MrAbdiel
   The Saga of Jorunn 
  Part 1 - "That Which Remains" 
 
 Prologue - 5 Marks   

You became a man the day your father died.

The events were not related; not by skeins woven by men, at any rate.  But the gods, fickle and sometimes cruel as they are are not prone to gentleness when they move in the lives of mortals.  Men may build on sand and stone; and the savage sea rises and smashes down all that is not well founded.  That which remains is what is destined; that which is lost to the sea was destined not.

Your thirteen winter was approaching.  You had begun to mature before many of your peers, and enjoyed a defacto ruler status among them as a result of your size; but now most had caught up to you, or near enough.  There was enough strength in your arms and legs that you  felt  like a warrior, but custom forbade anyone taking you seriously in such a manner until you had walked through the  Seax-dalen  - the Valley of Knives.

You remember it well.  A ritual with many similarities to the other blooding rituals of other clans, and tribes.  Your tribe,  Bjornling,  has its throne and King in the city of  Skjold , at the far south western tip of the Norscan peninsular.  Your Clan,  Osgaer , is part of Bjornling; and your village,  Urjarki , is one of four costal villages that host the bulk of your clan's warriors.  All four - Urjarki, Loergen, Nathvir and Vaelmar - participate in the  Seax-dalen  ritual.  Before the ritual day, hunters from all four tribes harass and chase hostile beasts into the calderra in the forest clearing with the jagged dark rock edges like great teeth, or knives.  The only passes easilly in or out are watched to keep the creatures within.  Sometimes, odious troublemakers from the villages are hobbled and tossed in, too - one more beast, among beasts.

All the young men of the villages, and those handful of young women who think themselves strong enough to run and fight and die with men, enter the  Seax-dalen .  No one may leave without a trophy of a kill.  Typically, these kills are the pelts of the confused, cut and starving wolves and snowcats driven into the crater before the ritual.  But often enough, they are the skulls of the outcasts thrown in; and just as often, just as encouraged, a child will bring back the head of one of the other aspirants from another village.  All the mothers of Clan Osgaer hate this day; the fathers both dread and look forward to it. An unworthy son will die, and not be thought of again.  A worthy son will emerge, blooded and victorious.  Your father, Aegir Vulbrakker, had much hope for you.  He pressed your shield into your hands, the morning before; and instructed you not to take the sword with which you had been practicing, but a hatchet instead used for the logsplitting for the fire.

 "The axe will fare you better, out there.  Better for pulling shields; better for the task.  I have not made you cut firewood all these years because I am too lazy to keep my own hearth warm!"   He smiled, when he said this.  It was the last of its kind.  Your mother had called you Jorunn, after her grandfather.  And after this trial, after this test, you would be a man, and your father would give you your second name, and you would no longer be the boy Jorunn, but the warrior Jorunn Aegirsson.

You did not know that when you returned from the trial, he would be dead; and no man of your family would be present to give you your blood-name.  All you knew was the fire in your blood, and your thrill to be permitted, encouraged,  demanded  to take life and spill blood for the first time.  You knew you and your clan-kin, Aran, Byjan, Harald, and the girl warrior Ylva would honor your pact to each other and watch each other's backs.  None of you would leave before the others were blooded and ready.  The boys of the other villages might try; but you would give their eyes to the crows, and livers to the hounds, and guts to the eagles, and tongues to the serpents.  By bloodshed, do the gods make known their will.

How naive, so young, to think the gods felt any need to make their will  known  at all.
 
 
 Spoiler: The First Mark 
Alright, my man Bramble; you're up.  How does the 12 year old Jorunn fare, in this Hunger-Games-esque gauntlet of worthiness?  Does he get isolated in a brawl and have to fight on his own?  Does he stick with his team and deflect all comers?

Most importantly,  what is the nature of his kill?   Does he take the life of another aspirant child from another village?  A tired and lean wolf, trapped in the calderra?
 A shebear, large and threatening, that required his whole gang to fell?  Write as much or as little about that as you like, and I'll show you what I mean afterwards about this being his first of five "marks"!
 
bramblefoot
jorunn and his friends entered the caldera at dawn, as was the custom. the sun crept above the horizon, and the dark pines stood like fingers against the oncoming dawn. jorunn was focused, senses straining to see and hear anything past the wind and the sound of the blood rushing in his ears. he saw a flicker of movement, and the blood surged as a hefty youth with swirling tattoos up his arms came out of the woods, howling madly and wielding a two-handed axe. this was a rival chiefs son, thrasvangr and a worthy kill

jorunn caught the axe on his shield, and buried his hatchet deep in the youths unarmored torso. the youth coughed a mouthful of blood onto jorunns face and collapsed, hands clutching at the hatchet embedded in his torso. jorunn wrenched the hatchet free as a broadhead arrow skimmed his shoulder, adding a trickle of blood to the mass of blood and bits of lung dripping down his face.

after all was said and done, jorunn was now a man, and the skull of the rival chieftans sons head was put on a spike outside the longhouse for the crows to peck out the eyes
MrAbdiel
 It was as quick, and brutal as you were warned it would be.  Thrasvangr's father, the chief of the village of Nathvir, was respected and known; a fierce warrior of whom much was expected and to whom much was owed by others in clan Osgaer.  Thrasvangr himself was a third son, the two before him already grown.  But this boy, desperate to prove himself, had thrown himself at you rashly. He had down so with honor - the hound barks before it bites, and so Thrasvangr's howl as he engaged you was, in retrospect, somewhat respectful.  It alerted you to his attack, and also warned your friends that his assault on you was an invoked, and almost sacred thing.  But all that was for naught; his axe bit your shield, your axe bit his heart, and with a face full of his blood you had your prize.  Thrasvangr's son had died in the proving ritual, and his family had no right to see revenge; so you were safe from that reprisal - that was the theory, anyway.

"Glory to you, Jorunn!" Aran announces and laughs; the shorter of your friends, and the most excitable.  "I had hoped for a wolf; but you have killed a rival.  The gods favor you today!  They favor us all!"

Then an arrow clipped you shoulder, and once again you were under attack.  Byjan, taller and broader than you, catches another arrow on his shield, and spots the vector of attack - two figures in the trees yonder.  "There!  Cowards!  Come down and fight, if you dare!  Or throw down your bows, and be spared."

"I spare no one!" Ylva shrieked; lowering her voice by effort as she worked herself up and sprinted with grace and pace to the trees as arrows whipped around your group.  You had your trophy; but your friends needed their own, and you stayed until it was done.

In the end, Ylva wrestled one of the boys with bows from the tree, and he broke his neck on the way down before the other fled.  Aran got his wolf - a large, healthy one too, though pared away from his pack, and encircled to die by yours.  Byjan lost an eye to another arrow, though its shooter was never found; your friends helped him, bloody and half blind, to a blind alley of stone where a panicked elk had exhausted itself and cut itself badly on the black stone edges of the pit.  Not the most glamorous kill; but Byjan paid his price with his wound, and the beast's antlers were prize enough.  Harald, the fifth of your group, did not do so well.  He called out a passing group from one of the other other villagers, demanding a champion to duel him; and they sent out the only girl of their number, longspear in hand.  Harald was the better warrior, of your friends; lithe and quick and deadly, probably better than you.  But astonishingly, the girl was quicker; with a sword in one hand and axe in the other, he could never get around her jabbing spear guard; except the one time, when she wanted it.  She let him juke around, swept up the spear's butt to strike his chin and stagger him back, then rammed its point through his chest and pulled it out again.  With a spurt of blood, Harald died; and you could do nothing but allow them to take his head, just as you had taken Thasvangr's.

Byjan and Aran had to hold back Ylva.  She raged and swore oaths of loathing; she had eyes for Harald, you all knew.  So you won your manhood, and lost a friend; and returned before the sunset with your prizes, and Haralds things - his body left for the beasts.

Byjan became Byjan "One-Eye" Ivarsson.
Aran became Aran Hvarrsson.
Ylva become Ylva Eruksdottr.

But when you returned, your father was not waiting for you. Your mother, tearful and alone, ran to you and embraced you, bloody as you were.

"Jorunn!  Jorunn, he's dead, he's dead; I feared I would lose you too!"

No warrior's death, for your father Aegir.  No glory on an enemy field; but some awful, unknowable malady.  Your mother  Innora  said he became distressed as they walked back to the encampment where the parents awaited the fate of their children.  He stumbled; his left side seemed to numb, and sag; and he could not speak a word but to slur and fall, dragging her to the ground in the frozen grip of his hands.  An hour later, he was gone; blue face, having swallowed his own tongue.  This, while you were taking another boy's head from his shoulders in the proving place.  The village wise women had no help for you - it was no poison they had seen; but as violent and short as life is in the cold lands of your home, there are some who die for no obvious reason at all.  This is no comfort at all.  If it had been an enemy, you might have sought to kill him; if a god had stained the ground with a cursing mark at his feet, you could atleast have loathed the god.  But there was neither; just an empty space in your house where your father had been, and a head on a pike out the front - your prize, with no one to validate it.  You had not been named Aegirsson.  You held no standing among your people except as your mother's son; and she held only the standing as a widow, which was no standing at all.

But your friends, at least, did not abandon you.  You snuck out with them one night and went halfway to the village of Loergen, and met a skin-marker they had arranged to come and mark you.  Marks in your clan were not given frivolously; wise women and war leaders could command them to be given, as could prophets of the gods; but beyond that, only scars were recognized as earned marks.  That's why they could not involve any of the skin-markers from Urjarki - none of them would give you such an honor-mark without being permitted.  But this mercenary tattoo-artist was happy enough to do so for coin, and once marked it could hardly be taken from you.  So you were not given a name, on the day you earned it; but you were the first of your friends, the first of those young warriors in your village, to receive a mark: a stylized rendering of a great axe, broken against a round shield over your heart, in the same place you had  cut down Thasvangr.

A man with no name was as good as a thrall, in Norsca.  But a man with a mark - well.  Such a man had to command at least a little respect.  Just enough, as it would turn out.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
 The Mark of the Shield -  Gain the talent "Mark of the Shield".
 It's a custom talent I'm creating for this purpose.  It goes like this:

 The first fate point you spend in a day to reroll a failed parry check causes the re-roll to gain a +20% bonus. 
 


Years later, your fortune would have changed a little.  The debacle about your naming was a fact of life, and you had faced prejudice and disrespect; but you had survived, and grown, and no one could deny you were a man just by dint of your physical presense, and your mark.  Your mother had married again - to become the second wife of your father's brother, bringing you and your mother into his larger home in the traditional act of familial care for a dead brother's spouse.  The nature of your mother's actual relationship to the man who was now her husband was mysterious to you; but best kept out of your thoughts.  He treated her kindly enough, and his first wife was not overtly hostile; and that is as good as a widow and her son could ask for.  Theoretically, it was within his power to name you whenever he wanted - then you could be Jorunn Ominsson, and would stand to inherit a portion of his wealth along with your newly acquired step-brothers, Garn and Vardren.  But Omin's kindness did not extend that far.  He did right by your mother by keeping her; and right by your father, too - Aegir's skull was cleaned and kept in his brother's personal effects, now.  You wondered what it would be like to have a brother who would be so devoted to you as to take  your  skull, rather than leave it for the sea, or the wolves, or the worms, if you were struck down in such a way that it was in question if the gates of the the  Neverwar  were closed to you after death.  Perhaps your friends would do so; almost certainly.

You thought of Harald, whose skull was someone else's trophy, now.  What would the gods make of his spirit, then?  Would he become that girl's thrall, after the Neverwar?  Her prisoner?  Was his spirit banished and lost forever, for his failure in life?  The gods may know. They do not say; atleast, not clearly.

But you saw her again, that girl with the spear.  A riotous festival of Clan Osgaer saw most of the population of all four villages come together in Vaelmar, each bringing two effigies out of the eight to worship the gods of Clan Osgaer together with a sacrifice - eight bulls, eight goats, eight horses, eight sheep, eight snakes, eight dogs, eight men, eight women.  The slaughter is quick enough, as you witness it; a semi-circular ramp leads up to an earthen platform high enough for the godsmen of the village to slit the throats of the slaves one at a time and hurl them into the huge firepit.  The animals are killed on the ramp too; though they are butchered and cooked for the feast, only their blood offered to satiate the gods while their flesh is left for men.  There is dancing, and there is drinking, and there is no shortage of excess; couples sneak away from the festivities to secret corners of the village and the wood surrounds, to do those things drink disinhibits them to do. Others use the event as an excuse to brawl barehanded, biting and twisting arms as those around them roar and jeer.

Here, surrounded by your clansmen most of whom are not from your home village, it is a refreshing reprieve from folk knowing your unnamed state.  Most of them just see a young man, feasting and revelling like so many others.  Aran, still the least of your friends, has a way of cunning about him; and he flakes from your group early in the night to pursue the affections of the painted-faced girl dancers of Vaelmar.

"Lucky boy," Byjan comments, and not for the first time.  Scars are not unpopular among your people, but the loss of his left eye has badly impacted his ability to fight well, and removed almost entirely his skull at hurling javelins.  He has spend the last five years learning the shipright's craft, which suits him well enough; and will carry him in wealth even if he ends up doing little plundering himself.  He staves off the melancholy of his half-blindness most of the time, but you know him well enough to detect it in him - and he has little stomach for festivals like these.

Ylva as not so restricted.  She had grown lean, and almost as tall as you; she kept her hair short in blonde braids close to her skull.  She was not being courted as a wife - no one was brave enough to countenance the possiblity - but she gained plenty of attention from the other young men, and was happy enough to entertain it with varying seasons of fickle harshness and muted appreciation.  But she struggled when it came to the other villages in the clan.  She never shook Harald's death from her mind, and could not trust easilly when it came to other villages like this one.  You watch the sustained attempts of the local youths trying to entice her to the firelight dances.  She resists; but her fortification is slowly yielding to the eroding power of mead, and attention.

But there was another warrior-woman, there; one whom you recognized all too well.  When you saw her first, the bloodrush of the proving ritual and perhaps your own youth had made you fail to notice, but she was starkly beautiful; black haired, pail skinned, with a single braid falling between her shoulderblades and sharp, elegant features.  She and her own coterie of lads, who orbit her in hopes of winning her attention before spinning off and settling for that of one of the freeholders' daughters, all clustered on the other side of the massive fire ritual, with the feast tables between and plenty of obstructions.  These are the reasons that Ylva had not seen her.  If she had, there would be blood spilled already; she killed Harald after all, duel or not.  She possessed your fallen friend's skull, somewhere in her belongings wherever she was from.  But she was also more fair than the other women; one of the few who could keep up with the young proven men, or exceed them as you witnessed yourself; and radiating her awareness of that fact.

Byjan dwelled in his melancholy; Ylva slowly conceded towards the advances of the local lads; and the spearwoman kept her own counsel, and that of her kinsmen.  You ate, and drank, and participated in the festivities honoring the gods - but when the time came, there was only one choice where to focus your attention.

 
 Spoiler: The Second Mark 
It's Viking Prom - time to choose your date.

 Ylva  has been your friend since you were children.  She's a warrior like you, though not as skilled; plenty savage, fiery spirited, and blessed/cursed with a changing temperament that is not for the easily discouraged kind of friend, or companion.

 The Spearmaiden  you do not know the name of. You know she was a superior warrior to a friend of yours whom she slew, whom you had considered your better, in the mastery of combat.  She is deadly cool in temperament, as far as you can tell - but more than this, it's hard to know.  She is mysterious - but you could spend this ritual night pursuing her company, if you can pry her away from her hangers-on.

Alternatively, if you choose the noble path of the  bro , your boy  Byjan  has a bad time at events like this and you could forsake the youthful pursuit of pretty women for the noblest alternative - the ancient fantasy viking equivalent of playing COD with a friend who could use the distraction.

How do you spend your time, this evening?  If Jorunn is chasing the attention of either of the girls, how does he try to gain their attention above that of the varying competing guys?  If you choose to the path of the bro, what do you do as an alternative to all this nonsense - sneak off to drink and fish, or set fire to a local shrine as a prank, or something else?
 
 
bramblefoot
 "cmon byjan"  jorunn says, taking him out to the old fishing spot on the docks where they used to fish so many summers ago. he baits the line, and they fish in silence, until there is a mighty tug on jorunns line. jorunn braces and fights the fish for what seems like an eternity, until he's able to pull the fish close enough to harpoon it. the harpoon sinks in, and together byjan and jorunn heft the fish out of the water.

the fish is more like a long eel, with a mouth full of serrated teeth, and a powerful tail that thrashes violently when hauled out. its lambent eye stays locked on jorunn until it dies. the boys together hold it until its motions cease, and they bring it back to the festival

the festival falls silent as the boys bring the fish in, and then the shaman claps his hands  "you boys clearly are blessed, as i was hoping someone would bring one of those in" 

jorunn and byjan are allowed to attend the shaman as he does a ritual. the ritual goes smoothly, but jorunn grunts as his head throbs for a split second, followed by a cackling in his mind
MrAbdiel
 Byjan helped you haul the monstrous eel into the festival, and the local  Vikti  congratulated you and gave the sea-thing a perfunctory rebuke.  You felt something like a sharp wind whip past your right ear, and the strain of pressure between your temples.  Byjan asked if you were alright; and you weren't, at that moment.  But the pain soon passed; and the 'fish' was carved up and added to the feast.

The eye of the eel stares at you from the flames that roast its body, and you can't help but wonder if it would have been better to let it remain riverbound - but Byjan brings you from you reverie.   "You are a good friend, Jorunn."   He is rubbing his bad eye as he says so; always drawn to that blinding scar when speaking of friendship.  And perhaps you are; you are strong, and young, and you might have spent the evening chasing the girls of the clan and vanishing off into some cleft in the woods.  But there would always be girls, and bonfire lit escapades to chase them; but the arrow that took Byjan's eye might have easily been yours, had things turned out a little differently.  And clear and inexplicable instinct tells you that he will give more than his eye, before his hairs turn grey.  Best to show brotherhood to him now; perhaps that would please the gods as much as a sacrifice.

 "Hey.  Hey, I remember you boys."   The new voice comes from a grinning, blond man with a wiry build; his arms and legs covered in elaborate inking.  You remember him too - Ravki, the skin-marker Byjan and the others rustled up from you from Loergen village.  He's here for the gathering in Vaelmar, like you; and only a little drunk.

 "That's a black loach you pulled up there.  Curses the water; blesses the land.  You ought to be rewarded, eh?  Vaelmar will keep its bones for charms; but here... I am bored, and my woman hates me until she is two more hours drunk.  Come; let me mark you for it, so the gods do not forget it when they look upon you." 

An hour later, you and Byjan each have a matching mark - a black loach coiling up in an S shape, pierced through by a harpoon.  Byjan gets his first, you get yours after.  The mark is on your right shoulder blade, so you cannot see it - but you can see your friend's mark, and he can see yours.  And that's alright.  As it would turn out, he would not forget.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
 The Mark of the Loach.   Gain the talent  "Resistance to Magic" .
 


Years passed.  The time came for you to seize your birthright - not as anyone's son, but as a Bjornling, and as a man of the North.  A new dragonship is finished, and the village veterans go about selecting those worthy for this new endevor; seeking youths to mix in with the seasoned killers, so the latter can learn from the former.  You almost didn't make the cut - the old wardogs know the circumstances of your father's death, the lack of naming, and openly do not want you on the ship.  You are a bad omen, they have decided; they will not bring curse onto their ship.  Even the protestations of your step-brothers, Garn and Varden, do not move them.  You have never heard them stand up for you before - relations with you in their house have been tense, though not violent; but you have lived with them long enough that they have some level of fraternal thought for you.  But it's Byjan who makes the difference; Byjan, who in these years has not striven to become a warrior through training and hunting and wargames against the other villages, but a shipwright with the other dragonship makers.  This is the first such boat he has worked on as a fully respected crafting hand; and he pitches a fit when you are to be excluded from the crew.  He breaks the haft of his mallet in a dramatic display during an argument, throwing it to the hard earth and stomping hard on it just below the weighty head.   "You fear that curse? Fear my curse instead!  Cursed be the work of my hand, except that my friend Jorunn take an oar!" 

It's a rash declaration, and one that will cost him esteem among his fellows; but a craftsman's curse is not disrespected.  They were bound by ancient rules among the Bjornlings, who trade more with the other tribes and nations than any other northmen, who value and admire the skills of makers throughout the world, and prize them as slaves.   Hushni , the stunted, dwarvish maker-god, is part of your pantheon; and his ways forbid men from using a crafter's creations in defiance of him.  So there is nothing they can do, except resent him, and take you on; and you become part of the warparty.

Your destination: Truskholm, a village of the Skaelings east down the jagged coast of Norsca.  The relations with the Bjornlings and Skaelings have gone up and down forever; but now they are down, and while the Skaeling ships are away attacking the coast of far Bretonnia, Bjornlings are seizing recompense for ancient slights.  Sixty warriors in your clan's ship, from all four villages; ten ships from different clans in the tribe; six hundred fighting men coming to seize wealth, and set fire, and teach the vaunted Skaeling raiders their need to appease their neighbours, not just sack their enemies.

Your ship's crew receives a long blessing, in the name of the eight gods of your clan.

 Hound , vicious and furious.
 Crow , persistent and stubborn.
 Eagle , cunning and sighted.
 Serpent , wise and wicked.
 Hushni , dwarvish master of made things.
 Bjarna , denmother bear of the hearthfires.
 Straamval , shark-toothed king of the wild sea.
 Old Jormung , who is death, and the road for ancestors.

Byjan bids you farewell, from the beach; and with Ylva, Aran, Garn and Varden by your side, and fifty five others with axes in hand and blood on their minds, you row and ride the wind to Truskholm.

 
 Spoiler: The Third Mark 
Jorunn's first raid.  What's it like, for him?  The target is another Norse village, with people who largely cry out in his language when he strikes them.  The bulk of their warriors are away, and the defenders will be men too old, young or injured to go on the raids.  Does he find he likes the despoiling, and thrives in it?  Or does he find that this kind of slaughter is, necessary as it might be to his way of life, tasteless, or even morally wrong?  Don't feel the need to go nuts on the gory details - we can abstract the worst of the pillaging behaviour.  But a slice of his experience, using his weapons for the first time on a raiding scale, would be great.
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn takes his oar well, and hangs with his friend group as they travel the waves to the settlement. It's dawn when the ships approach the settlement. the beat of the drums is fire in jorunns blood as men pull hard on the oars, pulling the shallow-drafted dragonships into the bay on beaching them on the sand. jorunn is the first over the side, sword and shield out. an arrow notches his ear, and he charges, the red rage boiling over as he bellows his devotion to the warband.

 "forward brothers"  he bellows stridently, hewing through an old man fleeing for his life. his blood sings as something darker calls to him. he sees a horned individual beckon as his blade becomes soaked in blood
MrAbdiel
 It's like...

It's like hunger.  It's not exactly hunger; but it's like hunger.  And this raid was the first time you felt it; gnawing inside you, desperate to be slaked.  And every swing of your blade that found purchase in skin slaked it, but caused it to leap up again stronger than before.   Your first deadly exchange in the raid with an opponent who fought back was over quickly - a one armed man, who tried fairly to defend with his short sword - stood no chance.  A vicious humour steered your actions, and you hacked off his remaining arm and let him stagger back in shock, with Aran laughing wildly at your artistry.  Only when you put the man out of his misery did you realize Aran was elsewhere on the field - it had been your laughter, somehow sounding alien to your own ears.

After that, the memory of the raid dissolves into foggy red flashes.  A horned man - a daemon or mutant - had called you out, and you answered the challenge; exchanging clashing blows and fighting back and forth while trading cuts, and knicks.  At the end, you had disarmed each other; but you had cut your enemy so badly he was weak from bloodlessness. You seized him by the horns, and with a mighty wrench twisted off the head entirely.

Or rather, you didn't.  When the haze passed, you were panting and gasping from exhaustion, splattered with blood.  Your friends were around you, worried in expression, maintaining careful distance; and in your hands, you held a horned helmet that one of the Skaeling marauders might wear.  And at your feet was your opponent - a boy, no more than fifteen winters into his life.  How he had given, as you fought him; how mighty a champion he might have been, if he had lived.  How little glory there was, in killing someone younger and smaller than you.  But it wasn't your choice - you hunted all those who defended, and he came to defend.  May the gods succour him; whoever he was.

 "Jorunn... What happened to you?  Are you... touched?" 

A strange question, when you heard it.  You had gone into the berserker rage - to put on the bear-pelt, as many Bjornlings did.  Many of the other raiders had, too.  But the rage wasn't what they meant; you didn't understand until you had seen yourself in one of the silver plates you looted from a longhouse.  Guided by a clear and inexplicable instinct. You buffed the platter to a shine and gazed within.  Your hair, from roots to tip, had gone snow white. Your eyebrows, your eyelashes, too.  And now that you're looking, your irises too; pearl circles in the centre of bloodshot sclerae.  A gift?  Perhaps so.   Bjarna , the den mother bear and her cubs, have snow-white fur like those ice bears that live on the northern glaciers.

Your father did not name you; but henceforth, your people claimed that the gods did.

 Jorunn Isbjørnsson; Son of the Bear. 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
You have 'gained' the Mutation:  Bizarre Coloration .  Your hair and eyes are ice white.

I was nice to you on this one.  Those 3d10 you rolled were the D1000 for the mutation you earned when you rolled above the 80, since all Norscans have a 20% chance to start with a mutation.  I decided, since this is a solo game and a protagonist should feel good, that I would take the 3d10 you rolled and arrange them in a whichever combination produced a mutation that was interesting and distinctive, but would not preclude your ability to go places and do things in the world.  You rolled a 3, 6, and 1.

So the options were...

631, what you actually rolled.  Multiplication - but bursting into 10 little versions of yourself and merging together later is kind of weird as hell, and hard to take seriously.

613 - Mindless.  You need a brain to be a protagonist, not to be a warpstone zombie.

136 - Bestial Appearance.  Classic, but a little dull and beastmanish.

316 - Extra Limb.  Too bizarre and non heroic to have a vestigial foot sticking out of your buttcheek.

361 - Fast.  Would have given you an extra point of Movement, so it's just good; but frankly, too good, since I'm being so nice and giving you all these options.  If it had been the number you rolled, sure; but with this second-chance draw, it's too good.

And finally, 163 - Bizarre coloration.  Strictly speaking, what you rolled up was "White Face/Head", but playing a berserker mime sounded a little wonky, so I used my powers as DM to make it a little cooler.  A little more Geralt of Rivia or Elric of Melniborne, a little less Marcel Marceau.



ADDITIONALLY!

You gain another Mark when you get home - a tattoo of a rampant bear, taking up most of your chest that is not occupied by the shield tattoo.

 The Mark of the Ice Bear .  Gain the "Mark of the Ice Bear" Talent.

 Mark of the Ice Bear:   If your head is fully visible, you unnerve people as if you possessed the Unsettling talent.

 


There were more raids, as you grew in skill and reputation.  But finally, fatefully, your half brother Garn had the idea that you would so deeply regret; the idea that would get him, and so many others, killed far from home.

A dark emissary came to your village, speaking promises of glory and gold from the gods; a realm of battles to be fought against contenders from many nations, for treasures laid up in ancient tombs.

 "Albion."   Garn says with a grin, to your retinue and yourself.   "Albion, the isle of mist and old magics.  Something's going on there, now; soon there will be ships from all over the world coming to the isles.  The southern kingdoms; the elves; monsters from all places coming to claim powerful treasures and win glory.  We must get there before the Skaeling - we will write the names of the gods on the giant standing stones, and they will reward us!" 

Needless to say, it was not so glorious.  Six hundred men arrived; and no sooner did you land in a marshy harbor, but you found yourself fighting for your life not against men, but against lizards that walked as men.  A hundred of you died, that day; before you could fortify your landing.  Your older step-brother, Varden, was one of them; your elders cut off his head and gave his skull to Garn, for keeping and honoring.  Two weeks later, a clash with a warband of dark clad elves with bladed armor went badly indeed; not only did you lose another hundred of your band, along with many of the leaders you had come to admire and learn from, but some of those were not killed in battle but carried off with hooks and nets.  Ylva was lost, this way; dragged off to wherever the elves made camp, never seen again.  All her screaming and uncommon woman's strength was naught, against such deadly and swift foes.

Greenskins.  Dwarves.  Giants.  You saw, and fought, so many things; and very little of it was glorious, but frightening and desperate and unrewarding.  But no enemies were deadlier than the Tileans.  Surprisingly, men of a kingdom "Remas" you had never heard of were the hardest to overcome and outmaneuver.  You were tasked with leading a midnight raid to burn their boats; but having succeeded, returned to your own camp to find they had run through it and burned yours.  On the field, your kinsmen were superior killers and warriors; but not superior  soldiers ; and when the swarthy men with their terrible long spears blocked up, it was soldiering that mattered.  Trying to fight up through a pikewall was like trying to work your way through the teeth of a dragon to strike at its tongue; desperate, bloody, painful work; it gave you many scars, and cost many Northmen.  A steel-eyed officer on a huge and admirable warhorse trampled Garn to death, in one engagement; so much for his dreams of Albion, and glory.

You had come with your friends, and six hundred kinsmen; but later say around small fires in your broken encampment, with no more than seventy of you capable of fighting, and another seventy who would never stand to fight again.  Elsewhere on the isle, the armies of the other factions were withdrawing in shame and glory, concluding their business.  But with no boats to get home, and no strength to take one from an enemy, it seemed despairingly likely you would die here on this cold, boggy lump of land; a graveyard of hubris, where the gods had abandoned you.

Help would come from an unlikely place - the Tileans send an emmisary who spoke the norse tongue to call our men to speak for your warband, and you were among those to make the meeting.  The Tilean - the handsome, but now hard-worn captain who had ridden down your step-brother - had a proposition for you: both you and they had been whittled down to fragements of strength. But together, with forces combined, you had the strength atleast to escape this awful island.  They knew the location of a diminishing Imperial host from Nordland, with a functional ship remaining - but without your kinsmen's strength, they could not take it, and would die trying.

Tilean mercenaries, and Norscan berserkers; an unlikely alliance was struck, and the desperate gamble was run: a night raid with 65 Norsemen and 88 Tileans, to ambush and kill 344 Imperial soldiers, knights, handgunners.

If only that bloody battle had been the worst thing you had found, in Albion.

 
 Spoiler: The Fourth Mark 
This is your offramp into the Mercenary career!  The Tileans need your night-raiding skills to pull this off, but you also start learning from them.  What part does Jorunn play, in this night raid?  How close to death does he come?  What does he learn from these men of the far south, that improve him as a warrior?
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn did not like this, but it was escape or die here, and he always fancied living. the night battle was gruesome and slogging, but they prevailed. jorunn was in the first rank of the column, an honor rarely afforded him, and narrowly escaped death thrice. the first was when a pistol ball ricocheted off his helm, stunning him and making him stagger out of the line of crossbow fire from the imperial lines.

the second was when an imperial knight attempted to reform the line after norscans made a gap in the imperial center. a tall man astride a muddy courser thundered towards jorunn, lance couched and ready. jorunn let out a bellow, and the horse dumped the man, lance going just a hair under jorunns armpit. jorunn coolly finished the man, and stalked onwards

the third was when they made it to the ship. sailors fought bravely, but were outmatched and unready for the ferocity of the norscan berserkers. a gaffe kissed jorunns stomach, opening a small bleeding line that would heal after the battle ended

the ship was theirs and they set sail, thanking their various gods for a ticket off this rock. jorunn found tileans useful. they dont fight like norscans, but when pushed, they do good enough killing
MrAbdiel
 It's a bloody toll you paid, but bloodier that you charged.  That growling, snarling not-quite-hunger lit your veins on fire and drove you in the heat of battle into dangers your undriven mind might desire you flee from.

 "Aaaugh!" 

Aran, your last living friend in this wretched place, caught a halberd's point to the stomach; and having followed your primal urges and a clear and inexplicable instinct to hare off alone in the combat, you were too deeply engaged with the enemy to attend him.  But the Tilean captain,  Ronaldo , was there; with a flash of his blade as he rides by, he scythes off the head of the halberdier and keeps going.  By the time you got to Aran, he was blacking out, but alive; and the enemy breaking around you, fleeing their camp and dooming themselves to the strange sufferings of the bogs, and the fen beasts, and the damnable Dark Emmisary's promises.  When you see that craven seer again, you'd cut his head off - or so you'd sworn.

Aran slipped into an unwaking sleep.  You were carrying with you now the skulls of your two half-brothers; you had no desire to carry a third. The skull of a kinsman is heavy indeed; and you fought bitterly with the handful of surviving Norscans - a little more than a score of them - to take him on the ship, rather than put him to the axe here, as a mercy.  In the end, the Tileans, who now outnumbered you two to one, sided with you vocally, drawing upon the bonds forged in this strange alliance, and their southern sensibilities that did not tend towards, in their words,  "killing men like maimed horses." 

The ship was alien to you - you knew how to row, but even then you didn't have the accumulated, tireless rower's skill that the older warriors had.  But you knew little of sails, and knots, and a brig of this size; the Tileans seemed to know what they were doing, and your unhappy lot of berserkers boarded at their mercy.  You did, atleast, get to fill the hold with loot - Imperial swords, and halberds, and armor.  Guns were fascinating weapons, but they were limited use to your people - with no way to make their fantastic burning powders, they soon would be clubs, and bad clubs at that.  But the weapons and armor were good steel; not the tool-grade steel your people knew how to forge, but the beautiful, silvery metal that the men of the southern lands knew how to make because the dwarves taught them.  These treasures would not make up for the catastrophe of the voyage; but it was a small comfort.

The plan was to drop your people back at your village, and the Tileans would take the ship and their share of the loot with them.  Outnumbered in this way, it was a fair deal.  They had won your respect, a little; especially Ronaldo, who had proven himself a fierce combatant as well as a commander, and not a quisling hiding behind his champions, as many southern commanders were.  With Aran comatose, you became uneasy friends with the Tilean captain; you took to his language as easilly as he took to yours.  On the voyage, he taught you things about combat you had not considered, and attributed them to his goddess, whom he called Mur-Mid-Jar; a warrior woman and tactician who dwelled among men before returning to the realm of gods.  Your people were very practical, about gods; they would worship all those who came through on their promises, and Mur-Mid-Jar had been responsible for your life, today.  The mark you gained on the ship, at the hands of a Tilean skin-marker; was different in style to those others you had from your own people - but if it brought you the favour of their exotic goddess, you could hardly complain.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
 The Mark of Myrmidia

You gain Common Knowledge: Strategy and Tactics. 
 


But if only you had followed your first thought, and demanded they throw it overboard!  Not the stolen arms or armor or guns, but the main prize that was already in the hull of the ship when you boarded, and only discovered beneath the heaps of empty Imperial supply crates when you were at sea.

A stone box.  They must have used clever tricks with rope, and logs, and mighty men to get it into the hold, as heavy as it was.  It was the length of a man's body, and the width of a man's shoulders; and such a box could only contain one thing - a dead man, and one worth boxing.  It was worth nothing to you, but apparently something to the Imperials; and the Tileans thought some of their scholars would find golden value in its like when they returned to their enviable sunny climate and, so you'd been told, rolling green fruitful hills.  And you owed nothing to the vulgar gods of Albion who had cost you such losses - why should you have cared for the disturbance of their dead one?

But if you  had  cared, if  anyone  on the ship had been sufficiently  willing to risk the blasphemy of tossing it overboard instead of the blasphemy of keeping it, things might have turned out very differently.

Frozen Norscan winds blowing off the mountains into the Sea of Claws fought your ship as you approached a familiar shoreline.  High in the night sky, the gods announced their interest in your return - the white moon, Straamval's moon, was half full like a winking eye; and the pallid green moon (which Norscans call the Black Moon, but your clan also calls the Omen Moon) was full and bright.  The Omen Moon kept its own calender; there was no telling when it would come, or go; but it heralded the intervention of the god, or some great changing event.

From below deck came a great cry, dragging you away from your contemplation of the two moons.  When you went below, it became clear the omens were against you.

The stone coffin had smashed itself apart; within the wreckage stood the withered, bony remant of a man with a crown of black stone and two precious stones in his eye sockets; a huge pearl like you'd never seen, the glittering, eye-watering brightness of the green crystal that the rat-men so desperately traded for.  He stood as a man alive; a man angry, and confused; hunched, wheezing angrilly; his body bound up in slowly unravelling green-crusted silver chains which were themselves tethered to hunks of broken stone that once composed the coffin.

With a soul-wrenching howl and the swipe of a wrist, the dead man swing a spar of stone at the end of one of its tethers, and smashed in a Tilean onlooker's chest - then all was bedlam, and desperate violence.

 
 Spoiler: The Fifth Mark 
You're almost home, but this revenant of ancient Albion rises to assault your Norscan companions and new Tilean allies.
 It is powerful and hideous, but there is nowhere to run - no where but to the freezing ocean water.  How does Jorunn respond to this strange new threat?  Does he retreat to the upper deck to regain his bearings?
 Does he try out some of the imperial weaponry on the undying monstrosity, before realizing it takes almost no damage at all?  Does he lose himself to the berserker rage and throw himself at it, heedless of the outcome?
 
 
bramblefoot
against this monstrosity, discretion was the better part of valor. jorunn snagged as much good imperial steel as he could, and retreated to the top deck.  "we need to make it to the shore, and nothing more!"  he barked to the sailors in norse and tilean. below, he could hear the creature finishing off those below, and would shortly come up to kill the rest.  "hold until the ship makes it to land, and then bail"  he bellows, exhorting the crew to keep the ship going until shore

with a grinding crunch, the monstrosity came up through the wooden hull, and those capable of fighting held the line to ensure that the ship made it to shore. jorunn took a hit to the head as the ship beached and was thrown to the surf. shaking his head to clear it, he decided that the ship was lost, and he fled into the night with his imperial steel

 
 Spoiler: ooc 
can we work something out to say that his compatriots think he's dead instead of fled
 
MrAbdiel
  
 Spoiler: OOC: 

 
 Originally Posted by bramblefoot 
 can we work something out to say that his compatriots think he's dead instead of fled 
 

I do not suspect that will be a problem, my friend. &gt;:)
 


A block of ancient stone on a chain's end clips your head, and the stream of hot blood in your eyes is half blinding as you tumble into the water with your arms full of fine bracers and gorgets and sheathed, filigreed swords.  It takes a great deal of effort to thrash through the rocky surf, the sand just under your toes when your head is just below the surface, and you fight your way to land as the screams echo behind you.  Ronaldo is in there, somewhere; perhaps dead.  Aran, too; lost in his dreamless sleep.  You were a warrior; but this was a fight for daemons and champions of the gods. Could you save either of them?  Likely not.  Clear and inexplicable instinct told you there was nothing more to do but escape onto the frosty cold sand with your limited loot.

But the dead-thing, howling bitterly in the night, would not allow you even this.  The land gave way beneath you; and you plunged into the water of the bay.

How it had been so, you cannot say to this day.  You were on the land; the ship had beached; but then it hadn't.  Without a sense of motion but a mind-churning sense of displacement by forces beyond your ken, the land  shot  out from under your feet to the horizon and you and the ship hit the water again - and the ship, wracked from its impact with rocks now ripped away from its hull, broke in two with a thundercrack and began to sink.  Beneath the freezing waves, trying not to swallow the sea, you felt something burning on your forearm - something searing in your skin, boiling the water around it.  And there, beyond you, the bodies of the other mercenaries and warriors sagged and bobbed and sank in the water; torn and ripped and broken.  There was Aran - his eyes flashing open as the shock of the sea struck him from his sleep into this hideous nightmare.  And there, beneath, was the dead-man; his chains and stone shards which served as weapons before now serving as anchors.  One skeletal arm strained out and seized Aran's ankle, and your friend - always the cheerful and light-spirited one - did not have the strength or the clarity in the moment to contest it.  The revenant sank into the dark, Aran with it; and with them, all hands who sailed on that doomed ship back from cursed, cursed Albion.

All but you.  It cost you everthing.  You could not swim with steel.  You could not even swim with the sword you had looted from the Imperials, or the axe your father gave you, or the wooden shield with the hammered iron rim that your step-father had passed to you before your voyage (even if he would never give you his inheritor-name).  You shed your treasure, and your weapons, and your leather armor, and all your earthly things; and blood-blind, shocked and desperate not to die, swam like a madman through the freezing waters toward the land stolen out from under you once already.

When you got there, you crawled up onto the harsh, gravelly sand and looked at your arm under the light of the Omen moon.  There was a mark, on your inner forearm; a circle, within a circle, within a circle; and each circle marked with strikes at mysterious intervals; three concentric rings with unknown indicators on their edges.  It was of a style common neither to the Norscans, nor the men of the Southern Kingdoms; but you had seen similar shapes and marks on the giant stones of Albion.  What was it?  A promise?  A threat?  A gift?  You knew only that the now sinking monster had given it to you.  But you knew also that the omen moon was not bright enough here to make out the details you could see upon yourself - or over the landscape around you.  Had it changed you in other ways?  What affliction was this?

The only way to answer these questions was to live; the first, and final trial of men.  Freezing, soaked, alone on a dark beach in the middle of the night on the Norscan coast, you make a bid to survive.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Mark of the Revenant.

Gain the Nightvision talent.

It also does other things, which I am not inclined to tell you about at this juncture.

Remove all the items from your trappings - we're starting out at the bottom.  Later, you will be able to say that you did so; and now you are  here. 

You begin play with a poor quality set of clothes, and two ritually cleaned skulls on your belt - Garn's, and Varden's - that you are theoretically obligated to return to their father, or else keep yourself as a kind of guardian.  The skulls of those you respect ought not to be destroyed, or lost and taken as a trophy for an enemy or a home for vermin.
 
 
MrAbdiel
   The Saga of Jorunn 
  Part 1 - "That Which Remains" 
 
 Chapter 1 - Ruin   

The wind is low; if it were high, it would strip the heat from your bones very quickly indeed.  It is bad enough as it is, stalking over the hard and sharp gravel-sand to the thin covering of snow over the permafrost of land.  Behind you is the sea - chunks of broken, waterlogged wood from the wreck of the ship bob about in the surf.  Ahead of you, in the dark, is a thick treeline of hearty pines that look not to have been forested by a tribe in many years.  To your left, the beach carries on and hooks up around the treeline towards elevated ground.  To your right, it continues in a roughly straight run - level, easier travel.

You need to find somewhere warm.  Then, when the relative softness of morning comes, you can figure out where you are, and how to get somewhere else.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Alright, we're rolling, bossman.  Sorry to rob you of your trappings - I promise it's more satisfying to claw up from nothing.  For now, you can head left (to elevated ground along the coast), right (sticking flat along the coast) or try your luck in the forested land ahead.  Alternatively, think of something else you want to do, and make a pitch!  This is your game, after all.
 
 
bramblefoot
shivering and soaked, jorunn took the level ground path. it was easier terrain, and simpler for traversal.  "gods its cold"  he swore, moving fast enough to keep himself warm

he refused to believe he would die here, as there was always a way out. as he walked, he absentmindedly pressed the concentric circle marks in different patterns, seeing if they did anything, and remembering the results
MrAbdiel
 You lope along the coastlike as your skin grows numb; trying to keep your blood hot.    Prodding at the strange new mark seems to provoke no reaction - whatever mystery it denotes, it is not pressure (or cold) that will expose it.  Still, having this foreign mark put on your skin unsolicited, by whatever strange Albion magics caused the disaster of the ship is disconcerting to say the least.

You go for hours; fingers growing stiff forcing you to ball your hands into fists and relax them over and over again; and you try to ignore your wet tunic frozen to your chest.  Finally, though, your instinct begins to pay of: you smell smoke, on the wind; and then after a few more minutes, you notice the glimmer of a campfire.  Moving into the shadow of the coastal trees, you get close enough that you can see the small encampment - two rough, hide tents; a roaring fire being fed by a shivering, burly man sitting on stump while two more stumps sit empty by the fire.  A scrawny deer carcass is opened, beside them; gutted, some of its meat hung up on sticks to freeze in the night, half the work of skinning it done so far.  A hunter's camp - presumably, one or two more men sleep while this one keeps watch.

Unfortunately, you notice one more thing - the tattoos on the man are of a kind you know well.  Skaelings - the tribe your Bjornlings have been feuding with, or were when you left on your doomed mission.  If they are still at throats with each other, meeting them and expecting kindness might be a way to die, or be made a slave.

A skinner's knife pokes out of the stump next to the one on watch; but there's no way to know if there are more or better weapons in one of the tents without commiting to sneaking in.  Atleast, under cover of night and with this unusual clarity of sight in the dark, the gloom is your ally.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: Rolls! 
Alright!  A few rolls to come, and then you can decide how to approach this.

First: give me two  Toughness Rolls at +20 .  You've a lot of walking in the wet and cold to do, and without the trees as a wind break it's brutal; but you grew up in these conditions so you can power thing.  For each failure, take a "fatigue" level, like we use in the other game -  a cumulative -10 for the blistering cold.

After that, I'll ask for a  Perception Roll  at +10 to scan the area visually for opportunities and then, depending on what you want to do (sneak into a tent?
 Creep up on the guy and try to steal the knife?  Throw one of the skulls you're carrying and hope he goes to investigate?) I will ask for more rolls!
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn will stalk silently into the camp, eyes scanning for something closer to hand then that skinners knife. if there is nothing closer, he'll stalk in, and bury said knife in the mans heart

silent move tn 21
 (1d100)[ 19 ] 
MrAbdiel
 You skulk into the modest Skaeling camp, scanning around for a better weapon.  As you stand in the unsuspecting man's shadow, hand reaching for the skinning knife, you spot a woodcutting axe lying at the foot of a pile of split and prepared wood on the other side of the fire.  Too late, now - the man before you is too close for you to withdraw safely, so you grab the knife, clap your hand around his mouth and pull him back against you, and ram the blade swiftly between his ribs.  He cries out under your hand, but the muffled sound dies away with his physical protests.

What you didn't see, what you couldn't, was the inside of the tents; where another hunter around the age of the first sleeps, and a third with the scars and grey showing him many years their senior - resting, but not asleep, and able to see the spectacle of murder unfold.

 "AaaAAH!  AAH DAMN YOU!  DAMN YOU!  AHHH!" 

His hysteria has certainly woken the other man; but that one is taking a few moments to comprehend.  No time for him now.  At a man hands-and-knees scramble, the elder man lurches out of his tent towards the axe.  You're closer; but he's already in motion.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Roll Initiative!  And if you do better than  (1d10+4)[ 8 ] , you can go first.  You could, for example, move to the axe - I'll let you 'quickdraw' it from the ground - and then attack.  But if he beats you, you can bet he's going to scoop it up first.

The skinner's knife is sharp, but it's not a weapon of war - for the purpose of combat, it's a poor quality dagger, so it's -5% to weapon skill.  The axe would be a poor quality hand weapon, since it's more a tool than weapon itself.  But if you end up with both, you're dual wielding dagger and axe, and get a free parry!

Initiative for the startled sleeping hunter, too:  (1d10+3)[ 7 ] .
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn scrambles for the axe, easily beating the hunter and scooping the axe up. he'll make two attacks against the veteran hunter

 (1d10+4)[ 11 ] 

19 and 30 in the ooc, for 13 and 12 wounds respectively
MrAbdiel
 Before he can get close to the axe, you move like liquid death, snatching it up, using the 'chin' of the axe to hook his ankle out from under him so he collapses on his back; then bringing down its block-splitting edge onto the crown of his head, winking out the light in his eyes instantly and requiring a boot of leverage to pull the axe free.

The younger hunter in the tent is just awake enough to witness this, and can only bray in delirious horror as he thrashes out from under a pile of furs, trying to find his feet.

 
 Spoiler: Brutal. 
Two down.  The one that was in the tent is recovering from being asleep; you were silent enough coming into the camp that he's going to miss this turn, and he's still unarmed.  You can charge and make an attack if you like; or if you're feeling merciful, let him get up and run.
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn will drag him out and finish him off. no point in ruining a good pile of sleeping furs. after that, he'll rub a tad bit of blood on the mark, warm up by the fire, and go to sleep
MrAbdiel
 You stalk into the tent, stooping to dip below its frame, put the still bloody knife between your teeth and drag the last Skaeling hunter out of bet by his ankle.  In a moment of bleating panic he swings at you - and you pull your head back as a fistful of arrows, grabbed awkwardly from his quiver inside the camp, miss your face by an inch as they're stabbed at you.  Dumping him on the ground, you put the boot in; then the axe in; and then that's the end of that - three dead Skaelings.

A father, and two sons, maybe?  Still; Skaelings.  And none of the four war gods, Hound, Crow, Eagle or Serpent, demanded you ought to permit yourself to die easily.  Survival was the ultimate act of worship, for your people; martyrdom was for the followers of the southern gods - let them die for their gods, and you live for yours.

With the beach not far away, you strip the bodies and drag them to the shore's edge so the tide will take them, and perhaps deliver them elsewhere.  You took them by ambush, and they were not prepared to fight; neither were they your kin or kith, and so their skulls are no prize.  But you help yourself to what they had.  That much is yours, by right of conquest.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: Loot. 
You gain a  hatchet  (woodcutting tool, counts as a poor quality hand weapon).
2  skinning knives  (a very sharp skinning tool; but in melee, a poor quality dagger.)
2 sets of poor clothes.
1 set of rags (bloodstained and stabbed-through)
1 good quality coat (bearskin)
2 bedrolls
2 small tents
1 waterskin
1 days worth of rations
1 bow, with 18 arrows
1 small trap
1 large trap
1 quarterstaff
10 yards of rope
1 set of leather bracers and hide vest (leather jack)
2 large sacks
1 backpack
2 untanned deer skins.
 


You feed the fire with logs your foes harvested for you; dry out your wet clothes, change into some dry ones; feel the heat coming back into your limbs and body.  You drag some blood over the strange mark on your arm - the blood beads and runs off it like water on wax, weirdly repelled by it.  You are no shaman, but none of your gods decline blood in any fashion.  Strange.

Gaining your bearings, you cast your eyes down the shore, the way you were going.  That way is east.  If there are Skaelings camping here, you are a good deal further east than you thought - probably in the unpatrolled wilderness between Bjorning and Skaeling territories.  That means it's a longer trek back the way you came to Bjorning territory, but atleast you would soon be in the homeland of your tribe, and from there could navigate back to your village.  On the other hand, the Skaeling must have a village less than a day along the way you were already going.  If your marks are covered, they may not know you are Bjornling; and if you are lucky, the politics between tribes will have changed while you were away, and there will be no tribe-war to worry about anyway.  But east will definitely take you to the closest village, with the risk of it being possibly enemy territory, and the reward of being able to trade some of what you've looted there.  West will take you back towards friendly ground; but it's going to be a three day journey atleast before you hit a village, if you are where you think you are.

