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<blockquote data-quote="ForceUser" data-source="post: 2898718" data-attributes="member: 2785"><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">”Louis!” roared Rurik. Choking up his grip on the single-edged Vangal greataxe, Rurik charged the brutish thing that towered over the cowering bard. He felt a thrill of fear lance up his spine as the creature yodeled savagely, but rage pushed him forward into the fray before he realized just how frightening the thing was. Its barrel chest and keg-like belly tottered atop a pair of short, thickly-muscled legs that splayed outward as it hauled back on an enormous iron-banded greatclub. In another moment, it would bring that gigantic hunk of wood down onto Louis’ head with skull-shattering force. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Bellowing, Rurik slammed into the creature like a raging titan, hurling his entire weight into his axe in an overhead arc that split the predawn sky. With the precision of a butcher, he buried the axe head deep in the creature’s torso, cleaving through its collarbone and half a dozen ribs so that only the haft was visible against the backdrop of spraying blood. Its keening cry cut short, the Winter Man gurgled, staggered, and fell to the ground with a heavy thump. Over the sound of his own heaving breath, which reverberated inside his helm like the crashing tide, Rurik heard more unholy cries from overhead. Looking up, a veritable army of white-furred, club-wielding savages bounded down the near-vertical cliff face with eerie skill. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Louis, get up!” Rurik snarled.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Howling, several of the Winter Men leapt the remaining distance to the camp, wildly bawling and swinging their clubs. One ricocheted from wall to boulder, making a whirling attack on Einar’s supine form. As the club crashed down, the barbarian rolled to his right, evading the blow, and suddenly conjured an ax and a dagger into his hands with lightning dexterity. As the creature’s momentum carried it forward, he rolled left again, burying the dagger into its groin to the hilt while simultaneously hooking its ankle with his ax. Leaving the dagger where he buried it, he stood and heaved upward as it flew past, sweeping the brute headfirst into the snow in a single, fluid movement. A gout of winter air burst from his lungs like a cough of smoke, the only sign of his exertion, as he twisted to face the next foe that bore down upon him.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Rurik heard chanting, and then a lance of fire seared a black line of charred fur and flesh between the shoulder blades of one of the creatures. It screamed and turned to face Wigliff, who brandished a polished wand of cherry wood as though it was a sword. Clearly in great pain, the furry giant bellowed at the wizard’s apprentice and staggered toward him, swinging its greatclub as though to ward off any further bolts of fire. Wigliff neatly sidestepped its half-hearted charge and recovered his bow.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">On the ground, Stefano awoke to chaos. Three creatures howled past him, intent on some victim to his right periphery. Without hesitation, the theurgist barked, “<em>Animas occaeco!</em>” and vanished from sight. Then he stood up, stepped away from the fray, and began to analyze the situation.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Louis rolled to his feet and peered at the incoming throng of gigantic furry man-beasts. Summoning the mystic energies that infused his fey being, he pointed dramatically at the mass of Winter Men descending from overhead and spouted a dirty limerick that didn’t make sense, even to him. An umbrella of streaming colors burst above the campsite and engulfed the invading creatures. Several of them dropped their clubs and began to scream, blinded by the glittering faerie dust that coated their now appallingly iridescent forms. With that, Louis moved the hell out of the way of the fighting. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">As Ilse stood, one of the creatures thundered into her ribs with its club, lifting her several feet into the air and tossing her back against a boulder. She gasped and doubled over as her bones splintered and gouged into her organs. Coughing blood, the templar planted her feet, gripped Saint Carlo’s mace in both hands, and smote her enemy with the fury of the gods. White energy cascaded from her calloused hands, drew up the length of the weapon, and coalesced for an instant around the flanged head. As she brought it crashing down, she screamed, “Champion* defend me!” A sickening crunch reverberated through her arms as something hard gave way under the force of the blow, and with a burst of holy radiance, her foe crumpled.