seek out proof of their northern origin. Why?[/i] Ilse had asked. [i]That we may learn how to better find them and destroy them, [/i] he had replied simply. Germanicus jerked his head violently and flattened his ears. Reflexively, Ilse halted him. She leaned forward in her saddle and whispered to the horse, “What is it, my friend?” Glancing up the pass, she saw that Einar had crouched behind a jagged outcropping of rock, out of the wind, and had laid his longspear on the snow before him. He turned his head back and forth as though trying to hear a sound. “What’s going on?” whispered Louis in her ear. The bard sat poised astride his horse a dozen yards below her. Ilse frowned at him over her shoulder. Louis waved. “It’s okay, you can whisper back. I’ll hear you.” “Einar heard something,” Ilse replied. The barbarian stood up and ambled toward Rurik. They conferred a moment, and then the Northman moved to Stefano. “Einar’s ignoring me. Rurik says there’s danger.” As the bard spoke, the half-giant readied his greataxe, letting it dangle from one huge gauntleted fist. Einar approached Ilse. “Winter men,” he spoke lowly, “Lesser giants. They live in these mountains, hunt in bands.” “Are they dangerous?” “They are fierce. Old ones tell stories of the winter men hunting trolls in packs, like wolves. I heard one call to another. Their voices sound like the cries of warriors dying on the field. They are watching us right now.” Ilse’s skin crawled. She peered ahead and above into the cracks of the world which dwarfed them, but saw nothing except stone and ice on a scale that numbed her senses. “What do we do?” “We prepare ourselves for battle and continue.” She nodded. As Einar shuffled off toward Wigliff, she said, “Wait.” She dug into her belt pouch and produced a pair of plain silver rings. Invoking a litany, she felt divine energy coalesce around her, and with practiced familiarity she willed it into the bands. “Here, wear this. It will protect you from injury. Stay close to me, or the spell will fail.” Appearing awed, Einar reverently placed the ring upon his right hand. Ilse removed her gauntlet and did the same. “Thank you, shield maiden,” he breathed. He bowed his head respectfully and strode toward Wigliff. Up the jagged slope, Stefano summoned litanies of his own, and shrouded himself in arcane energy. Wigliff had produced a polished, twiggy wand, which he gripped tightly. “Prepare for battle,” Ilse whispered to Louis. “Wait, what? What’s going on?” The templar dug her heels into the destrier’s flanks, and he ambled forward slowly, testing each step with a daintiness that belied his massive size. [center]~~~~~~~~~~[/center] Tense hours passed, and most of their magical defenses faded. The sky blackened and belched forth dense flurries of snow that ripped down the canyon in immense white sheets. Even warded from the elements, Stefano began to realize that his unprotected face ached as though a thousand tiny needles stood upright underneath his skin. Spurring his steed, he rode up to Einar. He had to shout to make himself heard over the din. “This is no good! We need to find shelter! It’s too cold, and it’s going to be dark soon! Are there any caves?” “No!” shouted the Vangal over the wind, “No caves! Our enemies are cunning—they will let the storm devour us!” “We can’t worry about them right now! I can feel the cold through my elemental ward! I did not know that was possible!” “The gods are no longer protecting us?” “They are, but we have reached the limits of human endurance. It’s just too cold!” Einar cursed. “Cover your face, prester! Thrym scorns us! I will find a place out of the wind! Come—forward! Up the pass!” “Maybe we should turn around!” “No! Forward, or we die! There is no shelter behind us!” Einar turned and began to fight upward against the icy wind, which cut like shards of glass. Riding further into the teeth of that hellish gale seemed like suicide to Stefano, but he did not argue. He watched as down the trail behind him, swirling snow obscured his horse’s tracks, fanning the dry powder on the ground to smooth-brushed ridges which formed, toppled, and reformed in moments. His companions were now nothing but shadowy silhouettes of riders hunkered over their steeds. Panic gnawed at his stomach as he registered their peril. [i]Bright One[/i], he prayed, [i]deliver us from our folly[/i]. [center]~~~~~~~~~~[/center] Doubled over in her saddle against the wind, Ilse grasped the radiant mace of San Carlo* and concentrated with desperate intensity, forcing lips she could not feel to form the correct syllables of a healing litany. A warm blue glow spread outward from her core, repelling the cold and thawing her extremities. She gasped as fire lanced through her now-feeling body, but within moments the sharp tingling began its inexorable slide back into the dull ache of frostbite. She struggled to stave off despair. Ahead, she saw only the outline of Stefano’s horse, and behind only Wigliff’s. Somewhere ahead, lost in the blistering shroud of snow, Einar worked to save their lives. Ilse fumed at her helplessness against the monstrous adversary which sought to bury them. A single thought scrolled through her head relentlessly—[i]The horses will freeze soon. The horses will freeze.[/i] The bulky shadow in front of Ilse stumbled and pitched its rider into the snow. “Stefano!” she yelled, but her voice could not overpower the wind. She urged Germanicus forward, but before she arrived, Rurik appeared and dragged the priest out of the drift into which he’d been tossed. The giant cradled Stefano gently, like a shepherd would a lamb, and unhooked his thick bearskin cloak to wrap around the priest. He swaddled Stefano like an infant, and then he grabbed the reins of the priest’s horse and handed them to Ilse. Nothing but the bare steel of his armor protected Rurik from the storm now. As they trudged agonizingly forward, Einar appeared bounding through the snow. “Follow me! Hurry!” [center]~~~~~~~~~~[/center] Stefano awoke from numbing sleep and heaved with shivers that wracked his entire body. Stinging pain soared through his limbs, and Ilse grimaced sympathetically as a blue glow faded from her outstretched hand. She stood and walked toward Rurik, who sat with his arms crossed and back against the boulder. The half-giant’s plate armor rattled audibly above the noise of the wind. Nestled in the lee of a gigantic boulder that Einar had located, the party evaded the brunt of the storm, but swirling winds kicked small twisters of snow across the tiny camp as the barbarian struggled to light a fire. Wigliff’s cantrip of flame had failed to sustain itself long enough to be of any use, and Stefano chuckled darkly at the irony of freezing to death inside a ring of everburning torches. Thankfully, he had insisted that Avido stay behind with the Oski. The pampered bird had taken little convincing. Time stumbled interminably, and Stefano once again felt numbness creeping through his limbs. Ilse lay exhausted in her furs on the craggy earth, and Louis huddled near Wigliff. Einar worked diligently, relentlessly, with a small bit of dry moss and a stick, shielding his efforts from the storm with his body. His hands seemed little more than gnarled claws, his fingers blackened from frostbite at the tips. Stefano fought off lethargy and struggled to the barbarian’s side. He took Einar’s hands in his and with enormous effort, summoned the last of his healing power. A spear of yellow light enveloped Einar, and when the glow faded his hands were once again whole. He grunted his thanks and returned to the task of building a fire. Stefano crawled back to his spot behind the boulder and wrapped his furs tighter about him. Eventually, his thoughts drifted, and in his mind’s eye he soared above the mountains, surrounded by a dazzling golden light that illuminated the world. Distantly, he realized that he was freezing to death. Praising the Shining One, he stretched out his arms, turned his face to the gleaming sun, and smiled. *A minor relic, this [i]+1 mace[/i] doubles as a divine focus. It is radiant because when she wields it, it casts a white glow that burns the wicked. [/font] [/QUOTE]
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The Cask of Winter -4 July-
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