You sleep in the diminishing warmth of the fire, rugged up in furs taken as blood gelt.    In the morning, the tide has taken the bodies of the men - perhaps to the deep, where  Straamval  will feast on them.  But the tide has brought something, too.  Guided down to the waterline by a clear and inexplicable instinct, you notice a dark, waterlogged circle of wood with its hammered iron rim laying in the sand.  A shield -  your  shield, in fact, tossed onto the sand with a few scraps of driftwood from the wreck.  Perhaps  Straamval , that hungry shark who swims in the dark and whose passage causes the shearing tides, appreciated your incidental offering, after all.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: Which Way, Northern Man? 
East to what is likely the Skaeling village this hunters were from; west for a much longer journey back toward home territory.  Or north, into the woods, seeking adventure, now that your situation is less desperate!

Oh!  And you  gain 150XP  for this brutal and efficient overcoming of your first obstacle.
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn thanks straamval for the shield back, dresses, and heads east, packing up his kit before leaving. he keeps a weather eye for any tracks or such, and keeps an ear for sounds. no reason to get cocky, after nearly freezing his buns off, and killing three men
MrAbdiel
  
 Spoiler: OOC: 
With a night's rest in warm conditions and nothing spoiling it, you can clear off that fatigue.
 


In the morning, with you gather up the camp.  It's too much to fit in the one pack you have; but with the quarterstaff lashed to the top of it with the rope and the sacks counterbalancing either end, you strike out with your loot jangling either side of you.  The shield given to you by your step father has improbably returned to you; though the injustice of the wreck has still taken the axe your father gave you, not to mention poor stricken Aran, and the loot you had won from the Imperials with your Tilean allies.  Still, if the trajectory can be trusted, the gods have tested you harshly and now they are releasing their fickle grip, tightening on someone else - the Skaelings in your path, it seems.

Setting off took longer than you wanted; getting the fire to start to cook some of the deer left overnight in the preserving cold is the kind of task usually kicked to less capable warriors on such a venture who need to prove their value in ways not measured in iron.  You pass some men casting their nets into the surf to catch the shallow water fish; they give you minimal glances, but focus mostly on their work, and let you pass by without comment.  You consider asking them where you are; you weigh the benefits of knowing that item versus needless interaction with the Skaelings and the chance of something going awry.  But before you need to decide, a crawling  recognition makes its way up your spine.  You round a spar of dark coastal stone to see the coastal village; the steep slope into the town square... the fresh, unweathered longhouses, some still under construction.

The cluttered piles of burned junk wood, cast to piles around the village.

This is Truskholm; this is the first settlement you pillaged.  Time has passed, and they have rebuilt.  It is strange that fate should throw you here; but with your tribe markings covered, the likelihood that any of the Skaelings here recognized you as a Bjornling, let alone the raiders who came on the sea for them, is low.  But not nil.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: Options! 
You're in the rebuilt village of Truskholm, mostly recovered after you plundered it as part of your rite of passage as a warrior.  It likely has a trader with wares, village elders with local information, and most things you can imagine a village might have.  It also has houses and homes that ostensibly belong to a tribe you've been in conflict with, so you can decide if you feel bad about taking from them.

If it factors into your imagination, the village looks like it can accomodate between 50 and 100 people.  It's a big spread, but that's longhouses for you; without more info, that's the guess you have.

If you want to find out more information, you can give me a Gossip roll at +20 and give me an idea what you're trying to find out!
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn walks into truskholm, playing it cool. he stops to sell the deer hides, and to try find a blacksmith with a better weapon then the axe he got from the hunters. he'll chat up people, face always concealed behind the bearskin cloaks hood

gossip roll
 (1d100)[ 37 ] 
MrAbdiel
 You're treated with suspicion, as an outside in this place; but you have the stature and the shield of a warrior, and despite distrusting looks, you are mostly left to your devices.  You find one chummy drunk who doesn't know better, however; with a skin of mead in his lap, he chats your ear off about the woes of his life - his woman ran off with an Aesling skald - before being coached to answer your questions.

 "Eh?  Blacksmith?  Ehhh... Decent enough, but not a talented one.  Thralls with the secrets of steel in their hands are hard to come by, and expensive to trade for.  Some of the raiding boys came back with good steel weapons from the Nordland raids, but they're mostly keeping them.  But hey, my father used to say if you want a good weapon, you trade with the dwarves.  Har har!" 

You don't get the joke. More than that, it's less than useful advice - you have no idea where the closest dwarf hold is, and classically the sons of the mountain do not have ideal relationship with Norscans, even clans as affably progressive as yours.  They do not forgive a little opportunistic raiding, like sensible folk do.  But the drunk seems to suggest that there are good weapons on the warriors, and presumably in their homes in the town - just not being fresh forged, for the secrets of steel are not widespread among your tribes.

You see one such weapon on the wall, mounted above the trader's display when you go to sell the hides - a short, sharp, polished steel blade with barely any nicks at all; and its matching ruddy red scabbard.

 "Not bad hides, traveller.  Untanned, but I can have Jorgen and his sons sort them out when they get back from their own hunt."   He offers you a seven silver  sceatta  for the four hides.  Having no skill for haggling nor wish to draw extra attention to yourself, it feels like a good enough offer.

 
 Spoiler: Currency in Norsca! 
I know seven silver sounds very low, but bear with me!  Norscans do not mint gold coins; they melt gold down to make jewelry, and crowns, and embellishments for armor.  But if you ended up carrying enough silver it became obnoxious, you might find a gem trader, and carry your excess wealth in that convenient way.  If you wanted to spend a lot of your adventure in Norsca and become wealthy, that's going to involve probably keeping large amounts of lumber, thralls, livestock, and mammoth ivory!

They do make use of silver coins, though coin currency is still somewhat novel among them.  Lots of their trade is done with barter; but for simplicity in our campaign, we'll probably do most transactions in silver  sceatta , and the bronze  pfennig .  There's 12  pfennigs  to the  sceatta , just as their are pennies in a shilling.  But the purchasing power of a  sceatta  in Norsca is roughly that of 15 Shillings in the empire - so a Handweapon (if you found someone willing to sell), worth 10GP in the empire (or 200 Shillings), is worth about 13  sceatta  (sc) and four  pfennigs .

Are you confused yet?  I know, I know.  Bear with me for a while, I think it'll add a little to the depth of the setting.  If it gets too janky, we'll just convert to regular currency later and I'll get over it; but I like all these little culture details.
 


The shop keep, a short but barrel chested man named Gunnr, notices you eying the sword.

 "Fair, isn't it?  I will give it to my son, when he is of age.  Barely takes to the teat, right now; but eventually.  Can I interest you in anything, as you pass?  I have dried meat, and saltfish.  If you're heading west to the thrallmarket at Zagdhelm, you'll want to take extra rations.  It's a rough cold, out there; keep the furnace full of tinder, I say."  
bramblefoot
 "how much for three days rations?"  jorunn asks calmly. at the news of zagdhelm, he'll press the man for any extra info he may have
MrAbdiel
  "It would run a single  sceatta , and some copper; but I'll wave the copper, if you speak well of me to King Death if you see him first." 

This is a Skaeling expression; or more properly, a seafarer's expression common to a great raiding clan like the Skaeling and pirates in the seas all around the Old World.  King Death is just their icon for the god of death, whom your clan knows as the ending dragon, Old Jormung.  But to give someone a favor  to speak well if you meet King Death first  is a simply hospitality blessing for strangers; wish well of me, as I wish of you, and perhaps the gods will hear.

Surrendering back one of your precious  sceatta  leaves you with six, but now you have all you need to travel for three days.  But six is still a good amount; enough to buy a couple of strong thralls, perhaps with useful skills to navigate the wilderness.  Crossing overland back to Bjornling territory will be a difficult trek indeed; having made your way that distance by ship before, and having some idea of Norsca's bitter landscape, it is likely to take ten or more days.  You have trained to be an asset in war at the shoulders of other warriors, themselves supported by the uplifting apparatus of the clan; you have not been afforded the time or mentorship to live well in the wild and cold places of the land.  Without a companion, or a hireling, or atleast a thrall with some survival skills, it is likely to be a very difficult and taxing trek indeed.

You press for information about Zagdhelm; and Gunnr's reply is short, and wondering.   "Yes,  Zadghelm  - with the thrallmarket, west and between the forest and mountains.  Though they are beset by - er..."   He trails off, having grown suspicious of the hooded stranger asking these questions.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
You can press for more information about Zagdhelm, and what it is beset by; but if you want to press, make me a Charm or Gossip check, at +0.  Failure means, even supplying you information, the storekeep Gunnr seems to you to have grown wary of your hooded, solitary appearance and questions.  That may bear fruit later.
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn will drop the subject, and leave after collecting his rations. he'll head west, to zagdhelm
MrAbdiel
 Now that you know east takes you into Skaeling territory, striking out west must necessarily bring you closer to Bjornling land; though admittedly tracking east and west is a little difficult with the overland path you are forced to take, even with the loose directions of Zadghelm and the occasional sniff of a beaten path.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: Give me some dice! 
Give me an outdoor survival check, for this first day's travel; to keep on track, to find a safe site to camp, etc.

In addition to that, give me a straight d100; a general fortune of the road check, which cannot be fate-pointed.
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn beds down for the night

 (1d100)[ 41 ] 
 (1d100)[ 16 ] 
MrAbdiel
 You struggle to find any game or forage to sooth your stomach after a day's hard hike west, even if you're confident you've navigated correctly.  Fortunately, you bought rations to deal with this eventuality; and they're not even the worst you've eaten.

You're disappointed in yourself, though, when you wake; for you are not alone.  A scrawny wolf, missing clumps of fur and sporting scratches and bite marks from a combination of mange and conflict with other creatures, has joined you.  Unable to battle the cold with its compromised coat, it has snuck into your tent and fallen asleep in its contained warmth.  It sleeps, shivering a little; quite desperate indeed to have risked this partnership.  It's vulnerable - you could kill it, and its meat would feed you for the day even though the meat of predators isn't particularly flavorful.  Or you could show it mercy - not a traditional virtue of your people, but one present in your array of human feeling all the same.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: Options! 
A fail on the Outdoor Survival roll, so you use one day of rations but you didn't pike it so bad you got lost.  But the luck roll came out pretty good; so that'll work for you.

If you want to kill it, you can do so for free, and you'll be fed for the day.  If you want to try to  befriend  it, that'll be an Animal Care roll.  Normally you'd need Charm Animal; but it's pretty desperate.  After that, give me another Outdoor Survival, and then a Perception roll for  certain events  of the next day.
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn will attempt to show the wolf mercy. if that doesnt work, well its dinner time

animal care
 (1d100)[ 36 ] 

outdoor survival

 (1d100)[ 2 ] 

perception

 (1d100)[ 77 ] 
MrAbdiel
 You have never needed to, before; but you read the animal's behaviour, and try to cater to it some.  You wake it with some saltfish in your palm, and placid and morose, it nibbles it up; though you suspect the profusion of salt to preserve it is not ideal for the beast.  It is sick; and without special medicines the likes of which you do not know, the best you can offer it is real meat, and some sips of water splashed out from your waterskin.  It overs a reedy little whine it its throat, and accepts your kindness; complaining only a little when you rise to pack up camp.

It's in more luck than you are on the road, when your eyes spot a deformation in the snow where a rabbit has dug a hasty burrow.  Giving it a good stomp on top and bracing yourself, you plant your weight down and snatch the scrawny beast up when it bolts for its life, breaking its neck and having it over it spit that afternoon.  A welcome break from rations - and fresh meat for the pathetic, but inoffensive wolf that nibbles up the gizzards and cuts you toss him.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
No need to spend rations today!
 


But as the snow continues to fall, it obscures the remnants of track you've been relying on to guide yourself towards Zagdhelm.  It takes all your focus and concentration not to veer off and become lost; and while you accomplish that, the sacrifice of your senses costs you.

There are three of them, surrounding you before you realize; leaning out of the shade of the trees and rocks about you having followed you for, you guess, perhaps half a mile, catching up only now.  Mutants; wretches, deformed and rejected; unworthy of a tribe, striving only to live, never to prove themselves to gods or clan.  Pathetic.  But here you were, with them around you: a horrific bloody skeleton containing a sagging collection of wet organs; a man whose skin and body entire seem to have been turned into jagged glass; and a third man, whose body... seems not to have changed at all.  The first two carry clubs made from the limbs of trees- the crystal-man hoisting his with easy, the repulsive skeleton wretch barely lifting his.  The third, the leader, you think, has a rough leather quiver on his back, with spares like the javelin in his hand.  They do not call a warning, asking you to surrender.  The mean to kill you, if you do no kill them.

 
 Spoiler: ROLL INITIATIVE! 
  SkellyboyUnnervingVs32  - (1d100)[ 48 ]  Unnerved!
  SkellyboyInitiative  - (1d10+4)[ 6 ] 
  TheGlassManUnnervingVs36  - (1d100)[ 75 ]  Unnerved!
  TheGlassManInitiative  - (1d10+3)[ 13 ] 
  TheJavelineerVs36  - (1d100)[ 32 ] 
  TheJavelineerInitiative  - (1d10+4)[ 14 ] 

If your initiative comes out higher than all of them, you can go right away.  The wolf is following you, but not tamed and able to take orders just yet; you'll have to wait and see what it thinks of all of this.
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn gawks for a second at them, but a second means all the world in the trenches of combat. after that second has passed, he lets out a bellow and attacks the javelin-wielding mutant

 (1d10+4)[ 12 ] 
 
 Spoiler: ooc 
i assume i have my shield out, so i get a free parry
 
MrAbdiel
 With a howl of his own, the javelineer cranks back his arm, aiming to compensate against your shield, and flings his weapon...

 
 Spoiler: Javelin! 
  vs36  - (1d100)[ 91 ] , +10 for aim and -10 for shield included.  If it hits,  (1d10+3)[ 7 ]  damage.
 


...though you easily duck it, and it sail on to embed in a snowdrift behind you.

The glass man, whose features are unreadable as they glimmer and shine with the light off the snow, hesitates to charge you; instead, he shifts sideways  to guard his leader, crouching defensively.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: Your turn! 
The Glass Man has moved between you and the Javelineer, so he's impeding a charge.  You could charge him, but he has taken a parry stance to prepare to receive you.

The Skeleton-Man has yet to act, though he also seems unnerved in his miserable posture.
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn will charge the mutant he's dubbed organ meat, and make a chop at him. he slips on the snow, and nearly goes prone, but keeps his feet

 (1d100)[ 92 ] 
 (1d10+4)[ 5 ] 
MrAbdiel
 The grotesquery skitters back on the snow as you come for it; then makes an almost ginger swing with his club.  You lean away from it, not  enacting the labor of parrying such a feeble strike.

 
 Spoiler: Attack! 
  vs11  - (1d100)[ 72 ]  for  (1d10+2)[ 7 ] .
 


The skinless, fleshless creature makes a pitiful warble for aid; though his companions are not particularly forthcoming.  While the Glass Man shuffles forward, club held defensively, the javelineer makes a risky throw into the melee; a second shaft whipping by without really endangering you.

 
 Spoiler: Rolls! 
  vs16  - (1d100)[ 87 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 10 ]  with the javelin.  Glass Man moves towards Jorunn, and takes parrying stance again

Oh, and attempting to save off Unnerving:
Glass Man  (1d100)[ 60 ] .
Skellybo  (1d100)[ 88 ] .

Nope!  Your turn again!
 


Your new wolf friend dances back from this combat, ears drooping in trepidation, tracking the combat with distress. 
bramblefoot
jorunn will make two attacks against organ meat, hoping to drop him before glass man can come to help.  "get in the fight, damn you"  he yells at the wolf

 (2d100)[ 81 ][ 34 ](115) 
 (1d10+4)[ 14 ] 
 (1d10+4)[ 11 ] 
MrAbdiel
 The mangy wolf makes a mournful  roowoowooowoo ; its experience in combat, it seems, less than favorable, and it fear of harm too strong for it to commit.

Your blow crashes into the skeleton-man, cracking ribs and jostling guts; and he releases pathetic wheeze while trying to raise a reasonable defense.  The javelineer gives up his effort of engaging from range - he draws the half of what might once have been a good sword, but is now broken off halfway down the length to make a very poor one indeed.  As he does so, his companion, the glassy juggernaut, charges in and swings for your lower back with his club!

 
 Spoiler: OOC: Rolls! 
  BoneyVs11  - (1d100)[ 75 ]  for  (1d10+2)[ 9 ] .
  GlassyVs21  - (1d100)[ 83 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 8 ] .

  BoneyCourage  - (1d100)[ 94 ] 
  GlassyCourage  - (1d100)[ 18 ] 

Gosh, these guys have bad targets to hit; but they've also rolled garbage.  Can't catch a break!  Atleast the Glass Man seems less unnerved - now you're ganged up on in the melee, with the poor pathetic wolf unable to muster the lupine courage to commit to combat.
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn will make one attack on bonesy, hopefully finishing him off, and then move to attack glassy

 (1d100)[ 67 ] 
 (1d10+4)[ 12 ] 
 (1d100)[ 12 ] 
 (1d10+4)[ 14 ] 
MrAbdiel
 The repulsive skeleton, whose flesh seems to have already fled him, manages to weave back from your executing blow, with the crystalline opponent crowding into your vision, bombarding your senses with prismatic glare coming off the snow.  Furious, you turn your attention his way, strike aside his incoming blow, then bring down your stolen axe with vengeful fury on the attacker's arm.  There is no satisfying wet smack of flesh, but there is a somehow gruesome sound of glass cracking and crazing as shards fly, and the mutant's arm goes slack to its side, the wound glowing orange and bubbling with molten glass rushing from it like an arterial flow.  Wailing with a weirdly human throat, the creature has the presence of mind to pick up his dropped club with the other hand and bring it to bear on you, just as the skeleton does the same; the pair hammering you with nuisance blows.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
First Organ Meat hits your left arm for 5 damage (down to 1, after your TB of 4); then  the Man of Glass hits that same arm for 6 (down to 2, after your TB).  But you can attempt a parry and dodge to these blows, to negate even this small damage!
 


A clear and inexplicable instinct warns you these two, furious as they are, are not your greatest danger; your instinct to charge the other first was right, though they impeded it.  Now with club in hand, standing in the snow, the mutant starts to bark and froth; eyes growing bloodshot, biting at the skin of his club and the skin of his wrist in wild hate as he draws up his anger, just as you have done in the past.

The mangy wolf seems so slowly find its will, now; going from nervous disengagement to slowly assured then concentrated, warning barking at the berserker.  And soon it's apparent why - not only does he grow mad with anger, insensible to the instinct to survive, but he grows taller, his arms and legs longer.  You hear bones clicking as they rearrange themselves; tufts of dull grey fur stabbing through his skin in clusters until he is covered in mats of it, his face pushing out into a lupine muzzle dripping with saliva and full of fangs as fierce as the claws on his hands.

A  were .  A man touched by the gods, perhaps the  Hound , and given the blood and soul of an animal.  He will surely charge you, in a moment; and you must wonder what such a monstrosity might do, if you have to consider its friends as well!

 
 Spoiler: Your Turn! 
The "Javelineer" spends this turn entering  Frenzy , which triggers his  were  mutation.  He is now considerably more threatening!
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn curses, and will attempt to parry and dodge the attacks. then he'll make two attacks on organ meat in hopes of finishing him off

parry

 (1d100)[ 35 ] 

dodge

 (1d100)[ 8 ] 
 (2d100)[ 46 ][ 44 ](90) 
 (1d10+4)[ 6 ] 
 (1d10+4)[ 12 ] 
MrAbdiel
 Two blows crash into the wretched mess of bone and organ meat; the first blow smashing through its shoulder and shearing off one skeletal arm, the next crunching through the exposed ribcage and into the panic-beating heart within, topping him over backward and ending his pathetic existence.  Oozing molten glass from the jagged stump of a shoulder, the vengeful mutant with a body of glinting crystal brings down a punishing blow toward your head just as the bounding wolf-creature behind you roars into combat, swiping with its massive claws at your exposed back.  The mangy wolf, rather than becoming afraid at this, seems to become impassioned by it - a wolf that hates its own kind, perhaps, though it cannot manage to lay fangs on the monstrosity.

As you defend yourself, your heart hammers in your chest.  You think you can finish off the Man of Glass - but what of this monster?  Have you come all this way, just to die in the snow and be fed on by a slavering monster?  The very thought touches your heart with defiant fury... and a clear and inexplicable instinct urges you that rage does not  belong  to animals; it belongs to men, like  you. 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Two big hits to defend against this turn - 14 and 13 damage.  But after that, I will offer you, this one time, an opportunity to enter  Frenzy  for free, instead of taking a round to do so; if you choose.
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn will dodge and parry, and take a swift attack as the rage boils over inside

dodge
 (1d100)[ 72 ] 

parry
 (1d100)[ 2 ] 

attacks
 (2d100)[ 17 ][ 91 ](108) 
 (1d10+5)[ 7 ] 
 (1d10+5)[ 12 ] 
MrAbdiel
 Another chop at the Man of Glass throws jagged chips of him into the air; his body tough to crack but brittle with leverage; and he recoils away from a blow that, properly twisted, might have split him in half.  As he totters back, you slap away the club from his hand and he lets it loose; falling back to the ground and turning to try to crawl away with his one arm and molten-slag stump leaving a trail behind him.  You might have given chase, but then the other one, the wild and hideous wolf creature is upon you; almost too fast for you to comprehend.  Most of the blow that comes in merely rakes across your shield, but even the tail end of the slash leaves agonizing, gory gouges up your bicep and shoulder; gobbets of blood splashing away from you into the snow.  Turning to confront this deadly foe more fully, giving him now the respect a true enemy deserves, you feel the fury come up from the floor of your guts and boil into your head until red fills your eyes, and a shout leaves your mouth - not a shout but a scream, not a scream but a roar.

But it's... not like last time.  It's not like the times you've raged; not like when you sacked Truskholm, or fought the Imperial dogs in Albion, or any time inbetween.  The rage comes up, and fills you, but pushes on your body from within and you feel it stretching you, threatening to split you entirely from within.  More than that, you see it in the eyes of the wolf-man who towered over you a moment ago, but now looks up at you; the frenzied warrior insensible to fear as you have become now, but trepidatious in your expanding presence.  You feel the stitches of your clothing splitting and bursting, as you lunge forward.  When you strike, and the wolfman dances away, you see your hand holding the hatched - a huge, clawed hand holding the weapon's whole haft; your arm and hand covered in fur as snow-white as your hair, and eyes.  But your fury will not let you relent, and you barrel onward following the missed swing with an instinct to bite; and your mouth - or rather, your muzzle, your  jaws , crash down on the wolf's shoulder and you taste its blood and muscle tearing beneath your fangs.  As you do, the mangy wolf picks up on the sense of your frenzy and lunches up to latch its jaws on the back of the man-wolf's knee; writhing and biting, adding insult to your significant injury.

It swipes back, in its own desperation; one claw slashing narrow lines in the hide of the wolf below it, while its teeth bite into your shoulder in kind; but your shoulder is now a bulwark of muscle and fur, and not so easily damaged.  Never have you felt more powerful; never more deadly and masterful over the world. You must  kill  this creature; and then, its pitiful ally crawling away; and daemons take all the  why , and  how , that would delay you!

 
 Spoiler: Surprise! 
Well, this isn't something I expected when I first thought about your adventure, but it's what the dice demanded.  Rolled up fair and square.  Remember when I made you roll that 20% chance to be a mutant, and we did your mutation?  Well, on top of that, Norscan characters who start with a mutation ALSO have a 10% chance of being ... more.  And I wanted that to be a surprise if it came up, and low and friggen behold...  https://forums.giantitp.com/showsing...&amp;postcount=269 

Jorunn is an  Were ; specifically, a   Bjornwernar  ; a Werebear.  This does two main things to a starting character.

The first is that it sets your Fate Points to Zero.  Since this is a solo game and there's no need to balance the game against other player characters who might feel put out,  we're not going to worry about that, so your Fate Points stay the same. 

The second is that it dramatically alters how your Frenzy talent works.  Normally, Frenzy is... pretty bad.

 Normal Frenzy: Spend a round psyching up.  Next round you lose control and go berserk.   +10 Strength and Willpower, but -10 Weapon Skill and Intelligence .  Can only make all out attacks, charge attacks or swift attacks; can't flee or retreat.  Lasts until combat is over.  

That's alright, but a -10WS is a really big price to pay for those small bumps to Str and WP.  But a Werecreature, when they Frenzy, gets the following:

 +10 WS
+10 S
+10 T
+20 Ag
-10 Int
-10 WP
-20 Fel
+1 Attack
+5 Wounds
+1 Move

And replace skills and talents with:

Skills: Concealment, Follow Trail, Perception, Silent Move, Swim
Talents: Keen Senses, Natural Weapons, Night Vision 

So instead of becoming a little stronger and stronger of will, you become a reckless killing machine half-bear.  The only real downside compared to normal frenzy is the reduced WP in that state, which will matter only when dealing with certain spells and effects that target WP.  As it stands, it means you become signficantly more deadly, especially with that extra attack - which is why I asked you to roll that third swing.

Also worth noting is Natural Weapons, which means you are considered to always be armed with a handweapon  for everything except parrying .  So right now, you have that hand weapon and shield and they're still important for generating that free parry; but you're attacking with your bulk, and claws, and teeth, without that pesking -5WS for poor quality on the axe.

If any part of that isn't clear, let me know; I know it's a bombshell, but I hope the surprise was a welcome one.  I tried to foreshadow it a bit with all the bear imagery and the white hair mutation; but now you're a were polar bear, and if you're anything like me you will find that sick as hell.

You do need to parry this wolf boy's attack, though you now have an extra 5 wounds to burn even if you fail.  The glass man withdraws and starts crawling away.  You may now, at your leisure, attack three times and rip this guy apart.
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn cackles through a mouth full of blood, and will make three attacks on the wolf-man. his heavy claws scything through meat and muscle like a hot knife through butter.  "come to die, have you!"  he crows

parry

 (1d100)[ 96 ] 

attacks

 (3d100)[ 17 ][ 50 ][ 5 ](72) 
 (1d10+6)[ 11 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 11 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 16 ] 
MrAbdiel
 Your little ally, seeming so small now when he was almost your size a moment ago, releases his grip on the towering wolfman just in time for your display of gore.  Dropping shield and hatchet, your massive paws rise to grab top and bottom jaws of the wolfman, your strength powering through his bite pressure and quickly detatching him from you with an audible, dislocating  crack.   His howl becomes a yelp, just long enough for your claws to slash across his throat and pour blood down his chest and to the snow - a mortal blow, with the rage leaving his eyes as he knows it.  But mortality is not enough; and with one massive hand clutched around the enemy's broken muzzle and another dug in under his collarbone, you rip him open; snapping away bones and innards and leaving a grotesque pile of insides while the hollowed, exposed chest chavity smokes in the cold air.  Heart shredded to pulp by this maneuver, he goes slack; his body remaining in its half man half wolf form even in death.

Your roar of triumph shakes the trees; and with no enemies left, the blood haze begins to fade; and the feeling of unstoppable power in your blood sizzles down; and within moments you are yourself again; but exhausted, and bleeding, and surrounded by bodies.  The Glass Man has bled to death; his strange blood cooled into a glazed streak in the snow terminating at his still corpse.  The slain skeletal monstrosity cannot look much worse in death than in life; but it, too, is destroyed.

The wolf, still mangy, still  somewhat pathetic, joined in the battle by the end; but in the aftermath, he sniffs at the bodies and recoils; knowing by instinct not to eat the flesh of mutants.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Gain 250XP for this brutal revelation.  You are presently on 4 wounds remaining, I believe.
 


You are not trained in medicines; and if you were, you couldn't address a wound on your back.  But the blood isn't rolling off you; so it doesn't seem mortal... yet.  You pick through the bodies, but find little spoil worth taking; the clubs are just choice chunks of wood.  But they had to be staying somewhere - they had to have chosen this ambush point for a reason...

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Give me a +20 Perception test, to scout about for the mutant's camp.  Failing that, you'll have no choice but to forge on (for two days) towards Zagdhelm; or go back (one day) to Truskholm.
 
 
 
 Spoiler: Oh, how do those Extra Wounds work, you ask? 
I'm going with "they appear 'full' when you change, and they disappear with whatever damage they took when you change back".  So you gained 5 "Temporary" wounds, the wolfman mauled you for 3 of them; but those 3 points of damage and the two untaken wounds went away when you turned back, so you're back at the 4 wounds you were on when you got whacked the one time. We'll call that a kind of.. mild regeneration.
 
bramblefoot
jorunn will stalk around the wilderness looking for their camp. his blood is up, and he wants no further scuffles. he finds nothing, and continues to zagdhelm

perception
 (1d100)[ 91 ] 
MrAbdiel
 You scout about the area, following tracks as best you can; but all you find is a crummy, cold calmfire and a pot of boiled tree-bark; a testament to how desperate these mutants were.  They must have moved south towards Truskholm, then spotted you on the way and stalked you back here, intending to kill and eat you.  But now they are dead, and you are not; may all fools end this way.  With no other options, you and your skittish lupine tag-a-long continue west towards Zadghelm.  When the sun begins to fall, you painstakingly set up one of your tents, and struggle to light a warming fire.  Every action that involves twisting or moving or shifting stresses the tears on your back, and spikes you with pain.  With a stomach moderately full of rations, you drift off to difficult sleep.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Down one more shot of rations; but you heal 1 Wound overnight, so you should be up to 5.  Fortunately, you weren't reduced to 3 or fewer wounds, which would have rendered you Heavilly Wounded and only able to regen 1 wound per week!
 


But the morning doesn't bring much relief.  When you wake to the pathetic wolf licking your face and stir painfully to look outside, you see that the sun has neglected to rise; in its place are dense grey clouds, and curls of snow-laden wind that you know well precede a considerable fall.

You skip breakfast, pack with haste, and start on the road; the biting winds kept off you skin by the trophy-furs you took from the hunters, and push on towards Zadghelm.  You have little choice; turning back, away from the storm, would drive you towards Truskholm, where certainly the town has learned of the fate of their hunting party and put together the circumstances in which a stranger sold them skins in the same timeframe.  If you can get to Zagdhelm before the blizzard hits in full, you will be safe for a time; but if you are caught on the road and it really comes down, you will certainly perish in the frost.  So what choice do you have? You push on, at a jog when you can; sparing your energy and embittered by the pain of your wounds.

The snow is coming down, and your best hope based on the descriptions you were given is that Zagdhelm is just a couple of hours further west.  But an opportunity presents itself - off the road, on a slope of ground cleared by hand, is a small log house with an empty animal pen beside it, and smoke rising from its circular chimney.  A freeholder's home - whoever lives there has likely taken their animals inside against the coming blizzard, preparing to wait it out.  But the presense of such a home at all suggests Zagdhelm must be as close as you hope.

Options lay themselves before you, and time to choose one runs out.

The homestead is closer; you could go there and seek hospitality (or force that hospitality on the bluff that they won't fight you, wounded as you are).  But if those who live there are strange people or become hostile in the time you may end up trapped by the snows, you will be in more danger than you would have been in Zadghelm; a thrall market enjoys the enforced peace of a trading hub that provincial homesteads do not.  An ambitious farmer might simply kill you in your sleep rather than risk your threatening presense, but it's much less likely a boarding house operator in Zagdhelm would do the same.

...But what good is a warm bed in Zadghelm if you freeze to death on the road, having hoped the storm wouldn't be so bad or wouldn't last so long, and so chose to risk it?

 
 Spoiler: OOC: Options 
 Option A:  Check the homestead.  You can do this with a  concealment roll  if you want to approach sneaky like, though if spotted this is much more suspicious behaviour; or simply walk up and make yourself known for a more civil approach.  This may put you at the mercy of whoever lives there.

 Option B:  Try to push hard on the road hoping to get to Zadghelm before the snow boxes you in.  Zadghelm is safer, but you're gambling the weather will not become foul; and the worst scenario of all is being stuck in a small tent in a blizzard, which tempts a cold death.  But if you want to try pushing on, give me a Toughness roll to keep up a good pace.
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn will push on, huddling in his furs as he curses the weather

toughness roll

 (1d100)[ 79 ] 
MrAbdiel
 Growling a curse to the weather - and in the same breath, a prayer to  Bjarna  the she-bear with whom you now hold new shocking kinship, to keep you in sure footing as you move westward, toward hearth, toward home.  Slowly the stony path before you fades entirely into white powder; only the cut way through the trees guiding you on; and after a while, with feet numbed to blocks of marble and skin so cold you fear your blood is turning to rubies in your veins, you finally can see nothing at all.  All is white; but the knowledge that slowing will mean you are buried in slow and lost to the cold drives you on, with your mangy wolf scuffing along behind you in your snow-carved wake.  At last, you shut your eyes as the freezing wind threatens to pearl your eyeballs; and a moment later your eyelids and frosted closed.  You feel tilt when your numb feet catch something, and the snow and earth races up to smash into you; and for a few more exhausted feet, you crawl in the way you think is west.  Then comes the darkness; and a dream of warmth.

 
 Spoiler: You Dream... 
"That's right, Jorunn.  This is the one."

You sit, so young and bright eyed that dreams of glory have not yet come into your head, and all you want to do is climb trees and catch snowhares.  The snow is heavy and thick outside; when it stops, the hares will be trying to kick open their tunnels and that is the best time to snatch them up, if you are quick enough.  But you are forbidden to go out in the blizzard; you are inside, in front of the fire.  It's no  climbing-a-tree , but time with this man, who seems to you so big he must hold up the world, is also good.  He holds an axe in each hand; both have short hafts, but one has a plain, squared head and the other has a narrower band of steel which sweeps down into the axe's 'beard'.  It's also fancier; it has carved runes in it, not like the runes you see around town.  Runes belonging to whomever the axe was made by, before your father killed them, and took it as a prize.

"This is a tool, and this one is a weapon.  Both can kill; both can cut wood.  But this one is made to cut wood, and this one is made to kill.  It is the same for men, as axes.  Some men are made to cut wood.  Others -"
 


You lay on the floor in an unfamiliar longhouse; the remnants of a meagre feast being doled out to hardy men as others lay out their bedrolls.  You are heaped infront of a fireplace beneath your furs; you are shivering, but alive; the mangy wolf sleeping on top of your feet, lending them its warmth.

"You're up.  Damn - I had bet another man a  sceatta  that you would not wake.  The last rider back through the gate had found you buried in snow just outside the boundary stone, nothing but the tip of your axe to tell you were there, and this mutt yarping away.  Tried to put it away for you so it wouldn't be stolen; but your fingers seemed frozen around the half, or else gripped like Old King Death."

The speaker is a little older than you; a wiry young warrior with markings suggesting he is from the mountainous Vanaheimlings, sipping a mug of hot mead as he chats away.  Attention drawn to your hand, you look down under the furs and discover, indeed, your hand is still gripped tight around the haft of the axe.  But not the woodcutter's axe that has served you in these last days.  It is the bearded axe that your father gave you that he won so long ago; the one you carried into your trial, so ill-fated as to see you emerge to your father's death.

The axe that you had to release to the deep black of the sea, to survive the horrid wreck in the freezing sea.  How is it possible, that it is here now?  This is the second item returned to you from the fickle ocean, this time far from the shore where it could feasibly have happened by chance, and this one not likely to ever float on a wave anyway.

Is this a blessing from the gods... Or something of which you should be wary?  The answers, still, are not clear.  Your story grows only more complicated; never simpler.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: Zadghelm 
You're holed up in a longhouse, to wait out the blizzard; safe, apparently surviving.  And somehow, your old axe has found its way back to you.

It's likely to be at least a day of isolation before the snow stops and the market can resume.  If you have any questions for these travellers who have come here for the Thrallmarket from many tribes and clans, now is a good time for gossip/charm rolls.  Otherwise, you can have another day of rest (for another 1 wound back), and decide what you're hoping to look for at this Thrallmarket; after which I'll set the scene for you.
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn jerks awake, and then relaxes.  "thought i was dead for a second"  he jokes, slinging the axe back in his belt. jorunn will take it easy for the day, gaining another wound back
MrAbdiel
 You keep a low profile and recover for the day, your drive to survive having paid off.  Your eyes watch the room, and those assembled here; Aeslings, Skaelings, Vanaheimlings... even some Bjornlings like yourself, though you suspect from the great city of Skjold, as they seem well provisioned and you recognize none of their markings as the regional clans you know.  It's not a particularly festive arrangement; no one drinks to excess, and everyone's eyes are on everyone else.  Norscan clans are not a naturally united bunch, and a 'neutral' ground like a Thrallmarket only restrains that so much; but there is no deviation from that quiet simmer of tension.

The day after, the blizzard breaks; a handful of the Vanaheimlings bore through the snow heaped at the door, and the local Skaelings with the responsibility to facilitate the Thrallmarket in process are already well underway clearing, preparing, lighting warming bonfires.  You let the other warriors, the ones who are not recovering from such vicious damage, head out first; the less attention you draw to yourself, the better.  But then you emerge, and the village of Zagdhelm lies before you; a  great circular array of huts and longhouses with a village 'square' dotted with recently stoked bonfires; and a field of tents pitched around and between all the structures.  In the square itself, the assembled tribes have their banners planted, and present their wares - live and otherwise - for purchase.

 
 Spoiler: Points of Interest in Zadghelm 
You can investigate any, or all of these points, in sequence.  It's a large market, but a small enough affair you won't miss out on any today.

- The Aesling Sale Block
- The Vanaheimling Sale Block
- The Skaeling Sale Block
- The Bjornling Sale Block
- The  Vikti 's Hut  (i.e., the local Skaeling Shaman)
- The Chaos Dwarf Delegation
- Shrine Of Kharnath (Primary Skaeling Deity)
- Shrine Of the Chained Maiden (Local minor deity)
- Ring of Proving (Pitfighting and Mercenary recruitment)
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn will wander the markets, looking for a healer thrall to patch him up, and check the stalls in no particular order. he'll also check the chaos dwarf stall, though he's prolly too poor to afford anything in there
MrAbdiel
   
 Spoiler: OOC: A Polite Warning For Readers 
I don't normally do trigger warnings as a matter of principle, but when we're coming up on a slave market in a game, it's worth making a note, just for anyone who happens to be glancing through this thread who might recoil.

Slavery is bad and wrong.  In the world of Warhammer, it is practiced by the worse people in the world, as well as some runners up.
 The fact that this system has classes for thralls and slaves and slavers is neither an endorsement of those behaviours in real life or a minimization of their historical evils; either by myself, or my noble player here, or a reader, or the designers of WFRP2e.

That said, while I don't intend here (or ever) to run a game that has an ongoing side feature of the players trading slaves and exploiting them in one way or another, I don't have any intention of bubble-wrapping the worst parts of this dark fantasy setting.  If a man gets chopped in half by a demon, he's getting chopped in half.  If Jorunn needs to purchase a thrall to hunt rabbits in his journey or protect him while he sleeps or tend to his horrible werewolf wounds, that's what's gonna happen; and on account of none of these people being real, I'll construct those scenes and those NPC's and I'll be privileged for the opportunity to do so.

Slavery bad; stories that glorify slavery disgusting; stories that feature bad or disgusting things are just part of an honest approach to fantasy.

- MrAbdiel.
 
 

You walk the rows of thralls, eying them over as you go.  If you were buying a horse, this would be complex.  There are secrets about a horse's hooves, and teeth, a buyer ought to know before taking out his lucre.  But humans are humans; and as an inflictor of damage, you can tell damage on humans, as well as which might have the skills their sellers claim they do by the quality of their hands, and muscles.

There are about forty thralls for sale; these have distinguished themselves by surviving to be sold here.  They all look predictably sorry as a rule, but you pass over those that are particularly undernourished.  Those might be fed and made to work the land on a freehold, but they'd be no good to you in the days to come.  You winnow out those with no usable skills, or obvious weaknesses of form, until you are choosing between those who have something you offer you - they speak enough Norscan to not require constant violent supervision, they do not look immediately eager to flee into the wilderness and die cold rather than live in service, and you are able to learn from their handlers something about what they, atleast, claim to have done in their life before capture.  And they are not so outrageously valuable.

 The Aeslings , the ritually scarred and horrific maniacs they are, have come this way from the far east of Norsca - perhaps it is their proximity to the frightful Kurgan that is responsible for their particularly wicked aspect.  Of those of interest from their mess are two strong fighters - a  Bretonnian Man-At-Arms  and a  Kislevite Kossar .  Both look strong and young, though the Bretonnian likely has less disruptive spirit in him (they are all slaves to their dukes and kings already), while the Kislevite is more used to surviving in harsh cold wilderness already.  They have with them also a  Dwarf Peasant  whom, you are given to understand, was a colonist of the Norse Dwarves who strayed too far from their encampment.  He has a common man's suite of skills, which means he might be useful handling and training that mangy wolf... but dwarves make bad thralls.  They do not long tolerate the collar, so their captors tend to work them to death quickly rather than risk the stunted ones developing the spirit required to kill them in their sleep.  All are male; each of these would cost three  sceatta .

 The Vanaheimlings  are high mountain dwellers from the jagged uplands north of both the Bjornlings and the Skaeling.  They are tall, rough folk even by Norscan standards; with few words to mince, but a patient indifference to the games of dealers and hagglers.  Of their captives, three stand out, all snatched up from the same ill fated adventuring convoy that made its way into the mountains to perish.  The two men are a  Mediator  and a  Deepwatcher ; the first a kind of negotiator between castes or classes (who apparently failed to talk his way out of this) and the second a member of a guild of explorers and adventurers that originated in Tilea and has flung its chapters across the Old World.  The former possesses a quick tongue and a talent for language and deal making, the latter has the skills of a fighting man and one accustomed to navigating deep places.  The third is a woman who claims to be a  Bounty Hunter , though what bounty was worth going into the Vanaheim Mountains, she refuses to say.  She certainly has tracking and stalking skills; and seems capable enough, especially for a woman.   Your people, the Bjornlings, are somewhat more open minded about skilledness than other tribes; and if the other tribes are willing to sell a female thrall to you for two  sceatta  while the men cost three, then all the better for your pocket.

 The Bjornlings  are a party from the great port town of  Skjorn , from which raiding ships go out to seek thralls and plunder even as Marienburg trading vessels come in to buy ivory and fur.  These are the most 'social' of tribes, though that doesn't say much to the Southerners who see all Norscans as undifferentiated thugs - typical Southerners, all so soft and overeducated.  Their offerings are plucked up from the Nordland coast: a  Rat Catcher  and  Miner , both women whose versatile skillsets are likely to be overlooked when they are sold off to a Freehold somewhere that needs them only for their obedience and plot-toil, and a man who has withstood considerable beating without giving back, but holds his bruised self with quiet dignity - a servant of one of the Southmen's gods, you are told.  Perhaps good luck, if their gods can be persauded to work with yours.  This  Initiate  has displayed no supernatural blessing, but priests and such often have training in medicine, among the southern peoples.  He may be a candidate for your healer-thrall.  The Bjornings see enough value in all these captives they want three  sceatta  for each.

 The Skaelings  you already know well; legendary sea reavers and constant rivals of your people, whom they see as soft and worldly.  They have more thralls to offer, since they haven't had to go so far; but they also have a greater preponderance of Norscans they have captured.  It is harder to take a train of thralls across the country if they are native to that country; they are more prone and capable to run off, but since the Skaelings host this Thrall Market, they have the privilege.  They possess a female  Pilgrim , snatched up from just north of Couronne after she had completed her journey to that walled city and, foolishly, decided to witness the sea before going back to her home.  A male  Burgher , who seems protective enough of the pilgrim that he might be her paramour but has little in his array of city-living skills to defend her from this awful fate.  And a male  Student , who knows the letters of the southmen and, like the Initiate, some of the healing mysteries of those book-loving people.

In your currently isolated position, you would be disinclined to take on native Norse thralls.  They, like you, are desperately seeking home, and have at least as much chance of you of finding theirs, if they can only escape.  But two of them strike your interest, neither for good reasons.

One of the Skaeling slaves is the girl you remember - a young woman now, of course.  She does not have the tight blond fighter's braid, and the imperious look has been wiped off her face.  The Skaeling are selling her as an  Entertainer , who knows how to dance and might serve a freeholder in adjacent ways... but  you  know this woman is a  Bondswoman ; sworn to the Jarl of your clan, Osgaer, and a capable enough fighter to have taken your friend Harald's skull in the bloody rite when you were children... and Harald, at the time, was better than you were.  This women is riding the Skaeling expectation of her weakness, since the  Hound's  way is not available to her and she is forced to tread the path of the  Serpent .  If they had known she was an enemy warrior, they might have killed her, or ritually humiliated her in some fashion to ensure she did not avenge herself upon them.

The other, it grieves you to see, is  your old friend  Byjan  .  You are a long way from the firelit ritual in Nathvir village, where you and he snuck away from the festivities to catch that black devil-loach.  He is still thick bodied; strong, though perhaps less coordinated that he would need to be to be a fine warrior.  He has lost his eyepatch, somewhere; the ghastly pucker of the socket, where he lost his eye to an arrow during your blooding rite, stares out at the world with as much literal emptiness as his remaining eye has emotional vacancy.  The last time you had seen him, you were pushing off in the boat he had a hand in making; your place on its deck very much due to his protestations.

 
 Spoiler: Unbidden Memory. 
  "You fear that curse? Fear my curse instead! Cursed be the work of my hand, except that my friend Jorunn take an oar!"  
 


But that voyage had been cursed, and you were its only survivor.  Though now, perhaps even that's not completely true - for here are two slaves of your clan, Clan Osgaer of the Bjornlings, who must have fallen to some terrible raid by the Skaelings in your absence.  What has become of your village?  Your mother, your step-father?  Are they dead?  Are they slaves also?  Byjan, and perhaps the warrior-woman may know... but you can hardly ask such things, in the presense of the thrallherds.  Only purchasing them, and speaking in a subtler moment, may yield such answers.  The Skaelings are offering all these female thralls for two  sceatta  each, and the males for three  sceatta  each.  Byjan is a skilled shipwright, and that should command a better price... but, you expect, no Skaeling wants to go board on a ship worked on by an enslaved Bjornling.  A wise precaution, you imagine; may all their ships fall to flinders under them, in the deep waters.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: "Shopping". 
You have 6  sceatta , which is enough for two thralls - though if you had wanted to try to pawn more of your acquired possessions or barter with those, you might try to sell them off to other warriors, with a  Gossip  roll to find interested parties for each piece of gear; or a  Haggle  roll to try to get one of the thrall traders to respect the barter value of an item.
 
  
bramblefoot
Jorunn will attempt to sell off one of the bedrolls to someone who may need it.

After the bedroll is sold, and depending on how much sceatta he gets, he will pick up the bounty hunter, the mediator and byjan if able
MrAbdiel
 After a short round of trading with an Aesling bondsman for your spare bedroll, you manage to come away with another twelve  sceatta  in your palm.  In a big market, or with much more time, it might have been twenty; but your options are narrow, and opportunities few; and with eighteen silver pieces in your palm with the printed faces of six different Norscan kings staring up from them, you splash out and purchase some thralls.  You come away with three - a former bounty hunter, a former mediator, and a former shipwright.

You take them aside from the blocks, where the iron collars around their necks are removed and they each rub gingerly at the harsh chafing it has left on them.  The woman bounty hunter is on the younger side; like you, in the early twenties of seasons; with some bredth to her shoulders suggesting the presence of sufficient skill to do her job in many circumstances.  Her eyes are copper brown; and her hair which had been a darker brown has been clipped back close to her skull in an uneven scruff of short locks.  The handler selling her to you told you her name was  Marlene , if the name of thralls is important to you.

The mediator is a man of middle age, build stocky but going to lean with his recent sufferings; his shoulders particularly rich with bruises suggesting he tried to talk his way out of captivity many times and talked his way into extra beatings.  His eyes are beady and dark, but not inherently untrustworthy; light brown hair short and knotted halfway to hell in his present condition.  He might once have had an earing in the right ear; but it seems to have been removed rather viciously, leaving a piece of the lobe missing.  Once, he was called  Liebwen ; though he waits sullenly to find out what he is called now.

The tradesman you already know - your old friend  Byjan  has been spared the clipping of his hair, so it is a messy tangle of dark brown dominating the right side of his head.  He is a big man, and time and his captivity have not changed that; and he regards you uncertainly with his one eye, hesitant to look at you too directly; aware of his vulnerability with that one eye, and perhaps used to having it threatened.  In your hooded and guarded state, it seems he has not detected who you are, yet.

The thralls shiver; they are dressed in rags and tattered blankets sufficient to keep them warm enough for sale, but it will be a test of endurance for them to travel long distances like this.  But they are the ones who survived to here, from wherever they were captured - perhaps they're strong stuff.

You also have ten  sceatta  remaining in your palm - more than enough for one or a few more thralls, or else perhaps some items purchased to help you on your way, if you can find them.  If you don't end up acquiring one of the thralls with skill to look at your wound, your choice might be to check in with the  Vikti  shaman and pay them for their medicine and blessing.

But first, your thralls wait on your first words to them - waiting to learn if they will suffer more, or less; for you to set the tone of their ongoing nightmare. 
bramblefoot
jorunn will speak to the thralls in a low voice.  "let me be clear. if you dont harm me, i dont harm you. you can keep your names, and I'll treat you right."  he will move to byjan, and show his face, holding a finger to his lips.  "what happened?"  he whispers

after the debacle, he'll move to check the local stands for weapons and such, and dish out the spare clothes he has to byjan and the bounty hunter.  "need you two strong for the coming trek"  he explains levelly

he'll also buy the initiate, and look for like rations and shtuff in case the bounty hunter cant scrounge game

 
 Spoiler: ooc 
im letting the mediator handle the bartering
 
MrAbdiel
 The Initiate's name is  Ortel ; a man just barely young enough to still be regarded as a  young man  with hair and beard prematurely greyed.  He has been robbed of personal effects including holy icons, so it is not obvious which god or gods he serves; and he doesn't assume you and interested, as you take him into your growing coalition of the willing and unwilling.  Byjan and Marlene end up with the blood stained, pierced, but still better-than-rags clothes.