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Einar, dodging a clumsy swing from one of his attackers, pitched the ax in his hand across the battlefield and into the throat of a Winter Man which threatened the shield maiden. As the creature dropped its weapon, fell to its knees and grasped the fatal wound with trembling paws, Einar ducked under his attacker’s guard and scooped up his greataxe Angreiðr. The giant-slaying runes upon the weapon smoldered to life at the touch of his hands, splaying green radiance across the gathered combatants. Facing his enemy, he smiled grimly and summoned his rage. </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'">Frostmourne bent Gerdrogg’s wasted figure against the killing winter gale and forced her legs forward, over and over. The hag, frostbitten, sleep-deprived and starving, would not survive for long—very possibly, she would freeze to death in this storm. But that was of no consequence to the sword, provided it reached its goal before she expired. Frostmourne sensed the Sleeper as a burden upon its consciousness, a directionless beacon that frustrated the sword’s perception. Somewhere close, upon this mountain peak, he slumbered. The sword did not know where. Frostmourne controlled its frustration with difficulty, for it could not afford for the hag to lose any more fingers to the black frostbite that welled up from inside its own sheath of cold steel. It could not afford to be deposited in the snow so close to the end of its quest. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Somewhere deep within, Gerdrogg wailed piteously. Frostmourne silenced her with little effort, shoving the hag’s consciousness back down into the dark places of her own psyche. Her constant mewling annoyed the sword, and it longed to be free of her. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Frostmourne crouched the hag’s body beside an upthrust jag of layered stone and planted itself into the snow. It sent its senses out in a black vapor which ignored the wind, seeking, searching. At the center of the miasma, the hag shivered uncontrollably, a fit of convulsions that gave the sword pause. Irritated, it realized that the frail meat sack would die sooner than it had anticipated if it did not seek shelter. Troll dens—many now empty—littered the mountainside, so Frostmourne jerked the hag’s body up and trudged toward one. The blue runes upon the black blade pulsed with anger. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Soon. It must be soon.</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, wielding Angreiðr, carved a swath through the Winter Men with a fury that sent them scuttling like vermin. Rurik, too, fought with vigor, channeling days of anxiety and frustration and fear into great cleaving swings which hacked off limbs and sent sheets of giant blood steaming into the icy air. Ilse, having knitted together her bones and sealed her ruptured organs with a great burst of holy power, fought with tactical precision and weary determination. Wigliff, sensing victory, conserved his <em>wand of scorching ray</em> and peppered their adversaries with a rapid blitz of arrows. Invisible, Stefano moved among his friends and healed broken bones and twisted joints with litanies that summoned golden healing light. When the Winter Men broke ranks and fled, the party pursued. Louis, having shifted his form to that of a true satyr, darted toward their fleeing assailants with fey swiftness. As the Winter Men scrambled back up the sheer slope, he stamped his cloven hoof, wiggled his fingers and spoke, conjuring under the giants a thick slab of grease on the vertical surface of the cliff, some thirty feet up. They fell screaming, and the companions made short, vicious work of them. Angreiðr’s green glow dimmed.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">The adventurers stood panting in the morning sun which now clawed its way over the mountain to the east. Jets of white fog streamed from every mouth into the orange light. No one spoke for some time, but the sense of accomplishment buoyed their spirits. They had needed this victory. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Later, Einar led them up the narrow cleft where water had long ago seeped, frozen, expanded, and split the rock apart. Leading their horses carefully, they spent the better part of the day clinging to the sheer face of the mountain and hoping that the winds would remain steady and continue to blow the storm east over Lake Oski and toward the distant Trollfells, where Frostmourne struggled to reach shelter for the fading hag that bore it. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Late in the day, they came upon a weathered trail covered by stone and ice, which widened to a comfortable eight feet across as it circled upward along the eastern face of the peak. Far below, Hjalprek’s Doom lay like a blanket upon the earth, sloping down to the distant shore of the white-capped lake. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“We’re close now,” was all Einar had said. Their earlier sense of satisfaction became a tired alertness at this announcement. They rubbed their faces, readied their weapons and spells, and trod the path warily. Soon the trail leveled off as it continued through a gap in the mountainside. Ahead, a plateau of rock nestled within a fold in the mount. Upon that plateau stood an unfathomable structure that seemed to pulse with dormant energy. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Gods…” whispered Stefano. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“What is that?” gaped Louis.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“It’s…is that the hall?” asked Rurik.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“I don’t know,” replied Wigliff in a hushed voice. “I have never seen the like.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Whoever this Orvjik was, he was not a man. This was not built by men,” rumbled Einar.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“No,” growled Ilse, “most certainly not.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">A jagged dagger of red-veined crystal stood before them, clawing viscously at the sky. It stood hundreds of feet tall, and perhaps a hundred feet in diameter at its base, which was ringed by massive curving spikes of bone-like material. In the redness of sunset it seemed to glow with hideous vitality, a monument to some unfathomable evil which lurked within it. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Gods, I hope nobody’s home,” said Louis.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">They looked at one another. Rurik began to secure the horses to a rocky outcropping, and Wigliff moved to help him. They prepared in silence, grasping magical foci, loosening wands and scrolls in their containers, sharpening weapons and tightening straps on armor. Louis whistled nervously to himself. When they had finished, Stefano uttered a brief benediction as the final strands of light played across the darkening sky.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Let’s do it,” growled Einar. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">They set to work.</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'">Inside the troll den, Gerdrogg huddled upon a patch of lichen which the trolls had apparently cultivated as bedding. The cave hovel provided shelter from the storm winds which lashed the slope outside, but the coldness on the mountain pervaded everywhere, seeping through the hag’s limbs and into her torso, clutching at her weakly-beating heart. Frostmourne listened for some time as Gerdrogg’s breathing slowed and finally ceased. The hag’s consciousness no longer struggled against it—she had gone.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">A gruesome rage descended over the sword, and it filled the cave with lashing tentacles of pure malice. The lichen wilted, blackened and died; Gerdrogg’s corpse shriveled and sunk in upon itself like rotted fruit. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">In the midst of black hatred for all weak bags of flesh, Frostmourne at first failed to notice the being which had appeared before it. It regarded the sword coolly, with detached interest, for over an hour before stirring.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“You seek the Sleeper,” it said eventually, with a voice as sublime as water eroding stone.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"><strong><em>YES!</em></strong> roared Frostmourne empathically. The being standing before it had the appearance of a nude human woman, but possessed alabaster skin and wild stone-gray hair. Her eyes were flints of onyx, and could the sword have smelled her, it would have inhaled a rich aroma of damp earth and wet iron. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">The oread appeared unmoved by Frostmourne’s anger. “I am the Mountain,” she spoke. “Your presence is a blight. If I help you fulfill your purpose, you must go and never return.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"><strong><em>YESYESAGREEDANYTHINGANYTHINGTAKEMETAKEMETAKEME.</em></strong></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Distastefully, the fey conjured a shroud of tightly-packed earth around the sword and lifted it at arms’ length. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">“Come, then,” she said, and stepped into the earthen wall as though gliding through still water.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'"></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'">Frostmourne exulted.</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'">*i.e. Heironeous</span></p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="ForceUser, post: 2898718, member: 2785"] [font=Georgia]”Louis!” roared Rurik. Choking up his grip on the single-edged Vangal greataxe, Rurik charged the brutish thing that towered over the cowering bard. He felt a thrill of fear lance up his spine as the creature yodeled savagely, but rage pushed him forward into the fray before he realized just how frightening the thing was. Its barrel chest and keg-like belly tottered atop a pair of short, thickly-muscled legs that splayed outward as it hauled back on an enormous iron-banded greatclub. In another moment, it would bring that gigantic hunk of wood down onto Louis’ head with skull-shattering force. Bellowing, Rurik slammed into the creature like a raging titan, hurling his entire weight into his axe in an overhead arc that split the predawn sky. With the precision of a butcher, he buried the axe head deep in the creature’s torso, cleaving through its collarbone and half a dozen ribs so that only the haft was visible against the backdrop of spraying blood. Its keening cry cut short, the Winter Man gurgled, staggered, and fell to the ground with a heavy thump. Over the sound of his own heaving breath, which reverberated inside his helm like the crashing tide, Rurik heard more unholy cries from overhead. Looking up, a veritable army of white-furred, club-wielding savages bounded down the near-vertical cliff face with eerie skill. “Louis, get up!” Rurik snarled. Howling, several of the Winter Men leapt the remaining distance to the camp, wildly bawling and swinging their clubs. One ricocheted from wall to boulder, making a whirling attack on Einar’s supine form. As the club crashed down, the barbarian