You use the illusion of pity for the other thralls and permit them to warm themselves near one of the fires while speaking in clandestine fashion to Byjan.  He is startled by the recognition of you; first disbelieving, then confused, then relieved to the point of tearfulness that he has to restrain with all his mustered mettle.   "Jorunn!  Jorunn, Jorunn, I had lost hope, and thought you dead!"   He can barely keep his words at a whisper; clearly wands to lift his hands to clap them on your shoulders, but he keeps them at his sides; understanding the ruse of thraldom in which he finds himself, preferring it greatly to the genuine article.   "The Skaeling came.  Their ships returned from their raiding afar with much plunder; and many fine weapons from the southern kingdoms.  When they came, they first sacked Vaelmar; and when they amassed an army outside of Nathvir, the clan chief called challenge to the Skaeling warlord, and they met in battle; but the warlord cut him down; and then his eldest son, who came to retreive the body in the field.  There could be no negotiation, after that; they took Nathvir, and put all the bondsmen to the blade, and carried the women and youths into captivity; drove the elders out into the snow to freeze, or carry word in fear to the other villages.  The folk of Loergen fled to our Usjarki, and there we met them, and armed all who could carry spear or club or stone, and built palisades and prepared to fight hoping that your ship would return soon with its warriors, and that it would be enough... but you did not return, Jorunn!  Your step-father and my father are slain; and not taken with honor but cast out, skulls and all for the beasts of the wood and birds of the air to have their fill.  We had sent runners to Skjold, calling on the pacts that bind out clan to the tribe; but no Bjornling host arrived to save us.  I have seen no evidence that they ever intended to - out tribe abandoned our clan, and now all villages of our tribe are looted, and burned.  All warriors have been hunted and slain, left as carrion; you are the last bonded warrior of Clan Osgaer.  You... and Anja, whom the Skaeling mistook for a dancer and she has not seen fit to correct them." 

He glances sidelong to the spearmaiden, feigning harmlessness as she waits for a buyer; the killing eyes of the predator given a doe-soft gleam in her act.  Byjan shakes his head in misery.

 "The warlord -  Áleifr The Sighted  -... they say he was once a Bjornling, himself; a son of Skjold, and a fine raider well regarded in that capital place.  How then did he come to hate our small clan so much, and betray his tribe in doing so?  How do the other clans of Bjornling sit idle against such a wicked betrayal?  I do not know.  I have been in terrible despair - but now you are here.  Where are the other warriors?  Are there enough for us to... take revenge?" 

Even if you had your full ship of warriors, without the explicit implied backing of the greater Bjornling tribe, it would be foolish to attack the Skaeling en masse.  But you don't have those warriors - there is only you, and those thralls now in your hand.  Vengeance, if that is something you even dare to want, is hidden in a field of so many questions on top of your own mysteries.  Who is  Áleifr The Sighted ?  Why target clan Osgaer?  If he is really Bjornling by blood, why does the tribe tolerate his betrayal?  With your initial destination, the village of Urjarki, reported to you now to be ask and desecration... you must decide what next move to make.

The mediator is strongly incentivised to succeed in his bartering on your behalf - in his rags, he has little chance of surviving the cold if you plan to strike out into a blizzard or heavy snow.  The gods seem kind to him, atleast: he is able to secure a deal with a local pedlar.

The pedlar will give you two more sets of  common clothes , each normally worth perhaps one and a third  sceatta , for just two  sceatta  total.  He will, furthermore, give you enough rations for your party of five to cover a week of bad hunting; that will cost two  sceatta .

The price of the rations seems very low indeed, to you - you wonder infact if you are being sold some kind of slop.  You paid several times as much, back in Truskholm.  But your mediator  Liebwen  gives you a pained, awkward look.   "Alas, err... Master Jorunn.  I think that other merchant ripped you off by a factor of four or five, and pretended he was doing you a favor sparing the copper. But, err... I am making up some of that ill fortune with this deal, here." 

He'll further supply you with a fishing net and a hand reel and hook, for one  sceatta  - a good deal you think, atleast by the reckoning of your mediator, and will go a long way to helping your bounty hunter or Byjan in securing a mean when you are near to fishable waters.

With seven  sceatta  to your name after purchasing the initiate, clothing your thralls, suppling them with rations for the journey, and the tools to fish would cost you a further five  sceatta , leaving you with two to spare.  Your coup against the Skaeling hunters was a fine little win; but it is inescapable that you may need to commit to some kind of short term, paying work if you are to purchase much more in the way of gear (or thralls, or hirelings).  And the skill you have to sell is killing, and destruction; for which there is always a market.

You make your way to the stall of the Chaos Dwarf delegation.  True to your expectation, their wares are so finely made and wonderful that they are far out of your price range.  The dwarves are bartering them for skilled thralls; sometimes a dozen thralls for a single blade, or glass oddity.  But the dwarves, strange little men with braided black beards festooned with brass toggles and rings, seem amiable enough; even if it is clear for every moment you spend with them that they see very little difference between free humans and thralls.  It is simply luck, or the will of the powers, which is wearing the collar and which is holding the leash, as far as they are concerned.  Perhaps they are right.

A particularly short, chatty dwarf at the edge of the kiosk notices you.   "Friend; I see you you eyeing these wares.  I see a man who desires much we have to offer; but has little means to claim it.  Do not despair; perhaps, if you are a man willing to bargain, there are services you would provide instead of simple silver, or traded flesh.  Tell me, what are you looking for?" 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Presuming you buy all that stuff, you're down to 2  sceatta .  The dwarf seems to be willing to bargain, though you know to be wary before committing.  Open question - what things is Jorunn most interested in?  Armor?
 Weapons?  Oddities?
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn approves the purchase, and moves to the chaos dwarf stall. he was looking at the weapons. jorunn looks at the dwarf, sizing him up.  "aye, that be true. i'm a warrior"  he looks over the instruments of death.  "need someone killed?"  he whispers

as he looks over the instruments, a blade with the handle of a screaming daemon face appeals to him.  "that one"  he says, pointing
MrAbdiel
 The dwarf looks at your selection; looks up at you with a raised eyebrow and stares for a moment as if trying to decide something about your nature; then back down to the blade.  He picks it up with his stubby fingertips - oddly, by the blade, not the handle.  "A bold choice.  Perhaps something about this wicked steel appeals to you, warrior.  Here, then - the bargain."  He turns, and points up past his shoulder; up the slope of a looming, crooked mountain.  "There is a tribe of beastmen that live in the forest against the mountain side - the Split-Hoof herd.  They mostly war against themselves, because the Skaeling whip them badly and sell them to us when they come out in force.  But recently they have been more bold..."

You recall the shopkeeper back in Truskholm mentioning that  Zadghelm is beset by  and then trailing off.  This, perhaps, is what he meant.

 "Which is foolish, because it will rile up the Skaeling to assault them and burn their forest.  But that is not my concern.  My concern is that they harry Zadghelm, and the road here; carrying off captives when they do. Which makes transporting the slaves back to my destination more perilous than it needs to be.  But the road-attacks are quite small, all things considered; and my tracking-thralls tell me they are coming from up the mountain, not deep into the forest.  If you can make your way up the slope, find whatever splinter-tribe is dispatching these attacks and stop it, I will be grateful enough to part with this blade.  More reward still, if you discover information about what caused this anomaly.  My name is Arnuuk - do we have a deal, warrior?"  
bramblefoot
 "before i sign my own death warrant on traipsing into the unknown, may i ask a few questions?"  jorunn inquires.

 "one, how many beastmen travel in raiding packs, and what is their general level of armament?" 
 "two, do you perhaps have any idea when this started, and a general layout of where the attacks occured?" 
 "three, are there any dangers out of the ordinary on that mountain that i should know of?" 

after those questions are wrapped up to his liking. he'll confer with byjan and the bounty hunter, get healing from the initiate, and move out assuming daylight lasts
MrAbdiel
Arnuuk, who seems smug enough to be believing you're on the hook, is only too happy to answer.

 "Well, certainly.  The attacks have been happening up and down the way from here back to Truskholm, and then some beyond that.  Small attacks; groups of three or four beastmen at a time, usually with one of them having horns, being their leader.  The have small packs of mutants doing the same; carrying off bludgeoned captives to the mountain.  The Split Hoof warherd has hundreds of warriors, but they're concerned mostly with the other herds north deeper into the woods; Whitefang, Ironfoe, Plaguetalon, so forth.  This little effort, I'm convinced, is something else - maybe a party of defectors.  But it's not like beastmen to split from their herd like that; not to join as a  smaller  group.  It's been going on for at least a month, targeting freeholders and isolated hunting parties and trappers.  Sometimes they get desperate enough to attack armed men.    One report of a few of the little bands joining together to attack a small warparty of Aeslings on their way here; though the Aeslings thrashed them and drove them off.  As far as special dangers up there...  Well, it's a mountain; you should expect the normal fauna.  Crag wolves, ice bears maybe.  Nothing a man like you can't chase off with a torch in hand.  Oh - and the beasts are the same wretched dogs you all know, wherever they crop up.  Dirty bastards come with their sharpened sticks and stone weapons.  Some will have iron they've stolen from Norscans, but not the skill to whet any of it." 
bramblefoot
 "i accept"  jorunn says, and clasps hands with the dwarf. he will have discussions with the bounty hunter about that mountain, and see if he can get healing from the initiate before they traipse off into the direction of the mountain.

when they make camp for the night, he will send the bounty hunter on watch, with the bow, three arrows and one of the skinning knives.  "you are my right arm while i sleep"  he says, pressing the stuff into her hands.  "byjan, you're on the second watch"  he says, pushing the wood axe into his palm.  "keep an eye on her yeh?"  he murmurs, motioning with his head towards marlene
MrAbdiel
You aim to make it to the foot of the mountain, camping at the edge of a clearing where a trickle of water offers something to drink.  Byjan understands, and arranges the fire while you confer with Marlene - who seems surprised you are trusting her with weapons but, true to your instinct, does not turn them on you, atleast right away.

 
 Spoiler: Marlene's Hunting Roll... 
  vs48  - (1d100)[ 97 ] , including a plus 10 for favorable conditions, to not require rations tonight.

Yuck!  Bad roll.  You had a few days of personal ration left over, so i'll say that's consumed supplementing the needs of the group for the rest of the day.  Now, 7 of 7 days of ration remaining for the party.
 

 "Just as well that blizzard burned out a couple of days ago.   If we were caught on the mountain side in such a storm, we'd all be dead.  All of us, anyway."   She looks back at the other thralls; making do with their clothes, crowding to the fire - a luckless lot, but still better off in your hands than those of the Chaos Dwarves for example.

 "Tomorrow I'll try to find some sign of passage the beasts are using up the mountain.  Old tracks will be long lost to snowfall, but they have to be using some kind of regular path up.  They're not just running down the side of the cliffs and dragging prisoners back up.  Did you... want me to scout with you tomorrow, then?"   Her question highlights the unspoken implication - that to skulk around as a pair looking for clues, you're leaving the other three thralls behind - which might help you move faster and quieter, though it carries the natural disadvantage of leaving slaves unattended... as far as she knows.
bramblefoot
 "lets go together"  jorunn says. raising his voice, he calls to the rest of his thralls  "alright, here is the deal. work with me, and you'll go far. hinder me, and i can assure you that it won't go well" 

intimidate roll

 (1d100)[ 53 ] 
MrAbdiel
 Your underlings are cowed by your threat; and the next few days pass without incident.  Almost frustratingly so; Marlene manages to find trails for a scrawny deer that spares your party some rations for two days, but you spend the better part of four searching for sign of the beastmen as you wind around the mountain's foot.   It may be a blessing in disguise; the extra days permit you time to recover, and for Ortel to address your wounds.   "Good thing you've stayed off the use of that arm, for a bit.  The scars should knit up nicely.  You're lucky these claws didn't ruin your tattoos.  Perhaps... if you intend me to tend you this way often, getting your hands on some medical tools would help.  Not that there is much, out here in the frozen north..." 
 
 Spoiler: Recovery: 
Ortel failed two heal rolls and passed two more, and the ones he passed were for 9 wounds and 7 wounds.  So I think you're back to full!

You also spend two more days of rations with two successful hunts, so your party is down to 5/7 days of rations.
 


Finally, on the fourth day, some luck.

 "Here - you see this?  Beast sign.  They use it to mark passage for themselves.  I can't read it, but we're on the right track now.  From here, we just need to find the way they head up the mountain; a way that is easy enough going to bring captives."   Marlene indicates a cluster of scratches on a high bough of a pine that you would easily have missed.

But not twenty minutes past this good sign, not long before you would be ready to camp for another night, you run into a new problem.  Marlene spots something ahead, and crouches low; a sign you and your thralls have come to know means to do the same.  She slides on her belly along the snow behind a log and you do the same to catch up to her, and through the snow-dusted branches of a shrub, she indicates what she sees.

Three creatures, feminine in form but clearly not human.  Not even animal.  Shapely forms covered in hard, creaking bark with coronae of fine twisted branches drawn back from their brows like hair covered in frost.  No eyeballs, but eye sockets filled with soft blue light; no teeth, but a jagged gap for a mouth where fractured smiles of wood seem more capable of rending flesh than furnishing speech.  You cannot hear them from this far back, but they confer with each other in languid, unhurried cadence.

 "Dryads.  Tree spirits.  They loathe beastmen.  But... they often aren't fond of mankind, either.  We ought to go around, and leave them be.  I don't know if... asking them about the beastmen or mountain is worth the risk." 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: Decision point. 
You have a chance to parley with these creatures, and perhaps learn about the mountain and your quarry; but anger them, and you may have a vicious fight on your hands.
 Is it worth the risk?
 
 
bramblefoot
 "i would say we avoid them"  jorunn says.  "no reason to endanger ourselves, unless you think its smart to get some intel"  he looks at her, gauging her reaction
MrAbdiel
 Marlene shakes her head.  She's already a thrall - she has no intention of downgrading her fortune to  dead .

 "I don't trust spirits, woodland or otherwise." 

With that declination, you slink back to your thralls and give the chattering dryads a wide berth; then spend much of this next day following the scattered beast sign up the lower slope of the mountain.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Give me a perception check.  +20, because of assistance from your thralls.  Feel free to just roll it in the OOC, and I'll set up a scene depending on the outcome.
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn keeps a wary eye for anything out of the ordinary on the way up the mountain, trusting the tracking to marlene, and the watching of the thralls to byjan
MrAbdiel
You spot them early - or rather, you hear them, which permits you and Marlene to scrabble through the snow and get eyes on them as they carry on up the mountain.  Not a small group like you'd hoped, but a decent little warparty.  Ten grey and white furred beastmen with bulky torsos, primative but effective weapons, spiral horns.  With them are two more beastmen not like them in appearance; one smaller and weaker, no stronger than an average man; one larger and more fierce, with one broken horn at the other larger and jagged as if to compensate, leader by right of might.  In their midst they tow a miserable, bloody, battered woman in her middle age; her clothes ragged and shredded, her wrists tied in rough rope towed by the weak, small beastman who has been clearly tasked as her keeper.

The beasts are having an argument; neither you nor Marlene know their awful grating tongue, but it seems to be a division in the rows of the main creatures (you know these to be  gors ) are bickering and shoving each other.  The small one (the  ungor  with his pathetic little horns) can only look on, clutching the rope of the prisoner and keeping a wary eye back on her so she does not think to make a mischief of the situation.  Soon though, the large one (the  bestigor ) lets out a basso bray that is almost a roar, and his lessers fall silent as the sound echoes through the woods and quiets the chitter and hush of wildlife.  Three of the gors are dispatched back down the way they came; two are left standing where they are looking awkward and shamed; and the remaining party of three gors, one ungor and the bestigor carry on up the mountain.  In the quiet that follows the outburst, you dare not make noise; but after a minute the parties going up and down the slope are far enough away that you cannot hear them.  The two left on the road bray and converse, and they produce javelins from the sloppy constructions they use as quivers and move into the woods on the other side of the scrubby trail.  You fear instinctively they are hunting you; but Marlene whispers:

 "...One captive isn't worth a dozen escorts.  Looks like the ones sent down are looking for more; and these with the javelin are probably hunting game to take up to where the beasts will make camp.  Or... what passes for camp.  What do you want to do?" 
bramblefoot
jorunn grins. its not a pretty sight  "lets see if we cant take one captive and do a little interrogation to find out what he knows" 

he will set off silently towards the beastmen going hunting, intending on capturing one in good enough condition to talk. if that dont happen, well tough noogies
MrAbdiel
 The hunt begins.  You give the two gors a chance to get further off the road and their companions to get well beyond earshot, before you creep up on them.  With Byjan and the other two thralls lagging behind so they don't blow your cover, you and Marlene skulk up at close as you dare.  Fortunately, this is exactly the kind of thing Marlene is trained to do; and the opportunity to do so, to do  something , rather than be a powerless prisoner seems to agree with her.

 "They're likely to spot us, if we sneak up.  But they're hunting - let me distract them, and you take them.  I'll join you when they turn to fight you." 

This also opens up an opportunity for Marlene to run while you're fighting - but she seems to be honoring her place in your retinue so far, at you know you will not long succeed out here if you are devoting yourself to herding your thralls.  Marlene slinks off ahead, you follow the gors; and they halt when they spot a rutle in a snow-leaden bush ahead.  You watch their ears flatten back as they approach a little closer, within ten yards of the shrub, and then hurl their javelins into it, striking nothing.  From your angle, you see the ploy - Marlene behind a tree ten feet beyond that shrub, having tugged the fishing line which she had snagged in its branches.

Your blood heats, as the moment to strike arrives.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: Battle! 
Give me an initiative roll, and you can charge in this opening surprise round!
 There are two gors; both have spears, but neither of them have weapons in hand right now, so each is as good as the other for attacking.

If you can beat both a   InitiativeGor1  - (1d10+3)[ 10 ]  and   InitiativeGor2  - (1d10+3)[ 7 ] , you can charge in and make your surprise attack (at +20) and then take a normal turn on top, because you're first!
 

 
bramblefoot
jorunn will roar a challenge and charge into the fray. his axe hits the gor, but does minimal damage due to catching the gors javelin strap

initiative
 (1d10+4)[ 12 ] 
 (1d100)[ 11 ] 
 (1d10+4)[ 5 ] 
bramblefoot
the second round, jorunn will move to attack the wounded gor twice, hoping to drop it, and then move to intimidate the second gor to surrender

 (2d100)[ 24 ][ 20 ](44) 
 (1d10+4)[ 10 ] 
 (1d10+4)[ 14 ] 


parry

 (1d100)[ 38 ] 

dodge
 (1d100)[ 13 ] 
MrAbdiel
 You roar into combat, your first blow chopping at the shoudler and only scoring the fur and the quiver strap as the shocked gor stumbles back; but your second blow hacks into it arm as it reaches for the spear threaded into a rough loop on that quiver, badly gouging it.  But your third strike drives your father's axe right down between its horns, and you pull it, and a splattering wad of brains and dark blood, free with a grisly  crack  as the gor slumps to the snow.

Its compatriot bleats in fear, draws its spear, and stabs out at you wildly; but then finds it is surrounded with you above it and Marlene with the skinning knife in hand, menacing it from behind.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
The Gor gets a wild swing before you get a chance to try to force it to surrender.

 (1d100)[ 70 ] ; with a  (1d10+3)[ 13 ] 

Oh, I guess you prerolled a successful parry even it it hit.  Hah!  New turn, Marlene is assisting you in an intimidate check, and having made such a gory display, I'll give you a +20 to your roll, contesting his WP roll of   vs25  - (1d100)[ 15 ] 
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn will place the axe to the gor's neck and growls  "drop the weapon, or the head comes off, just like that"  he gives his best rictus grin to the gor, pearl circles boring into its piggish eyes as he stares it down

 (1d100)[ 65 ] 
MrAbdiel
 The gor freezes, its hooves constantly shuffling, trying not to let either of you out of its sights.  Your display seems to have shocked it into a pause, atleast, and it has halted its attack.  But its pitiful bray back at you suggests that it does not seem to know your tongue - nor do you know it's.  If there's any interrogation to come from this, it will have to be in a medium understood in all langauges.

 
 Spoiler: Baaa!  Baaa! 
You got 1 degree of success with your Menacing feat; and it got 1 because of a fantastic roll. That's a draw - so instead of continuing fighting, or submitting immediately, you're locked in a stalemate with him.

But also, this chump doesn't seem to speak Norscan; or any human tongue, since it appears to be bleating at you in their clumsy Dark Tongue.  If you decide to just finish the job, you can attack - if you have a plan to try to ask it questions you think you can communicate with violence, you can try that too!
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn will put the gor outta its misery.  "fugging waste of time"  he hisses.

 (2d100)[ 84 ][ 50 ](134) 
 (1d10+4)[ 8 ] 
 (1d10+4)[ 5 ] 
MrAbdiel
 The gor bleats in fear and anger as you lash at it, one blow wide, one blow cutting a slit in his fur; and thrusts viciously out at you with his spear!  You see the hate in the creature's eyes; hatred for humans, all, focused on you specifically as their representative for this moment.  Some sages say the beasts worship the same gods as the tribes; but they are fools if they do.  What god would exalt such wretched things?

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
That's a 12 damage hit you're gonna want to dodge, and reply to!
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn barely dodges the spear, feeling it whistle past his ribs. he will attempt to end the fight quickly

 (2d100)[ 61 ][ 20 ](81) 
 (1d10+4)[ 6 ] 
 (1d10+4)[ 13 ] 

parry and dodge

 (1d100)[ 69 ] 
 (1d100)[ 50 ] 
MrAbdiel
 You avoid the beastman's strike, and swing back with a blow that smashes one of his horns free of his head and black the creature out in the snow.  After that, it's a simple matter to follow through on your promise - a blow to the back of the neck parts head from shoulders, and Marlene looks on at the dead beastmen with.. satisfaction, maybe.  She shivers in the cold, and looks to you.

 "What now?  Did you want to hunt the rest of them?  Those three will be down near the road by now watching it waiting for an ambush target.  The other seven will be up the slope somewhere, waiting for these fools to bring back something to eat.  We could... try to tease them apart into small groups.  You seem very capable at killing them."  
bramblefoot
 "sounds like a good idea"  jorunn says.  "i think we should wipe out the bottom ones first, and deny them any reinforcements" 
MrAbdiel
 Down the slope you go, seeking the hunting party laying ambush on the road.  You have been traipsing around on this mountain for the better part of a week now; but that was when you didn't know where to go.  Now the terrain is familiar to you and you have definite directions; within a couple of hours, you and your thralls are near to your prey; and you peel off Marlene into your typical work arrangement.  You confer with her, and she agrees with your instinct.  If you were capturing people on the road, you'd have one of the three minding the ideal ambush spot, and one up and down that road to spot travellers so they could dash off and get the ambush ready for them to pass buy.  It's just a matter of finding the isolated elements of these beastmen so you can take them out...

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Give me a perception check.  You can have a +20 because you're approaching from the mountain side, while they're largely watching the path below.

While you're rolling, give me a silent move.  That's flat, because even though you're in a good position and can afford to move slowly, it's hard to be quiet in snow.
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn scans the place with a practiced eye.  "i see the lone one"  he says. unfortunately, he steps on a branch, making a cracking sound and alerting the beastman to his presence

perception
 (1d100)[ 12 ] 

silent move
 (1d100)[ 74 ] 
MrAbdiel
 You approach, but your unfortunate step alerts the beastman; and it startles, bleats, and dashes; loping through the trees toward in you expect the direction of one of its comrades.  You have one chance to intercept it, using your descent down the slope and position to reach it; but you note already that the hooved creatures are quite fleet of foot, and not prone to remain in fights where they do not hold the advantage of numbers.

As you close, Marlene sprints further up the path just inside the treeline, trying to prepare to be a backstop of the beast gets past you.

 
 Spoiler: OOC:  If you had one shot; one opportunity... 
Let's get this goat.  Give me a flat agility roll; if you succeed, you'll be able to charge it; but you're not catching it by surprise.  If you don't succeed, it's out of your grasp; and we'll see if Marlene can get the tackle.
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn pounds through the snow, easily tackling the beastman off its feet. the axe buries itself in the beastmans chest, doing minor damage

 (1d100)[ 18 ] 
 (1d10+4)[ 8 ] 
MrAbdiel
 The beastman bleats desperately - but faced with the option of turning its back to your blade and confronting you to fight, it takes the option that could conceivably result in victory... and strikes.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: Attack! 
  Vs25  - (1d100)[ 23 ]  vs Unsettling
 (1d100)[ 14 ]  to hit.
 (1d10+3)[ 12 ]  damage.

That's a big hit and he's not even unsettled - you're gonna wanna parry it!  He takes parry stance with his second half action.
 


...As Marlene slings away her bow and draws her knife, preparing soon to join you in the melee. 
bramblefoot
 "hound protect me!"  jorunn hisses as he desperately parries the incoming spear attack. after that, he'll make two attacks against the beastman

 (2d100)[ 37 ][ 91 ](128) 
 (1d10+4)[ 9 ] 
 (1d10+4)[ 9 ] 
MrAbdiel
 Your blow cracks into the beastman's side, spilling dark blood onto the snow and eliciting a pathetic bleat.  The wolf who has followed you has fallen into the loose care of your mediator and initiate, Liebwen and Ortel.  The former has some rural experience caring for animals, the latter serves some kind of wolf-god and has affinity for the creature.  And when you bark for his attendance, you find that this time rather than quailing and hestiating, the scruffy lupine carves through the snow and launches at the beastman like a furry missile; seizing one wrist in its jaws and bearing him to the ground with weight, where Marlene is quick to seize her moment and stab through the beastman's heart.  She spits on it; and the wolf spends a little while growling at tugging the dead gor's wrist, before letting go.

The bounty hunter-turned-thrall Marlene puffs frosted air, and looks to you with expectation.   "That's one of three.  If we can get the last two, there will be none behind us if you're planning to pursue the others up the mountain tomorrow." 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: What now, warrior? 
You've been quite good so far!  You're down to one FP for the day, but you've killed foes.. .But there are two more down here near the road, and if you intend to camp without whacking them tonight, you'll run the risk of them coming back up the mountain at night finding your camp.  On the other hand, maybe you want that - you have turned ambushes handilly before, so maybe letting them come to you will save you some leg work.  What's the move?
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn will crack off one of the beastmens horns, for experimentation with the mark later.  "push on, see if we cant find where they went"  he says, and leads. he'll pass out a spear to marlene if she wants one, and keep the other in reserve

 
 Spoiler: ooc 
how much daylight do we have left? i have night vision, but my thralls dont
 
MrAbdiel
 You are running out of daylight - but fortunately, the flight of your last kill told you the direction to stalk the others; and sliding up into the wooded mountain slope again, you discover both the remaining beastmen hunkering behind a stone aside from the pathway not far from where you killed the mutants who attempted to kill you.  This time, your approach is better executed; you come within charging range of the pair before they notice; and once this pair are dead beneath your blade, you will have atleast nominal safety to rest, and pursue the remainder tomorrow.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: Attack! 
I rolled your stealth and their perception opposed off screen this time to speed it up; first you both failed; then they got a 20 and you got a 10, which is a pretty even showing; but given the bonuses you're getting from attacking from a direction they don't expect, I'm inclined to give the ambush to you.  The two beastmen are adjacent to each other, with a stone axe each.  Their initiative is  (1d10+3)[ 13 ] .  You get a surprise round to charge and, if you beat their initiative, another attack before they go; your mangy wolf and Marlene will join the ambush when you initiate.  Last pair of beastmen and you've wiped out this secondary party of them!
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn calls the wolf, and will move to attack a beastman. he narrowly misses the beastman as it flinches out of the way

 (1d10+4)[ 10 ] 
 (1d100)[ 74 ] 
 (1d10+4)[ 12 ] 
MrAbdiel
As you launch into combat, Marlene looses her first arrow from the looted hunter's bow; and the shot is good, plunking into the eye socket of the second beastmen and sending him reeling, bleating with outrage, scrabbling to keep his footing even with the shaft sticking out of his skull.  The mangy wolf rushes into melee with you, instinctively circling your beastmen and menacing him by darting in and nipping at his ankles, creating openings for you without committing himself to immediate harm.

Recovered from their shock, the beastmen attack - the one with the arrow sticking from his head blowing past you to charge at Marlene; the one you duel struggling to lay into you and beware the hound at his heels!

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Marlene commits a bloody good shot, but doesn't quite crit the second Gor.  The wolf zooms in with you, giving you a +10% outnumbering bonus on the one you're duelling without succeeding to bite.

You outnumber because Arrow-Eye charges at Marlene, provoking an attack from you for free (which you ought to make first);

And Lucky-Gor who avoided your charge swings back at you with his crude axe.  (1d100)[ 85 ] , for potentially  (1d10+3)[ 6 ]  damage! Edit:  WHIFF!  Miss.

Your turn - make a free attack on the one Gor and then, if you like, a swift attack on the other at +10 for the wolf.
 
bramblefoot
jorunn will strike at the charging gor, and then make two attacks on the other one

 (1d100)[ 43 ] 
 (1d10+4)[ 7 ] 

swift attack

 (2d100)[ 73 ][ 44 ](117) 
 (1d10+4)[ 6 ] 
 (1d10+4)[ 7 ] 
MrAbdiel
You strike aside a parry, then manage to land a meaningful blow against your gor's shoulder; and while it reels back, you spin to smash your shield into the side of the one charging at your thrall, staggering it and numbing its arm so its axe blow comes sloppy and slow, easilly enough avoided by the bounty huntress.  Your mangy wolf seems to find its courage and, with a growl, leaps up and latches on to the back of your opponent's haunch with his jaws, eliciting a bleating cry and a panicked spin and stumble from the beastman.

Now both goat-men are badly injured, and neither has landed a blow - may all your battles be so conclusive.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
You slapped both beastmen this round, and the doggo managed to get a bite on; while both beastmen failed hard.  So both are on death's door, and haven't managed a hit - a pretty good ambush considering!

You are clear to attack again, while Marlene keeps the other one busy!  You still outnumber this guy for +10, so you're looking for.. what, 67? Nice.
 
bramblefoot
jorunn will drop two attacks into the beastman he's in combat with.

 (2d100)[ 83 ][ 6 ](89) 
 (1d10+4)[ 12 ] 
 (1d10+4)[ 7 ] 
MrAbdiel
 Your flurry hacks the gor to the ground, leaving it wheezing and bleeding out against the snow in a tableaux of white and arterial red.  The wolf releases as your prey falls, and instinctively launches after the still dangerous prey; and between his jaws on its ankle and Marlene's slashing with the skinning knife, this gor stumbles too - long enough that you are able to walk to it, grab its backwards-cranked wrist with the stone axe in it, drag it onto its back, and smash your father's axe into the front of its skull, splitting it open and destroying its foul brain.  The other goatman has bled out by the time you turn back to it - but you know to make sure, and you do.

With these blows, and with these clumsy weapons taken for the other thralls, you reunite with your group and give the go-ahead to make a fire - there will be no sinister beastmen watching from the shadows tonight, looking to snatch up your shivering flock from its light.  With all the killing of the day, Marlene has been unable to hunt game, and the others have not succeed in her absense... but the warmth of fire is welcome enough, and the rations are sufficient to calm the outraged stomach.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Planning to stalk the rest up higher into the mountain tomorrow?  And if you do, did you have a plan in mind?  You may win a conflict against an ungor, 5 gors and a bestigor with your full force unleashed - but it's far from certain.  Are you seeking to divide and conquer - or just to follow them up to see where they go, ultimately?  Or something more cunning still?
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn will take the beastmans horn, and rub it on the mark on his arm. after that, he'll gather the troops and mention the plan.  "i just wanna get a scouting run on what the beastmen have up that hill. lets avoid combat, unless there is no other option" 
 "lets scout at first light, and see what we can find. push comes to shove, make a lotta noise. with any luck, some gors will flee " 
 "any volunteers to try to lead some away? i wont force you, but if you survive, youll be looked upon highly" 
 
 Spoiler: ooc 
i wanna get a good feel for the camp, maybe have a my fastest individuals attempt to lead some of them off
 
MrAbdiel
 The experimentation with the horn on the mark is novel... but provides no effect.  So far, nothing you do to it seems to be impacting it.  So what is it doing?  Tracking something else?  Protecting you?  And if you can't find the answers, who can?

Your thralls listen sceptically to your plan about the day to come, though they have no alternative but to go along with it.  When you offer an extra credit assignment, Marlene is about to pipe up; but Ortel, the initiative, surprises you by piping up.   "I'll do it.  If we survive... can we have proper warm clothes...?"
 
It's a big ask.  An appropriate set of furs might be six  sceatta , - you that's enough for two more thralls, in a bloated market like this.  Such reasons are why tribes tend to use up these pathetic schmucks then throw them away.  But if you intend to furnish loyalty in them, making a promise you intend to follow through on - even much later - may be wise. 
bramblefoot
 "i will do my best to get you warm clothes"  jorunn says honestly. he sets the watch, himself first watch, marlene second, and ortel third
MrAbdiel
 A quiet night, and a grim morning; a light snowfall has refreshed the ground, covering all your old tracks and making a stark canvas for the new ones.  You and your thralls, now armed with crude beastmen spears, approach your quarry's camp.  You hope as you approach you will encounter a search party looking for the others; but they are not compassionate enough creatures to care about their lost brethren so much.  When you find them, they are crowded into conference with one another; five gors, the ungor and the bestigor.  The captured human lies on the ground near them, insensible with shivers from the cold.  You and Marlene lay in wait, hoping the pack will split on its own; but after this scenario does not avail, you execute your plan.

The initiate, Ortel, shows remarkable courage - a credit to his god -  as he slinks up to visual range of the goatmen... then decent acting skill as he releases a startled bark, as if he had just stumbled upon them before taking off down the hill at full pelt.  A flurry of brays and bleats erupts, and  (1d5)[ 1 ]  of the gors break from the group and give chase while the remainder of the herd looks on with curious detachment.

The time to strike has come again; and your blood is up and ready for it.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
You've succeeded in a bunch of stealth alright, and these guys aren't expecting to be hunted because they had scouts out; so you don't need to roll to pull of the ambush.  Perhaps the last fight in this beastmen saga - and the enemy will act on  (1d10+3)[ 8 ] .  Charge the big Bestigor, the little Ungor, or one of the remaining Gors - and if you beat their initiative, you can have an immediate follow up round.
 

 "Dammit" , Byjan hisses, preparing his weapons;  "Not nearly enough.  Alright, we're all going in.  Run and they'll run you down.  Fight defensive and let Jorunn work through them.  When they know they're losing, they'll break." 
Your wolf, and your three additional thralls, brace to charge in with you. 
bramblefoot
jorunn will charge the bestigor, axe flashing

 (1d100)[ 32 ] 
 (1d10+4)[ 10 ] 
 
 Spoiler: ooc 
my second round action is to shift to my were form
 
MrAbdiel
 In you go; your axe hacking into the Bestigor's shoulder as it turns and roars, its impressive rack of antler-horns shaking with its rising outrage at the ambush.  The whole herd seems in disbeleif, as you slam in and especially as you begin twisting and changing, your muscles bulking out and straining, even tearing your clothes; your body covered in snow-white fur soon to be matted with beast-blood.  The four gors before you seem shocked and alarmed by your transformation.  The bestigor seems almost  thrilled  by it; and the ungor is in such a state of perpetual abuse that it is somehow unmoved by you arrival and the danger it permits.  The small-horned beastman hops at the fringe of the combat, stalling his engagement and wondering if this is a good moment to escape as you and your allies lay in; but the other beasts begin to fight for their lives.

But the battle swings immediately, hard, in your favor.  The mangy wolf scores a bite on the Bestigor's leg, weighing him to one side and spoiling his reprisal swing against you so the stone head of his great maul crashes into the trunk of a tree beside you.  Down the line, Byjan engages one of the gors and they trade gauging blows without landing hits; and Leibwen, the mediator, manages to draw the short straw and duels two of the beasts - but he conducts himself with courage born of his current predicament, swinging the spear by its  base to create a hazardous zone and forcing the two gors back from him, preventing either from landing a blow.  Marlene does the best - the momentum of the charge carries her in, and the crute tip of a spear that just yesterday had been thrusting at you now plunges through the thigh of a gor and sends it to the ground, where she is able to finish it off with a second, more vicious stab still.  Your allies have killed one of their number; and none of them have landed a retort.

And they haven't yet even  felt your ursine rage.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: State of Affairs after Surprise Round and Round 1. 


Byjan: Uninjured
Marlene: Uninjured
Leibwin: Uninjured
Mangy Wolf: Uninjured
Ortel: Offscreen.

Bestigor: 9 Wounds (Lightly Wounded, Engaged with Jorunn and Mangy Wolf).
Ungor: Refusing to engage.
Gor1: Uninjured, Unsettled (Engaged with Byjan)
Gor2: Dead (Killed by Marlene!)
Gor3: Uninjured, Unsettled(Engaged with Leibwin)
Gor4: Uninjured, Unsettled(Engaged with Leibwin)
Gor5: Offscreen.

Your turn, then your allies, then the beasts again.  You are free to attack with your... three bloody swift attacks and improved Were-bear profile! You have +10% to hit because you and the wolf are engaging the bestigor together.
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn will make three attacks on the bestigor, claws flashing. the first claw swings over his shoulder, but the second bites deep. the third is little more than an annoyance

 (3d100)[ 92 ][ 28 ][ 58 ](178) 
 (1d10+5)[ 14 ] 
 (1d10+5)[ 13 ] 
 (1d10+5)[ 6 ] 
MrAbdiel
 Your swing over the shoulder draws the Bestigor's guard up; but then you smash your shield into its thigh with such force that the femur audibly snaps and it collapses, the bone protruding in a gout of blood and affording you an arterial spray baptism as you drop down to execute it.  The ungor takes this as its cue and starts to make its escape - hauling the numb and confused prisoner away from the combat, as your snarling wolf compatriot gives chase.

Meanwhile, the line holds.  None of your thralls manage to land telling blows in the following exchange; but Liebwen, valiantly defending himself against two, takes a bruise from a thrown bestial elbow but keeps his feet.  Marlene closes on the next gor in line, ganging up on it with Byjan and leaving room for you to charge and work your way through this one, too.  If things keep going like this, these vaunted beasts will be scattered and gone in short order.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: State of the Combat after Round 2 


Byjan: Uninjured
Marlene: Uninjured
Leibwin: 1 Wound (Lightly Injured)
Mangy Wolf: Uninjured
Ortel: Offscreen.

Bestigor: Dead (Killed by Jorunn!).
Ungor: Fleeing! (Engaged with Mangy Wolf).
Gor1: Uninjured, Unsettled (Engaged with Byjan, and Marlene)
Gor2: Dead
Gor3: Uninjured, Unsettled(Engaged with Leibwin)
Gor4: Uninjured, Unsettled(Engaged with Leibwin)
Gor5: Offscreen.

Your turn, then your allies, then the beasts again.  You made short work of the bestigor!  You have a couple of options.  If you join in the gang-bash on Gor1, Marlene and Byjan will give you a +20; though you could otherwise join Leibwin to take the pressure off him at his end of the combat.
 You can charge or move into either of these combats.

But also, you could perform what I am inclined to call the Gimgroth Maneuver on account of how often Lars used it; which is to use a half-action to walk into engagement with one of the enemy groups (thus forgoing the +10 for charging) but then spending a Fate Point to gain an extra half action for the turn and swift attacking!  That said, the combat is going very well for your side right now and you can decide if you want to conserve FP for "oh sheet" scenarios or capitalize on your strong position.
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn will capatalize on our strong position and do a swift attack, claws biting deep into beastman flesh

 (3d100)[ 52 ][ 12 ][ 40 ](104) 
 (1d10+5)[ 9 ] 
 (1d10+5)[ 8 ] 
 (1d10+5)[ 14 ] 
 
 Spoiler: ooc 
the 9 and the 8 go on one beastman, and the 14 goes on the other
 
MrAbdiel
 Beastman blood splatters the snow.  You wade into the melee with the tiring Mediator, backing off to let you have room to work; your axe biting into the gors with your mightly blows and splattering their blood as they strain to fend you off with their spears.  Their attention goes to you, naturally - one  making a good strike that might even get past your guard, while Marlene and Byjan crowd and batter down the one gor between them.  The ungor continues to flee; you hear your wolf barking and snarling as he gives chase around the bend of a hill.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: State of the Combat after Round 3 


Byjan: Uninjured
Marlene: Uninjured
Leibwin: 1 Wound (Lightly Injured)
Mangy Wolf: Uninjured
Ortel: Offscreen.

Bestigor: Dead (Killed by Jorunn!).
Ungor: Fleeing! (Engaged with Mangy Wolf).
Gor1: 7 Wounds, Lightly Wounded, Unsettled (Engaged with Byjan, and Marlene)
Gor2: Dead
Gor3: 9 Wounds, Heavily Injured (Engaged with Leibwin and Jorunn)
Gor4: 10 Wounds, Heavily Injured, Unsettled(Engaged with Leibwin and Jorunn)
Gor5: Offscreen.

I'll give them one more round to do something lasting otherwise these mooks are breaking and running.  But before that, you get one more round of ripping heads off; there's two heavilly wounded gors in melee with you and Leibwen, so no gangup bonus in there.

 One of the Beastmen actually hit!   It's a hit on you for  (1d10+3)[ 4 ]  damage to the arm, though you are entitled to parry as normal.

Edit: Lmao.  Well, I guess that just dinks off your hide!
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn will attempt to finish off the two gors.

 (3d100)[ 12 ][ 74 ][ 24 ](110) 
 (1d10+5)[ 14 ] 
 (1d10+5)[ 11 ] 
 (1d10+5)[ 13 ] 
MrAbdiel
 These, too, you hack down; driving them to the ground with ruinous wounds to their bodies, where Leibwen can finish them off as you round to the remaining gor.  It has managed to defend itself from Byjan and Marlene, but makes its break to run - though beast-swift as it is, so are you, and its flight is to no avail.  You drive it to the ground and bash the life out of it while nearby the mangy wolf chomps and shakes at the neck of the now still and silent ungor, his shivering prisoner pressed back against a tree in shock; and down the slope, you see your thralls falling on the gor that had followed Ortel away and all the way back.  The attack is a massacre; the entire party of beastmen wiped out, with only superficial wounds on your side.  For a moment, it's almost like having an actual warband again...

The woman, whose skin is so pale it is almost translucent, looks at your blood-spattered fur and waits to die.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Gain 200xp for culling this herd!  And now, you have freed this captive - she bears no thrallmark, so is theoretically a free woman of the Skaeling clan, for whatever that means to a Bjornling like you!  But she, clearly, thinks you are another, worse kind of beastman.
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn will shift down to his normal form, and let the mediator deal with the terrified woman. he congratulates his thralls on a job well done, and will take the bestigors head for his skull collection
MrAbdiel
 It's been a while since you've taken a skull.  You spend a little time to yourself meditatively scoring the skin on the bone, peeling it off in strips and digging out the eyes and corners of meat wedged in its cervices; hooking grisly strips of brain out through the nasal cavity  Over the next few nights, you will let the scavengers worry at it to clean it some more, and there will be some additional preparation for the trophy.  But it adds to your saga; a hunting pack you and your thralls dismantled piece by piece, and you will carry this skull with pride.

You let the shivering Leibwen, who held his own against the beasts until you could relieve him, speak with the poor captive; and Ortel comes to assist also.  Once you've done your cleaning of the skull and left it for the blood flies to strip, you find her with your thralls huddled around a new fire.

Her name is Thrud; she a homestead back off the road down the way you travelled to get to the thrallmarket.  The hunting herd must have swept in while they were snowed in and not expecting attack, driving off and hilling her own thralls and livestock, taking her as captive.  The way she tells it, they took two of her thralls also; but they didn't make the journey.

 "Th-they s-seemed to a-argue about whether to e-eat m-me but the b-b-b-big one wouldn't l-l-let them..." , Thrud stutters through her shivers as the fire's warm gives her back her life.

Marlene inteprets, relieving her of the need to keep struggling the words out.   "So they were going somewhere they needed you alive, but didn't expect to find food on the way, or even there - thus splitting up to hunt.  If there was a herdstone up there, it would be different.  Maybe they have some kind of... mad, beastman shrine that requires sacrifices...." 

The assembled, shivering thralls and the recovering prisoner consider this in dread reflection, while chewing on strips of venison that Marlene was, this day of all days, able to rustle up.

As you camp for another night, you consider the next day.  With this obstacle removed, you have a straight shot higher into the mountain and can do so with a reasonable expectation that wherever they were going is accessible soon, since they were dragging a live prisoner which do not historically go well up vertical climbs.  But it is getting more cold and bitter of a climb - it will be very difficult for the thralls to proceed, from here.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Estimating one more day of travel to your destination and unsure what to find there, you may choose now which thralls, if any, you intend to bring.  Lacking good cold weather clothes, they (even Marlene) are at considerable risk any higher than this; but their skills may still prove useful, and the alternative is leaving them here under probably Byjan's supervision.

What's the call?  Ascend solo, or take some friends?  Either way, can you go ahead and roll me a Scale Sheer Surface roll at flat, and a Move Silently roll at +20%!
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn will consider to himself around the fire. he has thralls, and like it or not, he's begun to warm to them.  do i risk their lives for extra muscle, or go it alone?  he ponders. in the end, he comes to a decision, and will take marlene and ortel up the slope along with the wolf

silent move (15 in ooc)
 (1d100)[ 92 ] 

scale sheer surface
 (1d100)[ 11 ] 
MrAbdiel
 With the light of the morning, you take Ortel and Marlene, and your mangy wolf who is growing in confidence, further up the mountain.  At times you are required to climb against the snow-slick sides of the rock, where there is very little slope; but you navigate it easilly enough, as does your party behind you - though your four legged member bounds off into the snow and rejoins you up at the next level having found his own way around.  A perfectly sheet wall you might have been able to climb; but this incline is about what the goat-men might manage with a prisoner dragged on a chain behind them.  Marlene helps you choose between alternate paths at some points towards the most likely, and you are gratified as you clear to a plateau that you do not need to ascend all the way to the summit.  A spar of rock hides a great tall cleft in the stone leading to an interior cave, just as cold as the outside but insulated from the wind chill; and your companions huddle within trying to get warm while you stalk further inside.

Your night-eyes work here in this darkness, with just fragments of light draining into the depth of the cave where it winks of condensed and frozen moisture on the walls; and your instincts prevent you from stepping on ground too crunchy or kicking loose rock.  Just as well - after winding through the dark passage, you emerge into a great chamber which seems to be the source of the problem... and the reason you came up here.  There are two creatures in the room, though there have obviously been more; the stone floor at the entrance is black with frozen blood from many slayings, fragments and bonechips scattered around all that remains of other prisoners dragged up this way.  A huge, bulky rests against the interior wall; a mount of fat, and flesh, and furs; an ogre if you're not mistaken, with beard and moustache grown long and wild and crusted with frozen blood; the hides of mismatched creatures strewn stinking and heavy over his shoulders; a great hammer with a wedge shaped, bone-white head gripped in one sleeping fist.  This, it seems, is the creature that has required feeding, and whom the beasts have been bringing captives to - not a sacrifice to dark gods, but to feet this glutton from the far east.  Why they would feel a need to serve such a creature is beyond you.  But the ogre is not the whole story.

Beyond him, dominating a massive cavern glittering with frost and icicles illuminated by shards of light bleeding in through cracks above, is a massive, scaled form the likes of which you had previously only seen carved in wooden relief and described in great sagas.  A colossal dragon of pale blue scales sleeps here; drawing in breath and breathing it out with the tang of ozone flushing the room each time, each cycle of breath taking a minute to fill and drain the huge lungs.  You don't know much about such legendary beasts - only that they are intelligent, and that they predate the coming even of the gods to the world - but your best guess is that it is in some kind of deep hibernation sleep like a bear, or a snake; it may require more than noise to wake such a beast.  Just as well - the ogre, who is not hibernating but just sleeping a fat man's sleep, snores like a lion roars.

You've gotten this far without waking the ogre up.  You might manage to get close enough to strike a mortal blow, if you so desired - its hammer looks valuable indeed.  But perhaps it will starve, now that you have slaughtered its caterers?  And what to do about this massive wyrm? 
bramblefoot
jorunn will shift silently into were form, sneak up, and make three attacks on the ogre

silent move
 (1d100)[ 24 ] 
 (3d100)[ 36 ][ 15 ][ 25 ](76) 
 (1d10+5)[ 13 ] 
 (1d10+5)[ 11 ] 
 (1d10+5)[ 13 ] 
MrAbdiel
 You lope towards the sleeping ogre, feeling the blinding pain of the change that brings your radical strength.  You're as quiet as you can be in the buildup, but there's no stopping your heavying breath and hungry growling, and by the time you are upon the ogre, he has ceased snoring, woken with a bellow, and flailed to defend himself.  Your blows hack at him, and he raises his left arm to defend himself, forcing your father's axe to chop into the meat and fat of that huge limb as he hauls himself to his feet.  Blood falls from the cuts, freezing in droplets and dancing off the floor of the cavern like scattering rubies as he raises himself up howls in, of all languages, cracked Tilean.

 "AaaaRGGh!  You come to feed?  I eat your heart instead!"
 
The dragon seems unbothered by any of this; sleeping away, thankfully.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
The Ogre is lightly wounded.  Frenzy isn't quiet, but I gave you the move up to him and a free superior initiative.  This turn, the Ogre is standing, and taking a parrying stance so he can defend himself against your next attacks!  That's all he can do this turn - you're up to attack again!
 

 
bramblefoot
jorunn will make three attacks again, axe flashing as the ogre staggers to his feet.  "come and try!"  he growls.

 (3d100)[ 39 ][ 100 ][ 42 ](181) 
 (1d10+5)[ 6 ] 
 (1d10+5)[ 14 ] 
 (1d10+5)[ 15 ] 
MrAbdiel
 You hack, chop and maul; the red crowding in your vision and darkening the periphery outside of this context of brutality.  In this form, you are the ogre's match for size and brawl; which makes the matchup possible at all... but the maw-warrior takes your blows to the arms, to the thighs, and bleeds and grunts... but does not fall.  Indeed, he seems committed to fight to the death here - there is hunger in his eyes which matches your bloodlust, and with his flagging reserves of strength, he brings his hammer crashing down at you...

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
  Vs46  - (1d100)[ 73 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 10 ] .
  Vs46  - (1d100)[ 9 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 16 ] .
  Vs46  - (1d100)[ 63 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 15 ] .
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn easily parries, seeking to get a chop into the ogres heart

 (3d100)[ 1 ][ 42 ][ 33 ](76) 
 (1d10+5)[ 11 ] 
 (1d10+5)[ 15 ] 
 (1d10+5)[ 12 ] 
MrAbdiel
 Your father's axe clonks into the ogre's skull.  Its bite is disappointing shallow in the thick bone; but it splashes blood in ogre's eyes, and affords you a window to lunge in with your ursine snout and tear out the ogre's throat.  It crashes down with a ghastly gurgle; its own blood splashing down its open neck into its stomach and, you swear, providing some strange relief in its eyes.  But your opponent is dead, and your body cracks and shifts back to its natural form, leaving you spitting foul blood and wiping it from your facial hair.  Looking up, you see dragon is just as asleep before - and the hammer, which appears to you now to be a finely worked handle and a massive, sawn off tooth or tusk with the flat top used as the hammer's face, clatters to the ice.

It is yours to take, now - though so far the reason for this weird coalition of ogre, beastmen and dragon remains less than obvious. 
bramblefoot
jorunn grabs the hammer and heads out to his shivering thralls.  "any idea what this hammer was doing with that ogre in there?"  he asks, giving the hammer a few experimental swings well clear of his thralls
MrAbdiel
 You grab the hammer, and pivot to get away from this dragon and back to your thralls-

But your legs do not obey.  You feel a flash of pain in your calves and invading, awful cold; looking down and expecting to see them frozen to the floor - but the rebellion, it seems, is within your mind.  Your feet will not move, and neither with your knuckles uncurl from the haft of the hammer that you pried from the dead grip of the ogre.

   "You killed my sentinel."   

Behind you, one draconic blue eye, larger than your whole head, squints at you half-lidded and intent.  The magnificent beast has not risen from its sleeping posture; but it has awoken... not when you killed the ogre, but when you claimed the hammer.

   "Tell me why."    
bramblefoot
jorunn coolly says  "that hammer looks mighty fine, im sure it hasnt been used in real battle in a while" 

if given the opportunity, he'll give the dragon a story to try to placate it

performer (storyteller) roll
 (1d100)[ 15 ] 
MrAbdiel
 It's been a long time since you stumbled into a situation where martial power had nothing to offer you.  Your skills beyond killing are limited - it is what you trained for all your life, and it is the undisputed king of career moves. But in the face of such a titanic creature, it is deeply insufficient.  Only a handful of legendary warriors have slain dragons in personal combat - none in memory more recent than myth.

...But you do know legends, and warriors, and myths.

The dragon asked why you slew his champion; and so you tell him using the other gift you have - the ability to present a story.  You tell a tale of a young warrior, doubted and dishonoured by his people, who sailed to far shores seeking glory only to return home in wreck and ruin, striving to claw together enough debris of life to rise and start again; perhaps, for vengeance... perhaps, just to live. Your story ends with the warrior and his thralls making their way up a mountain, slaying a pack of rambunctious beastmen and finally laying low an ogre champion lurking in a dragon's cave... content, then, to take his prize and leave the dragon be.

The dragon listens; blinking the lazy lid of that eye every two minutes, or so.  When you have finished, you are gratified to find you are not snapped up and eaten.  You are addressed again.

  "A fine story; one that would suffer to end early.  Now harken ye; here is another story:

There were once two ogre brothers named, named Uruk and Gartak Firebelly.  They were Maneaters - all ogres eat flesh, but the Maneaters are a caste of travellers and discoverers.  And so they travelled far, killing and learning and eating, until they wound up at in a cave of a mountain in far Norsca, so many miles from their home.  In that cave they met an ancient champion - a human of the Kurgan tribe, strangely in this place.  He held a hammer made from a dragon's tooth.  With it, he guarded the dragon's sleep in that cave - in exchange, the hammer's magic eliminated his need to eat; and age would not diminish him, as his life was fed from the dragon.  But the Firebelly brothers knew this not; and they saw only a relic to steal - just as the Kurgan Arsak Helspike had, a hundred years prior.  So they fought the Kurgan and slew him; and peeled his body out of his armor and ate his cold flesh.  And then Uruk took up the hammer, and in that moment learned its nature.  Gartak could leave; but Uruk could not.  But the hammer's power could slake a man's hunger - an ogre's hunger is a curse, borne upon him by an evil god, and that could not be set aside.  So Gartak sought to help his brother, who could not leave the cave, now burdened with the mystic duty of the sentinel.  He harried and bullied local beasts to gather offerings and take them to the cave for his brother to eat, lest the dragon be roused and lay waste to their herdstone - a promise the dragon had not made, but the beasts were ready to believe.  And for a short time, this worked; and loyal Gartak kept his brother alive by forcing beasts to bring slaves to eat.  But the weather grew worse, and blizzards made hunting and slaving hard; and Gartak visited his brother with a lone rabbit he had managed to catch on a lean day while the beasts had failed in their hunting, intending to split it with him.  But Uruk, maddened with hunger and despair, had grown melancholy, and he killed his brother and at the rabbit and at his brother also; then dwelt is miserable solitude as the beasts came less and less often, growing wary and suspicious of this threat now the enforcer was gone.  And on a final day, the beasts did not come at all - but a new warrior, a bear-blooded killer with white hair, came, and fell upon Uruk in his sleep, and killed him, and claimed the hammer as his own... only to find like Uruk Firebelly and Arsak Helspike and Lodmar Ironshield and Orfus Ironsheild and Helga Ironshield and Tourmas Silverstar and Ladimore Silverstar before him, the dragon-tooth hammer was as much prison as it was prize."  

Now you understand.  The hammer is a cursed thing; a magical weapon made for or by this dragon to force a mortal sentinel to stand guard while he sleeps for ages.  And now it's in your hand.  Needless to say, you cannot remain like this.  Perhaps you can bargain with the dragon - offer to find it another sentinel.  That may require leaving someone, or something, of value behind as bond. One you're out of here, you could honor that word, or betray it, or keep going and never come back.

But you'd have to make the pitch, first. 
bramblefoot
 "what would it take for me to find you an enforcer?"  jorunn replies cautiously, eyeing the beast. he keeps his mind shielded as best he can, to not allow any undue thoughts to get out, in case the dragon is a mind reader
MrAbdiel
   "You have found me one.  You are here, are you not?  If you say 'I will find another' and go, you will leave and not return - and if I threaten to hunt you for such treachery, you will guess that I am a lazy creature, full of slumber, and be right.  Why should I trust you?  On which gods will you swear?"   
bramblefoot
jorunn had never broken an oath before, but being a sentinel to some wyrm for his days sounds less than appealing.  "i will swear on the chained maiden that i will find you an enforcer"  he says with nary a stutter or waver in his speech
MrAbdiel
 The dragon's nostril flares.  Its massive eye narrows.

  "...Do this, warrior; do this, lest your god pour suffering on you.  Do this, faithful to your word, and more than the satisfaction of right action may be yours."  

You hear ice cracking as the behemoth bulk of the beast shifts slightly.  One of his grand leather wings shifts slightly - and you see it is sleeping on a heap of silver and gold coin... but of interest on that pile, apparently the dragon's offer, is a thick steel breastplate, which might have once been worn by a Kurgan champion - but then it vanishes from your sight as the wing settles again.

It closes its eye, and looks to be working back into sleep - and the rigidity of your grip slackens all of a sudden, the hammer clattering to the ground from your numb fingers.  Once it is clear of your hand, your feet obey you again; and you tumble to the ground as your spasming calves once again recognize your authority.  You are clear to leave, the cursed hammer no longer forcing your obedience; the dragon apparently deciding to add greed to the divine oath to compel you to action.

Back at the entrance to the cave, Ortel and Marlene are holding themselves, crowded into a corner with the mangy wolf between them lending its warmth.  They look over you, splattered in crystalized ogre blood; but neither demands to know what has taken place.  You have to move quickly to get down the slope to the rest of your thralls before nightfall; where Byjan does dare to ask about what has taken place, and what is to happen next.

 "The woman, Thrud, is recovering slowly; but she needs warmth and care from a place like Zagdhelm, if she is to live.  But you have returned - and the beastmen are slain.  Perhaps that will be enough, for the dark dwarf?" 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: And now... 
Arnuuk wanted most that you would stop the beastmen attacks - you've done that.  He wanted secondarilly that you could gather intel about why they were attacking - you've done that too.  The dragon has made you swear by a minor goddess, with the promise of a breastplate of reward, that you will find someone else to be its champion - the way you do this was not specified, but it will involve someone atleast combat capable picking up the dragon-tooth hammer.  You may choose to ignore this promise, if you are willing to risk whatever might come from that!
 
 
bramblefoot
 "should be"  jorunn replies, lost in thought.  "back to zagdhelm"  he says.

he's not confiding to anyone save arnuuk about that giant ass wyrm up in the hills
MrAbdiel
It's a long walk back to Zadghelm - but atleast one with less thread, since you've culled the nearby beastmen; and the frost and snow do not decide to overly punish you.  When you and your thralls are back in the town, you find that the Thrall Market is mostly packed up; sales have been made, ' goods' led away.  A handful of vendors remain in these late days; and one of them is the small contingent of Dwarves.  Arnuuk grins an unpleasant grin, and throws up his arms at your return; a gesture that seems almost to mock the idea of good friends, as much as to emulate it.  Byjan and your thralls crowd to an outdoor bonfire, and see to some mercy for the rescued freeholder.  This affords you a private-enough moment to speak with the dwarven vendor.

 "You have returned, warrior!  And with a great beast skull in your possession.  A good hunt, I take it?" 
bramblefoot
 "a good hunt"  jorunn says. he lowers his voice, saying  "the beastmen were taking captives up the mountain to feed an ogre."  he continues with.  "i saw a wyrm, big as can be. apparently the ogre was its sentinel, with a big hammer"  he does not elaborate on how he escaped the wyrm, unless arnuuk asks, and then he's evasive as best he can be

he looks over the oddments that arnuuk has, collecting his blade, by the steel and collecting a small spyglass with purple lenses and carved runes. when he puts his eye to the glass, a small imp is inside, and gives him better zoom and identification purposes

he'll thank the dwarf for his time, and meet up with his thralls.

 
 Spoiler: ooc 
if you have any hooks, now is the time to hit me
 
MrAbdiel
 Arnuuk is surprised by your report - but definitely intrigued to learn that the mountain holds a dragon.  A dragon whose primary defender is now dead.

 "An interesting discovery, warrior.  There have long been rumors of old Khazanaak The Blue in the mountains; but it had been thought he had fled to some other ice floe hundreds of years prior.  This is good to know - and you have earned your reward..."   He presents you with the blade you selected - and with some negotiation, the additional reward of the Devil-Spy trinket.  He's also good enough to explain to you what your spoils infact do!

When you return to your thralls, they are recovering around a fire while Thrud has been taken into the hospitality of the owner of the longhouse; the same who took you in, when you were fished out of the snow in a similar condition.  She will be in recovery for some time; and likely receive local aid restoring her home.

Byjan looks over your spoils breifly with his one good eye, before striking up a conversation with you.

 "...Joruun... What happens, now?  Are we going west, to Skjold, to find out why there has been no vengeance for our clan from the rest of the Bjornling tribe?  Or further into Skaeling territory, to take vengeance ourselves...?  Or ... do we need money first, before anything?" 

It's a fair question.  The blood of your people lies unavenged under the snow, crying out for reprisal - but then, those were people who refused to name you, and did not respect you.  What do you owe them?  The Skaeling are a powerful tribe - a small group could perhaps raid and plunder from their edges, with obvious risks.  But a little more wealth - enough to outfit yourself properly and to clothe your thralls so you do not lose them to the teeth of winter - would also be useful.  That would entail looking for work the hard way - tasking around to see if anyone needs a job done, probably a dangerous one, for decent recompense.  Otherwise, you could try to steal a ship and make for another tribe's port, hoping to sell it there for a great prize of silver.

But on top of this decision, Byjan is certainly beginning to act as if you are partners, and as if he did not have a thrall-brand on him.  So far you've been able to operate in this vague 'pretend to be my thrall' space; but it will not last.  Soon you will either have to declare him a free man - a process that will require the surgical removal of the brand on his skin, and then you will have to see how this changes the micropolitics between your remaining thralls -... or you will have to put him in his place, forever cementing the nature of your friendship having changed to one of master and servant.

 
 Spoiler: Loot! 
I like the little imp-telescope.  But if there's a non-specified reward on the table, feel free to pitch it to me in the OOC before we chuck it on the record - it'll save a weird rollback if it turns out not to be the kind of thing available, or conflicting with some story element not yet revealed, or something like that!

But you have the  Devil-Spy , a pocket, evil-powered spyglass.  And you also have a new sword...

   Witherbrand    is a Good Quality hand weapon (shortsword).  It is a  Chaos Weapon  - infused with dark magic, though not a daemonic spirit.  In addition to being a hand weapon it has the following qualities:

 Magic Destroyer  - When this weapon strikes a character with a positive Magic Characteristic, the victim must succeed on a -10% Willpower Test or lose 1 point of Magic for 1d10 hours.  Effects are cumulative.

 Bound Spell  - Once per combat, you can invoke the spell bound into the blade as if you were casting it with a Magic Characteristic of 3.  The spell bound within is Lure of Chaos (Target takes a willpower test or you decide its actions next turn).  If your casting provokes the curse of Tzeentch, you endure the effects just as a mage would.  This is a sophisticated action and cannot be performed during a frenzy.
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn will coolly consider for a second, then answer.  "money first"  he says, considering his options. as much as he'd like to free byjan, the issue with the thralls would be a pickle to deal with. alternatively., he could change their friendship to one of master and servant, but he would hate to do that. he'll head to see the vikti, and show him the mark on his arm and the daemon weapon
MrAbdiel
 The Vitki is a man of the.  He is fat, which few norscans can afford to be; but he has the wild eyes in his head and the divine tokens in his dwelling; and he is left handed, which is always a sign of a wiseman.  Ake, son of Brand, is just old enough to have the credibility of more life experience than someone like you, or Byjan.  In short, he is no crooked old seer woman; but he'll do.

 "This weapon is charged with the power of the gods.  The ruiner gods - do you ken your gods, young man?  There are gods of men, and there are gods who delight to destroy men.  They are gods, and gods are owed fear and respect; but ware ye to rely on such powers.  They break.  They warp.  They change."   He gestures to your face - your eyes, your hair, the signs of your mutation.   "You know that already.  There's no daemon in this blade - it will not seek to crawl into your blood and ride you into the sea, like some blades do.  But it is forged in the magic of the Dark Gods.  Bane to wizards; and capable of bending a man's will with command, in combat.  But having such a thing has a cost - you make yourself vulnerable to the Dark Gods, if their favor should change away from you.  Consider the cost.  A young man might use a weapon like this for a long time with no price paid - but there are no old men who have wielded such their whole lives, and passed them down to their sons.  Consider, and weight, and be wise." 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: On Chaos Weapons... 
Chaos Weapons are distinct from Daemon Weapons.  Chaos Weapons are a kind of Magic Weapon.
 Where a magic weapon has certain properties, and a rune weapon has specific magical properties constrained by runes, a chaos weapon is empowered by chaos magic.  Its powers are often greater, but the energy of it is corrosive to body and soul over time.

 A character with a Chaos Weapon in their possession has a -10% penalty to any tests they make to resist mutation.   These tests are not common, so this isn't a five alarm emergency; but it does mean if it comes up, you'll be rolling at a higher challenge; and if you plan to hang around in Norsca long term, or go north towards the Wastes (for some damn reason), you might consider putting it aside!
 


...But the mark on your arm seems to puzzle him.  He rubs a fistful of knucklebones on your arm - bones from all kinds of creatures, human and elf and dwarf and beast - and scatters them on the table.  He seems to interpret some information from the mess they leave, though you see nothing in it; and he picks one out of the heap.

 "...A curse.  A mark.  Old magic; magic from ancient times, in an ancient place.  It's a grip, Jorunn... It's..."   He suddenly grabs your other arm at the wrist, his hand squeezing painfully tight causing you to jerk away.   "It's a -bruise- left by an evil hand that you wriggled out of.  It's pulling you back to it - it's pulling itself toward you, too.  There may be sorcerers that can oppose such magics, but not I.  Elven wizards, maybe.  Whatever spirit or evil thing has gripped you, Jorunn, you will see it again.  You ought to be ready." 
 
 Spoiler: Intrustive Thoughts 
  How it had been so, you cannot say to this day. You were on the land; the ship had beached; but then it hadn't. Without a sense of motion but a mind-churning sense of displacement by forces beyond your ken, the land shot out from under your feet to the horizon and you and the ship hit the water again - and the ship, wracked from its impact with rocks now ripped away from its hull, broke in two with a thundercrack and began to sink. Beneath the freezing waves, trying not to swallow the sea, you felt something burning on your forearm - something searing in your skin, boiling the water around it. And there, beyond you, the bodies of the other mercenaries and warriors sagged and bobbed and sank in the water; torn and ripped and broken. There was Aran - his eyes flashing open as the shock of the sea struck him from his sleep into this hideous nightmare. And there, beneath, was the dead-man; his chains and stone shards which served as weapons before now serving as anchors. One skeletal arm strained out and seized Aran's ankle, and your friend - always the cheerful and light-spirited one - did not have the strength or the clarity in the moment to contest it. The revenant sank into the dark, Aran with it; and with them, all hands who sailed on that doomed ship back from cursed, cursed Albion.  
 


Is that what was happening - a mad, magical tug of war between your desire to get away and the monster's magic to pull you closer?  Is that why the ship had been dragged inexplicably back into the water in a blink of an eye - why your shield, and then your father's axe, somehow made their way back to you despite being lost?  Atleast that's some kind of information - more than you had before.  Even if you can't do much about it, right now. 
bramblefoot
 "thank you"  jorunn says. he will walk back to his thralls, and take byjan aside.  "lets get you freed"  he says, taking him over to get the thrallmark removed
MrAbdiel
 A short and painful story involving a knife, a hot iron plate, and a poultice wrap later, Byjan is once again a free man - though with no clan or lord, like you.  He is ginger with his arm from the obvious pain; but freedom is a sweet enough balm.

 "Thank you, Jorunn. You're a good friend.  To think - if you hadn't come along, I might be anywhere.  Perhaps those dwarves would have bought me, and I would be dragged to the Darklands to toil in their damn mines. I don't have much; but I owe you everything, now.  I'm with you; to the end of your saga, or mine." 

Byjan explains the circumstances of his manumission to the other thralls.  None openly object - but then, they are thralls; they can hardly make a show of whether or not this suggests to them a possibly future in which you free them... or perhaps an unfair favouritism that they might grow to resent.  As with so many things, you can only permit time to tell.  With your friend in tow, you head to the warmth of the longhouse where your thralls ease their aches, and you and Byjan can contrive a way to get some more  sceatta .

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Give me a Gossip roll for opportunities.  Have a +20, for all your thralls and friends.
 
 
bramblefoot
gossip roll

 (1d100)[ 47 ] 
bramblefoot
jorunn finds a merchant who needs protection on the trail to a bigger city in norsca. he pays six sceatta up front with a little haggling from liebwen, with the promise of eight more upon delivery. jorunn will take the money and buy furs for marlene and byjan
MrAbdiel
 Liebwen has to haggle his backside off, but you end up with two sets of respectable fur clothing for Byjan, and Marlene; Liebwen and Ortel left to suffer a little longer as your promise to clothe them so comes halfway to fruition.  Six  sceatta  for two sets of furs is almost a steal; but the trade is draining away from Zagdhelm, and merchants are trying to clear what stock they have for portable, fungible silver.  The merchant, a Skaeling trader named Haggur Fodrisson, is part way through his trade cycle.  He brings thralls from deeper east in Norsca, trades them for more benign goods in Zadghelm, them moves on to sell those goods off at the large town of Krejj, in the boundary lands of Skaeling and Bjornling territory.  Some partner will take those goods and move them on Skjold, where they will be traded to men from the southern realms - mostly, from the Empire of the effete hammer-god of men.  You have seen the effigies that other Norscans make of him before they go raiding - a weak man, fat and laden with armor painted with ochre to imitate gold. This is what the Empire is - a weak, rich realm overseen by frail gods.

Haggur's little trade operation is a single large wagon, laden down with  heavy ivory and mammoth pelts in bails.  It is pulled by a team of four heavy shouldered musk-oxen that he dotes on, and has named  Freggi, Skeggi, Peggi  and  Andreggi.   For a couple of days travel, Haggur feeds you and your thralls from his stock of rations as you travel west.  He's talkative, when you stop; Leibwen throws himself infront of the line of fire to keep him entertained with smalltalk, but he is a well travelled fellow with a wealth of information.

 "Have you been to Krejj?  It's a fine town.  A few hundred, there; wooden walls, and a deep lake remaining frozen most of the year.  The Krejji were once a much larger clan, in older generations; as big as any other, but they were driven to the brink by the Skaeling and now their land is our land.  Now they are just one clan, one tribe, one town - the Bjornlings and Skaeling just let it stand as a neutral buffer, which suits a trader just fine.  Long roads and deep snow; but a few more years of this, and I'll have all the money I need; I'll take a couple of young wives, and jump on one of those huge Marienburg boats, and buy passage down to the southern realms - souther than south, to the untamed lands beyond Tilea.  There, a man can make a homestead with his wives; live like a jarl in his own domain!  And there is so much sun that it never snows!" 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: Information Opportunity 
Haggur seems well travelled, and positively disposed towards your band.  If you want to ask him about Norscan politics and tribes, or things further beyond, you can do so.  He has politely not asked your tribe - it seems not to matter to him.  Otherwise, I'll move us on to the next scene.
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn will ask about general politics in norsca, and also about the lands of the empire. just the basics, and other prudent information. if the man seems talkative, he'll ask about aelfric the sighted
MrAbdiel
 The report of Norsca broadly is not unlike its typical arrangement. The tribes are fractious, and bicker.  In the far east of Norsca, the Baersonling clash with the Aesling.  In the middle of Norsca, the Varg and the Sarl continue brawling in the passes between the mountains.  Locally - this part you already knew - the Skaeling and Bjornling have been going back and forth burning each other's villages; but a Skaeling host burned out one of the Bjornling's tries entire, and from that position negotiated a cessation of hostilities - however long it lasts.  It's a neccessary pause - to the north, the Graeling threaten both Skaeling and Bjornling, capable of swooping in and plundering either if it is left too weak or overextended.  Parties of Graeling scouts are already making their way beyond the mountains and trying their luck, probing with attacks for response.  That's as much of the reason for you guarding this wagon as any other - the Graeling might knock it over and burn it just to stir up further conflict between the Bjornling and Skaeling.

 "The sighted one, yes - he drives the band that has been tearing up the Bjornling clans.  Not the greatest Norscan in stature, as some are; but furious and deadly in battle.  Touched by the Hound, some say. They call him sighted because he has four eyes - two as normal and two right below them."  He taps his face with middle and forefingers touching just below his eyelids.   "All the better to see his prey, I suppose.  They say he was once a simple slave-taker; he sold his prisoners to Bjorning, Skaeling and Sarl. But touched now by the blood god, he no longer takes to the sea at all.  I think - oh...?" 

Haggur pulls his team of oxen to a halt.  The lightly snowed-over path ahead is blocked by a great log - oddly straight and smooth, jumbled with ropes and what seems like heaped cloth; but it smacks of the oldest ambush trick in the book...

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Time to get to work.  Give me a Perception test, with +20 from your thralls helping as you inspect this zone; and draw your weapons, if you think that's appropriate!
 
  
bramblefoot
jorunn will hop down, shield on his arm, and pulling witherbrand from its sheath. he will scent the air, attempting to pick up anything out of the ordinary by his senses  "seems like a trap"  he says gruffly

perception roll

 (1d100)[ 93 ] 
MrAbdiel
 You flank out off the road and circle around... and you are ultimately left secure in your assessment that there is, infact, no ambush here. But then what is the nature of this obstruction?  Closing to inspect it, you find it is not just a straight log, but a ship's mast - and not one unfamiliar to you.  With quiet dread in your stomach, you dig around in the snow and fish out the frozen but intact flag that once flew above the ship it was on - the same gryphon-crested Imperial flag that flew over the ship you and your comrades seized as a prize and sailed back to Norsca.  A clear and inexplicable instinct tells you this is, certainly, from the captured ship  Der Stolzensohn .  A flag, and a mast, that should be at the bottom of the sea of claws, not here beside the mountains in the interior of Norsca.

It seems that the vitki was right - the monster that was dragged to the sea floor has marked you, and is somehow almost...  throwing  debris at you across the stage of fate, and distance; like a man in pitch darkness, casting stones about to hear them skip and click off water, or stone, or thud into flesh to try to orient itself within the black.  It seems unable to attack you directly - why not drop such a mast on you while you slept?  But it is clawing away at the space between you with its incomprehensible magics - a condition that you cannot permit to last forever, even if you can endure it now.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
You are being hunted by a magical horror from before the coming of the Dark Gods.  Take an Insanity point; and then pass a Willpower check or take one D3 more.
 


With the help of your thralls, you clear the road enough to proceed; but it's only another two hours down the road when you  do  encounter trouble.   "Halt there!" , comes a voice that announces itself from behind a drift of snow behind the open road before you come close enough to spot anything wrong with it.  The voice is masculine and deep; full of authority that it is used to hearing obeyed.   "For the sake of the gods, I give you this chance, Skaeling - abandon your goods and beasts, and walk back the way you came; or else Kaelveg, son of Kaelveg, and his fated warriors fall upon you!" 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
...And now you're being robbed by some kind of would be bandits, presently hiding. You can't see the announcer's face, but the way he introduced himself, Kaelveg son of Kaelveg rather than Kaelveg Kaelvegsson, suggests to you he is not Bjornling or Skaeling - perhaps, Graeling, as your employer feared.  How to respond to such a threat?
 
 
bramblefoot
 "why dont we avoid unneccesary bloodshed and settle this mano-a-mano?"  jorunn calls back.  "send out your best champion, and ill fight him. i win, we pass unmolested."  he says confidently.  "or are you such an honorless bastard as to attack from ambush?" 

CK norsca to see what i know of the graelings

 (1d100)[ 27 ] 

fellowship roll to incite the graelings to come out and play

 (1d100)[ 47 ] 
MrAbdiel
 The Graelings, you know, are a fierce enough tribe; though given they live on the northern coast of Norsca, their conflict is more often with other tribes of Norsemen than any other force.  They do not get to perform much glamorous raiding or profitable trade; instead, the fight to deflect the constant antagonism of the bloodthirsty Vargs to their east, and otherwise eek out a living from the hostile land.  It is said the Graeling land is home to the dens of the Werekin - savage 'skinwolves', wolf-changers not unlike the one you tore apart... though perhaps worse.  Werekin are thought to be champions of the dark gods who were unable to complete acts of sufficient devotion to be elevate to the tables of the gods in immortality, and were instead cursed - or blessed - with the ability to take on the savage beast shape.  But the werekin are savage and isolated.  This cocky bandit is far from home, and almost social.

With your challenge, the caller reveals himself - a massive warrior, just shy of seven feet tall before the horns of his helm carry up beyond that mark; his chest bare and scarred and crossed with an arrangement of leather straps and iron rings.  He holds a massive axe in one hand; whose steel shining faces have the engraved likeness of a biting wolf upon them.

 "Mano-a-mano?" 

He repeats, tossing the axe to one side and reaching to remove his helmet as well; revealing an appropriate scarred visage, and short lock of tonsured hair.  This warrior knows enough of the world, it seems, understand the classical phrase you dropped in your challenge, which you had learned from your Tilean friends - mano-a-mano, hand to hand.

 "I take your terms.  Prepare yourself, then.  If I win, I will have my pick of your thralls, and your wagon's goods.  By our contest, may the gods make known their will!" 

Sportingly enough, he removes even the spiked bracers around his wrist which might have been valuable weapons; and then moves out to the road.  Six other figures, none so massive but all similarly threatening marauders, emerge to witness the contest; steel great weapons and helms in their hands, idle, waiting.

Such a challenge is respected across the great world.  Men, and elves, and dwarves understand it; even orcs and daemons interpret the sacred power of the challenge.

Kaelveg, son of Kaelveg, stands patiently for you to deliver.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Presuming you intend to honor your challenge, you can fight Kaelveg hand to hand in the most honorable fashion by rolling initiative, and trying to beat  (1d10+4)[ 5 ] .

If you want to stress that honor some, you can charge into melee and take a surprise round.

Lunging in and attacking him with weapons (or turning into a giant monster with claws and teeth) will naturally foul the integrity of the challenge.
 The gods are said not to like this, though they rarely intervene; but the other ambushers might take offense, certainly.
 
 
bramblefoot
Jorunn will stab witherbrand into the snow, and prepare for combat

 (2d100)[ 55 ][ 77 ](132) 
 (1d10+1)[ 2 ] 
 (1d10+1)[ 4 ] 
MrAbdiel
 You try your luck leaning toward cunning instead of brutal physicality - this brute may well outmatch you, in that case.  So you take up Witherbrand and incite its bound magics at one of Kaelveg's minions.  But though the magic activation of the weapon is intuitive, it is still new to you; and something about the way you are  willing  it to act goes fowl.  An unseasonably hot wind blitzes the scene of the showdown, carrying with it the babbling whispers of some unbodied thing in a language no one understands.  This, you suspect, is a side effect of the spell going bad.  But to Kaelveg, it seems you have cast something with sorcery and violated the combat of the duel - which is what you were trying to do, to be fair.   "Wretch!  Sorcerer!  Damn your eyes!"   He snatches up the axe from the snow and roars his displeasure; and the marauders who had expected to watch a contest of strength quickly take up their arms as well, preparing to fall on you and your party with vengeance!

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Kaelveg's initiative is already rolled, but now that everyone else is getting involved:

  GraelingGreatWeapon1  - (1d10+3)[ 7 ] 
  GraelingGreatWeapon2  - (1d10+3)[ 7 ] 
  GraelingGreatWeapon3  - (1d10+3)[ 5 ] 
  GraelingAxeAndShield4  - (1d10+3)[ 13 ] 
  GraelingAxeAndShield5  - (1d10+3)[ 9 ] 
  GraelingAxeAndShield6  - (1d10+3)[ 12 ] 
  Marlene  - (1d10+4)[ 6 ] 
  Liebwen  - (1d10+3)[ 9 ] 
  Orten  - (1d10+3)[ 7 ] 
  Byjan  - (1d10+3)[ 12 ] 
  Wolf  - (1d10+4)[ 5 ] 
  Haggur  - (1d10+3)[ 13 ] 

Everyone on this list spends this turn grabbing weapons, dismounting the cart, drawing closer to the combat as the scene changes from a duel to a full melee.  It's back around to your turn, with Kaelveg (and all the other Graelings) in charge distance.
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn will frenzy, turning into his usual were-form, and squaring off for combat  "take down kaeleg, and the rest will splinter!"  he calls
MrAbdiel
 The battle is joined.

Your thralls have been through a lot; but they are used to this, after a few combats.  They know holding out long enough for you to do your gory work is the surest path forward, and they hurl themselves into combat trusting that much of your nature.

As your bones click and shift and the red haze fills up your eyes, the Graelings behold your changing form with mixed astonishment.  Four of the followers seem to balk at your ursine shape and the ruff of unnatural white fur over your body; but Kaelveg and a couple of the others take it in stride, too inured by the dangerous Norscan life to be dissauded from their action.

The merchant Haggur proves ready to defend his livelihood.   "Come on, you bastards!  Graeling swine!  You'll not have my wares except by asking for them and paying a reasonable fistful of silver!"   He bangs his axe on his circular shield and invites challenge - and he gets it.  Two of the shield bearing Graeling charge him, their blows clattering off his defensive posture, but scoring no hit.

Byjan takes your command to heart and races into melee with Kaelveg, swinging down with the great stone maul looted from the Bestigor; but it is an unweilding weapon, and the raider steps aside the blow.

Liebwen the negotiator is least natural in combat, but has proven himself holding his own against several beastmen before, and musters his courage now.  He raises his crooked wooden spear to defend himself, managing to spoil the charge of a Graeling rushing at him, and avoid death for another crucial moment.

Orten, your initiate, lets out a throaty bark and surrenders himself to his southern warrior god's courage (not as cowardly as reported, perhaps) and charges across the ground with a crude axe of stone make taken from your beastman slaying.  It is Orten who scores first blood, his swing opening a cut on the Graeling warrior opposite him, whose steel great axe just narrowly swings over Orten's head and fails to remove it.

Elsewhere, another great-weapon wielding Graeling tries his luck - with you!  Stomaching his fear, he charges across the snow and strikes a heavy blow with the two handed blade; it cracks fiercely against your shield, sending wood chips flying, but failing to cut through it into your arm.  Marlene looses an arrow which sails through the combat and narrowly misses the third great weapon wielder so far unengaged.

All of this takes place in a few seconds while your body is rearranging itself.  Then you feel the power in your jaws and claws; the strength of the bear in you, and the killing power of whatever god or spirit gave you this gift...

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Jorunn's turn.  So far the field layout looks like...

HaggurVsGraeling4 and Graeling6

ByjanVsKaelveg

LiebwenVsGraeling5

OrtenVsGraeling1

 JorunnVsGraeling2 

Marlene is standing on top of the cart shooting.  So far, Graeling3, Wolf, and Kaelveg have yet to act because they go after you.

There's a Graeling on top of you for you to swift attack right now, if you want.  Otherwise, you could charge out and join Byjan vs Kaelveg, but the one in contact with you will attack your back as you go, as normal.

So far, your folks are doing great - only one successful hit so far, and it's on the enemy. Good luck!
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn will let out a bellow, claws attempting to swipe through the graeling he's engaged with. the sword and claws bite deep into graeling flesh, causing torrents of blood to flow

 (3d100)[ 14 ][ 30 ][ 61 ](105) 
 (1d10+6)[ 13 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 12 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 10 ] 
MrAbdiel
 You smash your axe down so hard it pushes the Graeling's guard back, forcing the blade of his own sword to lacerate his chest.  As he groans and pushes back, you bash his nose with your shield then drop the claws of that hand to slash open the flesh of his thigh.  This is an assault he's not used to; with no practiced defense, the throws himself backward, dazed, scrambling to his feet and hauling his heavy blade into a guard position.

But then the wolf is there; his patchy, unevent grey fur an airborn blur as he leaps into melee beside you, sinks his fangs into your staggered opponent's shoudler, and twists and wrenches hard enough that something comes loose, and bleeds great gouts.  Inside a few seconds, he is dead.

The Graeling who avoided Marlene's shot comes rushing in.  Seeing Byjan falling upon Kaelveg unprepared, he brawls in to cover his leader.  While Kaelveg puts his horned helm back upon his head and draws a second axe to pair with the first, his offsider clashes with yours... and while Byjan is fighting with a crude beastman maul, this Graeling raider fights with looted Imperial steel.  Byjan deflects one blow, but the next almost takes off his right leg at the knee.  He moves just enough to turn the blow into a deep chop into his calve, but it leaves him stumbling; his return strike going wide and missing both opponents.

Haggur fights with a constant string of shouted defiance, as he stalemates against two opponents; blows banging away into each other's shields with no blood yet spilled; Liebwen fends off his aggressor, spear in hand for another turn.  Marlene tries to assist him the best she can; aiming carefully and loosing a shot at his opponent; but though caution the shot goes wide.

Orten fights like a man possessed.  The southern priest swings wildly and manages another blow through his enemy's guard, opening another cut.  The Graeling against him is a superior warrior, but off guard; and offers only an awkward, deflected return blow while settling into a more defensive posture now that he's losing blood...

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
You're up!  You can charge any opponent; or move in, spend a FP, and swift attack.  Between your blows and your mangy wolf, who seems to have gotten the hang of charging in now, you have felled your opponent and are free to charge.  Byjan is in a bad way, engaged with both Kaelveg, who is now rehelmed and armed; and another Graeling who has scored a big hit on Byjan.  Not enough to make him 'heavilly injured', but close.  Another hit like that and he's losing body parts.  Elsewhere your thralls and Haggur seem to be holding their own.
 But Haggur is in a 2 on one, and Liebwen is outmatched by his opponent even if he is fighting defensively and succeeding.  Orten is playing rocket tag and winning so far, he and a Graeling winging great weapons full force and waiting for someone to win big.
 

 
bramblefoot
jorunn will charge kaeleg, axe flashing.  "those who can, win fairly. those who cant, cheat!"  he bellows

 (1d100)[ 59 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 12 ] 
MrAbdiel
 Kaelvag catches your downward blow in the crossed hafts of his axes; his strength not a match for yours in this form, but match enough to hold back the blow.   "We will see then what the Blood God makes of tricks!"   The wolf follows you into the combat, but his assault fares no better; a vicious boot sends him skittering back, growling, circling for an opening.

But your aid might have come too late.  The warrior with the greataxe beside draws back his axe and smashes it down on Byjan.  Two inches of axe blade bite into his arm near the elbow, slowed barely by Byjan's slow parry with the crude maul.  Your old friend lets out a bellow of pain and stumbles back, putting weight on his hacked leg only to topple into the snow as his mangled arm pours blood into the snow.  No man can bleed like that for long and live, even if the arm can be saved.  Byjan's life now lies in the hands of fate, as to how a number of things manifest - how soon Orten can be detached from his own duel to assist, and if he can be spared at all during such a calamitous clash of forces.

Elsewhere in the field, Haggur's duel with two Graeling shieldsmen shows blood on both sides. The merchant breaks from his defensive rhythm to chance some strikes, and scores a slash on one opponent; but is answered in kind, lacerating the side of his gut.  A second blow from the second opponent races for his skull, but he avoids that blow by a nigh miraculous movement that puts that foe astumble with surprise.  Leibwen continues to fend off his aggressor admirably with jabs of the stolen beastman spear.  Ortel howls and swings a deadly blow that would have broken his opponent in half, if he had not taken care to guard last exchange; the initiative priest again on the front-foot against his enemy.

 "Orten!  Come back!"   Marlene calls; from her perch, seeing Byjan's distress as the big man staggers to his feet and prepares to defend himself.  She does her best work to support this action; dropping her bow, drawing a looted rusty iron hand-pick, and charging into Orten's melee; pressing the solitary Graeling there further, providing a chance for Orten, perhaps, to escape and help stricken Byjan. 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Kaelveg parries you, you parry him; the big development this turn is Byjan took a big crit; but I rolled a 97 for the severity, which is as 'low' as it can be.  If I had rolled 90 or lower, it would have been atleast a lost hand.  And there was a more than even chance he was going to die immediately; but he got lucky.  He's bleeding, but not out; and defending himself this turn.

Right now, in that Melee there is You, poor Byjan, Wolf, Kaelveg and Graeling3; and Graeling3 is looming over Byjan with his great weapon.
 
bramblefoot
Jorunn will bellow stridently, and make three attacks on kaeleg.

 (3d100)[ 61 ][ 13 ][ 33 ](107) 
 (1d10+6)[ 15 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 12 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 12 ] 
MrAbdiel
 Kaelveg blocks your first and heaviest blow, but your flurry crashes in and overwhelms his guard so that  Witherbrand  slashes down his right arm, sending cut rings of chain spinning through the air in the splash of blood.  He grunts, and keeps on; matching your rhythm with his - a bang, bang, bang relentless drumbeat of axe blows cutting into your shield and carving away big flakes of wood and warping its rim as you hold him at bay.  The mangy wolf, having taken your group as its pack, looks for open enemies - and can see no opening in the wild battle between you and Kaelveg.  But the Graeling towering over Byjan is distracted, and the lupine barks and lunges, forcing the would-be-executioner to regard this new enemy and not finish the old.  He makes a reserved swing to drive the wolf back, but minds is energy against another potential attack.  But Byjan staggers to his feet with a bone club in a lefthanded grip, and slams it into his opponent's knee; the greatweapon too slow to parry.  Now both are staggering and pained; one outnumbered, the other rapidly bleeding to death.  All until Ortel comes running in; in a charge of maniac bravery, his abandoned opponent's great weapon wooshing by his back and narrowly missing, the initiate races across the snow and crashes into the warrior who was moments ago standing over a wounded foe... and is now confronting two foes, and a lupine flanker.  The heavy stone weapon cracks into his chest with bonebreaking force, though it holds not enough edge to break skin; leaving him wheezing, looking to his leader for support.

While Liebwen continues his epic fruitless duel with an enemy, Haggur's luck begins to run out.  Fighting two enemies, he begins to be overwhelmed.  His attacks cannot break past their guards when they divide his attention, but both get blows through that leave him bleeding and desperate.  Marlene's engagement prevents Ortel's previous foe from joining the mix; with the skinning knife in one hand and her handpick is the other, she gives him enough to think about to prolong a stalemate and greate a window of opportunity where, if Byjan can hold on a little longer, Ortel might be able to address his injury.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: Jorunn's Turn Again! 
Swings and roundabouts.  The merchant who hired you, Haggur, is duking it out with two enemies and and losing; he's definately on the ropes and he'll be fighting defensively from now on to try to avoid death.
 Marlene tagged out Ortel so now Ortel, Byjan, and Wolf are all ganging up Graeling 3.
 If you or wolf put him down this turn (he's close enough to swift attack), Ortel might be able to address Byjan's bleeding.  Liebwen continues to hold his one enemy at bay.

You scored two good hits on Kaelveg.  A similar round like that and he'll be in criticals.
 But there's also Graeling3 in arms reach, who needs to die soon if you're going to save Byjan.  Whomever you choose to attack this turn, take +10: now this main brawl is a 4:2, which means your side gets a 2:1 gangup bonus!
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn will move to put down graeling three, staying within opportunity attack distance should kaeleg decide to do a runner

 (3d100)[ 54 ][ 77 ][ 44 ](175) 
 (1d10+6)[ 7 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 10 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 13 ] 
MrAbdiel
 It's hard work getting past Kaelveg; his attacks are relentless, and provide you little room to get by - but eventually you make your break, shoving Kaelveg back with your shield and lunging sideways.   Witherbrand  hacks into the Graeling's left bicep down to the bone and with an audible crack, splits over the humerus bone as you wrench it free, leaving the arm dangling by shreds of bone and meat.  The Graeling howls, now bleeding as fiercely as Byjan, even moreso; his weapon dropping to the ground.  Wolf is there to finish the job - with only one operable hand, the warrior cannot fend off the lupine's killing jaws, and is slain.  You bring your spare momentum around at Kaelveg; but again, he catches your blow in with his axes and renews his assault on you - but fortune isn't on his side, and without another opponent right beside you to worry about, holding him at back is more manageable.  His blows ring off your shield - but they do not break past.

Haggur stumbles back; his enemies manage blows past his desperate guard, but they glance off his ringmail.  Byjan stumbles back to rest in the snow, and Orten drops his weapon and grabs for the meagre medical supplies you have been able to afford to him, working to stop Byjan's bleeding with a tourniquet made from a twisted rawhide strap.   "Hold on, big man; hold on." 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Orten successfully stops Byjan's bleeding, though he is still critically injured sufficiently enough that he is subject to Sudden Death and will likely die if he takes another critical hit.
 


Marlene and Liebwen both continue their jousts with their opponents.  Marlene manages to step away from the tentative swing of her enemy's great weapon, and lashes out with her rusty pick to score a minor hit to add to the damage Orten has already left on the northman.  The Graeling winces, injured now, looking about for assistance.  Unfortunately, he is likely to have it soon.

Liebwen's luck runs out; once, and for all.  Once a farmer from Averland, so far from the coast he would never be in danger of Norse servitude; but like a fool, he answered the call to adventure on a journey into the mountains of Norsca only to be captured and enslaved, and to end up fighting for his life in the cold.  He fought well against the beastmen; but he is no match for thus marauding Graeling.  Having gained the measure of the poor mediator, his enemy hangs his axe on his beltloop again.  The next time Leibwen thrusts, the marauder steps to the side and ruthlessly rips the spear from his grib.  Leibwen is stunned to be disarmed; but then his opponent's boot kicks him against a tree beside the trail and a moment later the beastman spear he was wielding a moment before is rammed into his chest so hard it rips through his heart and bites into the tree beyond.  He has a moment to choke on blood before he expires, hanging by the instrument that killed him.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: Alas, Poor Liebwen 
The battle tightens.

 The Main Fight:  You are squaring off against Kaelveg still, with wolf helping you outnumber for +10.  Kaelveg has as many attacks as you, but he is not as vicious, and you are wearing him down.

 The Side Fights:  Nearby you, Orten stops Byjan's bleeding.  Orten is likely to return to the fight, Byjan is not.

Haggur fights a losing battle against Graelings 4 and 6.  He will not last long.

Marlene squares off against Graeling1.  He is more deadly, but Orten has softened him up already, so that might go either way.

Graeling 5 kills Liebwen, and is now free to engage anyone he chooses next turn.

 Casualties:  Liebwen, Graeling 2, Graeling 3.
 

 
bramblefoot
 "damn you!"  jorunn howls, and will make three attacks on kaeleg.

to his thralls:  "play it safe, and ill see you through!"  he calls

 (3d100)[ 84 ][ 39 ][ 82 ](205) 
 (1d10+6)[ 13 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 10 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 15 ] 
MrAbdiel
 Back and forth you go, brawling across the bloodsplashed snow.  You don't remember such a fierce fight against a singular opponent since your duel with the boy-champion of Truskholme.  He lands a barely-there blow to your thight, but finally, you get a telling blow past his guard; a slash across the meat of the thigh that bleeds, and arrests Kaelveg's movement as he cannot freely switch weight from one leg to the other; especially with the wolf darting about behind him, snapping at his ankles.  The wolf doesn't manage to land a bite - he has to dart back as the warrior who killed Liebwen decides to assist his leader, and comes roading in with a chop that skims hair from the wolf's uneven coat, but draws no blood.

Haggur lives another round; by devoting himself entirely to defence, he keeps his two aggressors at back a little longer.  Orten, now leaving Byjan to keep pressure on his own wound, snatches up his stone greataxe and puffing with exertion, charges back across the ground he left, howling and swinging high.  The blow clips the top of the head of the warrior he had abandoned moments ago - his weapon bound with Marlene's, he can offer no defence except to duck a little too slow.  The swing takes off his skullcap, a chunk of his scalp, and leaves his stumbling and stunned.  Marlene elects to dart across to join the beleaguered Haggur, finally evening the odds and forcing one of those two attackers to turn and address her.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: Ebb and Flow 
 Main Fight:  Graeling 5 has joined the fight so his boss isn't ganged up on; he squares off against the wolf while you spar with Kaelveg, who himself is now critically wounded to the leg.  You parried one attack from him and he hit with another; but it did only  6 damage to your Right Leg .

 Side Action:   Orten is slated to execute Graeling1, who is stunned from a head crit.  Marlene has joined poor Haggur fighting Graelings 4 and 6.

Byjan is still technically able to fight; he can wield a weapon in his still functional offhand.  But he is vulnerable enough that he is more a liability in combat, so he holds off for now.

Get 'em Jorunn; finish him!  I will assume any 'excess' attacks flow to your nearest enemy, if you succeed in ending Kaelveg.
 
 
bramblefoot
 "tables have turned"  jorunn gloats, moving to make three attacks against kaeleg. they all hit, and they all bite deep.

 "stay down byjan"  he calls

 (3d100)[ 6 ][ 3 ][ 24 ](33) 
 (1d10+6)[ 12 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 13 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 12 ] 

thats what im talking about!
MrAbdiel
 Eagle, this time, beats Hound.

With a triumphant exertion, you throw Kaelveg's block to the side which spins him halfway around; and then smash him in the middle of the back with the rim of your battered shield.  You hear a  crack ; but as fate would have it, it's Kaelveg son of Kaelveg's spine, not your trusty shield that is breaking; and his legs turn to slack rope beneath him as he collapses into the snow.    Even if he survives the day, he will never raid again - nor walk.

The frenzy burns in your blood, and the momentum of this victory carries you right along into the startled Graeling who charged in to assist his leader, only to end up alone against a destructive dynamo.  You slam  Witherbrand  into his shield, and then wrench it to the side exposing the upper arm for your vicious bite; he screams as you hoist him off the ground in your jaws, and thrash him against the ground as you release him.  Your wolf, who has found a natural rhythm fighting with you, plays his now smoothly integrated roll - when your devastated opponent hits the ground, the wolf launches in and tears our this throat.

Elsewhere, the battle seems to be stabilizing or turning in your favor.  Ortel, almost exhausted, heaves the crude stone axe that was once swung at him high in the air and brings it down onto his stunned enemy, cracking bones and crushing organs; leaving the Graeling dead in the snow.  Marlene takes a small wound to her arm, but ultimately she and Haggur hold their own against their opponents; the situation much less terrible, with the burden shared.

You, the wolf, and Orten are poised to rush in and add your power to this remnant combat; but the Graeling there seem dedicated to their efforts. They are either desperate for a death in battle, or do not fancy their chances fleeing; but they fight on, inviting your final wrath.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
The tide has indeed turned!  Kaelveg is down; and between you and wolf you had the spare juice to put down his helper too.  The only enemies that remain are the two shieldbearers, Graelings 4 and 6, locked in a 2vs2 with Haggur and Marlene.
 Time to finish the job; mourn the dead; and reap the rewards!
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn lets out a triumphant howl, and will charge into combat

 (1d100)[ 13 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 10 ] 
MrAbdiel
 You roar in and smash your weapon into the back of the Graeling threatening Marlene, sending him spinning into the snow with a slash on his back - and true to form, that mangy wolf with its blood covered muzzle is there to lock jaws on the man's throat and squeeze, and shake, and rip until he struggles no more.  The lone Graeling starts to realize now, too late, he has gone from outnumbering his foe to being surrounded and alone.

He tries to get to grips with the badly wounded Haggur, perhaps hoping to use him as leverage to bargain his way out; but it's long too late.  The wily merchant has moves left; he avoids the blow and spends his effort against the Graeling's shield, forcing his guard forward and exposing him to the attacks coming his way.  You hear Ortel coming, and move a little to enable his straight charge; his bloody stone axe cracking into the final Graeling's shoulder, spinning him about. But circumstance he ends up twisted about on his knees infront of you, his weapon arm broken, peering up in shock.  Perhaps you could capture him, or torment him for information - but the killing frenzy is on you, and only blood will slake it until no enemies are left.  He witnesses your axe swinging sidelong at his jaw... then witnesses no more.
 
"Ahhh..."   Haggur growls in pain, dropping his weapon, leaning against a tree.   "Gods take the eyes of every last Graeling!  Ah.... Ah..."   He has been wounded to within an inch of his live; but he is only the third most brutalized member of the troupe.  Byjan is the second; and Liebwen, pale and still and dusted now with snow, is the worst.  Marlene takes it the worst - she and Leibwen were part of the same expedition that was captured and enslaved here in Norsca, and she collapses at the foot of the tree against which he is impaled, breathing heavilly, gathering herself.

Ortel takes a moment for his hands to stop shaking, and then checks on everyone's wounds, until he is satisfied no one is in mortal peril.  He reports to you, after the combat, somewhat awkwardly; he had relied on Byjan to do this, or else Leibwen.  But both are indisposed.