rolled to his right, evading the blow, and suddenly conjured an ax and a dagger into his hands with lightning dexterity. As the creature’s momentum carried it forward, he rolled left again, burying the dagger into its groin to the hilt while simultaneously hooking its ankle with his ax. Leaving the dagger where he buried it, he stood and heaved upward as it flew past, sweeping the brute headfirst into the snow in a single, fluid movement. A gout of winter air burst from his lungs like a cough of smoke, the only sign of his exertion, as he twisted to face the next foe that bore down upon him. Rurik heard chanting, and then a lance of fire seared a black line of charred fur and flesh between the shoulder blades of one of the creatures. It screamed and turned to face Wigliff, who brandished a polished wand of cherry wood as though it was a sword. Clearly in great pain, the furry giant bellowed at the wizard’s apprentice and staggered toward him, swinging its greatclub as though to ward off any further bolts of fire. Wigliff neatly sidestepped its half-hearted charge and recovered his bow. On the ground, Stefano awoke to chaos. Three creatures howled past him, intent on some victim to his right periphery. Without hesitation, the theurgist barked, “[i]Animas occaeco![/i]” and vanished from sight. Then he stood up, stepped away from the fray, and began to analyze the situation. Louis rolled to his feet and peered at the incoming throng of gigantic furry man-beasts. Summoning the mystic energies that infused his fey being, he pointed dramatically at the mass of Winter Men descending from overhead and spouted a dirty limerick that didn’t make sense, even to him. An umbrella of streaming colors burst above the campsite and engulfed the invading creatures. Several of them dropped their clubs and began to scream, blinded by the glittering faerie dust that coated their now appallingly iridescent forms. With that, Louis moved the hell out of the way of the fighting. As Ilse stood, one of the creatures thundered into her ribs with its club, lifting her several feet into the air and tossing her back against a boulder. She gasped and doubled over as her bones splintered and gouged into her organs. Coughing blood, the templar planted her feet, gripped Saint Carlo’s mace in both hands, and smote her enemy with the fury of the gods. White energy cascaded from her calloused hands, drew up the length of the weapon, and coalesced for an instant around the flanged head. As she brought it crashing down, she screamed, “Champion* defend me!” A sickening crunch reverberated through her arms as something hard gave way under the force of the blow, and with a burst of holy radiance, her foe crumpled. Einar, dodging a clumsy swing from one of his attackers, pitched the ax in his hand across the battlefield and into the throat of a Winter Man which threatened the shield maiden. As the creature dropped its weapon, fell to its knees and grasped the fatal wound with trembling paws, Einar ducked under his attacker’s guard and scooped up his greataxe Angreiðr. The giant-slaying runes upon the weapon smoldered to life at the touch of his hands, splaying green radiance across the gathered combatants. Facing his enemy, he smiled grimly and summoned his rage. [center]~~~~~~~~~~[/center] Frostmourne bent Gerdrogg’s wasted figure against the killing winter gale and forced her legs forward, over and over. The hag, frostbitten, sleep-deprived and starving, would not survive for long—very possibly, she would freeze to death in this storm. But that was of no consequence to the sword, provided it reached its goal before she expired. Frostmourne sensed the Sleeper as a burden upon its consciousness, a directionless beacon that frustrated the sword’s perception. Somewhere close, upon this mountain peak, he slumbered. The sword did not know where. Frostmourne controlled its frustration with difficulty, for it could not afford for the hag to lose any more fingers to the black frostbite that welled up from inside its own sheath of cold steel. It could not afford to be deposited in the snow so close to the end of its quest. Somewhere deep within, Gerdrogg wailed piteously. Frostmourne silenced her with little effort, shoving the hag’s consciousness back down into the dark places of her own psyche. Her constant mewling annoyed the sword, and it longed to be free of her. Frostmourne crouched the hag’s body beside an upthrust jag of layered stone and planted itself into the snow. It sent its senses out in a black vapor which ignored the wind, seeking, searching. At the center of the miasma, the hag shivered uncontrollably, a fit of convulsions that gave the sword pause. Irritated, it realized that the frail meat sack would die sooner than it had anticipated if it did not seek shelter. Troll dens—many now empty—littered the mountainside, so Frostmourne jerked the hag’s body up and trudged toward one. The blue runes upon the black blade pulsed with anger. Soon. It must be soon. [center]~~~~~~~~~~[/center] Einar, wielding Angreiðr, carved a swath through the Winter Men with a fury that sent them scuttling like vermin. Rurik, too, fought with vigor, channeling days of anxiety and frustration and fear into great cleaving swings which hacked off limbs and sent sheets of giant blood steaming into the icy air. Ilse, having knitted together her bones and sealed her ruptured organs with a great burst of holy power, fought with