 "Haggur will be fine, though one of us will have to drive his cart the rest of the way.  Byjan's arm can be saved; though we will do well to get more medicine if possible, when we get to Krejj.  Everyone else, has only fleshwounds, except Leibwen."   He looks back at the body of his fellow thrall; and with your leave, goes over to give the man a final blessing.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Victory!  Big fight - Have a big reward of 200XP.  There's also loot to claim from the dead, and an opportunity to see if these Graeling have some kind of stash nearby... Give me a Search Check, with a +20 for help from your thralls.
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn will allow the final rest. he will place a hand on marlene's shoulder, then move to catalogue the weapons and armor.

a half-hour of searching later stumbles upon a small cache of valuables, enough to recoup the loss of liebwen, and a small roll-up bag of surgical tools

 (1d100)[ 49 ] 
MrAbdiel
  
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Lol, I appreciate how keen you are to advance things bro; but I think I'm gonna reserve the right to determine the loot you find!
 No hard feelings.  You might have to go further abroad to get surgical tools!
 


You strip the dead.  Marlene and Ortel have a short argument with Byjan about what to do with Leibwen's body.  The man was not a warrior; but Byjan and the thralls certainly bonded in their short time as a company.  Byjan wants to take Leibwen's skull with him - which is a respectful enough action for a Bjornling to take for a fallen comrade, just as it is to do for a worthy enemy; and has vague afterlife ramifications that would put Leibwen under Byjan's legacy, when it comes to the judgement of the gods.  Marlene wants to bury him, so his bones are intact when the god of death - she calls him 'Morr' - comes for him.  Ortel, the only 'holy' man in the group, does not find the skull-taking to be respectful but also contends that Leibwen, the  real  Leibwen, is a spirit that fled from his body at the moment of death.  Anything done for the body, he says, is for the comfort of those living; a radical, almost blasphemous disregard for the corpse.  Perhaps he is trying to find a way to leave the body out for the wolves; perhaps that would please his strange southern wolf god.

Ultimately, with the exception of Leibwen's loss and the blood spilled by your comrades, the stand against the Graelings has been quite profitable for you.  Not only do you come away with a cache of weapons and armor taken from the warriors, but Marlene finds their encampment off the road which you commandeer and use for the night.  It's a series of crummy wooden shelters not worth taking, but serviceable for a rest stop; but more interesting, a large wooden trunk containing a number of eclectic, useful items.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: Loot! 
 Loot From The Search 

• A long bag containing a militiaman's longbow, leather wrist-guards, a flask of linseed oil and bowstrings, and a quiver with 30 arrows. Includes a fletching kit with extra feathers and needle and thread.  (Longbow, good quality leather bracers, 30 arrows, and some miscellanea we'll call a 'fletcher's kit'). 

• A pair of embroidered laced leather boots made by a master tailor in Marienburg's famous garment district.  (Best Quality Riding Boots) 

• A pewter tankard etched with a raunchy slogan.  (Good quality pewter tankard). 

• A superb knife with a handguard in the shape of a two-headed raven and inlaid with bronze. It is fitted into a leather sheath decorated in a similar fashion.  (Best Quality Dagger). 

• A 20-pound bag of dried peas.  (Another 2 days of rations for your party.)   I think that brings you up to 4.

...and a total of 168  sceatta  extorted from other travellers.

 Loot From The Battle 

From the goons...
- 6 sets of full leather armor (slightly damaged)
- 6 chainmail shirts (slightly damaged)
- 3 shields
- 3 axes (hand weapons)
- 3 great weapons (2 axes, 1 sword)
- 3 plate helms

From Kaelveg, Son of Kaelveg...
- Full Leather Armor (slightly damaged)
- Chainmail Shirt (slightly damaged)
- Chainmail Boots
- Plate Gauntlets
- Good Quality Plate helm
 


It's quite a haul.  Some of the armor is damaged from the battle - to get best sale value out of it, you'll have to have it cleaned; and to rely on it yourself, you'll probably want it repaired. But it's far more than you had before, that's for sure. Yet you are confronted with a new problem - the way your body changes when you shift.  You can wear your leathers loosely enough it is not a problem for them; your footwraps have strained but lasted this long, for example.  But if you are going to wear better armor - especially metal armor - you will have to be careful to remove it when you expect to shift, lest it break, or harm you.  How to overcome this problem long term, you don't know - but perhaps the Werekin up in the Graeling territories might have some wisdom; or else some other exotic wiseperson.  For now, you are forced to carefully choose between wearing this metal armor, or being free to shift into your war-form.

Haggur and Byjan are both so wounded that they can't do much but laze by the fire and recover.  In a moment while you are keeping watch and the others are resting by the flames, and Haggur's oxen are laden over with furs to keep them warm, Marlene comes to sit beside you.  You can see a new awkwardness in her demeanor; strange, because of how forthright and co-operative she has typically been.   "...What happens next, Jorunn?  Where are you taking us, and what will we do there?"  
bramblefoot
jorunn will answer with a  "lets head to krejj, and see what comes after"  followed by a  "if you have some grievences to air, air em. no good comes of holding in anger" 
 
 Spoiler: ooc 
im sticking to my war form, and damn the consequences
 
MrAbdiel
 Marlene purses her lips; sniffs a little.  Marshalls her thoughts.

 "...We had talked - Ortel, Leibwen and me, I mean.  Leibwen was going to ask you - ... He was always the better talker.  Ah..." 

Another pause.

 "...Look, I don't want to end up nailed to a tree out here in this godless country.  I want to survive.  I want to go home.  I want to go see Leibwen's family and tell them he died bravely.  I almost ran off in the night, but Byjan or Leibwen talk me out of it.  And you've been.. fair, so far.  Not as cruel as I had expected.  But on the other hand, we're not being taken to some farm to shovel sh*t and pick carrots.  You're taking us into combat, over and over again.  Today it was Leibwen; tomorrow it might be me.  So we want to make you a deal - Ortel and I do.  You set us free, like you did for Byjan - and we'll stick with you and serve you for a year, before we go home.  I don't know if you honor oaths up here - gods know you didn't seem to want to honor that duel with the Graeling - but an oath is better binding where I come from than a brand."   She holds up her arm, indicating her Thrallmark.

There it is, then; the consequence of you setting Byjan free - the other thralls conceiving that it is possible for them, too.  By strictly Norscan custom, you own these thralls for whatever purpose you will for the rest of their lives.  But so far they have served you courageously and sacrificially by their own volition.  And a year is a long time to get the value our of the five  sceatta  you paid for them.  Is the loyalty of an oathbound companion worth more than the obedience of a marked thrall?  If you agree, and have their thrallmarks removed in Krejj, will they vanish in the night and be beyond the reach of thrall-trackers?  If you don't loose them... will they take their chances with the cold, and with fate, rather than commit themselves lifelong to service in your bloody band? 
bramblefoot
jorunn will scrutinize marlene's face.  "you have served me well"  he says, placing a massive mitt on marlenes shoulder.  "i will free you and ortel, if you will swear an oath on one of your gods to serve faithfully for the year."  he will sit down, and let her think it over.

he will continue with a corollary  "should you swear and flee, and i catch you, my eyes will be the last thing you see. you saw how my war-form carved through those graelings like a knife through cheese" 
MrAbdiel
 Marlene looks shocked at her success.  She had prepared in her mind some second volley of reasons to try to convince you, even mustered her courage to prepare to yell something; and you can almost see these unspent weapons of rhetoric rattling around inside her head without purpose now.

 "Well... Good.  Great; thank you." 

She leaves you to yourself, then; going to tell Ortel the news, and permitting you the time to flay Kaelveg son of Kaelveg's skull; and to empty its now purposeless contents into the snow.  After it is properly dry, it will find a place beside the bestigor's skull, in your renewed collection.

 "... Good call."   Wheezes Byjan, who apparently has listened to your previous conversation from where he appeared to sleep nearby.  He lies on his back, trying not to move his badly cleft arm; eyes closed.   "Thralls make fine enough workers, because an obedient thrall lives a life not much different to a freeman put to a task for his own petty benefit.  But a thrall has less to fight for, than a freeman.  They'll have to take a share of the loot, now - but you can make it their responsibility to outfit themselves.  These south-men... I have been told always how weak and worthless they are. But I wonder if that is a condition of slaves, not of south-men.   I have been a slave, now; it does take the spirit from you..."   He trails off, falling back into sleep.

 * * * * * 
Ortel swears to serve you for a year, and does so by his god, whom he calls Ul-ric; a wolf god, and warrior god.  Marlene swears by the main god of the southmen, Sigmar, whose frail and unthreatening likeness you have seen in effigy often enough.  But they both seem sincere.  And both are happy to have each a set of leather and some chain to keep them warm and protected.  Proper weapons help, too; with your permission, each of them help themselves to a decent handweapon and shield.  Ortel takes a greataxe, too; proficient as he seems, with them.  Marlene would take the longbow and fletcher's kit, if you'd part with it; and Byjan would likely be happy to 'mind' the plate and chain extras that you cannot wear given your transmutable nature, until you feel you need them.  This constitutes fair 'payment' to what is no longer your train of thralls, and is now your warband.  And, you are glad to see, you still have a great deal of loot to spare.  If only you can flog it off in Krejj, without getting ripped off...

 * * * * * 
Krejj, it turns out, is just as Haggur described it.  It is surrounded by tall wooden wall with watchtowers around its rim.  On your approach, you see the great frozen lake beside; dotted with twos and threes of the local Krejji fishing in holes cut through its surface.  The town is large, and busy; teeming with the rustic industry of a tribe that has been ground back to a single town and so all of its growth has been confined inward and upward.  Krejj has not been attacked in quite some time; as a border tribe that poses no threat to its neighbours, its weakness has ironically made it more secure than arguably any town of the Graeling, Bjornling, or Skaeling around it, while enjoying a centrality of trade from all of them.

Haggur does the talking at the gates as you drive the oxen for him.  He's battered, but grateful; and intends to make a quick sale of his mammoth wares and then spend a few weeks resting up in the home he owns in the city; a fine, bigger-than-medium domicile without being obscenely big.  He offers you and your warband to stay with him as well, given how fiercely you fought to save him and his goods; even going to far as to make your operation easier by buying any of your loot at its premium value, obviating your need to haggle and sell it on your own.  Byjan has a good head for sales, but he will need a few days to rest, too; you may need to spend your time in and around Krejj until he recovers enough to comfortably travel.  Ortel and Marlene, too - just long enough for the long scabs where their thrallmarks are cut off to cover over without complication.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
You can sell as much of your loot as you want, in Krejj; Haggur will buy it at market value, with his good deal; and haggle it off in his own time later.  If you're happy to let your former-thralls take their pick of weapons and armor and sell the rest, let me know and I'll crunch the numbers for you, minus anything you want to keep.   Krejj is also a good place to look for things you want to buy; or for information on one thing, or another.  Given a couple of days free movement in the town, what's he up to?
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn will accept haggurs offer for the hospitality and the sales. he will wander krejj, looking for a set of surgical tools, a lucky charm, and just general information on the state of the tribes of norscans.

 
 Spoiler: ooc 
i will let marlene have the longbow and a good steel weapon, as well as ortel. im fine with them also having chain and leather armor
 


gossip roll

 (1d100)[ 3 ] 
MrAbdiel
 You leave Byjan and Haggur, recovering in Haggur's warm and firelit home, to sort the loot and provide for its repair and distribution; and wander the streets of Krejj.  There are many buildings that are two stories tall, in this town; and some that are in the process of having their steepled roofs raised to permit the construction of extravagant third floors - necessarily smaller, accessed by ladder.  If you were a man of peace, this might be a nice place to retire.

If.

You stop for a drink at a meadhall, and find the local Krejji to treat you first with suspicion but quickly to warm to you, especially when you describe having thwarted a band of Graeling raiders to the east.

 "Ah.  Damned bandits.  May they all bleed and die in the snow,"  offers one carouser.
 "Say this not; the strong keep what they can, the weak surrender or die - this is the way and has always been!" , counters another.
 "In days before I was a child, but I do not continue to piss my pants out of tradition.  All tribes grow stronger by safe roads and trade."
"Tribes grow stronger by eliminating their weakness.  We will never be strong again with naysayers like you embracing this gold-wristed love of softness."
"See how strong you feel when the Kurgan ride in from the east again, and run us like hunting dogs before them into the guns of the southmen. You know nothing of strength, child - but if you crave a lesson, I will teach!" 

They brawl, knocking over a table, until a hooting crowd shepherds them outside to continue the contest.  The proprietress of the meadhall, the buxom young wife of a grey-haired veteran warrior who serves on the town's council of elders, sighs as she rights the furniture, and laments the regularity of such discussions.
 
"It has been many generations since a great invasion of the southlands, successful or not.  Traders from all over Norsca have similar discussions about the right way.  Once we were all one tribe, they say; the Norsii.  But our ways are all too different for cooperation now; not without a High King to crush opponents, and to hold back the Kurgan when they come.  But who can lend thoughts to such lofty futures, when each day is a struggle for food, and warmth, and appeasement of the gods?  Krejj is small; but our smallness affords us vision.  If only the vision revealed more than strife and war..." 

You spend the rest of the day following the recommendations of one pedlar or another to chase a set of surgical tools.  Such things are almost unheard of, in Norsca; the study of the body is a practise barely understood at such a level, but your time with the Tileans, witnessing the startlingly fine work of their surgeons with their wounded, has taught you there is another way.   But Krejj is a city of a decent amount of trade, and you have some luck - a pedlar selling goods traded from a distant raid by the Skaeling has a leather roll full of copper surgical instruments.  The pedlar has mistaken them for a set of scrimshawing tools - you know copper is too soft to hold up to repeated scraping on bone, but is ideal for been rendered to a fine edge for surgical cutting.  Not knowing what he has, he thinks he is swindling you when he pitches an offer of fifty  sceatta  for them.  It is amusing to see the uncertainty fill his face, when you immediately agree, and promise to send someone to pick then up and pay under your name tomorrow.

Given how close the last battle was, you turn your thoughts to currying the favor of the gods for good fortune, and head to the town's shrine.  When you find it, you have a moment of recognition.  The Krejj have small shrines to many gods, but their local god is  The Free Maiden ; and her fane features a preserved trunk of a tree that has grown in a distinctly feminine form; like a woman turned to wood in the act of dancing.  Despite the fact that it is obviously a dead trunk, and has no roots where it was sawn from the stump, you see a number of tiny green twigs growing  in its upper reaches; mostly around the likeness's head, like a crown of tiny green leaves.  You recognize the likeness - the same deity is represented in Zadghelm, but there called the  The Chained Maiden  - to whom you swore an oath to send a protector to resume the duty of sentry, for a certain dragon.  You remember Haggur telling you about the Krejji; once a great tribe, their lands ground back to a nub.  It seems the Skaeling, where they took Krejji territory, took their gods, too; and where the Krejji worship the Free Maiden as an advocate of individual power and unbounded possibility, the Skaeling now make demands of her as the goddess of thralls; herself a thrall to the cheif Skaeling god  Kharnath , whom most Norscans call  The Hound , but whom is known by all as the blood god, and king of warriors.

You expect the vitki of this fane to be a withered old crone or crotchety man like they usually are.  You're almost startled when, out of the incense smoke of this sacred place in the darkness behind the likeness of the Free Maiden, comes a form as lithe and feminine as the likeness itself.  Perhaps the direct servants of the free maiden are, themselves, necessarilly drawn from the kinds of women who would be highly sought after as thralls for base reasons.

"Fancy this - a Bjornling, in the fane of a god of the Krejji; perhaps, because both Krejji and Bjornling are so badly disrespected by the Skaeling..."

The interior of the fane is lit by a lamp hanging from the the ceiling, casting a yellow light over the wooden likeness and fogging the air with incense.  The vitki-woman makes a habit of staying at the rim of that light, hard to see... for normal eyes.  Your cut through the dark more easilly, and you see than when she steps out of the light she descends to continue her approach on all fours, prowling toward you like a hunting cat; returning to a two footed, hip-swinging saunter when she edges into the light again near to you.

 "Yet you are not in Skjold, making petition to  Bjarna-Motherbear .  You are here... with me." 

She halts a few yards from you; leaning her front against one of the fane's wooden support pillars and peering around it at you, coyly.  Close enough now that even the incense smoke does not conceal her details; slim, but full; raven-black hair bound in dozens of fine braids that she lets hang infront of her face like a vein, through which bright blue eyes peer.  Her garments are not furs, here in the warmth of this fane; but shreds of white linen loosely veiling her body, hanging from a woven leather torque about her neck, and belt about her waist.  She is... playing with you, you think.  But you see something else; a flat, healed over scar on her left inner forearm, where a thrallmark once must have been.

 "What have you come for, Bjornling?  Medicine?  Blessing?  Wisdom?  A trinket of fortune?
 Or would you open your hands and receive not what you merely want - but what you are freely given?"  
bramblefoot
 "lets start with medicine and a trinket of fortune, and then retire for what is freely given?"  jorunn offers, stalking forward to approach the vikti.  "why do you linger in the shadows, when the light blesses us?"  he asks, hands out in front of him.  "you were a thrall, now free. tell me of you, and i shall as well"  he offers
MrAbdiel
 She seems to catch that your gaze is able to track her in the dark; her posture adjusts a little, whatever her conclusion.  Then she makes her way to the wooden goddess likeness in the middle of the fane; climbs up to its shoulder with lithe, practised movements, and plucks a sprig of green growth from the crown of the Free Maiden before shimmying back down.  She offers it to you at the full extension of her arm, pinched between middle and forefinger.

 "Be blessed them, Bjornling.  I know you have given freedom to thralls of your own - let the ward of the Free Maiden not forsake this right action..." 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: Lucky Charm 
This small, evergreen leaf is a lucky charm, given to you for free.
 

 "...Medicine will cost; such things are not without price.  But as for me - I am no one.  One I was a maiden of Krejj; then a prisoner; then made free.  Now I am her voice; her tongue, and throat, and lips; and her words, to wandering men with violence in their heart.  Tell me, Bjornling... if the gods gave you a thunderbolt, and you could cast it any way you wish, where would you direct the lightning?  To your kin, in Skjold?  To the Skaelings, in mighty Doomkeep?  To the realm of the hammer-god, in the south?" 

She lingers out of reach; bright eyes fixed and focused on you; weighting your response. 
bramblefoot
 "i would save the thunderbolt until needed"  jorunn says.  "too many impetuous warriors waste chances on passion, but good things come to those who wait"  he will settle into a waiting stance

he will take the sprig and tuck it away

 "how much for a couple units of medicine?"  he asks
MrAbdiel
 She broods at the answer; either disappointed at your response... or else  wanting you to think she is disappointed  at your response, to see your reaction.

 "A waste of lighting.  The power is in the instant of the thing; it does not linger in the heaven's quiver; it leaps at the first target.  A man who seeks to cast lighting might do so, if the gods are kind; but a man who seeks to hold it in his fist.... this man will be struck by the weapon he covets." 

She drifts across to a chest by one wall, and opens it; revealing a crowded interior full of tinctures, potions, and importantly, stoppered vials of the foul smelling but important herbal mash known as poultice...

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
The medicine available for purchase here are:

 Healing Poultice  (Allows healing as if lightly wounded, when heavilly wounded).  You can get 25 doses of healing poultice (and bandages to apply it) for  one sceatta .

 Blessed Water , supposely useful as a deterent against the restless dead, is available for  14 sceatta .

The Throat of the Maiden has a small supply of Healing Draughts - they run at  4 sceatta  each, though she only has five in stock.

There are also sundry amulets and tokens, but none of these seem likely to have genuine medicinal or magical power.
 


With that transaction complete, she resumes her circuitous interrogation.   "Tell me, Bjornling man.  Are you a cloud without purpose, blown across the sky on the shifting wind - or a gravid grey storm, hording its thunderbolts for some purpose.  Here; let me be less coy - you are a raider, I know with ease.  But here you are, far from the sea.  What drives a raider from his boat, and his prize?"  
bramblefoot
jorunn will pick up a unit of medicine and three healing draughts.

he takes a moment to marshal his thoughts and answers.  " the boat i returned on was destroyed. i hold vengeance against the skaelings for sacking my village. had the bjornlings made at least a token effort to put up some sort of help, that i could accept."  he continues with a  "but since they didnt, i guess im on my own." 
 "i would say im a gray gravid cloud, hoarding thunder and seeking to grow stronger" 
MrAbdiel
 This - your confession of desiring vengeance against the Skaeling - lights her eyes up with interest.  This is something she can work with more easilly than reserved wrath.

 "Bjornling and Skaeling have claimed each other's skulls for many generations, now - considering one another soft, or senseless.  They have raided and stripped each other's villages; but this warlord, the  Sighted One, Aelfric ... has an agenda of his own.  He leads Skaeling, yes; but he is no Skaeling; neither is Aelfric is name.  He has raided many lands for the Skaeling, and brought back many thralls and much treasure; but only in these recent times has he spurned the sea to make war on Bjornling, and Sarl - even other Skaeling.  It is he who wiped a whole clan from the Bjornling, and did so with such ferocity that the Bjornling did not answer against the Skaeling.  Is this the man on whom you would have vengeance, Jorunn?  The Free Maiden can give me wisdom to guide you in such a quest... for a price.  But it is a price a man who stands alone, with no tribe, is poised to pay more easily than another." 

She slinks back to the shaped tree in the middle of the fane; draping herself against its lower curves like a languid cat.

 "Here; bargain with me, Jorunn.  My people, the Krejji, have suffered many indignities, but have come to thrive all the same.  Yet I would see my mistress delivered from some measure of her shame.  There are relics of her worship that have been plundered to those who carved up our lands - for each you bring to me, I will reveal more wisdom; and make clear also the path you might take if vengeance is in your heart.  Seize my mistress's relics for me, and I will show you where your thunder ought to strike, oh gravid cloud.  The first such relic is held by tainted monks in their monastery, on the other side of Lake Krejj.  They extort dark sorceries from it; and none dare to raid their holding for fear of their magic.  They have struck dead some men seeking their domain.  But you, I think... Have the means to overcome it."
 
Her eyes track to your wrist, then back to your own gaze.   "Will you give my Maiden her vengeance, and in turn, she will give you yours?"  
bramblefoot
jorunn will consider.  "how many monks and how much sorcery are we talking here?"  he asks, steepling his fingers  "im not opposed to seeking vengeance, but information always helps" 

he will ask for as much intel on the monks as she has, and then return and ask haggur about the monestary across the lake
MrAbdiel
 The vitki of the Free Maiden does not know these numbers; only the stories.  She knows where the monastery is; that sometimes men have gone up there seeking to plunder and take, and they do not return.  She thinks you can succeed where they have failed - but it's easy to be cavalier with other people's lives, so you do not bind yourself to oath without more information; and she retreats into the fane at the conclusion of your business.

 "Seek, prepare, do as you will.  You know my price, now.  Bring me their relic, and I will fill your hands with lightning, one bolt at a time." 
 * * * * * 
Haggur scratches his chin as you ask about the monastery.   "Ah, yes.  That place... I've not been there, though I've spoken to other traders who swear they have spoken to certain peddlars and dealers who have made their way up to deliver goods to them.  You cannot see much of the monastery from the bottom of the plateau, but to be as discreet as they are, it cannot host more than a small village at its top with the monastery as its primary feature.  They are tended mostly by the wind, though; a gale will blow flocks of bird across the sky and onto the plateau, where they must gather them up and eat them.  That's good sorcery, I think; to feed yourself with the sky's bounty.  But the mesa and its plateau is on the other side of the lake.  There is a doorway cut into the rock, though that is the way men go and do not leave.  The northern face of the mesa is better for climbing, I think.  On the southern face, the monks sometimes cast down ropes to raise and lower baskets.  The ice fishermen make them offerings out of habit.  You could try your luck with the internal staircase; or try to climb the face of the mesa.  An easier climb for one man, on the north side; but on the south side, if you were to climb and succeed, you might lower those ropes and bring others up, if you remained undetected." 

He does have one more matter for you, however.  After putting the armor in for cleaning and repair, pricing up the goods you are willing to sell, Haggur pays you 300  sceatta .  This, on top of the 168  sceatta  you looted directly, means you come away from the Graeling encounter much better equipped, and with 468  sceatta  at your disposal - a very significant sum.  
bramblefoot
jorunn nods.  "ortel, i got some medicine, and a set of surgical tools"  he says, proffering the stuff he purchased.  "how long do you think it would take to get byjan fighting fit?"  he asks, weighing his options

 "i would say i climb the southern face and rig ropes to let you all come up"  he says.  "any questions, comments, ideas?" 

after that, he'll talk to pedlars and dealers and ask about the monestary
MrAbdiel
 Ortel is amazed by the fact you have found such tools; but adds them, and the medicine to the sack of belongings he lugs around.  With the first share of the next loot he gets, he is likely to buy a pack.

 "Well.  Byjan lost a lot of blood.  The muscles are knitting fine.  If he's lucky, in a couple of day.  Less lucky, and closer to a week." 

As far as ideas for the climb goes, Marlene has just the one.   "Well, I don't think any of us are particularly skilled climbers.  It might be worth forking over a couple of  sceatta  to hire on a woodsman, or someone else with some scaling experience to do the climb... With the obvious benefit of, if they fall or get cursed and turned into a newt at the top, it's not you suffering the consequences." 

You manage to find one of the peddlars who does deals with the monks of the mesa; he gives a sketchy little nod when you corner him for information and ask what he knows.   "Well, sometimes they request certain things - bones, or pig gizzards...  Sorcerer things, you know?  It's not... worth my time to help them, but if I don't... Well.  I don't want to end up in their bone-pit.  It's at the southside of the mesa, near where they lower the baskets.  You'll see it when you get there.  But I think they have an isolated little town of thralls, up there.  Living off fish freighted up to them from the lake, and birds blown in by the daemon-winds."  
bramblefoot
jorunn nods.  "ill see what i can do"  he will ask around for a local woodsman

 (1d100)[ 75 ] 
MrAbdiel
 It's not so hard to find such a man - after some direction you come upon one beyond the bounds of town, by a cluster of tall, branchy trees.  He is showcasing his skills already; halfway up the trunk of one nodding, tilted pine; chopping away at its dead branches to preserve the growing whole and to provide a modicum of saleable firewood.  You conduct your conversation with him calling down to you from the bough on which he sits, eating the dried fish that is his lunch.

 "Climb up the side of the tor over the lake?  With the wizards in it?  Well... I can climb a wall and throw a rope, sure.  Risky, though; don't want to be cursed.  I'm afraid I couldn't do it for less than... than... three  sceatta. " 

The young man is trying to put on an indecisive, aloof face; but he probably gets by trading firewood for dried fish and a place to sleep.  He is under the impression, you think, that three silver is his  highball  offer than he expects to be outrageous to you.  But he's willing, and has the skills - all that remains is the negotiation.

Leibwen could have gotten him for one  sceatta , probably. 
bramblefoot
 "two sceatta if all you do is climb, three sceatta if you stick around and dont bolt the minute some shtuff goes down"  jorunn counters

 "ill make it five if you'll come with us into the teeth" 
 (1d100)[ 61 ] 
MrAbdiel
 The young man in the tree wipes his brow, and looks down at you.  He's reasonably fit, as all men of the north must be; old enough to have gone through his time to become a trained bondsman of the King of the Krejji - or Jarl, or Warlord, or whatever he calls himself.  He considers the offer as you escalate it, thumbs at his huge nose for a moment, then agrees.

 "Alright.  I'll come in with you.  Just send me word when it's time, and I'll come through for you - but you're the tip of the spear, friend.  There's not enough treasure in the world for me to be the one they see coming first." 

His name is Guðbrandr Geirsson, and he climbs down to strike hands with you to make this deal.  As it turns out, it's three days of rest before Byjan is hale enough to right; his flesh has mended much of the way, and Ortel assures you that he poses no risk to himself fighting through the pain.  It's plenty of time to fill in your confederates on the plan.

 * * * * * 
Three days later, your warband is assembled in the cool of the morning dark at the foot of the tor.  The lake is well frozen, and no trouble to cross; and you, Byjan, Ortel, Marlene and young Guðbrandr gaze up at your destination.  A steep, snowcovered slope leads up a typical hill gradient; but at the summit of the hill the rise sharply becomes a singular upright rock formation, punching another hundred feet upward.  The climb doesn't look -too- tough; but the punishment for failing, especially toward the top, seems harsh indeed.  But the five  sceatta  set aside to reward your hireling are already doing work.  He comes dressed in light leathers and furs, with a variety of axes, pitons, and knotted ropes.  And the man does indeed know how to climb.  You watch as he scurries up the stone, every twenty feet finding a crevice and hammering in a piton with the back of a handaxe, dangling knotted rope from it for your party to follow.  His careful ascent takes about half an hour to prepare your way.  Once he has done so, it's less than five minutes for the rest of you to scale the knotted ropes.  Below you, the whole way, you see the pits where the monks throw their sacrifices - open wounds in the earth full of bones, and snow.  When you pull yourselves up onto the the mesa, from the last rope tethered to a heavy post with from which the pulley for baskets must normally be attached, the sight that greets you is more than you expected.  There is a monastery - a fort of mortar and stone in the middle of the broad mesa with two floors and a central tower.  But there is also another dozen or more small huts and homes which look lived in.  There is indeed a support village here, making do with their lives around this coven of strange spiritists.

The sun is only now beginning to rise and throw light on the mesa; the sound of the morning birds heralds the day.  So far, no one has emerged to spot you or make a defence.  The first decision comes now - do you race across the mesa to the monastery as swiftly as possible, seeking for haste and shock to carry your offensive... or sneak, hoping to catch the monks entirely unaware, but risking being detected and giving them more warning that a blitz might do.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Make a call, warrior.  If you want to  Blitz , then give me a +0 Agility roll to storm the monastery, and an Initiative roll.  If you want to try to sneak in more quietly, you can make a Silent Move roll at +10 (for having a competent sidekick to guide you).  If you want to do something else, feel free - just  pitch it and I'll assign a roll!
 
 
bramblefoot
 "we blitz"  jorunn says, and will sprint across the plain, howling madly. he shifts into his were form, and will charge the monestary.

 (1d100)[ 68 ] 
 (1d10+4)[ 8 ] 
MrAbdiel
 At full pelt, with your leather straining and its buckles popping as your bones rearrange themselves to accommodate your massive new muscles, you charge forward toward the monastery.

Guðbrandr balks.   "Godspit, h-he's moonstruck!" 
Byjan grabs him by the shirt and drags him along.   "It's fine, talk later - fight now!" 

You put your shoulder down and plow through the big carved wooden doors of the monastery.  There is some kind of intricate story mapped out in the wood - but your animal hunger must be slaked in blood, and you send that carved saga tumbling back inside the hall beyond, where one of the doors lands and half crushes a man behind it.  He is dressed like the other six in the room - in a long woollen robe that might be a bed dress, since you have given them no time at all to prepare.

Screaming fills the building.  These men - all past middle aged and furnished with grey hairs and receding hairlines - start fleeing away into other rooms, howling in desperation.

 "We're under attack!" 
 "Someone get to the bell!" 
 "Stall them, I'm going up!" 
 "No, YOU stall them!  I'll go up!" 

They are utterly unprepared for your assault and caught completely off guard.  Only a moment of hesitation creeps into the animal drive of your brain.

 
 Spoiler: What now? 
You've caught these monks off guard.  They don't seem ready to fight.  What do you want to do?

1.  Run them down and kill them one by one.   If that's the case, feel free to make a charge attack against one of the six remaining monks, and your warriors will follow suit.
2.  Take hostages.   If you think you can leverage the lives of some for the obedience of others, you try an intimidate check and make some demands - but that would cause you to drop from your rage-form, as you cease combat.
3.  Try to reach 'the bell'.   The monks seem pretty keen on whatever bell is in the tower of the monastery.  You could try to race up the stairs and seek to beat them to it - but again, since that is something other than charging and killing people, it would case you to drop from your frenzy.

Or something else you want to do!
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn will move to attack one of them.  "spread out, and keep them from getting to the bell"  he barks

 (1d100)[ 73 ] 
 (1d10+7)[ 9 ] 
MrAbdiel
 You rage after one of the monks, who has fled into a room full of wooden beds, each laden with furs.  They have captured years of smoky incense, and the thick, ritualistic smell bombards your senses before that scent is cut through by the blood you slash from the man's back.  His reckless flight from you has saved him from the lethality of the blow, but he hasn't eluded you.  You feel  Witherbrand  shiver in your hand as something like a whisper of blue light traces from the wound to the bloody blade; a robbery confirmed as the panicking monk snatches a staff from here it leans against the wall, turns to confront you with it, and utterly fails to produce any mystical protection at all.  He urinates, in his disarmament; while a half dozen other men, bag-eyed and oddly birdlike in their features but across a range of ages, stir from their beds in a variety of states of alarm and fear.

Beyond this room, you hear your allies storming up the stairs, chasing those fleeing toward the bell.  You can do nothing to aid in that effort, now. You have given mastery of your needs over to the beast, and the beast demands blood and meat and bone.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: Well... 
Frenzy gives you that extra attack, and in your case the bear form; but it also means you have to keep killing until there are no more enemies able to oppose you.  You're in a room now with seven (or six and a half, since you whacked one) 'enemies'.  It's your turn.  They're going to spend this turn waking up, the next turn surprised, and the next grabbing weapons and feebly preparing themselves.  They have tricks, but you have three turns of attacks to start working through them before they respond.

So give me three turns worth of swift attacks, which I beleive is a total of nine attacks.  We'll assume your attacks can flow on from one downed target to the next without needing move actions because of the cluster of the room; and once we've got that measure of the massacre, we'll see how many are upright to oppose you and whether or not they will be able to oppose you with their 'tricks'.
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn bellows, and will start a chopping


 (9d100)[ 95 ][ 32 ][ 85 ][ 49 ][ 49 ][ 82 ][ 100 ][ 88 ][ 80 ](660) 
 (1d10+7)[ 13 ] 
 (1d10+7)[ 10 ] 
 (1d10+7)[ 10 ] 
 (1d10+7)[ 13 ] 
 (1d10+7)[ 12 ] 
 (1d10+7)[ 9 ] 
 (1d10+7)[ 14 ] 
 (1d10+7)[ 14 ] 
 (1d10+7)[ 17 ] 
 (1d10+7)[ 12 ] 


look at that garbage! my dice had to turn against me one of these days
MrAbdiel
 You should be tearing through these weak men like a gutting knife through a fish's belly; but your blows, even driven by your killing rage and animal senses, find more air than flesh.  A clear and inexplicable instinct inside your hunting mind knows - these are not just old men, not even just old men with some mystical gives, but old men with mystical gifts who are being sponsored and protected by a spiritual power that, even now, is protecting them.  But without a body for you to strike at, you will need to contend with it the whole way.

Two of the confused fools, seizing their crooked staves from by their bedsides, find admirable enough courage to stand before you after you have ripped through both the one you chased into the room and the next closed to him; these raise their weapons in defence, trying to fend you back.  Their three fellows behind begin conjouring their magics, and this time their calls are answered. From the palms of each comes a buffeting, foul wind; throwing furs and papers around the room like a hurricane and threatening to throw you onto your back, slamming through furniture as you go!

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Two monks are blocking your way and full defending (no parries on them, but -20% to hit them).  The three behind all successfully cast Windblast, which is a little redundant, but not completely.  You are knocked prone.  You need to make three Toughness Tests against being stunned for one round!  You will, however, get a +10% on those tests from your Magic Resistance Talent.

Pass that, and you can act.  You'll have to stand up, of course; but as long as you are inside the zone of wind, you're taking another -20% to attack.  The monks themselves are outside of it - you can try to move out of the zone, which will require a -20% strength test to accomplish (but also triggering your magic resistance, knocking it down to -10%).  It's gonna be a rough battle fighting all these windbags!

In summary, if you manage to avoid stunning, you could spend a fate point to get an extra half action to stand, then try to charge out of the zone to the monks and attack - but you'll still need to make that strength test to do it.
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn will attempt to stand, and push past these windbags, but a large book clocks him in the temple, forcing him down.
MrAbdiel
 Pummelled by winds and debris, you are temporarily powerless with no avenue for your rage.  At once, the winds abate - but before you can find your way to your feet, the blur of staves begin battering and pummelling you as you lay!

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
You spend that turn stunned, and the monks are going all out to try to get you - five monks, five all out attacks with their staves.  All out, Plus outnumbering 3:1, means +40.  Good luck, monks - you'd better make it good.  Jorunn can defend while prone - at a  -20 penalty!
 

Oh wait, there's another +10 for attacking a prone target - so I guess those all hit.  Your mitigation is 6, so...

  Vs75  - (1d100)[ 67 ]  for  (1d10+1)[ 11 ]  (Confirmed in OOC) Hits for 7 net wounds.
  Vs75  - (1d100)[ 81 ]  for  (1d10+1)[ 9 ]  Hits for a net 3 wounds.
  Vs75  - (1d100)[ 84 ]  for  (1d10+1)[ 4 ]   Bounces off.
  Vs75  - (1d100)[ 28 ]  for  (1d10+1)[ 8 ]  Hits for a net 2 wounds
  Vs75  - (1d100)[ 48 ]  for  (1d10+1)[ 9 ]  Hits for a net 3 wounds.
   Vs75  - (1d100)[ 74 ]  for  (1d10+1)[ 6 ]  
   Vs75  - (1d100)[ 31 ]  for  (1d10+1)[ 5 ]   Bounces off.

Fortunately, your first dodge/parry/lucky charm goes on the first hit!  If you survive that, you're free to stand up and attack - or spend, I think, your last daily fate point to stand up and swift attack!
 
 
bramblefoot
Jorunn will weather the storm of hits, and stand and start making mincemeat out of these old geezers

Parry

 (1d100)[ 27 ] 

Attacks

 (3d100)[ 29 ][ 88 ][ 33 ](150) 
 (1d10+7)[ 16 ] 
 (1d10+7)[ 10 ] 
 (1d10+7)[ 16 ] 
MrAbdiel
  
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Swift attack!  I'll take that to be your last FP to stand up, then swift attack then?
 


The blows rain down on you, with one particularly vicious blow coming for your head - but you turn it aside, use your jaws to rip the staff from his hand, then smash his face flat against your shield as you stand, hacking another down with a backhand stroke of  Witherbrand .  Now three remain - and barking in belated bravery, your mangy wolf comes skidding into the room to menace the remaining monks from behind.

One turns to this new aggressor, and attempts to summon the winds of magic to aid him - but they abandon him in the crucial interest, fizzling in his hands with an audible pop, causing his grey hair to stand on end but offering no protective winds.  The other pair, now trapped between foes, make their best effort - their castings go off just fine, causing the fingers of their right hands to warp into black, bird-like talons, fit for raking across your beastly skin!

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
One fails to cast entirely, the other two make natural weapon attacks upon Jorunn as their last effort:

  vs35  - (1d100)[ 30 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 4 ] 
  vs35  - (1d100)[ 94 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 7 ] .

...Not impressive.  A nothing hit, and a miss!

Three left standing - lay them low, warrior - and may your allies have succeeded in their efforts beyond this room!
 
 
bramblefoot
 "good doggo"  jorunn grunts, making a swift attack against the geezers. one misses, but he gets one deep strike and one semi-deep strike

 (3d100)[ 81 ][ 15 ][ 22 ](118) 
 (1d10+7)[ 10 ] 
 (1d10+7)[ 11 ] 
 (1d10+7)[ 15 ] 
MrAbdiel
 You carve through one of the clawed monks, and slash the back of the one casting to fend off the hound - only for the beast to do its favorite trick, and leap up to the throat of an enemy reeling from one of your blows.  Only one remains now, and he puts his all into furious slashes upon you with his wicked talons...


 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
 (1d100)[ 92 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 4 ] ,
 (1d100)[ 8 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 7 ] !

That is... a scratch!  For actual damage!
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn will attempt to parry, and move to finish him off

parry
 (1d100)[ 44 ] 

attacks
 (3d100)[ 95 ][ 82 ][ 4 ](181) 
 (1d10+7)[ 15 ] 
 (1d10+7)[ 14 ] 
 (1d10+7)[ 17 ] 
MrAbdiel
 A messy end to the last defiant - you plant Winterbrand in hits head, buried with a sharp stab and punching out the back, before withdrawing the steel and letting him slump.  The wolf mistakes the twitching for life and savages the throat anyway, but there is a moment's peace for you, battered as you are.

You emerge from the bunk room to the central chamber of the monastery again.  The second floor has a balcony around it to its side rooms, giving the main chamber a sort of auditorium design; and the tower above it is hollow, spiraled with a staircase leading up to the bell at its top.  A howling monk plunges over the railing and crashes on the floor in a bonebreaking lump, wheezing and gurgling until the wolf dives in to execute him.  Peering up, you see Byjan at the top of the stairs near a massive ceramic bell hanging in the tower. The big man is battered again, but alive - and seems to have intercepted that monk almost at his objective.  Marlene and Guðbrandr emerge bloody from their own conflicts on the second floor, but seem to be healthy all things considered.  Ortel emerges last, dragging a kicking and caterwalling old timer out from a side room and kneeing him in the stomach when he attempts to cast some kind of spell -  a prisoner for your interrogation, as the rage-haze clears from your eyes and your allies scour the building to see if there remain any more stragglers. It seems you and your band have torn through perhaps twenty or so men, in this monastery - with one alive. 
bramblefoot
jorunn will stalk over to the man, and knee him in the stomach.  "how many stay here, what defenses are there, where are your valuables, and where is the idol of the free maiden?"  he asks gruffly, holding onto the man by the ear with just enough force not to tear it off. if the man doesnt start talking, well he'll start amputating fingers, toes, and other bits till he either sings or is a write off

intimidation roll

 (1d100)[ 78 ] 
MrAbdiel
  "Defences!?  Valuables?  We are devoted monks of the wind spirit- we-we- have largely eschewed the things that mmAAAAHH!"
 
Denuded of a couple of fingers, he is immediately more forthcoming.

 "There are a score of us, here - but the guardian is the wind spirit, Botis - Botis the Cryptic.  He is drawn to the bell - but he also comes when he pleases, a bodiless spirit of great power!  You-you-you should flee while you can! "

On the subject of riches, the prisoner cringes, but wants to keep as much of his hand in tact as possible.

 "Our petty wealth, we keep in a coffer - behind the stair that spirals up to the tower.  But I don't know anything about such an idol!  I swear!"
 

In your experience, men tell the truth when blood starts to flow.  They can be resistant until you start taking pieces of, but no one fights a series of last stands as you work from finger, to wrist, to elbow.  They defy, and then they crack.

 "There is still time for you to flee!"  
bramblefoot
 "take the valuables, and then search the place"  jorunn says offhandedly to his thralls. he'll run the monk through, and move to search the place

 (1d100)[ 34 ] 
MrAbdiel
 You execute the degenerate captive and cast his body aside, getting about your search.  Byjan hauls out a wooden coffer from behind the stairs, where you were told it would be.  The monk wasn't lying - it is petty wealth indeed.  You gather  22   sceatta  from it, but the rest of the 'wealth' within are carved bird bones; talismans that may have some signficance to the strange god of the shrine... but, given your desecration, are unlikely to be particularly protective to you.

It is your personal search that reveals the idol.  At the top of the stairs, you examine the frost-dusted stone bell.  How such a device makes any worthwhile tone you do not know; but your examination reveals the striker inside the bell is slim silver idol the length of your arm, carved in the style of the Free Maiden; though the idol itself is wrapped in fine chains that have badly scratched and grooved it, and the faceand hair of the idol is battered to an unrecognizable flat from striking the bell.

While at the top of the tower, you get a look at the small village around it, now; the rest of the dwellers on the mesa.  A small crowd of peasants are scattered in clusters at their porches and doorways; women peering up where you peer down; children pointing and whispering to each other, being shuffled back indoors by their mothers.  The longer you watch, the more obvious it becomes: there are only women and children here.  This is some kind of bride-village for the now slain monks, serving and perpetuating their existence, but living quite separate and definitely not anxious to come running to their aid, it would seem.

A clear and inexplicable instinct brings your focus back to the bell - it is itself an icon of the temple's wind-spirit.  Disrupting it is likely to anger it... perhaps, even trigger a confrontation... 
bramblefoot
jorunn will free the idol, and make his way downstairs at speed.  "found the idol, and now we leave"  he says, chivvying his warband out the door
MrAbdiel
 As you are retreating out the door you kicked in, clouds are gathering above the mesa; the women and children retreat into their homes and latch their doors while your warband rushes to where the descent ropes remain tied off to the pulley post.  But the figure takes shape infront of you before you get there - ethereally interposed between you, and your point of escape.

Its shape is humanoid, though not human; the limbs are too long, the trunk of the body too compact, the head too far forward on the neck.  Even hunkering forward on bent knees it must be eight feet tall.  But the rest of its description you cannot countenance, because all it seems to be is  shape.   You see it only because the wind around it pulls up the dust and snow into its shape and it churns about in the humanoid hollow in space before, creating constant soft borders of motion you can pick out with your eyes.  When it speaks, the release of wind from its mouth is so sharp it knocks Marlene and Ortel backwards over, while the rest of your warband is forced merely to lower their bodies against the gale.

    
bramblefoot
jorunn will growl low and respond by pulling back his sleeve with the marking from the albion skellyman and baring it at the wind spirit.  "i am protected against your magics!"  he barks, motioning his warband to stay behind him.
MrAbdiel
    
As your warparty rallies behind you, the daemon-shape seems not quite to strike; but the front face of the shape buckles outward and the hurricane winds contained within it are suddenly roaring out at you. Most of it is powerful, buffeting force trying to throw you on your back; but within that wind there come smaller bursts of wind moving so fast that the air itself strikes you like a thrown stone; and other, finer bursts of air that shear through flesh like knives or bullets.

You feel the mark on your arm growing hot on your flesh, as you endure it.  It seems to be protecting you in some measure - but you hate to contemplate what it would be like without that protection to endure such sustained attacks!

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Strictly speaking this isn't a spell, but it is magical in nature.  So for the purpose of this attack, and attacks like it, your Magic Resistance talent (which normally gives +10% to tests to resist a spell) will count towards your toughness to resist the damage, as well; effectively +10% toughness against flat magical damage.

The allies behind you will benefit from your protection to the tune of an effective +20% toughness for you being infront of them, which raises their damage reduction in most cases from 6 to 8. (Byjan to 9; Guðbrandr to 7, wolf to 6).

That's good, because everyone under the daemonwind is taking a Damage 5 Hit; with no chance of fury.  They are also making agility tests not to fall prone, as you should, with a +10% bonus for your Magic Resistance Talent.

Jorunn:  (1d10+5)[ 13 ] ,
Byjan:  (1d10+5)[ 12 ] , [ROLL=Agi]1d100]/ROLL]
Marlene:  (1d10+5)[ 15 ] , [ROLL=Agi]1d100]/ROLL]
Ortel:  (1d10+5)[ 6 ] , [ROLL=Agi]1d100]/ROLL]
Guðbrandr:  (1d10+5)[ 6 ] , [ROLL=Agi]1d100]/ROLL]
Wolf:  (1d10+5)[ 11 ] ,  [ROLL=Agi]1d100]/ROLL]

Needless to say, you are in combat - and may take a turn now!
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn staggers under the blast, but the green sprig falls and withers, protecting him from the blast. he will stand, and prepare to rage on his next turn

 
 Spoiler: ooc 
stand now, rage next turn
 
MrAbdiel
 The winds hammer down on you; but you hunker against them.  You find it is easier to keep your footing if you turn your shield's edge to the wind; but that does not protect you from the striking, cutting winds  within  the wind; and so you must turn your shield, the shield Byjan gave you before your first voyage, into the full force of the gale.  You stay upright, even if the wind drives you back, and you are forced to effectively stride forward in place not to be blasted over.  The winds die down some after this great burst, and over your shoulder you see Byjan, Ortel and the wolf staggering back to their feet.  Marlene is upright, and looses an arrow at the daemon-wind; but the shaft passes harmlessly through the space and deviates off on the wild gales, spiralling up and away from the mesa.  Guðbrandr features his impressive bravery by charging and hacking forward with his axe; but it bites through the empty space where the shape stands and whocks into the snowy earth beneath it.  Mortal weapons harm such a being not.

You make your move.  With  Witherbrand , you strike out at the figure, but the storming air pushes the flat of your blade away.  You use the momentum and spin into a backhand slash across the creature's ill-defined shape; but this time, you feel resistance as the metal sheers into something unseen; and the daemon screams in outrage through the mouth in the ragged wind carved by your blow.  You feel the sword pulling some of the magic from the creature's reserves; but this is like bailing a lake with a thimble.  This daemon creature is a being of magic - a place where magic pours into the world.

Almost offhandedly, the daemon raises one space that approximates an arm to punish the woodsman for his effort, and a pummelling braid of forces batter him back and away from the melee. You see blood fly where the wind has struck him on the side with force enough to crack ribs and tear skin; but then it lashes at you with one arm, testing your defenses...

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Attacking with its 'hand weapons'.    Vs39  - (1d100)[ 88 ]  or   Vs39  - (1d100)[ 57 ] , for  (1d10+3)[ 6 ] .  This attack can, and should, be parried.

EDIT:  NM, that's a big old miss.  Jorunn's action!  Raging, or following up on the successful attack with more?
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn will hulk out, muscles and bones reshaping themselves into his war form

parry
 (1d100)[ 16 ] 
MrAbdiel
 Your allies scatter.  It's obvious this is not a combat they can assist you in, meaningfully - all they can do is shelter away from the winds, and pray to whatever gods they believe in for your success.  As you warp and shift into your monstrous other-form, the daemon howls with baleful opposition; and tears itself open again, as another punishing gale comes raging out against you - this time, only on yourself, but no less furious for it.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Another 5 damage hit from the punishing winds -  (1d10+5)[ 7 ] .
  (Your mitigation, in this form is 7 off that number).  You must also make another Agility test (at +10%) or or be blasted prone!

Edit: BOO.  0 damage.  But you may still fall over.
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn will stay upright, and make three attacks. they all hit, and they all bite

 (3d100)[ 25 ][ 8 ][ 65 ](98) 
 (1d10+7)[ 13 ] 
 (1d10+7)[ 17 ] 
 (1d10+7)[ 15 ] 
MrAbdiel
 Now you have the measure of it.  You can imagine how such a creature, dominating this raised mesa, might have been beyond the attacks of almost all its opponents, and capable of hurling them to their deaths or tearing them apart with these hurricane assaults.  But against pure, bloody-minded killing power given teeth with a magical weapon, the creature, ethereal however he may be, has limited defenses.

Botis the Cryptic screams as you carve through his immaterial form with the magic-eating  Witherbrand .  Your first blow carves across its 'chest', and immediately that unseen wound 'bleeds' a typhoon of battering wind against you. But you are ready for this one, ducking low and letting the wind shear against your shield, hacking through one of the gangly, awkward long 'legs' at the knee.  As you do, the swirl of winds defining its form for that limb comes apart entirely; and now, as if your many blows had depleted it of much of its internal pressure, the buffering wind from its torso is much less commanding.  It affords you a moment to open your guard and cleave across, shearing deeply through the middle of the space it seems to occupy.  This is a killing blow; and as the daemon dies, or is sent back to where such things lurk in between lives, it briefly becomes truly visible to you and your companions.  It's a split second flicker in your vision like an image you shouldn't witness somehow spliced into the running field of your vision; black skinned, gangly, with an bulbous head dominated by a huge blue eyeball as its only feature, and a great fanged vertical maw from clavical to groin.  In the moment when you can see it, it is falling into three pieces; the severed leg, the upper and lower halves of the body; but there is such misery and hatred in that single staring eye that you, and your companions, are likely to remember it for the rest of your lives.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: Insanity! 
Daemonshock time.  Give me a Willpower test, at Challenging.
 Success means just 1 Insanity point for yourself; failure means 1d5 of them!
 


And then it's gone again, both from vision and the world;  with a  whump  of airy detonation that blasts a distended, stretched out silhouette of its deathpose into the snow behind it all the way from here to the edge of the cliff you ascended to this place.  Quiet settles over the battlefield.

There don't seem to be any threats left here, now; you have slain them all.  The monastery is empty, its operators and its false god all cast down. From the windows of the small buildings, the village inhabitants watch you and your warparty in naked wonder.

 
 Spoiler: Victory! 
Scary for a minute, but victory is yours!  Gain 200XP from sacking and clearing the Monastery of the Daemonwinds!
 
 
bramblefoot
 "lets patch ourselves up, and then get off this mesa"  jorunn says, shifting back down to his regular form
MrAbdiel
 Your companions are very happy to comply.  Ortel addresses the wounds of the group - all are relatively minor, since you soaked most of them and the shifting of your muscles and bones performs a certain amount of repair to damage done in the bear form.

You half expect to be ambushed by the daemon again as you descend, but no one impedes you as you slide down the rope to and the edge of the frozen lake below.  There beside you is the pit, where the corrupt monks above had been hurling thralls as sacrifice to the daemon you have now slain.  Perhaps the villagers will keep doing so, out of habit - such habits are hard to break, for cowed people. They may serve absent masters as desperately as they served the previous ones.  Welcomely, there are no ambushes on the way back to Krejj - fate has exhausted its efforts upon you, for the day; and you still stand.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Don't forget to mark off 5  sceatta  for Guðbrandr's help!
 

 * * * * * 
With the rest of your warparty returned to Haggur's house, you bear the recovered idol back to the vitki in the Fane of the Free Maiden.  You cannot help but notice she is pleased to see you, and perhaps even slightly before she notes the bundle you carry.  The bright blue eyes peer at you with vindicated glee from behind the veil of her raven-black braids, and she glides out from the dark with her strange grace to receive it from you; the weight of it significant, against her slight form.  She cradles it like a child, and strokes the damaged face.

 "An end to one string of blasphemies, then... and, given your wounds, the blasphemers themselves, also."   She sets it in the shadow of the wooden likeness of the Free Maiden, and circles back to you - then beyond you, to close and bolt the door to the fane from within.

 "You have earned a thunderbolt for your palm, Bjornling-man.  Continue this way, and you will earn more; and all will be made sated by your work and mine, except those who stand against you.  Come now..."  She returns and this time takes your big hand between the pairing of her palms,  "...your wounds are bandaged, but I will show you a medicine for the body and spirit; one to restore your strength that, I expect, your foreign priest does not offer..." 
 * * * * * 
She shows you.

 * * * * * 
Afterward, warm in the snarl of furls and blankets hidden behind a blind wall at the rear of the fane, the vitki of the Free Maiden fulfills her side of your bargain.

 "Aelfric the Sighted is not Norse - not by birth.  He is a man of another place.  The stories say he first wandered down from the lands nearer the chaos wastes - a man of the Tong." 

Tong.  A people-name all Norscans know; a race of men so vicious and strong that the Kurgan, Hung, and Norse dread them; though they mostly trouble the Hung and Kurgan, and only the Norse when a great war against the south is underwar.  Even in such times, the Tong tend to mount their own parallel raids on the southern lands rather than submit to the banner of another people; though they have little fear of forcing other tribes to kneel before theirs, when it suits them.

 "An exile, perhaps?  Or a fated wanderer, like yourself?  I cannot say.  He led a warband of kurgan men into Norse lands, made a bloody name for himself, and then struck a deal with the Skaeling lords at the Doomkeep to begin raiding for them, instead of against them.  For perhaps twenty years, he savaged the coasts of the Sea of Claws, taking thralls and plunder and bringing them to sale in Norsca to Sarls, and Skaeling, and Bjornling.  But several years ago, his tactic changed - he beached his flagship, purged his raiding force down to a warband again, and began ravaging Norscan towns - Skaeling first, but not only.  Perhaps they betrayed him - perhaps he felt their contract had expired.  But he is a mighty warrior, of much experience, Bjornling-man.  He will kill you, if you do not gather more lightning before you strike.  But continue this partnership, and before he knows your name, you will have such a tempest laid up that even such a champion will fall before you." 

She clutches a blanket to herself with one arm as she leans over to stir the burner of coals and incense in this rear room, refreshing the chamber with fragrant smoke, and welcome heat.  Baring the skin of her back to you, rippled with just a few stripes with the old marks of a former master's rod, she offers her next proposal.

 "Next you must master the gifts within yourself.  The beast inside you is mighty, but no wild beast is as mighty as one commanded by a skilled handler.  You must go to the Graeling  lands, to the village of Fjirgard.  The greatest of the Were dwell there - if there is wisdom about your gift, about how to better master it, you will find it there.  But you will also find in the Graeling land another idol of the Free Maiden - though all my eyes and spies can only say it was once held in a trophy hall, in the Graeling Moot.  Where it is now, you must discover - and bring it back to me, Bjornling man."

She coos; and lazilly drapes herself across you in a gesture that might be intimate, or possessive, or perhaps just loosely territorial.  "My vengeance, your lightning.  As before, so again.  Yes?"  
bramblefoot
 "agreed"  jorunn purrs. he will disentangle himself, dress, and purchase a pair of lucky charms for the way out, then meet back up with his warband.  "we head to fjirgard after we're all healed up"  he says, looking around to see if anybody has any better ideas
MrAbdiel
 None of your warband have better ideas.  There is a tone of mild trepidation about going into Graeling territory - but the armor you have looted has some superficial Graeling markings, so perhaps it will serve best in that place.  They are bound to your band, and will go where you ask.

The morning after, you partake of Haggur's hospitality for the last time.  He fills your stomach with a fish and vegetable stew, thanks you again for your strength on the road.   "The Graeling are more bound to the old ways than the other tribes.  The pay worship to the Four, and their ancestors; but there is a strong vein who call to the gods of the wood and hearth.  You will know you are in their lands when you slip through the mountain pass beyond the frozen river, and you start seeing goatherders.  They're goatfolk, the Graeling, more than other stock; less and less as you get toward the north coast.  But you'll have to pass the mountains before that - the Vanaheimlings in the Vanaheim mountains will likely not give you trouble, as this time of year they are making their Provings, climbing to the peaks and seeking the yeti.  Stay in the passes north all the way to the big forest gorge between the Vanaheim mountains and the Helspire Mountains - the stone changes color as you move from one range to the other, too.  Mind beastmen in the forests, as always.  But once you're in the Helspire mountain region, you're in southern Graeling territory.  The Graeling Moot is just at the tip of one of the branches of the River Kaasmoas; and someone from there can point you to Fijrgard better than I can from memory. Gods overlook you, friends."

 But you barely make it over the frozen lake, near to the Mesa, when you are see strange activity - there is a party of men at the lip of the mesa, just about where you climbed up; they are hurling the bodies of the monks you slew into the pits below.  The nature of this gesture might be spiteful... or sinister.   "Are they trying to summon the daemon again?"  Ortel speculates with dread.   "We ought to go back up and check - it was all women and children before, now there's men up there.  Maybe just taking over.  Maybe the work for the monks, and we'll have them behind us with an axe to grind." 

Byjan shakes his head.   "No.  No, opportunists, I think.  But they do seem to have decided all too quickly it was time to scramble up the mesa they thought was certain death before." 

You could investigate this development... or you could pass by, establishing distance instead of potentially entangling yourself; not to suggest entangling yourself has troubled you too much before.  Ortel certainly seems to want to make sure the people aren't suffering a new round of exploitation, up there. 
bramblefoot
jorunn will pull the devil spy from his pocket, and train it on the mesa. he's looking for insignia, rank tabs anything that might let him distinguish who they are  "personally, we just finished a tough fight, and i see no reason to start another"  he says.

perception roll

 (1d100)[ 53 ] 
 
 Spoiler: ooc 
do i get any bonuses for the devil spy?
 
MrAbdiel
  
 Spoiler: OOC: 
You do!  And because of it, you succeed.
 


Peering up at the fringe of the mesa, you see no cult sigils or marks of affiliation.  Just furs and hides on the men up there.  In fact, you're quite sure you've seen some of them before.  Some of them are ice fishermen you passed on your previous way over the lake; some are other woodsmen you passed when you were seeking recruitment.  These are men of the Krejji, though the kind who dwell in shacks and lodges outside the walls to sell their produce and wares to those within.  They don't strike you as hostile - they are disposing of the bodies of the previous occupants, and perhaps taking residence up there.

Infact, there is Guðbrandr among them!  What is he planning, up there?  He pauses, having helped one of the other men heave a monk's slack corpse off the rise, and squints in your direction, raising a hand to shade his eyes - but he has no spyglass like you do, and likely does not recognize you from this distance. 
bramblefoot
 "krejji"  jorunn says, passing the spyglass to byjan.  "gudbrandr is up there, and they look like they're making a home up there. personally i have no objection, unless you all do?"  he lets the question hang in the air

assuming there are no objections, he will have them all push on
MrAbdiel
Ortel is still skittish.  Daemons are no joke; and southerners are even less used to their nefarious dealings than most mortals.  He presses the point, though not with absolute conviction.   "Well...  It's on the way - perhaps we can get close enough to call up to Guðbrandr, Jorunn, and hear it from him.  You've a good rapport with him, after all." 
bramblefoot
 
 Originally Posted by MrAbdiel 
 Ortel is still skittish.  Daemons are no joke; and southerners are even less used to their nefarious dealings than most mortals.  He presses the point, though not with absolute conviction.   "Well...  It's on the way - perhaps we can get close enough to call up to Guðbrandr, Jorunn, and hear it from him.  You've a good rapport with him, after all."  
 

 "im not opposed"  jorunn says, tucking away the spyglass and moving to go talk to the krejji
MrAbdiel
 Guðbrandr and the other Krejji have just finished heaving the bodies into the pit when you get near the mesa.  You signal the woodsman, and he waves back.

 "Jorunn!  Jorunn, come up, come up - Did the lad I sent find you, or just skive off to drink at the longhouse?" 

Following the invitation to climb up the ropes you had Guðbrandr hitch up for your attack, you find the village buzzing with activity.  There are perhaps a score of men here; fishes and woodsmen all, sitting about recently dug firepits and cooking fish on sticks; trying to coax the villagers into sharing them, and having some success.

 "It was a bloody cult town, Jorunn."   Guðbrandr explains, fists on his hips as he watches the people of the mesa mingle with men from below for the first time in their lives.   "I chatted to the headwoman here.  Bloody monks kept them like a stable of wives; pitched the boychildren into the pits; had the women raise the girls as wives for each other.  Bloody awful.  They barely know anythin', about the world or the gods or whatnot.  Just that the wind-spirit that provided for them with flocks it threw down, and the monks that kept them.  I figured they'd be set to starve now that you put away that spirit; they've no one to deal with the fishers below who knows much about fish or trade, so I started inviting lads up to help, and now..." 

He gestures, to the very obvious  and now .  A host of practical, rural men who are not warriors or wealthy people are naturally trying to market themselves to a suddenly open market of women with the skills they have to offer.  The men are not particularly charming; and the women still shy and adjusting to their emancipation.  It may take some time for any such flirtations to bear fruit, but they are trying.

Guðbrandr points to the monastry.   "We're trying to make some kind of... working village of it.  It's safer for many of the fishermen and woodsmen to dwell up here instead out outside Krejj.  Gods, we might be able to..."   He makes an open handed gesture around the mesa, and the little houses there.  Whatever this is supposed to indicate, he doesn't say; but he clearly has some amount of vision for the place.   "Anyway. There'll be room for you all up here any time you want to stay; I'll make sure of it." 

The hamlet, which by the time you return will have come to be known as  Widow's Rise , is in your debt.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
You have a fixed, reasonably safe home here.  You can leave any wealth, possessions, or recovering injured folk here in Widow's Rise and have a high degree of confidence they will be safe; and you will not pay for accomodation.
 Guðbrandr will make it his mission to make sure no one steals whatever you stash, if anything.  The only limitation is beasts - currently, there is no way to get anything larger than a wolf up the rise.
 
 
bramblefoot
 "i didnt get a message, so id say he went off a-drinking"  jorunn says. he will accept the offer to stay, and then after some small talk, take his leave to go
MrAbdiel
   The Saga of Jorunn 
  Part 1 - "That Which Remains" 
 
 Chapter 2 - Roam   

You dwell a little with the hopefuls whose lives you have changed, mostly by accident, on Widow's Rise.  They have only fish for you, but fish is well enough.  You were raised in a coastal tribe, of course; and after that, spent much time at sea.  But then Guðbrandr bids you farewell, and you make your way north beyond the mesa towards the Vanaheim mountains.

The terrain becomes rough; up and town, hard going to clamber through mountain clefts to cut through towards where you are assured you will intercept the valley pass, and from there smoother travel.  But it's here, halfway up one of the slopes, you encounter your first party of Vanaheimlings for the first time.  They are bigger than Graelings - and Graelings are bigger then Bjornlings and Skaelings - and almost uniformly blond, and narrow eyed.  A troop of ten or so of what seems to be a fur-clad hunting party are clearing stones and digging a great pit in the hard packed ground on the side of the mountain slope.  They don't seem to be laying in wait for travellers here ... but what they seem to be doing is anyone's guess.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Action time.  Try to approach and interact peacefully?  Give me a charm test.  Want to try to sneak by?  Give me your an Outdoor Survival test; or if you want to go far enough back and around there is no roll at all, that's fine too; its just back tracking and time lost.
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn will walk up to the party of vanaheimlings, and will engage in polite small talk, attempting to get a  good look in the pit

charm

 (1d100)[ 21 ] 
MrAbdiel
 You put on your best social affect; managing to pluck up enough charm that you win them over quickly even with your eerie eyes and hair visible soon enough.  Ortel and Byjan follow your lead and relieve the two most tired looking diggers, putting their backs to some shovel work in the large round pit while you speak to the group's leader; a massive man named Torf.

 "Is a trap, you see?"   He gestures to the pit, then next to the pit to heal of long cut tree boughs and bundled cloth.  He nods toward the higher slope of the nearest mountain.   "Up there is Rognir - a giant, you see?  Twice now he has climbed down from his perch and attacked my people.  Snatched up two women and a young man; stuffed them into his bag.  Ate them, I suppose.  No more, I think.  We will lure him out and make him step in the hole - fall, maybe even break his legs.  Then we will cut off his head and sled his skull back to our village. You want to join the fight?  He sleeps in old dwarf runs high up the slope.  We'll take the skull - you can have whatever you find once the Rognir is dead." 

It's a friendly offer; but it's a promise of uncertain reward for a very dangerous task indeed.  Giants are mighty warriors; able to kill great champions in single blows by strength alone.  Defeating one with cunning like this might work - but if the giant does not fall in the pit, then it will be a troop of mere men fighting such a monster.  Few heroes can hope to compete with such a goliath opponent in melee combat.

On the other hand... this may be the only chance you have to participate in a giant hunt. 
bramblefoot
jorunn will consider.  "im sure we could be of use, but let me consult with my warband"  he says.

 "what do you think, should we help in a giant hunt?"  he asks his party
MrAbdiel
 The party is split.  Byjan is fascinated.

 "Such a creature - I am not a warrior of your calibre, Jorunn; but it would be a shame to let such an opportunity pass by.  Who would not risk much to say, 'I am he, Giantkiller'?" 

Marlene and Ortel are less sanguine.  They're hirelings, after all; hoping to survive a year and go home.  This is more risk than they'd like, but they are sworn to follow you.   "If you want, Jorunn, we'll help - but we can't go toe-to-toe with something like that.  None of us can; not even you.  It better be a damn good trap,"  commends Ortel.  Marlene seems to agree. 
bramblefoot
jorunn will come to a decision.  "lets help, but play it safe"  he says. he'll return to torf, and offer his help
MrAbdiel
 Torf appreciates it; vengeance, you know, is not a commodity Norscans easily part with.

You and your warband lend aid deepening the pit, before the Vanaheimlings make the cap with the boughs they brought; binding them at one end in and splaying the other end over the hole so it sits over the cavity like crouching, long-legged spider.  After this, the cloth - ripped and tattered old sailcloth, you think - is spread over the branchy cover.  The resulting wide circle of cloth, with its radial ribs and its small peak, wouldn't fool anyone, in this state - but after a night of sharing game that Marlene and the Vanaheimling's trapper pull together, the snowfall has covered it in a couple of inches of powder and it appears to be an only slightly suspiciously regular snowdrift.

Having used your tents to make hunting blinds, you and the Vanaheimlings watch Torf wander up the slope with a wooden sled on his back; wait and socialize for another hour, and then head into the blinds to wait, and watch.

You are not disappointed.

After some echoed shouting a while later, you begin feeling the soft ground tremors of slamming footsteps.  Torf comes racing around the bend of the mountain on his sled, shearing through snow in a serpentine pattern that seems chosen to slow his descent so the his pursuer - his quarry - can keep up, and so that he does not gain so much speed he cannot control the sled itself.  A moment later, Rognir is revealed.

  Megkaplak! Érzem a véred illatát!  

The giant must be over twenty five feet all, and comes launching down the slope in strides as big as he dares on such a treacherous surface.  He is not foolish, you think - he could not survive barrelling around this mountain without some cunning dealing with its surfaces- but he has taken the bait completely.

Rognir is pale skinned,  beardless, with a low wreathe of scraggling black hair circling ear to ear behind his head, leaving the scalp wispy and bald.  He has a small paunch of stomach, and the normal number of arms, legs, eyes, and ears.  In most ways, he seems to be a simply a huge man; but there are uncanny differences in form that are hard not to see.  Something about the proportion of his limbs is off - a little too long for the torso, maybe?  And the fat over his form is not distributed in the same thickness uniformly as a paunchy human might experience; it draws down into the jiggling bulb of his belly, but the pectorals, shoulders, arms, legs and neck of the creature are corded and tight with muscle; their strain constantly visible as it even existing, upright, is a relentless routine of exercise for him.  He proceeds toward the trap, following Torf, at pace; very soon will be the time to act.

Rognir is quite focused.  You consider in these last moments before the battle how best to initiate.  If you wait for him to collapse into the pit, you will need a moment of slogging through the snow to get to the pit and strike its captive.  If you can creep a little closer, staying low and inoffensive so not to attract the giant's ire, you could more easilly unleash your full fury more swiftly.  That would risk being seen and fouling the trap - but it would negate the risk of the giant not suffering as much as the Vanaheimlings had hoped, climbing out of the trap, and smashing you all off the mountainside before anyone can close and do damage!

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
You can stay hidden, in which case, once Rognir hits the trap, Rognir with have a turn before anyone attacks him to try to recover, if possible.

If you pass a Concealment (+20%) check, you can sneak closer and attack him as soon as he's in the hole.
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn will stay in the hunting blind, not wanting to risk it
MrAbdiel
 Rognir gives chase, and the trap works just about perfectly.  Torf slews around the pit and to a halt to look over as the giant, shaking the giant with each step after him, places a food straight onto the pit, crashes through the thin cover, and slams bodily at gut height into the lip of the pit at an awkward angle.  His yowl is so loud and pained it shakes the snow from other mountains nearby.  The Vanaheimlings shout, burst from their blinds, and begin to dash forward,  javelins in hand, and launch them at the groaning and furious giant presently pulling himself out of the pit.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Roll Initiative!  The party will act immediately after you.  You'll have to spend your first turn running to close the gap, as do the Vanaheimlings, so there's no surprise round.  The Vanaheiming's second action was to half move closer and yeet spears:

  Yeet1vs32  - (1d100)[ 53 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 11 ] 
  Yeet2vs32  - (1d100)[ 75 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 4 ] 
  Yeet3vs32  - (1d100)[ 81 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 10 ] 
  Yeet4vs32  - (1d100)[ 19 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 6 ] 
  Yeet5vs32  - (1d100)[ 55 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 11 ] 
  Yeet6vs32  - (1d100)[ 9 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 7 ] 
  Yeet7vs32  - (1d100)[ 38 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 8 ] 
  Yeet8vs32  - (1d100)[ 14 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 8 ] 


Torf and the Vanaheimlings:  12 
Rogvir the Massive:  7 


Rogvir also takes  for  (3d10)[ 20 ]  damage from a well executed trap.  Because this is a carefully planned trap for the enemy, I'm forgoing the normal Terrifying rules unless something goes wrong, in which case they will suddenly kick in.

I'm also going to give him a 1d5 roll on the leg critical table.  1d5 crits are an invention from Only War and later Fantasy Flight games, but they're great do do small, specific injuries for traps that damage the legs or whatnot, since nothing below a 6 on the crit tables does greivous damage.

 (1d5)[ 5 ] .

EDIT:  So a whopping 20 Wounds from the fall, down to 14; and a pathetic hail of javelin for a net 3 wounds, so Rogvir has taken net 17 wounds so far.  He has also dazed for a turn, can do nothing but stand up, or attack at a -30%; so I guess he's standing this turn!
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn will charge rognir, and move to make an attack

 (1d100)[ 33 ] 
 (1d10+5)[ 9 ] 

init roll

 (1d10+4)[ 9 ] 
MrAbdiel
 Following you in, your warparty makes their best efforts against Rogvir, who stumbles in the pit as he strives to get his feet under him.  The Vanaheimlings draw weapons, and close into melee with you - Torf himself running back from where his sled stopped, so not to miss out on the danger and glory...

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
  MarleneVs42  - (1d100)[ 27 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 7 ] 
  ByjanVs46  - (1d100)[ 4 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 6 ] 
  OrtelVs48  - (1d100)[ 8 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 6 ]  or  (1d10+3)[ 11 ] 
  VanaheimlingVs32  - (1d100)[ 89 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 12 ] 
  VanaheimlingVs32  - (1d100)[ 67 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 11 ] 
  VanaheimlingVs32  - (1d100)[ 53 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 12 ] 
  VanaheimlingVs32  - (1d100)[ 20 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 6 ] 
  VanaheimlingVs32  - (1d100)[ 88 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 6 ] 
  VanaheimlingVs32  - (1d100)[ 57 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 6 ] 
  VanaheimlingVs32  - (1d100)[ 43 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 13 ] 
  VanaheimlingVs32  - (1d100)[ 41 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 5 ] 

Edit: Standby for results...

Up to 24 Wounds taken.  Rogvir spends this round recovering from the leg-crit!
 


...But with arrows and axes striking him, lacerating and piercing, all those wounds seem small and insufficient to bring him down.  The giant rights himself in the pit, abandons his efforts to climb out, and snatches up a handful of the broken boughs from the covering as an improvised weapon to defend himself.

You have only a moment before he has regained enough of himself to begin attacking - and terrible will be his revenge. 
bramblefoot
jorunn will make two attacks on rognir, not wanting to shift unless absolutely necessary. neither hit, and he curses his luck

 (2d100)[ 81 ][ 85 ](166) 
 (1d10+5)[ 13 ] 
 (1d10+5)[ 15 ] 
MrAbdiel
Rogvir retaliates.  The bundle of branches, trailing streamers of torn sail, come crashing down into the midst of you and his attackers with bone-crunching force...

 
 Spoiler: OOC: Giant Attacks! 
For the purpose of randomly determining attacks:
1 is Jorunn.
2 is Byjan
3 is Ortel
4-11 are Vanaheimlings.
12, next turn when Torf is in combat, will be Torf.

On   (1d11)[ 10 ] ;   vs33  - (1d100)[ 60 ]  for  (1d10+7)[ 11 ]  or  (1d10+7)[ 15 ] .
On   (1d11)[ 9 ]   vs33  - (1d100)[ 83 ]  for  (1d10+7)[ 10 ]  or  (1d10+7)[ 16 ] .
On   (1d11)[ 9 ]   vs33  - (1d100)[ 44 ]  for  (1d10+7)[ 12 ]  or  (1d10+7)[ 17 ] .
On   (1d11)[ 6 ]   vs33  - (1d100)[ 44 ]  for  (1d10+7)[ 12 ]  or  (1d10+7)[ 13 ] .
On   (1d11)[ 3 ]   vs33  - (1d100)[ 16 ]  for  (1d10+7)[ 13 ]  or  (1d10+7)[ 17 ] .
 
bramblefoot
jorunn will make another two attacks. he curses again as he misses

 (2d100)[ 83 ][ 78 ](161) 
 (1d10+5)[ 9 ] 
 (1d10+5)[ 13 ] 
MrAbdiel
The giant smashes about, and the crowd attacking him become notably more reserved, not wishing to catch the fury of that swinging club.  Most of his attacks miss their targets - but Ortel, swinging the steel greataxe you had looted, is in the path of one such blow...

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Forgot to roll your guy's attacks with you just now.

   OrtelVs38  - (1d100)[ 61 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 5 ]  or  (1d10+3)[ 4 ] 
Ortel's parry -   Vs8  - (1d100)[ 59 ] , at -30.

   MarleneShotVs42  - (1d100)[ 79 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 13 ] .

   ByjanVs46  - (1d100)[ 48 ]   for  (1d10+4)[ 11 ] ...

Stand by for resolution.

Confirmation for Rogvir's blow -  (1d100)[ 46 ]  , for  (1d10)[ 10 ] .
 
MrAbdiel
Ortel's heavy blow is smashed aside as the giant's blow catches him in the chest, spinning him away.  It's only the flimsy end of a branch that catches him, so it breaks around him; but he crawls, wheezing, to his feet and back to his axe, breathing the name of his wolf-god,  Ulric , under his breath.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Ortel soaked 7 of that 17 damage, so he's taken 10 wounds and is heavily injured.
 

 "Keep at it!   Now, now now!"  Torf roars, lending his own axe to the ambition.  Your wolf, at the edge of the pit, cannot close to attack without jumping in; so instead he barks, hatefully, at the giant.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
  vs32  - (1d100)[ 86 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 11 ] 
  vs32  - (1d100)[ 39 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 6 ] 
  vs32  - (1d100)[ 63 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 12 ] 
  vs32  - (1d100)[ 60 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 14 ] 
  vs32  - (1d100)[ 82 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 13 ] 
  vs32  - (1d100)[ 48 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 9 ] 
  vs32  - (1d100)[ 64 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 13 ] 
  vs32  - (1d100)[ 35 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 13 ] 
  TorfVs42  - (1d100)[ 32 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 11 ] 

Rogvir has taken 27 wounds.
 
MrAbdiel
 
 Spoiler: OOC: Ally attacks! 
  OrtelVs58  - (1d100)[ 61 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 12 ] or  (1d10+3)[ 13 ] 
  Marlenevs42  - (1d100)[ 10 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 7 ] 
  Byjanvs46  - (1d100)[ 6 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 6 ] 
 
MrAbdiel
 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
It seems appropriate that Outnumbering should kick in, now.

 (1d100)[ 39 ]  for Ortel to confirm, for maybe or  (1d10)[ 5 ]  more damage.

After that, it's gonna be Rogvir again...

Rogvir is up to 38.
 


Your allies pile on their attacks, but the tension is high; you are all one bad blow away from messy death.  Ortel, wheezing painful breaths, takes up his great axe and howls with bloody lips, swinging recklessly and chopping deep into the giant's forearm... a good blow, but it doesn't slow the beast down before it swings again...
bramblefoot
 "ortel, play it safe"  jorunn barks, making two attacks on the giant. one misses, but the other one bites deep

 (2d100)[ 77 ][ 32 ](109) 
 (1d10+5)[ 11 ] 
 (1d10+5)[ 15 ] 

parry

 (1d100)[ 82 ] 

dodge

 (1d100)[ 41 ] 
MrAbdiel
  
 Spoiler: OOC: Rogvir's last attacks: 
On  (1d12)[ 1 ]  at   vs33  - (1d100)[ 69 ]  for  (1d10+7)[ 8 ]  or  (1d10+7)[ 11 ] 
On  (1d12)[ 11 ]  at   vs33  - (1d100)[ 48 ]  for  (1d10+7)[ 9 ]  or  (1d10+7)[ 11 ] 
On  (1d12)[ 7 ]  at   vs33  - (1d100)[ 71 ]  for  (1d10+7)[ 8 ]  or  (1d10+7)[ 13 ] 
On  (1d12)[ 7 ]  at   vs33  - (1d100)[ 12 ]  for  (1d10+7)[ 13 ]  or  (1d10+7)[ 14 ] 
On  (1d12)[ 9 ]  at   vs33  - (1d100)[ 29 ]  for  (1d10+7)[ 8 ]  or  (1d10+7)[ 13 ] 
 


Two great blows hammer into the Vanaheimlings, throwing them off their feet and back into the snow; but perhaps by miracle of Ulric or some more local diety, none of the hits seem mortal.  Not until yours.

When the last blow hammers down into the snow where you were standing, you make your move by instinct.  One step on the back of the giant's fist, the next on his huge ropey bicep, until your foot slips with its movement and you go to your knee on its shoulder, within the miasma of breath that smells like the rotting, tooth-trapped remnants of his last dozen meals.  Trusting the giant has the same weakpoints as a human, you lunch forward, dropping your shield to use your hand for extra stability, and ram  Witherbrand  into the corner of Rogvir's neck and shoulder.  The arterial spray that washes out onto you is hot and bright, and the giant bellows and thrashes such that you tumble off and almost into the pit - but Byjan and Torf are there to snatch your arms and drag you back as the giant goes through his death throes.  Once it is still, you are clear to retreive your blade.

 "All still here?"   Rogvir calls.  Two of his men, and one of yours, are battered; but everyone seems to have survived.  Once that seem to be the case, a slow excitement ripples through the group, and that becomes a cheer.  Today, you have all plucked glory from the mouth of tragedy.  Such days are worth celebration. 
bramblefoot
 "ortel, take a breather"  jorunn calls, moving over to check on him. after the check in, he'll head up to the den of the giant with torf and the others, looking for loot
MrAbdiel
 Ortel will be alright.  He might have cracked a rib - he tells you if it's broken there make be problems, but as best he can tell, his ribcage held up to the wallop he absorbed.  He has the flimsy boughs the Vanaheimlings used for their trap to thank for his life being in tact; a more solid branch, or even the giant's fist, would have crushed him utterly.

After a short celebration, the Vanaheimlings get about their grisly work; chopping away at Rogvir's neck, and lashing together a large sled from branches to skid it across the snow back to their village.  Torf gestures up the slope.   "The way is clear.  I got close enough to see the entrance to the old dwarf ruins, and hollered from there; and out he came.  He will have no guards - these giants are great, idiot vagabonds, not kings with kingdoms.  May the gods grant you fortune in your finding." 

It's an easy enough ascent, and you clamber, with Marlene and Byjan in tow, over a ridge to see the peak of this low mountain.  A dwarven hold, to be sure; a huge shelf has been cut from the stone and a small fortress built into the cleft.  It's squat, square, and defensible; but you see at once huge breaches in the outer walls and places where the stone has melted and run like wax.  You walk over scattered bones picked to the point of being unrecognizable in the snow on the way to the entrance way, unable to imagine an army that could lay siege to such an isolated and defensible fortress and win.  When you get to the open archway, you find it is not quite open - a massive iron portcullis has been broken and twisted inwards hundreds of years ago by a massively powerful blow, and the tormented metal has since rusted and frosted over.  Marlene lights a torch, and you proceed inside together cautiously...

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Give me three search rolls.  No time pressure and you have help, so +20 to each of them.
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn will poke around through the wreckage, looking for things of value and usefulness

search rolls

 (3d100)[ 50 ][ 62 ][ 51 ](163) 
MrAbdiel
 The hold has been mostly picked clean over the years; but such places always have their little treasures even many years on.

Byjan spots a crack in the wall in what was once an ancient feast all; the slow rot of wood inside the stone has split the wall in a way he as a craftsman is familiar with, and levering open the face of the wall he finds a hidden coffer of some ancient dwarf's stash - a box of gold coins.  Such coins are not useful currency here, but the metal itself has no shortage of value.

Marlene finds a rotting leather wrap inside of which is concealed three tough, black scales the size of her hand, each of which bears an identical, graven rune in the likeness of the dwarven script.  A clear and inexplicable instinct tells you this is not just dwarven writing, but some of their magic; and a dwarf could tell you the nature of such things... but they may take offense to you having them, certainly.

You, in your personal search, find the ruins of what must have been in ancient times a set of massive, building-sized brewing tanks for the dwarves to make their much vaunted ale.  Now broken, aged and decrepit, not even the smell of the old drop lingers in this place.  Still, you follow a hunch and climb up the wreck, and fish around in between the ruined tanks to discover and pull out an oddity of dwarven make - bundled leather you strip back to find a beautifully preserved, silver book.  Its pages are bright, unstained squares of silver one hand long and high, and they are bound together on rings of gold down one side, with a gilded frame denoting the front and back covers.  Given that the pages are an eight of an inch thick, there are only twelve pages in the lot; but it clearly has some kind of wonderous significance, and perhaps prize value.  The writing inside is all carefully graven dwarven, with occasional diagrammatic designs that mean nothing to you.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Well, that's three successful search rolls, lol.

 You find: 
1* Good Quality Small Wooden Chest with 5d10 Dwarven Gold Coins.

3* Mysterious Graven Black Scales

1* Dwarven Platinum Book.
 


At the terminus of your search, you find where the giant once slept - a place that was once a throneroom, now with a heap of detritus packed in one corner as a makeshift mattress. You are drawn by two things - the smell of the giant's sweat pervading the room, and the sound of two voices bickering.

There are two dwarves in this room.  Obviously not the old owners of this place, but some explorers, perhaps, who ran afoul of the giant.  They are trussed up, with their bodies in sacks cinched around their necks uncomfortably, leaving them  with their heads poking up over the drawstring ridiculously.  Those sacks are hung on sconces fifteen feet up a sheer wall, and the dwarves - one with short coppery hair in a fluffy mess, the other with a fantastic, if now somewhat crooked, mohawk of gold - are none too happy about it, but are jolted by your arrival.

They start shouting to you in dwarven, until Marlene calls to them in Reikspiel, and they switch up to be comprehended.  The mohawked dwarf hollers.

 "Ay!  Northman! Northman, get us down!  I've got to show that giant his own guts, I do!"  
bramblefoot
 "giants dead. i killed him with some help"  jorunn calls back in reikspiel. he'll look around for a ladder, or something to get the dwarves down with, preferably having them not break a leg, as that would be bad
MrAbdiel
  "...What?!"   The mohawked dwarf and his companion shout at the same time; the first sounding annoyed, the second relieved.  The copper haired captive adds:   "Well, thank the bloody ancestors; I thought we were fodder for sure.  Help us out Northman - dwarves honor their debts!" 

You look around for options; but there seems to be no ladders, or obviously useful tools. The giant has hung the dwarves here like bags of onions in a larder at a comfortable height for himself, with no thought for how they might otherwise be gotten down without him.  There are plenty of small peices of masonry scattered about; the giant's bed is a heap of furs and old tapestries bunched and stained to make a mashed-flat mattress; and there is the odd piece of decaying wood furniture which you would not trust to hold much weight.  Aside from that, there is only a difficult climb and a problem that may require your full wits before you. 
bramblefoot
 "spread out, see if you cant find a long, unrotted length of wood, maybe ten feet in length"  jorunn says.  "im gonna try something i heard from a traveler once" 

assuming they find one to suit the build, he will try to pole vault up and cut the ropes holding them
bramblefoot
jorunn, after the pole is leaned against the sconce, will shimmy up the pole and attempt to cut the drawstring. he'll then grab and toss the bag onto the giants mattress in hopes that it will cushion the fall

 (1d100)[ 20 ] 
MrAbdiel
  It's an awkward operation, but you pull it off; once you shimmy up, hang off the sconce with one hand and handle a knife with the other, Byjan and Marlene rush to grab bundles of the sweat-stained furs the giant had been sleeping on to make a cushion for the coming fall.  One after the other, you cut the dwarves down; they drop, and fall into Marlene and Byjan's combined grip as well as the mattress to slow their impact further when they blow through...

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
  ToughnessVs71  - (1d100)[ 18 ]  for Othskin
  ToughnessVs85  - (1d100)[ 36 ]  for Athrangund
 
 

... And both come away with bruises, but nothing broken.  You drop down to them, still trussed up in their sacks to the chins.

 "You've done us a good turn, Northman!"   The mohawked dwarf grumbles, "Now let us out of these sacks!"

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
You could!
 
 
bramblefoot
 "before i do that, do i have your word as dawi that you will not harm me or mine?"  jorunn says. assuming they agree, he'll untie them one at a time, and let them stretch. he will keep a firm eye on them, and see if he can get their story out of them

fyi, are these norse dwarves or empire dwarves?
MrAbdiel
  "Yes, yes of course ye do!  Grungi's sake, I can't feel me bloody feet!"   Hastilly agrees the copper haired dwarf; his mohawked companion somewhat more hesitant. But he looks to your companions, past you and Byjan, and to Marlene - and having what sounds like a native Reikspiel speaker in your group seems to add needed credibility to your honest.   "Fine, I give me word - contingent on finding no madness or betrayal in ye or yer band.  I'll not be bound to serve evil reprobates by my word, or by chains!" 

Not being an expert on dwarves yourself, you cannot tell whether these are 'norse dwarves', the harsher, more isolated hold dwellers from Karaks in Norsca, or dwarves from the greater Karaz Ankor diaspora in the mountains around the Empire of Sigmar.  But their conversation reveals the answer as they wait to be freed.

 "Wretched bloody peninsula - the whole thing ought to sink into the sea.  This whole expedition was madness, and I oughtn't to have let ye talk me into it, Athrangund!" , gripes the copper haired dwarf.
 "Damn your whinging lips, Othskin - I didn't hold a knife to yer throat; you could be warming your hands indoors back in bloody Zhufbar if ye wanted, but I made ye and offer and ye took it and I'll not be made to feel bad of it!"  
bramblefoot
 "thats all fine"  jorunn says, moving to loosen the drawstrings. he'll keep his hood up, and generally see what happens next.  "we mean you no harm, if'n you mean us none" 

he'll let the dwarves relax, and then ask what they were looking for
MrAbdiel
They appreciate their freedom immensely, and it goes a long way to thawing their distrust of you an yours. Inside the bags, their bodies are bound up in long, clumsy but effective loops of rope with hasty knots; tight enough to leave bruised, black grooves in their skins which they tenderly prod at as their circulation returns.

Othskin, it turns out, is a journeyman brewer and amatuer cartographer.  His companion, Athrangund, is a dwarven 'trollslayer', which is some manner of dwarf berserker by your limited ken of such people - though a warrior who claims to be able to find and kill trolls competently enough to take that mantle must be quite fierce indeed.  They both speak Reikspiel with their heavy dwarf accents (leaving Byjan out of the loop somewhat, as that language is unknown to him; Marlene keeps him catching up); the more animated they get, the more their 'you' and 'your' become 'ye' and 'yer'; but it's all comprehensible enough.

 "Othskin here had come into possession of a map used by a previous expedition to this place - Highhold, a once proud if modest part of the dwarven empire."   Modest does not describe these huge vaulted halls, these mighty stone houses - but apparently, it does for dwarves.   "The rumors were that a giant haunted the halls, and I happen to be in the market for slaying such a creature, or dying in the effort.  And Othskin had his own designs to find the lost secrets of Highhold ale, here amongst the broken brewery.  Cursed luck when the giant found us and did not even deign to kill us, but snatched us up and asked at great strain of its brain about us and our plans!  He wanted Othskin to make beer for him - and I admit he would have eaten me if not for Othskin bargaining with him for cunning promises, hoping for a miracle." 
 "Ye're not the miracle I had pictured, Northman,"  Othskin says, rubbing his bruised wrists and looking around the room, picking through the mats and furs but finding none of his lost possessions   "...But I'm not too proud to take the one I'm offered.  Thank ye.  But it seems out effort here has been in vain.  The ancient brewery stills are here, but all treasures have been picked away; and there is no scroll or scrap or book of their operation or recipes to be found." 
bramblefoot
jorunn will consider for a second, and then ask  "if perchance the book could be found, would there be some benefit to my warband?" 

he'll wait and read the dwarves faces, seeing what they think
MrAbdiel
 Both dwarves react to this oblique suggestion.  Athrangund narrows his eyes and frowns - he has just forfeit his ability to make threats of his own, so he can't try to shake Jorunn down.  Othskin looks warily hopeful, but somewhat outflanked. If he came here with possessions, the giant has done away with them - perhaps tossed them off the mountainside.  With just the clothes on his back, he can only make promises.

 "Well, erm... no immediate benefit to speak of.  But - but you'd be entitled, certainly, to the first barrel of Highhold ale when it's brewed for the first time in centuries.  I err - know you northmen tend to be mead drinkers, but I assure you, you can be saved away from the Norscan honey-water!" 

If they take the book back to Zhufbar to make this brew, wherever that is, it would be quite a venture to get a barrel back to you.  But that's a  them  problem, not a  you  problem.  If you give any credibility to dwarven honor, they would be obliged to try very hard.

 
bramblefoot
jorunn will proffer the book he found to othskin.  "it's more use to you than to me"  he says.  "all i ask is you get me a barrel, and take the first swig in my honor" 

with that, he will pat othskin on the shoulder and let them talk
MrAbdiel
 Othskin is astonished.   "It's - Valaya's Skirt, it's the Master Manual!" 

The dwarves huddle and paw over the platinum book for a while, and you and your companions watch them.   "Funny people, dwarves,"  Marlene remarks quietly.   "...but they do know beer." 

Athrangund stalks about the room looking for some kind of weapon, and ultimately settles  on the shaft of wood you used to get them down.  He snaps it in half, borrows Byjan's knife, and shaves the ends of both halves into spearpoints; apparently, good enough for their purposes for now.  They take a few of the least offensively giant-sweat-stained furs from the heal and tie them around themselves in preparation for the journey back down the mountain.  Marlene tries her luck, showing one of the rune marked scales to Othskin.  He squints at it, and purses his lips - he would prefer to have it, but can hardly decry you the right to keep such things after giving up the book.

 "I'm no runesmith; but 'tis a Rune of the Furnace, I can tell without scholarship.  Snap the scale in your hands, and for the pass of a minute, fire and flame will hold no menace to you.  If I were you, I'd keep it safe."   You have three such scales in your warband's possession, you know; three instances of a minute of immunity to flame sounds like a decent treasure to have in the back pocket.

 "Right.  Well.  We will stay here for the night, out of the cold,"  Athrangund decides,  "hunt some much needed food, and boil some snow for water.  You can stay if you like, I'll not raise objection; but we've not much to share, indebted though we are."   It's not a bad plan. Ortel needs rest and recovery, certainly.  Marlene manages to bring in a few buzzards to roast, for the evening; they are already gathering at the giant's corpse for a feast of their own.  Othskin warns they won't be pleasant eating, but if they're properly gutted and if you really roast the hell out of them, it'll kill all the parasites; and beggars cannot be choosers in such a circumstance.  You gather your party; you eat, you rest; and in the morning after, the dwarves set off back the way you came, while you and your party prepare to continue on your way to the Graeling lands.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Give me a Navigate roll.  +20 for detailed travel advice previously offered!
 

 
bramblefoot
jorunn nods and the party leaves in the morning. they walk for a few hours, before stumbling on an overturned wagon. blood is splashed liberally around the wagon, and it looks like two large beasts dished it out over whatever was inside this wagon. jorunn will look to his party, and then move to search the wagon  "keep an eye out. whatever did this could come back at any time" 
 (1d100)[ 30 ] 
MrAbdiel
 You and your companions approach the wrecked cart with caution.  A huge welter of gore is frozen into the snow before it; the remnants of what ever beast had been pulling it, before this fight broke out.

 "...An ox, I think.  Like the ones Haggur had; though just the one.  Or... Er... Well, none now, I suppose.  It's hard to tell."   Marlene peers at the blood in the snow, scratching her head.  "Looks like the driver of the cart took off... this way."  She tracks her eyes over almost vanished prints, and points off to a thicket of dark trees west of the road leading up the flanking mountain slope.   "...While... something tore into the ox.  I see paws, and claws, and cloven hooves.  It's a mess.  But it looks like two fighters.  I don't see much ox left, so they must have... carried it off, or eaten it, or something.  Maybe they worked out their differences in the end - but they both headed off the other way, away from the trees."   She gestures in the opposite direction.  A path about ten feet wide curls around the face of the mountain that way, away and out of sight.

If the cart driver survived, he might know what's going on more than Marlene can tell; but going that way will put whatever did this at your back, and expose you if it, or they, are coming back for a second sniff at the wreck.  You could follow the monsterous tracks around the mountain, which would atleast prevent them, or it, from sneaking up on you; but you'd be doing so without any information the possible witness might provide.

Or you could carry on your way - this is, after all, not necessarily your problem. 
bramblefoot
 "lets check wherever the wagon driver went"  jorunn says.  "follow the trail, keep your head on a swivel, and be prepared for anything" 

with that, he lets marlene lead, and takes the last position in the trail, senses straining
MrAbdiel
 Your warparty stalks into the nearby wooded area, carefully picking through and seeking signs of the cart's operator.  It's only a couple of minutes work before you find him - dead, curled up in the crook of a tree's coldly cradling roots.  His furs, and the skin underneath, are a bloody ruin; the trail of gore left by his escape covered by a light snow in the interum.

 "...Slashing claws; like a bear, or great cat..."   Marlene speculates as she looks over the poor fellow,  "...But this looks like a goring here;  like a bull's horn.  What creature could do such a thing...?  A mutant creature, perhaps.  Your first instinct might have been right - perhaps we should just push on and hope to get distance before it, or they, get hungry again." 

The cart driver doesn't have much in the way of worldly goods.  A small hand-pick for  breaking ice and depending himself, never drawn in the fight.  A petty few Graeling tattoos marking him as a common man, not a bondsman.  His cart had been empty - perhaps he was selling the cart itself, since he has no money to be buying goods as a trader.  He seems, to all the world, to have been a man alone in the world, set upon by mutants and killed - very much like you almost were, if not for a slightly more favorable turn of fate.

Ortel, of course, wants to bury the poor man.  For a priest of a warrior god, his compassion is growing by the day for the stricken wanderers of this frozen land.  Marlene would prefer to push on; Byjan's interest, as always, is agreeing with your call, be it avenging this stricken stranger or leaving him be with the briefest blessing of the foreigner's god. 
bramblefoot
 "agreed"  jorunn says.  "lets bug out and move on" 
MrAbdiel
 You put the grisly scene behind you, and hustle on at double time for a half hour before you are sure nothing is pursuing you.  Nothing gives chase.  The evening moons light up the mountainscape beyond your campfire and you keep watch, but no clawed and horned spawn comes to find you.  Ortel despairs of it, a little; there is precious little to 'like' about this life, but he seems to like the least the triviality of death in these wild places.  But he has made a commitment to you, and seems still willing to honor it, despairing or not.

A few hard going days of travel through the mountain pass leaves your arms and legs aching from the strain of the scramble over hard ground; but soon you start seeing the signs Haggur mentioned.  A party of young Vanaheimlings on a cliff above and across from you shimmy their way on a narrow ledge around toward a jutting cavemouth - boys, on their Provings.  The smallest of them waves at you, and pumps his fist in the air - some kind of regional blessing of 'good hunting' to you, you suspect.  Giving the gesture back, he seems satisfied, and they go on their way.

Later in that same day you find the mountain stone begins to shift color- you are changing ranges from the Vanaheim mountains into the Helspire range; and the next day, after a sharp descent, you come to a great frozen river that must, in warmer months, run free from the mountain.  Here it is locked rigid, and no threat to your passage; but you begin crossing it with some caution, all the same.

And just as well.  Half way across, your eyes strain and focus to discover movement.  Just below the surface of the ice, a figure in slick black steel cracks up and through the river's crust, and rises slowly, almost mechanically, to his feet.  He is not wet; he has broken out from some deep space far below, tunneling up through a dozen feet or more of ice.  Black iron spikes festoon his armor; but a golden shackle around one ankle leads back into the icy tunnel beneath, where it is pulled taut preventing him from moving more than a few feet from his place of escape.

From a helm flanked by two great horns, eyes that trail blue smoke peer at you; and he plunges the tip of a massive great sword into the ice beside him, leaning on it as you gaze on from a distance.

He seems to be waiting for you.  But he also seems to be chained to the hole he crawled out of; and does not seem rabid or wild in demeanor.  The chaos knight of the river watches, and waits.

For once, your companions have no opinions on what to make of this. 
bramblefoot
jorunn will motion for his warband to stay back as he approaches the chaos knight, staying out of blade range.  "hail stranger"  he calls. the chaos knight will stare impassively, and gravels out.  "beware the crossing of the rivers, and the she-bear howls at the moon."  jorunn will nod, and eyeball the chain

 
 Spoiler: ooc 
does the chain look breakable, and should i break it?
 
MrAbdiel
 The cryptic warning offers only more questions - this river, or the river Kaasmoas, to which you know you are eventually bound to follow then to the Graeling Moot?  And the she-bear - a reference to Bjarna?  Or the beasts you just bypassed?  He does not offer much illumination.

He does, however, spontaneously offer some illumination about the chain; the knight seeming to gain some coherance and focus as the frost shakes off him.

 "Lo, warrior - have you might and pity?  Here stands a brave champion, Artuas, who sought the favour of the gods he knew, but earned the ire of those he did not.  Many are the gods and their servants.  Rashly, I made a vow that my valor was the equal to all challengers; but struck down, my defeator gave me not a warrior's death, but a curse.  Tethered here, I am, by her god; until I am slain once again.  To the slayer goes the glory, and my treasures - they are no used to me, un Old Jormung's belly, but at least it is warm therein." 