tactical precision and weary determination. Wigliff, sensing victory, conserved his [i]wand of scorching ray[/i] and peppered their adversaries with a rapid blitz of arrows. Invisible, Stefano moved among his friends and healed broken bones and twisted joints with litanies that summoned golden healing light. When the Winter Men broke ranks and fled, the party pursued. Louis, having shifted his form to that of a true satyr, darted toward their fleeing assailants with fey swiftness. As the Winter Men scrambled back up the sheer slope, he stamped his cloven hoof, wiggled his fingers and spoke, conjuring under the giants a thick slab of grease on the vertical surface of the cliff, some thirty feet up. They fell screaming, and the companions made short, vicious work of them. Angreiðr’s green glow dimmed. The adventurers stood panting in the morning sun which now clawed its way over the mountain to the east. Jets of white fog streamed from every mouth into the orange light. No one spoke for some time, but the sense of accomplishment buoyed their spirits. They had needed this victory. Later, Einar led them up the narrow cleft where water had long ago seeped, frozen, expanded, and split the rock apart. Leading their horses carefully, they spent the better part of the day clinging to the sheer face of the mountain and hoping that the winds would remain steady and continue to blow the storm east over Lake Oski and toward the distant Trollfells, where Frostmourne struggled to reach shelter for the fading hag that bore it. Late in the day, they came upon a weathered trail covered by stone and ice, which widened to a comfortable eight feet across as it circled upward along the eastern face of the peak. Far below, Hjalprek’s Doom lay like a blanket upon the earth, sloping down to the distant shore of the white-capped lake. “We’re close now,” was all Einar had said. Their earlier sense of satisfaction became a tired alertness at this announcement. They rubbed their faces, readied their weapons and spells, and trod the path warily. Soon the trail leveled off as it continued through a gap in the mountainside. Ahead, a plateau of rock nestled within a fold in the mount. Upon that plateau stood an unfathomable structure that seemed to pulse with dormant energy. “Gods…” whispered Stefano. “What is that?” gaped Louis. “It’s…is that the hall?” asked Rurik. “I don’t know,” replied Wigliff in a hushed voice. “I have never seen the like.” “Whoever this Orvjik was, he was not a man. This was not built by men,” rumbled Einar. “No,” growled Ilse, “most certainly not.” A jagged dagger of red-veined crystal stood before them, clawing viscously at the sky. It stood hundreds of feet tall, and perhaps a hundred feet in diameter at its base, which was ringed by massive curving spikes of bone-like material. In the redness of sunset it seemed to glow with hideous vitality, a monument to some unfathomable evil which lurked within it. “Gods, I hope nobody’s home,” said Louis. They looked at one another. Rurik began to secure the horses to a rocky outcropping, and Wigliff moved to help him. They prepared in silence, grasping magical foci, loosening wands and scrolls in their containers, sharpening weapons and tightening straps on armor. Louis whistled nervously to himself. When they had finished, Stefano uttered a brief benediction as the final strands of light played across the darkening sky. “Let’s do it,” growled Einar. They set to work. [center]~~~~~~~~~~[/center] Inside the troll den, Gerdrogg huddled upon a patch of lichen which the trolls had apparently cultivated as bedding. The cave hovel provided shelter from the storm winds which lashed the slope outside, but the coldness on the mountain pervaded everywhere, seeping through the hag’s limbs and into her torso, clutching at her weakly-beating heart. Frostmourne listened for some time as Gerdrogg’s breathing slowed and finally ceased. The hag’s consciousness no longer struggled against it—she had gone. A gruesome rage descended over the sword, and it filled the cave with lashing tentacles of pure malice. The lichen wilted, blackened and died; Gerdrogg’s corpse shriveled and sunk in upon itself like rotted fruit. In the midst of black hatred for all weak bags of flesh, Frostmourne at first failed to notice the being which had appeared before it. It regarded the sword coolly, with detached interest, for over an hour before stirring. “You seek the Sleeper,” it said eventually, with a voice as sublime as water eroding stone. [b][i]YES![/i][/b] roared Frostmourne empathically. The being standing before it had the appearance of a nude human woman, but possessed alabaster skin and wild stone-gray hair. Her eyes were flints of onyx, and could the sword have smelled her, it would have inhaled a rich aroma of damp earth and wet iron. The oread appeared unmoved by Frostmourne’s anger. “I am the Mountain,” she spoke. “Your presence is a blight. If I help you fulfill your purpose, you must go and never return.” [b][i]YESYESAGREEDANYTHINGANYTHINGTAKEMETAKEMETAKEME.[/i][/b] Distastefully, the fey conjured a shroud of tightly-packed earth around the sword and lifted it at arms’ length. “Come, then,” she said, and stepped into the earthen wall as though gliding through still water. Frostmourne exulted. *i.e. Heironeous[/font] [/QUOTE]
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The Cask of Winter -4 July-
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