Ortel, your bound holy-man, marvels at this.   "...Bound beyond death by a divine chain - some kind of revenant.  His armour and armament seem mighty - all the more reason not to fight him, but leave him to his damnation.  And if one day you feel strong enough to overpower such a warrior for the glory of it... Well. You know where to find him." 

The deathless warrior radiates misery, loneliness.. and physical power.  And if there is any breaking that chain, it is done by breaking the curse, and the slaying of that knight.  But there must have been many who fought him before, thinking such things; and their bones must be at the bottom of the icy pit from which he crawled.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Artuas the Damned is a powerful opponent, and my yield powerful rewards.  You can risk attacking him now, if you want -  but he will remain  on ice  until you are ready to test him, if not.

Otherwise, I can move you along to your next location!
 
 
bramblefoot
 "i shall return to slay you one day"  jorunn calls, moving past the revenant. him and his warparty walk for another few hours, but as night starts to fall, a large fiery comet sails overhead, impacting into the distance with a large rumbling crash sound. as the party settles down for the night, the beat of drums is heard in the distance
MrAbdiel
 The frozen knight releases a baleful sigh, and crawls back into the pit of ice from which he crawled out earlier.  Marlene nods, approvingly - she had no desire to be even nearby such a fight, even if it meant, theoretically, the early release from her contract.

 * * * * * 
The shooting star's impact, and the subsequent drumbeats, all happen in the far distance; and your part keeps their eyes and ears open in caution in case either causes ongoing complications.  But neither do; after first watch in the evening, the drums stop, and there is no threat finally offered to your warband.  But in the morning, that is the direction you are bid to go.  What you come upon is a scene of carnage; two dozen Graeling bodies twisted and cut down in some monumental battle here, with a wardrummer one of the last to fall.  They seem to be a warparty mustered from one of the nearby villages sent to investigate the cometfall; but whatever emerged from the huge scar in the permafrost did so with viciousness and murder in its limbs; attacking with some manner of bladed weapon that burns as it cuts, based on the injuries you see.  All that remains in the crater, which is haloed in the region by trees flattened outward for half a mile around, are the shattered, faintly glowing shards of a man-sized egg; the shell now a ruin of sharp shards of radiant green stone.

 "Wyrdstone!"   Ortel warns, making a sign of religious significance lost on you, with one hand.   "I know the tribes of Norsca do not fear such things... but I warn you, Jorunn, we ought to leave it alone.  Let the local tribes come and snatch it up for all the wealth it may bring them; it is not worth the dooming that comes with it."  
bramblefoot
jorunn sighs.  "tell me more about how  doomed  i would be if i grabbed some warpstone?"  he says, listening with half an ear while scanning the horizon
MrAbdiel
 Ortel is surprised; either by your willingness to entertain his fears or by your lack of immediate agreement with them.

 "It's dark and evil magic made solid, Jorunn - stuff of the Dark Gods.  The gods throw it to earth only to punish mortal men; and it is sought after only by power-hungry wizards, monsters, and mad men who wish to invite mutation and insanity.  You might gather up much and sell it very well when we get to the Graeling moot; but it may turn you blind or twisted before you get there!" 

Byjan demures.   "Your people don't understand all the gods, Ortel.  You fear those that are stronger, because their gifts are strange to you.  What you call 'Dark Gods' are just gods your people hate.  But here in Norsca, where we are not afraid, history is made by men who have grabbed their gifts in hand and shown no fear; and been master of such power instead of pawns to it."  
bramblefoot
jorunn will unbuckle witherbrand, and pass it to byjan  "hold this while i gather some warpstone"  he says, slinging on a pair of leather gloves and moving to gather pieces of warpstone
MrAbdiel
 You take Ortel's warning enough to heart to be extra careful about how you handle the warpstone, wrapping it in the furs and cloaks of the slain Graelings.  Byjan is happy to absorb some of the burden for you, leaving Marlene holding the volatile sword while Ortel roams the battlefield, gloomily surveying the carnage and trying to keep warm.  It's also helpful because the initiate of Ulric is on hand to restrain your mangy wolf companion whose natural instinct is to sniff at the radiant green shards - Ortel keeps him well away.   "You idiot pup, keep back - we need a collar for you, and a leash.  If you lick that rock you'll grow a bloody fishtail out of your forehead!" 

In the end, you rig your pack up with seven large, forearm sized shards of stone bundled in cloth and fur.  Byjan does the same; and Marlene, won slowly over, takes one such shard, wrapped twice and paranoidly so.  Ortel takes none, fiddling with his surgeons tooks habitually, minding your nameless wolf; keeping watch.  Just as you and Byjan are checking the rope fastening of each other's burdens, Ortel calls the warning.

 "Hey - psst!  We must move, there's beastmen coming!" 

Peeking up over the lip of the crater where you have finished your looting, leaving plenty of the stone behind, you see what Ortel sees.  The trees for far around have been blasted flat by the impact, but beyond that to the north west, where they stand cracked and broken, a host of monstrous beasts are surging toward the battlesite.  More than a hundred, at a glance; a small tide of the beast on the move no doubt to eat the flesh of the slain here and take the warpstone for themselves.  Tactical instinct says it would be wise to hide - but with the sparse battlefield and the flattened trees beyond, withdrawal is a challenging prospect.

 "Hell... Bloody beasts!  Why the tribes of men have not striven to drive them from the face of the world, I will never know.  What do we do, Jorunn?  Run, or sneak..?" 

Running, of course, means they will see you emerge from the crater just as you see them.  A herd moves slower than a small band, but if they have runners or scouts, they will surely send them to hunt you and slow you down.  But sneaking, staying low among the dead as you head away, will be much slower; and if you are seen by the approaching herd, the whole mass of them will be much closer when you are forced to run after all.

Fighting such a mass seems a forlorn option - not without finding some advantageous terrain to funnel them through and take them a few at a time. 
bramblefoot
 "marlene, pass me my sword, and then we run"  jorunn barks, taking his  sword from marlene, and moving to book it out of the crater
MrAbdiel
 Marlene tosses you  Witherbrand ; your party shoulders their burdens; and you set off at the best pace you can manage away from the crater toward the distant treeline.  At once, you hear the rising, guttural barking of the herd in the distance.  You took apart a hunting party of such creatures before, and you certainly cannot fight this small army... but you were more poorly armed then, and with a small break of fortune, you will only have to contend with whichever outriders or runners they send against you.  A snarling pack of monstrous hounds bark impatiently in the distance, but they aren't loosed on you - perhaps they, like your wolf, cannot be trusted around the wyrdstone without strict control.  Instead, your pursuers are those with their own minds - and not an inconsiderable opposing party it is.

Five equine bodies that, at the neck, morph into muscular beastmen torsos topped with snarling heads and rams horns race across the field toward you.  They vault over the fallen trees as they come, closing the distance with swift and deadly mastery of the terrain.  The three at the vanguard hold shortspears and shields, prepared to barrel into the midst of your party and make immediate war when they arrive; the two lagging just behind them hold longer demilances in one hand, and heft high each a stone axe ready for throwing.  And behind these five centigor comes their reinforcement; a heavy hardwood chariot with ironshod wheels, hauled by a pair of monsterous, overgrown pig creatures who have the brawn to drag the chariot over the smaller branches and boughs, while their driver - a scarred and wild eyed gor - weaves them around those obstacles they cannot cross.  This means the chariot will reach your party after the centigor do - perhaps, your tactical mind suggests, if you are swift enough to overcome the centigor, you might deal with the chariot in succession without being overwhelmed by all of them together.  This is well; riding alongside the driver of the chariot is a massive bestigor, red furred and snarling, in whose hands awaits a massive axe of black steel and fiery red runes in the beastman daemon-tongue.

 "Damn, damn; ready yourselves, southmen - and call your wolf god, Ortel!  His aid would not go amiss!" , Byjan growls as he draws hand weapon and shield and prepares receive the centigor charge.  Byjan's appetite for combat has grown considerably since rejoining you - perhaps your valor is rubbing off on him.  Ortel draws his great axe; Marlene produces her bow and prepares to fire off atleast one shot before the abominable horse-men make contact.  And your wolf, growing in faithfulness and courage of his own, snarls and bounces at your heels, waiting for its chance to dart in and finish your foes so you can leverage your might against the next.

If you are quick enough, deadly enough... you can get away with it.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: Roll for Initiative! 
Here's how this combat is going to work:

There is one round (Round 1) as the centigor are closing in for you to prepare for combat.  Marlene is going to spend it shooting; Ortel, probably praying.

On the next round, (Round 2) atleast some of the centigor will charge on their turn, on initiative  (1d10+2)[ 11 ] . There's no avoiding it; as the 'cavalry', they're always going to be able to dictate who charges.

After that, there's three rounds before the chariot arrives to join the combat (Round 5).

Finally, at Round 10, the rest of the warherd will be close enough to start breaking into charges of their own, sick dogs on you, etc, etc.  Thus, your goal is not just victory; but definately victory inside of 10 rounds.  If you can pull that off, you and your allies will be able to book into the treeline; and the warherd will have to choose to guard the precious warpstone in the crater rather than devote forces to chasing you further.

Wolf:  (1d10+4)[ 6 ] 
Byjan:  (1d10+3)[ 13 ] 
Marlene:  (1d10+4)[ 7 ] 
Ortel:  (1d10+3)[ 8 ] 
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn will use lure of chaos on the gor driving the chariot. hopefully the gor will drop the reins, and the chariot will topple

 (3d10)[ 7 ][ 5 ][ 8 ](20) 

initiative

 (1d10+4)[ 11 ] 
MrAbdiel
 You level  Witherbrand  at the chariot in the distance, an focus the bound magics of the weapon upon the beastman drivers mind.  With a sense you do not possess, almost borrowed from the weapon itself, you sense the magic of the blade lurching out and dissipating pitifully short of the target - it seems the spell does not reach much beyond twelve yards; and that would be much too close for comfort for a charging chariot of such mass and promised injury.

...But a clear and inexplicable instinct encourages you to persist, to try harder; to demand  more  of the dark blade.  And it seeks for more power, to accomplish your will - and finds it.  An arc of green voltage sears a hole on the bundled wyrdstone shard's snug wrapping, near to your shoulder; and with an audible  snap  it connects that cursed crystal to the ricasso of  Witherbrand  in an eye searing instant flash.  And then the magic spikes out from the blade like a lance - no, almost like a hunting animal with its desperation to kill.

Beyond the centigors, you see the chariot suddenly veer to the side and collide with a tree that had been knocked down by the comet's blast.  The porcine beasts scream and cry as they suffer injury and pain; but the chariot itself does worse, flipping up and over, launching both champion and driver from the platform and tumbling into the snow and debris.  With a furious bray, the bestigor is up first; and takes just a moment to brutally slam his axe into the rib cage of the bewildered gor you had ensorcelled.  You catch a glimpse of the goatman's body dessicating to a bloodless husk inside of seconds before the Centigor are blocking your view as they crowd in.  Marlene looses her arrow, and then takes up her melee weapons; Byjan rolls his shoulder of his recently recovered arm, slaps his helm a few times to psych up, and prepares to meet the enemy.

Ortel heaves with breath.  He is mostly recovered from the pummeling he took from the giant; but his face is crusted now with snow sticking to his beading sweat.  He didn't want anything to do with the stone; and now he is contending against such odds again.  But he holds where he stands, trying to keep his legs limber to get out of the way of the bulky body bearing down on him.

 
 Spoiler 
The range on  Lure of Chaos  is 12 yards.  But I liked the idea; and also you're carrying like 50 pounds of wyrdstone, so it goes off!  The chariot is destroyed.  Driving into hazardous terrain risks exactly this.  The driver and the tuskgors are out of the fight; the champion is up, but takes  (1d10)[ 6 ]  wounds from being thrown from the chariot, and will arrive late - in turn  (1d4+5)[ 9 ] .

Marlene's shot in the prep turn:   Vs47  - (1d100)[ 92 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 11 ] .

Byjan gets a second turn before the centigors arrive, as do you; but Byjan has nothing to do with that action, so he will just take a defensive stance to make the charge harder to hit him.

You go again with Jorunn's Round 2, then the Centigors will charge/throw!
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn takes a defensive stance, preparing for the imminent charge.  "bring it on!"  he bellows, banging sword against shield
MrAbdiel
 And on they come, each half beastman, half horse, with battering ram force in their charge.   Predictably, the two centigors with throwing axes veer off to one side, releasing their weapons in flight towards you and Byjan, trying to split your focus or score a lucky blow before the charging centigors with shortspears and shields come slamming into you - one into each you, Byjan, and Ortel while Marlene makes use of your defensive line to nock another arrow and loose it.  You and your companion's efforts to make ready pay off; and much of the charge is spoiled on good defensive footwork avoiding the centigor's bulk, and bracing against the coming strikes.  A throwing axe sails over your head and into the woods beyond.  One cracks into Byjan's shield and stays there.  The only blow that seems promising to either side in the mash is the shortspear of the centigor charging you, whose elevation and downward strike makes defending yourself here as daunting as if you were fighting true cavaliers!

Byjan snarls, catches the spearblow down at him on his shield, and tries to work his way in for a response attack; even as he does, he calls to you:

 "Nnn!  They are strong, Jorunn - faster than they look!" 

Ortel creates space against his enemy with big swings of his axe, forcing it to rear back - and adds his own dire warning to you over the din.   "You mustn't let the bear take you - we will be unable to restrain you going after the whole herd!" 
 
 Spoiler: Attacks! 
Thrown axes!

  vs31  - (1d100)[ 32 ]  for  (1d10+2)[ 5 ]  Vs Jorunn
  vs31  - (1d100)[ 98 ]  for  (1d10+2)[ 10 ]  Vs Byjan

  vs53  - (1d100)[ 32 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 11 ]  Vs Jorunn
  vs53  - (1d100)[ 44 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 14 ]  Vs Byjan
  vs46  - (1d100)[ 33 ]  parry as required.
  vs53  - (1d100)[ 98 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 6 ]  Vs Ortel
  vs38  - (1d100)[ 41 ]  parry as required.

Presuming everyone survives:

Malene's shot:   vs47  - (1d100)[ 85 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 8 ] 
Wolf's bite:   vs36  - (1d100)[ 92 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 5 ] 
Byjan's blow:   vs46  - (1d100)[ 57 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 8 ] 
Ortel's blow:   vs38  - (1d100)[ 67 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 4 ]  or  (1d10+3)[ 9 ] .

Parries as required, in succession, against NPC attacks:

  vs53  - (1d100)[ 71 ] 
  vs53  - (1d100)[ 94 ] 
  vs53  - (1d100)[ 32 ] 

Will edit in the outcomes of all this after it rolls.

Edit: What a whifftacular whiff party - everyone misses except the one guy who clocks Jorunn for 11, pending a parry!
 
 
bramblefoot
 "wasnt thinking about it"  jorunn hisses, blocking the spear with his shield and making two attacks. one hits, and one misses.  bjarna, a little help here  he prays silently

 (2d100)[ 43 ][ 87 ](130) 
 (1d10+5)[ 14 ] 
 (1d10+5)[ 13 ] 

parry was a 16 in the ooc
MrAbdiel
 Your blow snaps around your primary opponent's guard, badly shearing down the shield arm and eliciting a rewarding, pained bray; and causing the clumsy response strike to go so wide you have the luxury of sidestepping also the the demi-lance charge of a second centigor charging to join his companion.  Another rushes in to Byjan, cracking into his shield with the lancetip and actually prying off the axe he had thrown a moment later, but the big man remains unharmed as he, delivers a reprisal blow of his own that batters his enemy's shield but can't break the defence, like you have.  The enemy charge has scattered battered your band, but your people are regrouping; having taken the worst of it, marshalling their balance to respond even as they seek a way to engage such towering and surprisingly nimble opponents.  Marlene's cautious arrow goes sailing  wide, and both Ortel and the mangy wolf cannot find purchase with their attacks.

But Ortel pays a price - while trying to land a telling blow with his great axe, his enemy swings down from above and brings the blade of his axe into the crown of the initiate's skull.  If he hadn't been striving to duck away, the blow would have split his skull like dry firewood; as it is, it bites deep, and causes blood to gush down into his eyes, and over his face as he snarls and regroups.

 
 Spoiler: Turn 2 Rolls! 
Demilance Charges!

  vs53  - (1d100)[ 72 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 5 ]  or   Impact  - (1d10+4)[ 14 ] , -10% to parry,  Vs Jorunn
  vs63  - (1d100)[ 66 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 11 ]  or   Impact  - (1d10+4)[ 6 ] , -10% to parry,   Vs Byjan

  vs43  - (1d100)[ 62 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 8 ]  Vs Jorunn
  vs43  - (1d100)[ 78 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 7 ]  Vs Byjan
  vs46  - (1d100)[ 75 ]  parry as required.
  vs43  - (1d100)[ 1 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 14 ]  Vs Ortel
  vs38  - (1d100)[ 54 ]  parry as required.

Presuming everyone survives:

Malene's shot:   vs47  - (1d100)[ 49 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 12 ] 
Wolf's bite:   vs36  - (1d100)[ 95 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 10 ] 
Byjan's blow:   vs46  - (1d100)[ 12 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 10 ] 
Ortel's blow:   vs38  - (1d100)[ 75 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 10 ]  or  (1d10+3)[ 9 ] .

Parries as required, in succession, against NPC attacks:

  vs53  - (1d100)[ 95 ] 
  vs53  - (1d100)[ 41 ] 
  vs53  - (1d100)[ 7 ] 

Centigor1 (9 Wounds) and Centigor2 (Unwounded) face off against Jorunn and Wolf (Unwounded).

Centigor3 (Unwounded) and Centigor4 (Unwounded) now outnumber Jorunn (Unwounded).

Centigor5 (Unwounded) faces down Ortel (10 wounds taken!).

Marlene is (Unwounded) is unengaged.
 
 
bramblefoot
 "play it safe ortel"  jorunn calls, preparing for another two strikes on the centigor. the first misses, but the second bites deep

 (2d100)[ 84 ][ 5 ](89) 
 (1d10+5)[ 7 ] 
 (1d10+5)[ 14 ] 

same attack same centigor
MrAbdiel
 You cannot reach up to the beast's head easilly, as it towers over you like a cavelier.  Does it have a heart in the horse-chest, and another in the man-chest?  Are both lethal to lose?

You take no chances.  Smashing aside the next spear blow with your shield, you drive  Witherbrand  deep into the breast of the equine portion of your opponent and rake it upward, spilling gore and blood until you shear up through the upper heart and splay open half the ribcage.  Needless to say, that enemy collapses...

Both demilancers wheel away from the combat, preparing to charge again next time; with your first enemy dead, the only one remaining nearby trades blows and parries with Byjan.  It warms your heart a little to see him fighting so fiercely; the one-eyed warrior who nearly lost an arm to the Graelings, who was never the most fierce bondsman, is finding reserves of courage for you, and your quest.

Elsewhere, Ortel takes your advice and stoops low, defending himself; the centigor harassing him cannot land a blow, even if he continues to avoid arrows fired at him.

Something about Ortel's distress triggers a response from your wolf - Ortel is his primary minder now outside of combat, and perhaps the wolf-god is looking after his own; but the lupine dashes off to join that melee, giving the centigor another opponent to worry about.

 
 Spoiler: Round 3 Rolls! 
Both lancers withdraw, this turn.

   vs53  - (1d100)[ 57 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 9 ]  Vs Jorunn  (This guy is dead)
  vs53  - (1d100)[ 27 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 7 ]  Vs Byjan
  vs46  - (1d100)[ 23 ]  parry as required.
  vs53  - (1d100)[ 84 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 13 ]  Vs Ortel
  vs38  - (1d100)[ 52 ]  parry as required.

Presuming everyone survives:

Malene's shot:   vs27  - (1d100)[ 74 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 12 ] 
Wolf's bite:   vs46  - (1d100)[ 91 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 8 ] 
Byjan's blow:   vs46  - (1d100)[ 15 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 10 ] 
Ortel's blow: (Defensive stance).

Parries as required, in succession, against NPC attacks:

  vs53  - (1d100)[ 16 ] 
  vs53  - (1d100)[ 16 ] 
  vs53  - (1d100)[ 78 ] 

There is one centigor within swift-attack distance (the one on Byjan, +10 to hit for outnumbering).  The one on Ortel is within charge range.
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn will make a charge attack against the centigor attacking ortel

 (1d100)[ 28 ] 
 (1d10+5)[ 14 ] 
MrAbdiel
 The stalemate grinds on, for the most part.  You and the wolf rush across the field to assist Ortel, who defends himself squinting through the blood in his eyes, spitting and wincing.  One of the centaur lancers slams back into combat, but you are ready for it, and you defy its blow easily enough while landing a bloodspraying, serious wound on the foreleg of the monstrosity that injured your initiate companion.  Byjan holds his own against both his opponent and the other lancer, and Marlene swears loudly as another arrow goes well wide of the mark.  Aside from your personal contributions, the combat seems to be even - though if you keep delivering blows like that, it will be over soon enough.

 
 Spoiler: Round 4! 

Narration pending outcomes!

Charging again!

  vs53  - (1d100)[ 72 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 5 ]  or  (1d10+4)[ 14 ]   Vs Jorunn
  vs53  - (1d100)[ 83 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 6 ]  or  (1d10+4)[ 7 ]  Vs Byjan

  vs43  - (1d100)[ 27 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 7 ]  Vs Jorunn
  vs53  - (1d100)[ 26 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 5 ]  Vs Byjan
  vs46  - (1d100)[ 92 ]  parry as required.
  vs43  - (1d100)[ 62 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 6 ]  Vs Ortel
   vs38  - (1d100)[ 39 ]  parry as required (full defending this turn). 

Presuming everyone survives:

Malene's shot:   vs27  - (1d100)[ 83 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 9 ] 
Wolf's bite:   vs66  - (1d100)[ 100 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 13 ] 
Byjan's blow:   vs46  - (1d100)[ 83 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 9 ] 
 Ortel's blow:   vs38  - (1d100)[ 98 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 6 ]  or  (1d10+3)[ 12 ]  .

Parries as required, in succession, against NPC attacks:

  vs53  - (1d100)[ 89 ] 
  vs53  - (1d100)[ 92 ] 
  vs53  - (1d100)[ 89 ] 


In Combat with Jorunn are the wounded Centigor he just whacked, and also an unwounded lancer.
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn will make two attacks on the wounded centigor

 (2d100)[ 70 ][ 90 ](160) 
 (1d10+5)[ 9 ] 
 (1d10+5)[ 15 ] 

parry and dodge

parry
 (1d100)[ 69 ] 

dodge
 (1d100)[ 33 ] 
MrAbdiel
 The beastmen do their best, but the tide is turning now; they cannot get their blows through.  The demilancers do not wheel away; staying to support their comrades this time; but their attacks glance from shields and are struck aside, for all their bulk and power.   Witherbrand  takes another life, your backhand blow hacking into the joint of man and horse and severing the spine, as if you were attempting some surgery to undo their unnatural union.  The beast does not survive the procedure.  Byjan holds his own against who opponents, even landing a blow on one and letting his own first blood while Marlene slings away her bow and rushes to join him in his fight.  And your mangy wolf takes initiative, leaps up, and sinks his fangs into the belly of the lancer remaining in combat with you, and Ortel, drawing great gouts of blood.  The beastigor champion is drawing closer- but if you hadn't destroyed his chariot, he'd be here already, and you have bought yourself precious time!

 
 Spoiler: Round 5! 

  vs53  - (1d100)[ 84 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 6 ]   or  (1d10+4)[ 9 ]   Vs Byjan
  vs53  - (1d100)[ 85 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 13 ]  Vs Byjan
  vs46  - (1d100)[ 89 ]  parry as required.
  vs43  - (1d100)[ 79 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 9 ]  Vs Ortel
  vs38  - (1d100)[ 58 ]  parry as required (full defending this turn).

Presuming everyone survives:

Malene's shot:    vs27  - (1d100)[ 33 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 12 ]   Joining Melee.
Wolf's bite:   vs66  - (1d100)[ 4 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 13 ] 
Byjan's blow:   vs46  - (1d100)[ 39 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 8 ] 
 Ortel's blow:   vs38  - (1d100)[ 38 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 5 ]  or  (1d10+3)[ 13 ]  .

Parries as required, in succession, against NPC attacks:

  vs53  - (1d100)[ 64 ] 
  vs53  - (1d100)[ 35 ] 
  vs53  - (1d100)[ 33 ] 

You're on a roll, now.  There's one wolf mauled centigor in melee with you now, and you outnumber it 3 to 1 for +20!  And there's two in melee with Byjan and Marlene, one already wounded.
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn will move to finish off the centigor, and then move to help marlene and byjan.  "finish em off, and then bug out!"  he calls.  "no reason to give the enemy any more chances" 
 (2d100)[ 61 ][ 48 ](109) 
 (1d10+5)[ 6 ] 
 (1d10+5)[ 11 ] 
MrAbdiel
 You hack down the last centigor near you, and your companions precede you charging across to assist Marlene and Byjan.  In the frenzy to defend themselves, the remaining pair land no blows; and Ortel gets some revenge, slashing into the haunch of the last lancer.  Now there are just these two centigor left, both wounded, surrounded by your whole gang; though the bestigor champion is picking his way through the fallen trees nearby and braying his challenges; and in the distance, the scattered brayherd is cohering after passing through and over the crater and cajoling their more distractible members to pay attention.

 
 Spoiler: Round 6! 
Narration Pending!

  vs53  - (1d100)[ 75 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 8 ]  or  (1d10+4)[ 14 ]   Vs Byjan
  vs53  - (1d100)[ 65 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 13 ]  or  (1d10+4)[ 8 ]  Vs Byjan
  vs46  - (1d100)[ 86 ]  parry as required.

EDIT: Screwed up the rolls - they don't have impact - but they both missed anyway, so whatever!

Presuming everyone survives:

Malene's Attack:   vs37  - (1d100)[ 46 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 10 ] 
Wolf's bite:   vs56  - (1d100)[ 71 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 11 ] 
Byjan's blow:   vs46  - (1d100)[ 54 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 13 ] 
Ortel's blow:   vs48  - (1d100)[ 43 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 11 ]  or  (1d10+3)[ 5 ] .

Parries as required, in succession, against NPC attacks:

  vs53  - (1d100)[ 20 ] 
  vs53  - (1d100)[ 18 ] 
  vs53  - (1d100)[ 93 ] |

Both remaining centigor are significantly wounded!  Bring it home!
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn will charge the more wounded centigor, blade flashing

 (1d100)[ 2 ] 
 (1d10+5)[ 9 ] 
MrAbdiel
  
 Spoiler: Round 7! 
Narration Pending!

  vs43  - (1d100)[ 73 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 11 ]  or  (1d10+4)[ 11 ]   Vs Byjan
  vs43  - (1d100)[ 69 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 9 ]  or  (1d10+4)[ 9 ]  Vs Byjan
  vs46  - (1d100)[ 76 ]  parry as required.

Presuming everyone survives:

Malene's attack:   vs37  - (1d100)[ 91 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 7 ] 
Wolf's bite:   vs66  - (1d100)[ 36 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 8 ] 
Byjan's blow:   vs56  - (1d100)[ 51 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 6 ] 
Ortel's blow:   vs58  - (1d100)[ 4 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 6 ]  or  (1d10+3)[ 12 ] .

Parries as required, in succession, against NPC attacks:

  vs53  - (1d100)[ 10 ] 
  vs53  - (1d100)[ 22 ] 
 


Together, you and your warband close around the centigors.  You charge in and slash across the launch of the lancer where he cannot parry, and as he rears up in pain, Byjan slam his axe into the creature's belly and rips it out with a trail of guts and gore.  Marlene swipes and misses at the other centigor, but as he raises his shield to block her blow, your mangy wolf latches on to his wrist and, snarling, pulls his guard down; just in time for Ortel to land a heavy, leaping blow onto the centre of the horse-back, cutting the creature's spine and dropping it, like all the others, to the earth in a bloody heap.

A few dozen yards away, the Bestigor champion roars as he negotiates the forest of fallen boughs on his way to you - frustrated, too late, to catch you.

 "This way!"  Marlene calls, and takes off.  She has failed to do much damage in the combat, and her cheeks are red from frustration; but she can pathfind well enough, and with your glowing green bounty, now freed of your pursuers, you dash away into the trees and leave the beastmen to the bulk of their prize; to burn, or bury, or eat their dead, however they do their dark deeds.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
You did it!  Between  Witherbrand  wrecking the chariot, and your violent efforts combined with your warband, you wiped out the centigor before even the champion could reach you.  Have 200xp for all your efforts in this challenge, as well as a load of highly dangerous wyrdstone.
 

 * * * * * 
It's several more days of travel, but in these you find less conflict; and eventually, you find yourself drawing up to your destination: the Graeling Moot.  The Moot is the meeting place for the various Graeling clans that compose the Graeling tribe; a great, wide palisade wall surrounds a large township of huts and longhouses, modest markets, roving raider bands at rest.  You know the Graeling by their tattoo distinctive and fill of triskeles and threefold spirals.  Likewise, the Graeling bondsmen who eye your approaching party at the gates one tired dusk know you are not of their kind; and they ask naturally enough:

 "Long way from home, Bjornling.  What do ye here, at the Moot?  What business is there, between you and we?"  
bramblefoot
jorunn will walk up to the bondsmen, and say  "im here on selling some goods i found"  assuming they push him for more information, he will reveal a small bit of wyrdstone to see how they respond

fellowship roll

 (1d100)[ 17 ] 
MrAbdiel
 Seeing you and your small crew laden with bundles, this seems to be a good enough reason to come through.  Ultimately, there aren't enough of you to cause trouble on a grand scale, he might think; and the modest assortment of skulls in your possession suggest it might not be worth the small trouble trying to keep you out.

 "Alright.  Don't cause any mischief, ja? You make enemies here, you will make enemies with the whole tribe." 

An ominous threat.  On one hand, you don't want a whole tribe as an enemy... on the other hand, what are they going to do - burn your village?

The modest market is shut up with its vendors packed and gone home, already done for the evening as the sun slouches toward the horizon.  There does not seem to be much set aside for far travellers here, except a patch of ground within the wall for folk to set up their tents and bedrolls; all the longhouses are earmarked by the various clans of the Graeling.

Your warband set up their tents, with a minimum of grumbling.

 "We will need to take shifts staying up to feed the fire between the tents,"  suggests Ortel with a puff of frosty breath as he uses a rock to hammer in a tent peg.   "These old tents seem barely to cut the wind at all." 
 "They are not meant for such punishment, southlander;"  Byjan supplies,  "they are Skaeling-made; meant for the south coast where the ice is oft melted, and sometimes there is a warm breeze blowing from the south.  Up here, beyond the Helspire mountains, there is only ice winds from the mountains south and ice winds from the frozen hell to the north.  The difference between elk skin and goatskin, my friend." 

Byjan gestures across the dark street to a Graeling peasant wandering on his way.  He leads a goat behind him the size of a mule, laden with shaggy, almost woollen fur.   "Perhaps we will get one such creature while we are here, to carry our things.  The beasts are not big enough to ride, but they mount the terrain well and can carry burdens; and are fair eating, if things get bad."
 
With watches set, you spend a night in the Graeling Moot; and awaken at the township's early bustle of fishermen heading out to their frozen river, hunters and foragers heading into the wilds; and townies going about their ways.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: Agenda 
What now, Jorunn?  You've a few 'quests' active.

1. Find and obtain the idol of the Free Maiden from the Graeling Moot.
2. Get directions from someone in the Graeling Moot where to find the village Fjirgard.
3. Offload this Wyrdstone for some moolah before it turns you all into wailing man-squids.

Plus anything else you want to do!
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn will rise, and look around for the local markets, hoping to offload his supply of wyrdstone in bulk if possible

gossip roll

 (1d100)[ 99 ] 
MrAbdiel
 Byjan goes with you, while Ortel minds your camp with your wolf, and Marlene seeks to replenish your travel supplies.  Byjan is no Leibwen, but he's a decent trader; having been a shipwright before, and used to selling atleast his labor for a right value.  But the thing you are trying to sell has extreme value, but a very narrow market; and without being too revealing about what you possess and how much (and therefore inviting theives), you have a hard time finding a buyer within the Graeling Moot.

You are growing in frustration before an old, curve-backed goatherd catches wind of your efforts, and intercepts you.  The townsmen give him something of a wide berth.

 "If ye're trading what I think ye're trading... then ye will find not men with right wealth or ambition to make the sale.  But if ye do not limit yourself to  mankind ... Yer options greatly improve.  A half-mile north of town there is a naked tree bound with bones - the beast men know to avoid it, because it is meeting ground for the ratmen.  But if you go there, and camp through a night or two, they will find you.  They will try to steal from you, if they can; if they think they can do it, they will kill you, or take you slave, and all your possessions. But if you are smart - if you hide what they want, and are too strong to snatch and torment... they will pay very well indeed." 

He turns to leave, having furnished you with this cryptic advice.  You wonder what is in it for him - perhaps the 'ratmen', about which you have heard very little, pay him as a go between to send foolish and fair traders to their trading tree.  It's a risk - but the longer you carry around these stones, the greater the likelihood that something will go wrong. 
bramblefoot
jorunn considers.  "lets get better tents, and then check out the bone tree while the light permits"  he will go looking for better tents, and then move to check out the bone tree

jorunn and byjan arrive at the bone tree a few hours before the sun sets. the tree is decorated with skulls and femurs of many different species, and a small blood trail leads off to one side of the tree
MrAbdiel
 Setting your thralls free has reduced the loot you take for yourself in your travels; but it has the mitigating benefit of democratizing costs like tents.  Your warband visits a workshop with the Graeling's premier tentmakers; their works are in high demand for the warbands travelling hither and yon in this region of the frozen north, but the owners know that the money belonging to travellers will leave with them them they go; while the money of locals will remain nearby even as its owners become angry for being pushed back in the queue.  Seeing the layered furs, rugged stitching, and frankly comfortable and waterproof interior manufactured by these two joint families of craftsmen, Ortel and Marlene go in on buying a tent between them that can comfortably house two, or uncomfortably four.  It costs most of their small accumulation of wealth, but they seem keen indeed to have this small amount of comfort from the travel.

Byjan offers to go halves, with you.  After all, sharing a tent is a good way to preserve warmth - and considering how you got your  previous  tents, it might be a comfort to have a good, defensive friend nearby when you sleep.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
A Best Quality Large Tent (going halves with Byjan) will cost you 13  sceattas , after trading in your current ill-gotten tents for their barter value as well.

If you want to buy up to two Graeling Mountain Goats, you can get them for 37  sceattas  each.  That's for beast, harness, and saddlebags.  Statistically, they are the same as a riding horse, except they also have the Stout-Hearted talent, and they can navigate mountain and forest terrain without risk as long as they aren't running flat-out.  They can carry a horseworth of burden and are perfectly edible.

You can make a Haggle Roll for each of these purchases (at +10% for Byjan's help - he doesn't have haggle, but he does have the Dealmaker talent to assist you with.) Success will knock 2  sceatta  off the cost of the the tent, or 4 off the cost of a goat.  Failure by 3 or more degrees will add 2 or 4 to the prices, respectively.
 


Marlene picks up a few odds and ends, and a few more arrows; Ortel comes to you with a proposition after some of his own shopping.

 "This wolf of yours - he was a coward, but he has learned some lessons, and is worth keeping, I think.  I think I can make a salve to treat the blighter's mange, and help its pelt grow back healthy - but I'm almost flat broke.  I can get what I need here in the Moot for, maybe, five  sceatta  or so." 
 * * * * * 
Later, after your shopping escapade, you travel out to the bone tree.  The blood trail is promising - something has been here, at least - but for all you and Marlene search, you can find no sign of the bleeder.  Something was injured here; but then it either escaped or, more likely, was taken away before it could bleed out completely.

You wait out on the hill hoping to see some sign of your potential buyer; the day drags on toward twilight.

 "The old man did say it might take a few days of waiting - do you think it is worth it?  I have had no dealings with such creatures before..."  Byjan asks.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Make a +0% Perception Check, keeping watch through this first day.
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn will agree to go halfsies on the tent, and will give ortel the 5 sceatta for the salve. he'll also pick up a mountain goat.

as the party arrives at the bone tree, jorunn will set a watch, and ask that the fire be kept high, for better visibility. he will stash the wyrdstone with him and byjan, trusting the two of them to be able to defend it should any ratfolk approach

the watch order is byjan, jorunn marlene,

haggle rolls

tents
 (1d100)[ 44 ] 

mountain goat

 (1d100)[ 62 ] 

perception

 (1d100)[ 51 ] 
MrAbdiel
 An uneventful evening; vigilant as you are, you are not accosted  or stolen from.  But during your watch, you do catch a glimpse of watchers in the dark; the glint of the witching-moon's wan light creating green flickers in their wet eyes that would be imperceptible to most eyes... but not yours.  They come and go in twos and threes, watching your group; watching your sentinels feed the fire; watching, watching, apparently unwilling to try anything, and to make contact.  Not on the first day.

At dawn, your party rises; Marlene treks back toward town to return with a brace of fish pulled up from under the ice, and you eat well for breakfast.

Byjan and Marlene could not see such watchers in the dark; but they trust your vision in the night, and believe you.

 "Testing us, maybe...?  This could as easily be a trap for them as for us."   Byjan guesses.   "We must wait them out, until their curiousity overwhelms them.  Shall we stay together, awaiting them - or leave some of us to watch for them while you get about your other business in town?"  
bramblefoot
 "im gonna head into town. I'll try to be back by nightfall"  jorunn says. he'll ride the goat back to the moot, and do some discreet asking about the idol, along with asking about fijrgard

gossip roll on the idol

 (1d100)[ 79 ] 

gossip roll on fijrgard

 (1d100)[ 96 ] 
MrAbdiel
 You ask around; and you really put your back into it.  The Graelings are wary of you as an outsider, but it's not hard to get past that veneer when you try.  Some of your best friends have been Tileans and Southlanders, after all; the differences between Norscan tribes is small by comparison.  But you strike out, on both counts; asking about Fjirgard, and about the idol.

Until the same bent-back old goatherd sidles up to you again; this time more coy than before.

 "A busy man, eh?  Eh heh heh.  A busy man looking for answers.  A man can find the answers to almost any question he asks, if he has a... silver tongue." 

He offers an open palm; and the cheeky grin of a man who knows just how irritating it can be, in proportion to his usefulness.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
No luck on the gossip rolls, you may have to bribe your way to victory - or try some other asymmetrical tactic.
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn sighs, and slips the goatherd four sceatta.  "tell me what you know of the idol, and how to get to fijrgard"  he says, coolly steering the goatherd away from the people

the goatherd tells jorunn that the idol is kept in the trophy hall of the elders, but he knows a secret way in, for a price. as to fijrgard, he's more than willing to point out directions to it
MrAbdiel
 The goatherd greedily hides away the sceattas.

 "For Fijrgard, you'll need to follow the river down toward the coast for two days.  When you pass downstream of the frozen falls, you'll start to see fish traps set under the ice - those belong to the Fijrgardians, and you can follow them home when they come to collect of an evening; then follow the river back to the Moot as you desire.  As for the Idol... I might know.  I say might; I know not the item, but I know that the town elders keep many strange treasures in their trophy hall." 

He turns, and points to the second most prominent longhouse, immediately adjacent to the largest in town.

 "But much of it is not displayed - much is stored beneath it, stored more safely.  A fool might steal and make an enemy of a tribe - but a wiser man might make friends with access to such things." 

He glances back over his shoulder to another steepled longhouse - this one with a beaten copper shield and a strange threefold symbol featured thereupon hanging over the doorway.

 
 Spoiler: The Symbol 
 
 

 
"You deal with many strange gods, my friend.  What's a few more?"   He cackles and pats your bicep, before wandering away. 
bramblefoot
jorunn nods. he will knock on the longhouse door, and see if he cant make some friends. when he finds the person in charge, he'll ply them with mead, to try to loosen their tongue and see what they know about the vaults. specifically, he's interested in what kind of defenses they have, be it magical or otherwise
MrAbdiel
 You approach the marked house, and find the doors open easily enough to a knock.  The fellow who opens the door is young, wearing goat, leather and roughspun cloth folded for sandles and sleeves, and he welcomes you inside with a deflected gaze.  There are several more like him within; and the now familiar smell of smoky incense used by many Northern temples to clear the air of the banal smells of life and fill them with a sense of earthy ethereality.

The second thing, after the scent, that strikes you about the room is its empty spaces.  It has the form of a temple while lacking some of the fullness; not so many additional images or holy things or braziers.  The two braziers within are barely enough to keep the place semi-warm.  There are three wooden effigies in the centre, back to back, with their 'arms' of bundled branches raised, lowered, and held before them as if wielding a weapon, respectively.  But a shaggy haired senior man spots your height over his underlings and makes his way across to you, regarding you with a wary eye.

 "Welcome to the Threefold lodge, traveller.  Are you...a believer in the Old Way?" 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Time for a Charm check.  They recognize you as an outsider to the Moot, and that actually gives you a +20% for reasons you don't understand yet.
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn will rack his brain for any mention of the old way. assuming he gets somewhere, he'll attempt to answer with the correct pass phrase

ck norsca

 (1d1000)[ 688 ] 

charm

 (1d100)[ 85 ] 
MrAbdiel
 The Old Ways.  You wrack your brain.  Obviously, it is some manner of worship; these effigies represent some gods, but you do not know them.  A foggy memory from an old vitki of your now desolated village eludes your recollection, frustratingly out of reach.  You recall only the merchant Haggur's words, before you left Krejj.


 
 Originally Posted by Haggur, the Merchant 
  "The Graeling are more bound to the old ways than the other tribes. The pay worship to the Four, and their ancestors; but there is a strong vein who call to the gods of the wood and hearth."  
 

Gods of wood and hearth.  Is that what these three are?

Most of the tribes worship all, or some of what you know as the  four .  They are  Hound, Crow, Eagle  and  Serpent.   Between the four, these gods cover a great swath of the urges of the human soul: its passions, its desires, its fears, its ambitions.  Some, like the Skaeling, exalt one member of the four over others.  They see  Hound , whom they call  Kharnath , as the greatest of all gods and worthy of special devotion.  Your people respect the  four , but aside from periodic sacrifices of appeasement, do not hungrily seek their pleasure.

Your kinsmen have other gods:  Old Jormung , the great sea-serpent who swallows the dead, and one day will disgorge the souls of the honor-dead for the final battle - he is the connection to your ancestors.   Straamval  is appeased before great sea voyages, lest his storms wreck your vessels.   Hushni , the stunted, dwarfish god is known best to craftsmen to whom he lends skill.  And of course  Bjarna , the she-bear, who is the guardian of the Bjorning tribe, and the centre of their cultural life:  Bjarna, denmother of the Hearthfires. 

Your people do not have much in the way of gods for the wood and wild.  Those places are for the beastmen; they are to be avoided and travelled when required only.  You speculate that the  Old Ways  must be some kind of devotion the Graelings keep for their own hearthfires, and also as a more rural people, a devotion they call on for safety and comfort in the wild places.

As it turns out, you're not too far from correct; and you are  just barely  charming enough that shaggy curator of this strange shrine finds your probing endearing, not obnoxious.  You let him walk you through the place, playing the part of the unenlightened Bjornling tourist meaning no offense to local gods.

 "The Old Ways is the oldest form of worship our people have known.  Not Graelings - humans, I mean.  We worshipped the gods in this way before we came over the mountains; before we encountered the elves; before the Southlings betrayed the Norsii and drove us into this land, where the tribes came to respect the Four.  The Threefold are One power, whom we respect as having three faces - Rhya for the village and the hearth; Taal for the wilderness and woods; Ulric for winter, and war." 

That clarifies much.  Rhya and Taal you do not know, but Ulric is the wolf and war god that Ortel worships.  You had thought this a Southern god; but if what the old priest says is true, these gods are shared by humans before the great ancient war that broke the north and south from each other.

Before the Empire's god, Sigmar.

A strange turn of fortune - but perhaps the fact that you have your freed-man, a worshipper of some aspect of this Old Way himself, may be your way into the graces of these odd priests; and with those graces, access to the Elder's trophy hall. 
bramblefoot
jorunn will nod, and listen along. when appropriate, he will make his leave, and head back out to the bone tree with his goat.  "ortel, will you come into town with me tomorrow?"  he asks.  "i got something that will blow your mind" 
MrAbdiel
 Ortel is inclined to oblige, even if you remain coy about your reasons.  The rats to not show up again that night, leaving Byjan and Marlene, along with your now unhappy wolf with its patchy fur daubed with smelly curative paste, keeping watch at the bone tree.

But the next day, Ortel is indeed stunned when you bring him to the Threefold Lodge.  And the shaggy priest is amused to have someone he can engage with philosophically.  For a moment they seem to be arguing as they ramble about the nature of the gods; but with a squinting of your eyes you recognize there is no malice in it, and you stand back and let it play out.

They talk for two hours.  Eventually, Ortel spends another twenty minutes kneeling before one of the three effigies, and praying with wet-eyed devotion.  It must have been a long time since he has seen a religious place he recognizes.

As Ortel prays, the priest of the Old Way wanders back to you.

 "Southerners... Drunk on their own notions of sophistication.  Your friend is more right that he is wrong about the nature of the three, though.  It is good of you to bring him here; he has been through many trial.  It's important to respect all the gods and their servants - at least, the ones that have not declared war on you." 

This being a perfect segue, you leverage this inroad to ask about the Idol of the Free Maiden.  Now, finally, the priest is more responsive.

 "...I admit, I do not know much about the goddess of Krejj.  I knew of the Chained Maiden; but now you are teaching me things about the gods.  The elders of the town will not give you the Idol; it's a trophy, from times long ago when previous generations of Graelings stripped the Krejj of most of their northern lands.  You would have to trade something of similar value - some other trophy of conquest, and you will not gain such a thing without conquering a great deal of territory.  More reasonably, you can steal it, with some clever planning.  Normally I would not countenance such a thing - but I am a friend to all gods, who are friends to me.  You would need a signficant distracting event - something that will draw the elders to attention elsewhere in the Moot.  If you can find some way to draw the eyes of the city away from the trophy hall... I can show you a way into that building.  It would be wise to be certain you are doing so while the Elders of the Moot, and their champions, are not present." 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Now's the time for bold ideas.  You can bounce them off and of your allies to plan, but you need some kind of significant distraction in this town to draw the attention of the elders before you can sneak in and yoink the second Idol.
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn will consider, and take a gander at the various distraction options available.  "fire would be hard, given the temperature"  he thinks, and pulls ortel aside.  "any ideas for a distraction?"  he asks
MrAbdiel
 You discuss with Ortel for a while, and the shaggy priest - whose name turns out to be Jurgen.  When you suggest an animal distraction, noggins get a joggin'.

 "Perhaps I have something..."  Jurgen considers, as the discussion unfolds.  There are plenty of goat flocks around the Graeling Moot; but they are guarded by goatherds who would not willingly let their herds be used in this way.  And killing the goatherds - lowly folk, indeed - disagrees with both priests.  Past that, there is the trouble of rounding them up and getting them into town - not an easy task for anyone who isn't a goat herd.  But Jurgen vanishes into a rear room and returns with a strange relic: a flat oval of wood at the end of a woven cord about eight feet long.

 "This is a beast-caller.  A wielder blessed by the Threefold Path can employ it to draw creatures from the wild.  The goats are creatures are too domesticated to understand it; but you might call beasts that can drive them." 

Ortel is fascinated.   "...Wolves, you mean.  But how will we make the wolves do what we want, once they are called?" 

Jurgen gives the younger priest a confused smile.   "You ask them." 

This, Ortel negates, is a miracle; and he is merely an initiate of Ulric, not a true priest.  He has not been given miraculous gifts.  And furthermore, to speak to beasts is a gift that Taal might give; Ulric less so.  Jurgen, naturally, doesn't think this is an obstacle.

 "The God of Wolves does not teach his followers the tongue of wolves?  I think you are mistaken.  I think he will make the difference, if you are his pup." 
 * * * * * 
Thus, you have a plan, if you choose to take it.  Ortel has the beast-caller borrowed from the Threefold shrine in his possession.  Theoretically, he can use it to call a great pack of wolves from the wilds - and the shaggy priest is convinced that Ortel's only barrier to manifesting the ability to speak with wolves is confidence, given he has not formally been ordained a priest.  From what you know, Ulric is a warrior god; his trials must be violent indeed.  But it's not as if Ortel has seen no combat - indeed, you've seen him going in against beastmen, Graeling warriors, and even a giant with inferior weaponry in his hands.  Twice you've seen him take such a wound that you needed to tell him to back off rather than sell his life to the battle.  Strange that such a man should not consider himself a worthy servant of a warrior God - you know for a fact that Hound and Bjarna must be proud of your bloody wake.  Wandering back toward the Bone Tree, Ortel concedes.

 "Well... We can try that one, I suppose.  I could... try to conjure a pack and direct them to chase the goat herds into town.  You could try to breach the hall of trophies if you are hiding nearby it, and do what you need to do.  Marlene might be able to help you - she is cunning.  Byjan... Is not agile or quiet.  But I am sure he would be where you need him to be." 

You hear the the reservation in his voice - a hope you'll figure out some plan that doesn't rely on him. 
bramblefoot
jorunn places a hand on ortels shoulder.  "you are stronger than you know"  he says.  "when i was younger, i thought all southlanders were weak and fat, but then i met you, marlene, and liebwen"  he thumps his chest twice.  "all i ask is you try your hardest"  he will continue to extol ortels bravery in combat against the graelings, and against the giant
MrAbdiel
  
 Spoiler: Rolls: 
No need to roll for inspiration, lol; sometimes the RP is enough. :D
 


Back at the Bone Tree, you find Byjan, Marlene and your patchy wolf.  No skaven yet; but your party has appreciated a few days where they don't have to fight for their lives or trek through the mountains.  Marlene manages to catch a wild (normal sized) goat, and you eat well together for a night, with Ortel trying to walk to the wolf the whole time; the lupine peering back with quizzical disinterest, while gnawing on a goat shin.

But later that night, after you have taken a watch and are sleeping through the dark evening, you wake to Marlene jabbing you on the ribs.
 
"Wake up!  Wake up, they're here - bloody rats... lots of them." 

You rouse to wakefulness and emerge from the warmth of your tent.  Marlene wasn't joking - your warband is surrounded on the hill by perhaps thirty hunkering rodent-men, bouncing on their heels and twitching with anxiety in the gloom; beady red eyes peering out at you, spears and blades in hands and tails.  A scarred and older looking rat, wearing hammered iron armor and mail and wielding a tall glaive, steps forward.  He rakes his eyes over your small group.

 "...Give-give, man-thing.  Give-give, or die-die." 

As far as negotiations go, the rat-man seems to be opening with a ... heavy ultimatum. 
bramblefoot
 "give-give what-what?"  jorunn says calmly, signaling byjan to stay with the wyrdstone with a jerk of his head. he will stalk over to the leader rat, staying out of glaive reach.  "i suggest you make a deal, if you dont want to go back to rat-town with your tail between your legs, if you make it at all"  he will watch the rat closely

 "shall we say a small gem for every fist-sized chunk of wyrdstone, and a large gem for the big ones"  he says, keeping his hand on witherbrand

intimidation

 (1d100)[ 86 ] 

19 in the ooc
MrAbdiel
The lead rat takes a backstep, at your threat.  He has enough troops here to kill you and your warband... but these creatures are not like Norscans.  You see immediately that they have no notion of dying in combat as desirous at all.  The flicker of his eyes tells you nothing matters more to these creatures that survival - not dignity, not comfort, not wealth, not revenge, not happiness, not success.  Above all things they crave to survive - and even if your party is killed to a man, this leader rat cannot guarantee he will not be killed in the process.

He regards your offer with what seems to you like disbeleif.

 "...What trick-trick, manthing?  What is your game-play?" 

Ortel catches it just as you do, and hisses to you in Reikspiel, trusting this rat doesn't speak that too.

 "He thinks we're trying to trick them... because the offer is too low.  These disgusting creatures must prize the daemon-stones much more highly indeed." 

What follows is negotiation.  You show the rats a sample, and they seem pleased with the quality; but by the end you have had more time to observe how much they crave it, and radically adjusted your demands.  It seems they prize the warpstone much more than any man prizes gems; and at the end of the accord, you have a truly obscene wealth of gems the rats have dredged up from their slave mines.  So many that you can't imagine being able to fox them off in one place.  Atleast ten or twelve thousand  sceattas  of gems maybe, or a multiple of that if you can find someone reliable and skilled to cut them and someone to ship and sell them to the southern kingdoms; the same for Byjan, who took a bundle comparable to yours; a tenth of that from Marlene's lone shard.  Nothing for Ortel, who refused to carry any.  You watch how carefully the rats take the bundles -you feel vindicated it not touching the stuff yourself.

 "Good business, man-bear.  Smart to sell.  Hard bargain... You find more, you come back?  More shiny-shiny..." 

The rats withdraw, leaving you with dense leather sacks of uncut precious stones.

 "...Not likely,"  Byjan mumbles;  "If they see us here again, they'll shoot us from range and loot us for whatever we have.  See their eyes?  Soulless..." 

Marlene looks over the gem bags, astonished even at her own much smaller haul.

 "...Well, this turned out incredibly.  I'd suggest we go back to get more if the beastmen haven't certainly stripped it by now.  We need to find a gemcutter who you can trust, with a lot of time.. and I guess, a fair bit of security.  That'll get the most out of this.  It's the difference between being able to buy one warship, or three." 

With that, you're able to sleep with your new, non-mutagenic treasures.  If only that was the only event that night.

Only an hour into the rest of your sleep, you are groggily awoken by Byjan on the last watch.
 
"Jorunn, get up - we've got trouble..." 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
What's the trouble that Jorunn steps out of his tent to find? :D
 
bramblefoot
jorunn shakes himself awake, and stalks out of his tent. he sees four graelings moving towards him and his warbands position, seasoned warriors by the looks of them. the leader a tall man with an eye patch calls.  "i'd recognize my twin brothers armor anywhere"  he draws steel, and growls  "tell me how he died, and i might go easy on you" 

jorunn laughs, and draws witherbrand.  "your brothers skull hangs on my belt, as will yours very shortly"  he gloats, and prepares to shift

initiative roll

 (1d10+4)[ 8 ] 

first action is to shift, and then make attacks
MrAbdiel
 Your warband is ready for action seeing the heavily armed and armored warriors ascending the hill of the Bonetree.  They spring into action when you signal the time is now.

Byjan is first off the block.  Knowing you need a moment to complete your shift, he roars and charges the foremost Graeling, who froths and hoists his great axe in salute to his dark gods...

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Byjan's Charge:   vs56  - (1d100)[ 84 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 8 ] 
Marlene's Shot:   vs47  - (1d100)[ 10 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 13 ] 
Ortel's Charge:   vs48  - (1d100)[ 82 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 6 ]  or  (1d10+3)[ 10 ] 

All the Graelings Frenzy, and Jorunn Shifts.
Wolf's Waits by Jorunn's side, snarling.  Full defense.

Round 2 Begins!

Byjan's Blows:   vs56  - (1d100)[ 52 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 8 ]  and    vs56  - (1d100)[ 8 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 13 ] .
Marlene's Shot:   vs47  - (1d100)[ 2 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 12 ] 
Ortel's Blow:   vs38  - (1d100)[ 51 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 9 ]  or  (1d10+3)[ 5 ] 

Greataxe on Byjan:   vs34  - (1d100)[ 16 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 14 ]  or  (1d10+6)[ 7 ] 
 and    vs34  - (1d100)[ 45 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 13 ]  or  (1d10+6)[ 15 ] 
 


Byjan releases a harrowing assault on Greataxe wielding Graeling, alongside his one-eyed captain; the taller warrior snarling in his face and turning the blows as his eyes grow bloodshot and mad.  The big Bjornling manages to land a blow that scores a bloody line through the Graeling's mail, but his opponent seems undetered; and he catches a heavy blow on his shield that almost splits the wood of it in half.

Ortel begins combat with his usual misfortunate enthusiasm, leading with his axe but unable to land a blow on his sword-and-dagger wielding enemy.  Marlene does much better - her first arrow  thonks  into the skull of the dual axe wielding Graeling, shockingly failing to kill him; the next bites into his bicep and forces him to drop one of his axes as blood gushes down from the wound; his frenzy injuring him to pain but not injury.  Your wolf hops anxiously by your side, waiting for you to select a target so he may join you alongside.  And the target is obvious - the brother of the Graeling you already slew; bigger even than his brother and more fierce of aspect, now red-eyed with rage and barking madly for your best assault.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
So far, Duel-Wield Axe Graeling has taken a crit; and Greataxe Graeling has taken 6 wounds.
 The Sword-and-Dagger Graeling dueling Ortel is unharmed, as is the leader, Dorluf, who awaits your charge attack!

It's your turn!
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn will charge dorluf sword flashing. he hits, but doesnt do a lotta damage

 (1d100)[ 26 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 8 ] 
MrAbdiel
 Witherbrand slashes through chain and leather, even flesh; its cursed powers grope for magical talent to mute, but find none.  More than that, the blow seems to mean little to Dorluf, who is frothing mad now; hefts his own great axe high, and returns your blows with his own!

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Will edit post with the outcomes of the rolls!

Wolf's Charge:   vs46  - (1d100)[ 89 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 8 ] 
Double Axe chance to die:  vs80  - (1d100)[ 42 ] 
Double Axe Attack:  vs44  - (1d100)[ 50 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 16 ] 
Dorluf Attacks1:   vs31  - (1d100)[ 73 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 7 ]  or  (1d10+6)[ 15 ] 
Dorluf Attacks2:   vs31  - (1d100)[ 52 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 8 ]  or  (1d10+6)[ 7 ] 
Dorluf Attacks3:   vs31  - (1d100)[ 96 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 13 ]  or  (1d10+6)[ 9 ] 
Sword/Dagger Attack1:  vs34  - (1d100)[ 50 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 12 ] 
Sword/Dagger Attack2:  vs34  - (1d100)[ 99 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 7 ] 
 Round 3! 
Byjan Attack1:   vs46  - (1d100)[ 12 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 12 ] 
Byjan Attack2:   vs46  - (1d100)[ 92 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 11 ] 
Malene's Shot (Or Else Draw):   vs47  - (1d100)[ 98 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 7 ] 
Ortel's blow:   vs38  - (1d100)[ 77 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 9 ]  or  (1d10+3)[ 7 ] 
GreatAxe Attack1:  vs34  - (1d100)[ 62 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 8 ]  or  (1d10+6)[ 12 ] 
GreatAxe Attack2:  vs34  - (1d100)[ 99 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 7 ]  or  (1d10+6)[ 16 ] 
 


Your wolf charges in beside you, but cannot close his jaws on the enemy; but his presense as an ally increases your opportunities.  Ortel duels judiciously with the sword and dagger wielding Graeling, neither making headway; the warrior who dropped his second axe charges with his remaining one at Marlene, who is forced to drop her bow and draw axe and dagger to shield to defend herself, while she waits for him to bleed out.  The great axe warrior fails to  land a blow on Byjan; but the return strike your old friend lands on his opposite number barely draws blood.  The lunatic avengers and your warband are at a hard stalemate, waiting to see which way it breaks. You have harnessed the berseker rage before, and you do so now - but never have you fought enemies who themselves 'put on the bear' in battle.  They are relentless, fearless, and strong.  Dorluf's heavy greataxe sings through the air near you three times, making no contact but carrying with each blow the promise of true injury.  The stalemate continues... for now.  But your instincts tell you when it breaks one way or the other, it's going to break hard.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
GreatAxeGraeling is up to 9 wounds.  DualAxe has not bled out from his mangled arm.  Both the others are still swinging!  You're free to swift attack, with a +10 for your Wolf adding threat to the combat.
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn will make three attacks on dorluf

 (3d100)[ 40 ][ 100 ][ 70 ](210) 
 (1d10+6)[ 9 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 9 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 13 ] 
MrAbdiel
  
 Spoiler: ROLLS! 
 (Pending Outcomes for narration!)

Wolf's All-Out:   vs66  - (1d100)[ 29 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 13 ] 
Double Axe chance to die:  vs80  - (1d100)[ 41 ] 
Double Axe Attacks1:  vs34  - (1d100)[ 86 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 13 ] 
Double Axe Attacks2:  vs34  - (1d100)[ 48 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 8 ] 
Dorluf Attacks1:   vs31  - (1d100)[ 27 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 12 ]  or  (1d10+6)[ 12 ] 
Dorluf Attacks2:   vs31  - (1d100)[ 20 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 7 ]  or  (1d10+6)[ 12 ] 
Dorluf Attacks3:   vs31  - (1d100)[ 74 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 12 ]  or  (1d10+6)[ 15 ] 
Sword/Dagger Attack1:  vs34  - (1d100)[ 25 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 8 ] 
Sword/Dagger Attack2:  vs34  - (1d100)[ 92 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 16 ] 
 Round 4! 
Byjan Attack1:   vs46  - (1d100)[ 72 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 7 ] 
Byjan Attack2:   vs46  - (1d100)[ 8 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 5 ] 
Malene's Melee:   vs37  - (1d100)[ 66 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 11 ] 
Ortel's blow:   vs38  - (1d100)[ 59 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 6 ]  or  (1d10+3)[ 8 ] 
GreatAxe Attack1:  vs34  - (1d100)[ 39 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 16 ]  or  (1d10+6)[ 14 ] 
GreatAxe Attack2:  vs34  - (1d100)[ 29 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 10 ]  or  (1d10+6)[ 12 ] 
 


Ortel's opponent slips a small dagger cut past his guard, opening a wound on his cheek that bleeds freely; savoring the first blood in their exchange with wild eyes.  Marlene avoids the axeman's furious reprisal as he begins to slow down from the loss of blood; but cannot find space to hasten his end.  And Byjan and his opponent trade wounds - Byjan adding a small cut to his earlier inflicted injuries, but in turn finally taking a slamming blow on his axe that rocks him back off his feet, winds him, and forces him onto the defensive, crawling back up to guard just in time.

Meanwhile, your own blows on Dorluf find no purchase; they glance off his armor and oak-hard muscle beneath, or he drives them aside with his great axe; but he has finally found his battle cadence, chopping at you even as your wolf manages to leap up his back and latch to his shoulder, twisting, biting, drawing blood.. but not attention.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: Outcomes. 
Byjan takes 5 wounds and delivers 1 to GreataxeGraeling this turn.

Marlene and DoubleAxe Stalemate, but he's still bleeding.

Ortel and Sword/Dagger don't do much, but Ortel takes 1 wound.

Wolf lands mighty chomp on Dorluf which causes him to take a mere 4 wounds; but Dorluf lands two blows on Jorunn which require defense!

Give me that dodge and Parry, both against 12 damage hits!  Then it's your go.
 
 
bramblefoot
 
 Spoiler: ooc 
parry was a 58 in the ooc
 


dodge blow:

 (1d100)[ 75 ] 
 (3d100)[ 44 ][ 93 ][ 15 ](152) 
 (1d10+6)[ 8 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 12 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 10 ] 

jorunn snarls as he does three attacks, one barely getting by dorlufs guard, and another missing, and yet another bouncing off dorlufs muscles,

he loses another green sprig to dorlufs axe blade
MrAbdiel
  
 Spoiler: Rolls! 
Pending Outcomes for post:

Wolf's Attack:   vs46  - (1d100)[ 96 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 9 ] 
Double Axe chance to die:  vs80  - (1d100)[ 56 ] 
Double Axe Attack1:  vs34  - (1d100)[ 90 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 9 ] 
Double Axe Attack2:  vs34  - (1d100)[ 92 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 9 ] 
Dorluf Attacks1:   vs31  - (1d100)[ 58 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 13 ]  or  (1d10+6)[ 15 ] 
Dorluf Attacks2:   vs31  - (1d100)[ 97 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 9 ]  or  (1d10+6)[ 16 ] 
Dorluf Attacks3:   vs31  - (1d100)[ 87 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 7 ]  or  (1d10+6)[ 14 ] 
Sword/Dagger Attack1:  vs34  - (1d100)[ 93 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 11 ] 
Sword/Dagger Attack2:  vs34  - (1d100)[ 98 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 8 ] 
 Round 5! 
Byjan Attack1:   vs46  - (1d100)[ 67 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 7 ] 
Byjan Attack2:   vs46  - (1d100)[ 38 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 6 ] 
Malene's Melee:   vs47  - (1d100)[ 26 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 9 ] 
Ortel's blow:   vs38  - (1d100)[ 97 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 9 ]  or  (1d10+3)[ 9 ] 
GreatAxe Attack1:  vs34  - (1d100)[ 54 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 16 ]  or  (1d10+6)[ 12 ] 
GreatAxe Attack2:  vs34  - (1d100)[ 2 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 11 ]  or  (1d10+6)[ 10 ] 
 


Your ursine ears twitch at a scream from one side of the combat, and you fear the worst for Marlene; but it turns out to be a scream of triumphant exertion, rather than defeat.  The bleeding axeman bearing her back in a clinch and almost overwhelming her with berserker strength, but with great savage effort, with her arms pinned, she bites onto shaft of the arrow embedded in his eye and drives it further into his head with a wrenching of her neck.  It clips something vital in his brain, and his spasms and releases, choking and gasping; and she snatches up her axe to  hack brutally into his neck - the first kill goes to your Warband.

Elsewhere it is hard to land blows.  You clip Dorluf again for a small wound; but your comrades are hard pressed.  As Dorluf's huge blade scythes by your skillful steps, Byjan takes an unanswered blow that cuts deep into his calf muscle; he only retains his leg because he was mid step away, and stumbles back with a frustrated growl!

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Byjan takes another hit, and he's up to 9 taken wounds; opposed to his opponent's 1.

Marlene finally kills Doubleaxe; perhaps freeing her to assist Byjan or Jorunn next.

Ortel and Sword/Dagger stalemate!

Wolf misses Dorluf; Dorluf misses Jorunn, but takes 1 more wound from Jorunn for a running total of 5.

Jorunn's turn!
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn will make three attacks, and do a silent prayer to bjarna for byjans health  "marlene, help byjan"  he calls

 (3d100)[ 97 ][ 96 ][ 75 ](268) 
 (1d10+6)[ 9 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 15 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 8 ] 
MrAbdiel
 You finally land a good blow - the blade of your axe outpaces the Graeling's dodge, biting through skin and raking bone along his unarmored jaw.  Blood runs freely, but he bellows a bellicose laugh and retaliates...

 
 Spoiler: OOC: Attacks! 
You hit for 9 net wounds!  Woo!

Wolf's Attack:   vs36  - (1d100)[ 43 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 9 ] 
Dorluf Attacks1:   vs31  - (1d100)[ 88 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 12 ]  or  (1d10+6)[ 7 ] 
Dorluf Attacks2:   vs31  - (1d100)[ 73 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 8 ]  or  (1d10+6)[ 13 ] 
Dorluf Attacks3:   vs31  - (1d100)[ 81 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 9 ]  or  (1d10+6)[ 12 ] 
Sword/Dagger Attack1:  vs34  - (1d100)[ 1 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 8 ] 
Sword/Dagger Attack2:  vs34  - (1d100)[ 90 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 10 ] 
Round 7!
Byjan Attack1:   vs46  - (1d100)[ 11 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 14 ] 
Byjan Attack2:   vs46  - (1d100)[ 43 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 5 ] 
Malene's Melee:   vs47  - (1d100)[ 29 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 11 ] 
Ortel's blow:   vs38  - (1d100)[ 100 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 4 ]  or  (1d10+3)[ 10 ] 
GreatAxe Attack1:  vs34  - (1d100)[ 93 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 15 ]  or  (1d10+6)[ 13 ] 
GreatAxe Attack2:  vs34  - (1d100)[ 91 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 13 ]  or  (1d10+6)[ 16 ] 

Malene
Wolf
Byjan (5 Wounds)
Ortel (1 Wound)
Jorunn (4 Wounds)
Avenger Dorluf (14 Wounds)
Greataxe (Dead)
Double Axe (Dead)
Sword and Dagger (4 Wounds)

You're good to go again!
 


The tide of the battle breaks - and it breaks in your favour.  Dorluf is still unable to land a blow on you - his swings are mighty and he is tough as stone, but you are wearing him down and his rage has made him inaccurate.    Your wolf is free to dart about biting his legs, arresting one step or the other and compromising his swings further so you can avoid them entirely, which you do.  Marlene, fresh from her kill, heeds your call and crosses toward Byjan - but the big man manages not to need the help, howling out as he breaks through the guard of his great-axe wielding opponent with a catastrophic blow that chops through the bicep and a hand's breadth into the lung and heart beneath, killing him instantly.

Across on the other side of your duel, Ortel finds himself outmatched.  He cannot land a blow with his greataxe; and what's more, the graeling with sword and dagger manages to hook his blade beneath the curl of the axe, kick up with his boot, and disarm the priest of Ulric entirely, leaving him disarmed and unable to stop the slice of the dagger that cuts a bloody line across his jaw and nearly splits his ear in half.  It looks grim for him once more - but then Marlene bursts in from the flank and deals a slash of her own on the Graeling which almost mirrors the one he dealt, in its placement!
 
bramblefoot
jorunn grins.  "seems like the tables have turned!"  he bellows, and makes three attacks

 (3d100)[ 84 ][ 92 ][ 2 ](178) 
 (1d10+6)[ 9 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 15 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 16 ] 
MrAbdiel
 A blow that should have sheared Dorluf's arm off sparks from the pauldron as he heaves his bulk just barely around your murderous strike.  His response to your quip is blunt, and telling:

 "RRaaaaGGGHH!" 

His rage, it seems, is a little more insensible than your own.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Rolls!  Outcomes pending results...

Wolf's Attack:   vs46  - (1d100)[ 23 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 6 ] 
Dorluf Attacks1:   vs31  - (1d100)[ 99 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 9 ]  or  (1d10+6)[ 8 ] 
Dorluf Attacks2:   vs31  - (1d100)[ 70 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 16 ]  or  (1d10+6)[ 11 ] 
Dorluf Attacks3:   vs31  - (1d100)[ 70 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 16 ]  or  (1d10+6)[ 16 ] 
Sword/Dagger Attack1:  vs34  - (1d100)[ 9 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 13 ] 
Sword/Dagger Attack2:  vs34  - (1d100)[ 77 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 15 ] 
Round 8!
Byjan Charge1:   vs56  - (1d100)[ 74 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 5 ] 
Malene's Charge1:   vs67  - (1d100)[ 67 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 9 ] 
Ortel's blow:   vs38  - (1d100)[ 12 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 10 ]  or  (1d10+3)[ 10 ] 

Edit: JEEZ LOUISE Dorluf you would have avenged your brother three times over with damage like that if you could only bloody HIT.


Malene
Wolf
Byjan (5 Wounds)
Ortel (8 Wound)
Jorunn (4 Wounds)
Avenger Dorluf (14 Wounds)
Greataxe (Dead)
Double Axe (Dead)
Sword and Dagger (9 Wounds)

Your turn!
 


He keeps on coming; but his blows remain as inaccurate as they are heavy.  One blow smashes into the bone tree, splitting an old beastman skull into fragments before he whirls around and nearly kills you with a downward chop you neatly sidestep, losing the leather tip of the sole of your boot to the blade.

Byjan and Marlene know your tactics, now - clean up the outside, regroup on you at the end. They are both assisting Ortel now; Byjan's charge forcing the last supporting Graeling to back up a step where Marlene can make a neat cut to his flank and Ortel misses a forehand slash, but cracks the butt of the axe's handle into the graeling's sternum anyway.  The battered warrior is not without retort - he stabs his dagger into Ortel's thigh, causing the wolf priest to howl in pain such that your wolf companion looses a sympathetic howl of his own. 
bramblefoot
jorunn will attempt to finish off dorluf


 (3d100)[ 68 ][ 2 ][ 65 ](135) 
 (1d10+6)[ 14 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 9 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 10 ] 
MrAbdiel
 Finally, a good blow smashes through his defence -  Witherbrand  bites into Dorluf's thigh and the blood starts to run swiftly and freely into the muddy snow at the foot of the bone tree.  It's a mortal blow - without a skilled healer atleast, and you doubt Dorluf or his remaining friend is one such.  But the man before you doesn't seem in a state of mind to honor his approaching fate - and on he comes, dying as he may be!

 
 Spoiler: Attacks! 
Wolf's Attack:   vs46  - (1d100)[ 67 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 9 ] 
DorlufChanceToDie:  vs80  - (1d100)[ 45 ] 
Dorluf Attacks1:   vs31  - (1d100)[ 11 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 14 ]  or  (1d10+6)[ 9 ] 
Dorluf Attacks2:   vs31  - (1d100)[ 95 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 8 ]  or  (1d10+6)[ 7 ] 
Dorluf Attacks3:   vs31  - (1d100)[ 2 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 12 ]  or  (1d10+6)[ 14 ] 
Sword/Dagger AttackOrManeuver1:  vs34  - (1d100)[ 44 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 7 ] 
Sword/Dagger Attack2:  vs34  - (1d100)[ 81 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 16 ] 
 Round 9! 
Byjan Attack1:   vs56  - (1d100)[ 23 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 10 ] 
Byjan Attack2:   vs56  - (1d100)[ 26 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 10 ] 
Malene's Melee:   vs57  - (1d100)[ 96 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 11 ] 
Ortel's blow:   vs58  - (1d100)[ 49 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 11 ]  or  (1d10+3)[ 12 ] 
 


To your left, Marlene, Jorunn and Byjan pile in on the last Graeling offsider; Marlene distracts, Byjan carves into his arm, and with no ability to guard himself, his head flies from his shoulders when Ortel finally lands a powerful connecting strike.  But you can't focus on such things now - Dorluf comes at you like an animal, dragging your wolf behind him with its jaws latched to his bloody thigh; dealing out collossal, man-splitting blows with the last pints of his blood racing out of his wounds.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: Oof! 
He's got a 20% chance to die each turn - but this turn he landed two big hits for 14 points each to the right arm - you'll want to defend against both, before going again!  He has a final damage reduction of 9, so any hits that deal 10 or more provoke critical rolls.
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn will attempt to finish off dorluf, even as a massive blow is parried. two miss, but tone massive blow gets through, hopefully staving in dorluf

 (3d100)[ 77 ][ 89 ][ 67 ](233) 
 (1d10+6)[ 14 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 13 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 15 ] 
MrAbdiel
 Unable to wait for Dorluf to die on his own - he's too deadly, even dying - you clinch in and drive Witherbrand into his heart.  The huge man's strength is a match for your own even in this wild ursine form, but this is too much; and with a gurgling, hateful wheeze, he perishes in your arms, like his comrades around you.  Your wolf, as is his habit, latches onto Dorluf's neck when he hits the ground, and gives it a good chomp-and-shake.

 "Gods' blood... They just don't care to die, do they?"   Marlene pants from her own exertions, now that the battle is over and she is free to hunker forward and catch her breath. 
bramblefoot
jorunn will shift down, and take dorlufs skull for his own collection.  "thats what happens when you're raised in the land of salt and smoke"  he says, puffing a little.  "lets take their stuff"  he says, and will search the bodies for any clue to their allegiance, along with whatever kit they have

 
 Spoiler: ooc 
do i get any xp for this?
 
MrAbdiel
 Ortel gets about checking everyone's wounds; yours first.  The rest of the gang gets looting.  At the end, you have four more sets of (somewhat bloody) armor; ringmail and leather.   "Armor always sells good... but maybe we save it to try to pass on at another town, rather than immediately sell it back at the Graeling Moot from which these boys came,"  Byjan sensibly suggests as he stuffs the loot into the saddlebags of your goat, who has bravely stood nearby this whole time.  The weapons of the Graeling are also present; though the only remarkable one is a pistol from the hip of the sword-and-dagger fellow who was harassing Ortel.  Such weapons are uncommon up here; but here we are.  Maybe he was waiting for a moment to use it - but his moment ended before it came.

 
 Spoiler: XP and Loot 
No XP for this immediate fight, but I will keep it in mind when you've finished all your shenanigans in the Graeling Moot and compensate at that time!

Loot:

4 * Sets of Full Mail (Damaged, Bloody.  Includes leather layer.)
4 * Hand Weapons
4 * Daggers
2 * Greatweapons
1 * Pistol (Loaded)
1 * Pouch of spare shot (enough powder and lead for five shots, after the one loaded.)

  OrtelHealingVs54  - (1d100)[ 49 ]  for perhaps  (1d10)[ 8 ] , to Jorunn.
 

 "Tricky,"  Byjan notes.   "We could head back into town and rest for the day, perhaps look for a gemcutter - but someone told these berserkers who we were and where to find us, and they'll know we killed them if we waltz right back in.  I think we might do better laying low out here again - maybe not under this bleak tree.  Unless you'd prefer to risk it, for haste's sake."  
bramblefoot
 "personally, id blame that sway-backed goatherd"  jorunn says, cleaning the blood off witherbrand and sheathing it.  "if anyone is an information broker, it's him. hell, when he heard we were going out to that bone tree, he prolly sold the information to people" 
 "lets move camp, and head back into town in a day or two" 
MrAbdiel
 You spend a couple of days 'laying low' outside of the town, with your sacks of gems keeping you occupied.  Ortel has work to do anyway - getting used to the shamanic bullroarer, trying to learn his part for your heist.  He spends many hours whirling it over his head for an uneven droning sound; but eventually finds a pitch that makes your wolf immediately perk up and take notice.  Not wanting to summon a great mass of wolves, he holds off once he's gotten the hang of it.
 
"Well... I suppose I'm ready to try, when you say so.  I think you'll want to be in the Graeling Moot when I'm drawing and steering them; I can't imagine the beasts will be comfortable sitting and waiting idly while everyone takes their places.  Where do you want Marlene and Byjan, when the time comes?  Hiding with you, to break into the trophy hall?  Or making themselves scarce nearby incase?"  
bramblefoot
jorunn will consider.  "id like byjan with me, and marlene on overwatch"  he says, considering his options

CK: strategy and tactics

 (1d100)[ 100 ] 
MrAbdiel
 Thus, the plan is set: You and Byjan make your way, hoods up, back into the Graeling Moot.  You buy some hard bread from a local seller and sit to eat it in view, not far from the Trophy Hall.  Marlene is somewhere else in the town already, similarly innocuous, keeping watch, ready to signal you with her bow if something goes amiss.  Outside, somewhere, Ortel and your wolf are trying to execute the most fantastical part of the plan - getting a flood of goats to charge through the streets.

Now you play the waiting game. If only it were that simple.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
What happens to complicate this part of the plan - before any sign of the distraction?
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn watches and waits, arms crossed. his eyes pick out a bit of movement on the corner of the moot, a few muffled words and a knowing glance in their direction from the sway-backed goatherd. two burly bondsman will muscle their way through the crowd, headed in their direction

 "we've been made"  jorunn mutters.  "split up, and see if we can lose these guys" 
MrAbdiel
 Byjan nods, finishes the heel of bread in a greedy bite, and peels away from you down the nearby slush-filled main road of the Moot's shrine road, while you fork off toward the stables.  Stealing only small glances back at your pursuers, must hope they are losing you - and you given them every reason to do so.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Chance of Goat: 10%, increasing every 'round'.    vs10  - (1d100)[ 80 ] .

Give me a Concealment role to lose your pursuers without provoking a noisy fight.  The modifier is flat at a base, but I'll give you +20% if you can include some interesting novel idea for hiding or escaping in your post!
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn will not be able to lose the bondsman on him, but he will take the bondsman down a blind alley and attempt to finish him off

 (1d10+4)[ 10 ] 
MrAbdiel
 The bondsman who follows you into the alley is young, with a desperate excuse for a blond beard and clean, barely calloused knuckles on the hand resting cautiously on his axe's hilt.  When you round on him in the alley, he is taken completely by surprise and blinks, dumbfounded.

 
 Spoiler: Rolls! 
 (1d10+3)[ 8 ]  Initiative! Jorunn up first.
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn will make two attacks on the man

 (2d100)[ 81 ][ 64 ](145) 
 (1d10+5)[ 7 ] 
 (1d10+5)[ 6 ] 

parry
 (1d100)[ 81 ] 

dodge
 (1d100)[ 81 ] 
MrAbdiel
  
 Spoiler: OOC: Rolls! 
Chance of goat:   Vs20  - (1d100)[ 60 ] .

Young bondsman takes 2 wounds from the second attack, the first misses. He is no longer surprised but Jorunn goes gain.
 


You slash across the bondsman's body, which breaks him from his stupor even if the leather takes most of it.  He makes a confused, shocked coughing sound as he reels back and goes for his weapons; barely able to believe he so suddenly ended up in a fight.  No sigh of the distraction just yet - hopefully, Byjan is doing alright where he is. 
bramblefoot
jorunn will attempt to finish off the bondsman

 (2d100)[ 1 ][ 52 ](53) 
 (1d10+5)[ 13 ] 
 (1d10+5)[ 11 ] 
MrAbdiel
  
 Spoiler: OOC: Rolls! 
Chance of goat:   Vs30  - (1d100)[ 25 ] 
 


You snatch the bondsman by the shirt, and jam the point of  Witherbrand  up under his chin.  You feel the satisfying click of bone busting as the blade cracks through the seams of the skull in the oral cavity, and the young man dies instantly; his body spasming and biting futilly on the blade until you pry it off, and drag him around behind the nearby meat smoking hut, quietly tipping a trough of stowed charcoal over to bury him from possible discovery...

... just in time for a great commotion to start brewing in the streets beyond.

 "Hey - woah, hey, look out!"
"What's this - whose are - oof!"
"Floki, climb up here - there's hundreds of them.  What fool is doing this?"
"Not my radishes get away!  hey!" 

A pitter patter of hooves becomes a thundering of them and a chorus of braying hundreds of goats - both conventionally sized and the large, pony-sized regional variant - are driven through the streets at a low panic, knocking over carts and fences, spilling down side lanes, cantankerously headbutting people who get in their way.  It doesn't take long until this half of the Graeling Moot is buzzing with chaos.  Beyond and behind the herd, you hear the howling of many wolves.  Much closer, you hear shouts of dismay and confusion from the street, the buildings around you, and - importantly - from the trophy hall.  Three big, great haired but powerfully built veterans emerge from within, where they had been, it seems, admiring the content.

"What the hell is going on?  Where are the goatherds?"
"I hear wolves.  Did the skinchangers scare the herds into town...?"
"Nonsense - they don't come up here.  And they're well fed where they are.  Lothgar, mind the hall - we must get to the bottom of this."

You hear the doors close again.  "Lothgar", apparently a lone sentinel left in the trophy hall, can be heard dropping the bar behind the warriors as they force their way out into the confused and panicking streets.

The door is barred, with someone inside watching; but perhaps a less conventional entry would serve your purposes.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: What now? 
Your distraction is working - but now what to do?  You need to get inside somehow.
 You could try to hack your way in through the front door - if you're very quick you might succeed, in the chaos. You could try to bluff in past "Lothgar"; or something sneakier, like climbing up and trying to pry your way through the thatched roof.  Or anything you care to think of that makes sense!
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn will wipe the blood off his blade, and sheathe it. he'll sidle back out and scan for byjan.

 (1d100)[ 70 ] 
MrAbdiel
 Byjan is nowhere to be seen.  He must be nearby, dealing with his own troublesome bondsman - perhaps, a little slower than you dealt with yours. 
bramblefoot
jorunn will climb onto the roof of the longhouse, and try to get through the thatched roof. he gets through quickly and will drop to the floor, moving to get behind lothmar and quickly dispose of him

strength roll
 (1d100)[ 33 ] 
MrAbdiel
With a mighty effort, you tear and hack the thatches aside until there is a big enough hole and then drop into a lantern lit hall full of mounted beast skulls, golden trinkets, and broken weapons from defeated champions.  With the wicked blade in one hand, you prepare to engage the lone defender - and find it to be an aging man, leaning on the long half of a war axe.  He has the tired, scarred skin of a warrior who has seen his prime and lived long past it - and judging by the way he watches the door infront of him and not behind him where you dropped in, he is stone deaf.

An old warrior is a sad thing.  Bjornlings have a tradition of honouring their aging elders, but to the Graeling, like most Norscans, a warrior ought to die in combat with his weapon in hand, lest he risk some eternal peril when Old Jormung tastes their cowardice.

It would be easy enough to stab him in the back.  Less easy, but possible, to complete your task without him knowing.  And honoring to an old warrior to alert him, and defeat and slay him face to face.
bramblefoot
jorunn will stalk up behind the old man, and run him through. after that, he'll move to search the place

search roll
 (1d100)[ 50 ] 
MrAbdiel
 The deaf old warrior releases a weak gasp as you run him through.  His heart is pierced - he does not even get the chance to look over his shoulder at the face of his murderer.

With that last obstacle left to cool in a bloodslick on the floor, you look around the trophy hall at the numerous pedestals and altars and mounted icons; offerings from clans and warparties given to the Graeling Moot as a sign of their loyalty with the greater tribe.  Most are either too large to consider taking, or not valuable outside of being a trophy -  the skull of some Imperial prince and his griffon is hardly worth having unless you killed them yourself.  There are numerous 'prize' weapons won in duels from other clans; but they are unlikely to serve better in combat than the weapons you have and, as far as their resale value, it hardly seems worthwhile hauling a bag of stolen iron over the mountains when your goat is already going to be laden down with gems.

There is something your eyes land on that seems interesting - a short spear, whose wooden shaft is grooved with intricate Darktongue lettering.  A clear and inexplicable instinct tells your intuition that this weapon has been made to contain a daemon - but has not been used.  If used to commit the killing blow on such a chaos spirit, it will trap and commit them to the weapon instead of incorporating and banishing them.  At that point, whether the daemonspear is worth keeping or pitching away would be up to the wielder... and the daemon.

The idol of the Free Maiden is easily enough located, atleast.  It is on the ground at the foot of another pedestal, upon which is a wrought iron icon of the eight pointed star- the symbol of the Four.  The icon of the maiden is wrapped loosely in chains, to the pedestal beneath. 
bramblefoot
jorunn will liberate the spear, and the icon of the free maiden, and leave back through the way he came, if possible. if not, he'll leave via the front door
MrAbdiel
 Out the front door, the goats swarm and the citizens of the Graeling Moot scramble to contain them in ones and twos.  The alarmed goatherds have arrived now, raving about an army of wolves spooking and driving their herds.  So you try your luck climbing out again, bracing one foot on top of the ring of the icon of the eight pointed, and poking your hands up to push up the loosened thatch.  As you do, an arrow thumps into the thatch near you, almost startling you enough to fall.  It's one of Marlene's arrows; and you pause in your climb long enough to hear another set of feet land on the roof from an adjacent house, and take a cautious step or two.  Having not half-exposed yourself, the man - another bondsman by the make of the boots you can see - does not raise the alarm.  He just creeps towards the disturbed thatch... before Byjan's hands reach up and grab his ankles, pulling them out from under him so he smashes face first into the roof and is then pulled clear off it.  Another quiet thump is heard, and then Byjan peers up over the edge of the roof.

 "Psst.  Hey!  Did you get it?  Let's go, let's go!" 

Escaping need not be as difficult as killing your way into the building was.  There are bondsmen all over, shoving goats out the gate of the city and chasing them around.  You need only look as confused and alarmed as they do.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
There isn't really a skill for "act cool and blend in".  Maybe charm?  I'll let you roll charm to try to blend in with the other bondsmen trying to deal with the goats until you are outside, concealment to sneak, or animal care to actually help with the goat extraction (which might be convincing cover in itself).  All circumstances are favorable enough that I think you might attempt so with a -10%.  If you pass, you're clear to the bone tree to reunite with the warband.  If you fail... you might suggest what complicates your extraction!
 
 
bramblefoot
 "i got it"  jorunn says. the leaving goes smoothly, and the party reconvenes at the bone tree.  "next, we need to find the village of fijrgard. the goatherd told me to follow the falls until we reach the fish traps and then watch and wait"  he says
MrAbdiel
 No daemonic defenders leap up when you abduct the statue and the daemonspear; and with them in hand, you and Byjan simply leave the Graeling Moot; going in the same direction as the goat traffic streaming in one side of town and out the other, where goatherds are frantically recapturing them, bickering over ownership, while bondsmen with short patience and town elders bark and stomp their feet.  Marlene finds you shortly after, on your way back to the camp you pitched within view of the bone tree.  There, you find Ortel, and your wolf - both looking somewhat pleased with themselves - and also about forty additional wolves just lazing about; sniffing, biting, watching, whining with idleness.  Ortel sees you arrive, and gives a small smile; and then offers a snarling, snapping bark at the wolves that take their cue and scatter into their pacts into the wilderness.

Your pack goat is so releived at their departure that he releases a pent up torrent of goat pellets, which seems as good a sign that it is indeed time to move on as any.  With one small stop for Ortel to drop off the bullroarer at the Threefold Lodge, you get on your way before the Graelings finish reeling from the chaos you have caused; and once more you are out in the wild places.

 
 Spoiler: OOC:  
Gain 250XP for your adventures in the Graeling moot.  Ortel has also finished a sort of 'loyalty quest', Mass Effect 2 style, and is somewhat more competent then before.

How fast do you want to travel?

At Normal Speed, you have a lower risk of falling into hazards; but if the Graelings get wise and send anyone after you, they'll have an easier time catching up.

If you up to Hasty Speed, it's less likely the Graelings will catch you if they send someone - but you're sacrificing caution for pace.
 

 
bramblefoot
jorunn will mount the goat, and take off at a cautious pace.  "well that was interesting"  he chirps, going at a slow enough pace to let his unmounted people keep up.  "i say we avoid the moot on the return trip, and head back after fijrgard" 
 
 Spoiler: ooc 
im going at cautious speed
 
MrAbdiel
 There is no screaming horde of Graelings coming after you, after all - it seems you've gotten away with your heist scott free.

You follow the frozen river away from the mountains for two days.  Your first disruption on the journey to Fijrgard happens on the third day.

Flies are more plentiful here; buzzing about your face, and the goat's backside.  More than there should be - though the smell of decay is ripe here, as if some great beast had died in the wood nearby and gone to stench.  But the smell doesn't fade as you carry on for the morning hours - it grows more intense.  Finally stopping to hold your noses and eat, Marlene curses and holds up a blackened, curled piece of salted fish from her bag.

 "Dammit - the rations have all turned.  They were fine, yesterday!  We'll have to rely on game for now, and hope things clear up further down the river." 

This strikes you, without a second thought, as some curse, or evil magic.  Ortel agrees.  "Something is poisoning the life here - and rotting the dead, even the preserved meats.  Maybe a small herdstone, in the trees?  Perhaps if we seek, we can find and throw it down - that way, if the land is poisoned even further on, we are not starving any longer than we have to be.  I haven't seen any game animals in the last day..."

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Do you investigate, looking for the source of the corruption - or push on, hoping to get past it before things get too dire?
 
 
bramblefoot
 "lets take care of the herdstone, if there is one"  jorunn says.  "teams of two, stay close and frosty"  he'll take marlene with him, and let byjan and ortel go another way. he'll pull the spear out from his pack, and spur the goat into a trot

 
 Spoiler: ooc 
  sniff sniff  i smell a plague daemon
 
MrAbdiel
 You forge into the trees north west of the river; you and Byjan with your wolf at your side, with Ortel and Marlene minding the goat.  The animals find it distressing first; they sense a wrongness in the nature of the area.  Soon, the trees stop being tough green conifers and start being browning, sagging parodies of trees; flecked with termites and rot.  You see no animals, on your journey; though you spot the tracks of some.

 "Elk... These here are wolf.  And back behind us were hare prints in the snow.  Normally you wouldn't find them all together without... well, a bloodbath.  But they all seem to have been moving in the same direction."    Marlene speculates.
 "Something is calling them,"  Ortel states more definitively.   "Our beasts here feel it too.  Keep an eye on them as we get closer.  It's this way - I can smell it." 

It is coming to dusk, after a long day of bush bashing - and on an empty stomach.  Your pack goat starts to look more appetizing... but you're not at that point, yet.  But as the light of the sun is almost gone from the wood, and Marlene and Byjan get to lighting torches to see their way, your dark-adapted eyes catch sight of something ahead.  It's a lucky glance - a parting of the warped trees allowing you to see a clear line through about a hundred yards of forest, and beyond that a bruise-blue radiance dancing off the massed texture of moving bone.  This might or might not be what you're looking for - but there's something ahead, and it strikes you immediately as unnatural.

What remains is deciding how best to approach...

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
That's the question - you don't know what's over there except that there's a blue glow and bones.  Do you want to try to Move Silently up, or send Marlene to try to scout, or have your whole crew rush in, weapons in hand - or some other thing?
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn will consider with a CK: strategy and tactics roll

 (1d100)[ 74 ] 

since i get nothing out of that, jorunn will order a charge into the clearing
MrAbdiel
 Marlene ties up the goat, and you check weapons; then you hustle together through the trees before breaking into a dash.  What presents to you in the clearing is not something it is possible to be prepared for.

There is an upright menhir with Darkspeech carving into it - a herdstone, like you suspected.  But that is not all.  It seems to have been... desecrated, or at least decorated with unfamiliar twisting script in black in that runs 'phrases' up and down and over the existing carvings.  At the top of the stone's taper, some fifteen feet in the air, is an icon of gold with many inset blue stones; a skull-ish death-mask, like nothing you've seen in the art and treasure you've plundered in your life.  It has braided hair ropes tied through its eye hiles, and it sits like the gem on a coronet at the menhir's 'crown'.

This combination of things causes the menhir to emit a shimmering, mournful blue glow which appears to be what was attracting your animals.  It has attracted more: many more.

There is a veritable  sea  of small, dead, mostly skeletonized creatures pooled around the base of the menhir, 'gazing' up at it with eyeless sockets.  Rats.  Mice.  Voles.  Weasels.  Rabbits.  Small birds.  You see the dirty skeleton of what might have been a beaver, except for a second boney beaver head sprouting from its neck; not the only mutant to have been caught to the predatory glow.  And within their hundreds are a few larger beasts, also - the remains of an elk, a goat, an ox, and a boar, all standing upright with their mostly fleshless limbs and staring, staring at the stone.  Until you and your party arrive.  As one, the horde of dead beasts turn to face your approach; and all at once, their docile fascination with the menhir turns into violent, hungry malice.  They attack.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
It's Initiative Time!

Elk Skeleton:  (1d10+3)[ 5 ] 
Goat Skeleton:  (1d10+3)[ 13 ] 
Ox Skeleton:  (1d10+3)[ 5 ] 
Boar Skeleton:  (1d10+3)[ 9 ] 

Gribbly Swarm 1:  (1d10+3)[ 8 ] 
Gribbly Swarm 2:  (1d10+3)[ 6 ] 
Gribbly Swarm 3:  (1d10+3)[ 5 ] 
Gribbly Swarm 4:  (1d10+3)[ 6 ] 
Gribbly Swarm 5:  (1d10+3)[ 6 ] 

Each of these swarms represents about thirty or forty little gribbly skellybos.

Marlene:   (1d10+4)[ 7 ] 
Ortel:   (1d10+3)[ 13 ] 
Byjan:   (1d10+3)[ 8 ] 

Give me that initiative!  If you happen to be highest, you can act right away, charging whatever you like.
 Otherwise, one of them is likely to charge you!

 Final Initiative Order: 
 13 - Ortel 
13 - Goat Skeleton
9 - Boar Skeleton
 8 - Byjan 
8 - Gribblies1
   7 - Jorunn   
 7 - Mangy Wolf
7 - Marlene 
6 - Gribblies2
6 - Gribblies4
6 - Gribblies5
5 - Gribblies3
5 - Ox Skeleton
5 - Elk Skeleton
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn will frenzy, and prepare for battle.  "bring it on skellybobs!"  he roars, bashing the daemonspear  against his shield

 
 Spoiler: ooc 
got a 7 in the ooc for my init
 
MrAbdiel
  
 Spoiler: OOC: Rolls! 
Rolls!  Description pending.

Ortel:  (1d100)[ 7 ]  to channel,  (2d10)[ 13 ]  to cast.
Goat charge:   vs43  - (1d100)[ 40 ]  against Jorunn
Boar charge:   vs43  - (1d100)[ 16 ]  against Byjan, Byjan's Parry:  (1d100)[ 60 ] 
Gribblies charge a random party member  (1d5)[ 3 ]  for   vs55  - (1d100)[ 63 ]  and  (1d10)[ 7 ]  damage, plus the swarmed effect.
 


The goat skeleton is the same pony size as the pack goat you've bought, and it quickly breaks to the fore of the skeletal horde to charge you with a train of tinier skeletons in its wake.  You feel your bones begin to shift and reform, the fur sprout under your skin and through it it stabbing spikes of white, but you know this change takes several seconds of your focus to induce.  The enemy will strike you a few times before you are able to manifest your full strength, here.

But then Ortel's hand slaps you on the back, and he shouts an inarticulate yawp of combat glee, and you feel something magical - perhaps divine - impart from his hand to your body.  And all at once, the bear comes loose in you - not straining slowly to break its human guise, but like released from a tether by the turn of a key; and Bjarna's full ursine blessing fills you with power and rage.

And not a moment too soon - while Byjan fends of the huge boar skeleton, the goat crashes into you, its horns striking up at your chin as it bucks, and the smaller skeletons begin swarming around your ankles!

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Ortel has, due to your encouragement and questing with him, learned the Ulrican blessing  Blessing of the Blood-Hand ; which immediate puts a touched character into frenzy... which is a good way for him to spend his turn when his initiative is before you!  So you don't have to spend your first turn frenzying after all.

You do however have to defend against a damage 12 hit to your head, before you take your turn!
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn will make three attacks on mr goat. the first two bite deep, but the other one misses

 (3d100)[ 41 ][ 51 ][ 91 ](183) 
 (1d10+6)[ 12 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 16 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 9 ] 
MrAbdiel
 You deflect the striking horns, and with two mighty blows, split through the skull of the goat-skeleton.  The rest of its unliving body seems to get the message, and collapses in a heap.

 
 Spoiler: Rolls, Narrative Pending 


Wolf attacks the first swarm.
Wolf's Attack:   vs36  - (1d100)[ 78 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 12 ] 
Marlene attacks the boar skelebo.
Marlene's Melee:   vs47  - (1d100)[ 13 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 11 ] 
Gribblies 2,3,4 and 5 will attack Jorunn, Byjan, Ortel, and the wolf, respectively.
Gribblie2   vs45  - (1d100)[ 11 ]  for  (1d10)[ 2 ] 
Gribblie3   vs45  - (1d100)[ 79 ]  for  (1d10)[ 5 ] 
Gribblie4   vs45  - (1d100)[ 1 ]  for  (1d10)[ 2 ] 
Gribblie5   vs45  - (1d100)[ 57 ]  for  (1d10)[ 10 ] 
Ox Skeleton will charge Jorunn, as will the Elk.
Ox Attack:   vs53  - (1d100)[ 19 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 4 ] 
Elk Attack:   vs63  - (1d100)[ 2 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 9 ] 

End of Round 1.
Anyone who got hurt by a swarm is being swarmed, for -20WS and BS.

Ortel attacks the gribblies on him.
Ortel's blow:   vs38  - (1d100)[ 39 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 11 ]  or  (1d10+3)[ 7 ] 
Boar Attack on Byjan:   vs33  - (1d100)[ 27 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 4 ] .
Byjan attack on the boar:
Byjan Attack1:   vs46  - (1d100)[ 31 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 14 ] 
Byjan Attack2:   vs46  - (1d100)[ 55 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 6 ] 
Gribblie1 on Jorunn   vs65  - (1d100)[ 18 ]  for  (1d10)[ 1 ] 

Final Initiative Order:
 13 - Ortel 
 13 - Goat Skeleton 
9 - Boar Skeleton (17 wounds)
 8 - Byjan 
8 - Gribblies1
 7 - Jorunn 
 7 - Mangy Wolf 
 7 - Marlene 
6 - Gribblies2
6 - Gribblies4
6 - Gribblies5
5 - Gribblies3
5 - Ox Skeleton
5 - Elk Skeleton
 


The swarm around you legs starts to slow you down; the wolf is attacking them, but hasn't had much luck reducing the swarm.  Marlene piles in with Byjan on the massive boar skeleton, and between them they rain bonecracking blows on it that leave it with missing ribs and tusks, on the verge of destruction.  But then the tide of little skeletons comes in.  They do not succeed in drawing blood anywhere - only Marlene doesn't have them underfoot - but they definately make it easier for the larger creatures to attack.  This is seen to be true as both the ox and elk batter into you; the ox's charge absorved by your shield; the elf's antlers testing your deflecting skill with the daemonspear in your hand....

 
 Spoiler: OOC: Outcomes for Round1/Round2 


The Goat skeleton is smashed.  The boar skeleton attacking Byjan is nearly destroyed; he and Marlene seem to be handling it, but there is also a swarm getting involved over there too.

The Elk skeleton lands a hit on Jorunn's arm for a damage 9 blow for him to parry; but aside from that, everyone else flails around harmlessly in the moshpit, bringing us back to Jorunn.
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn parries successfully, and will make three attacks on the elk. two miss, but one bites deep

 (3d100)[ 91 ][ 31 ][ 80 ](202) 
 (1d10+6)[ 7 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 15 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 14 ] 
MrAbdiel
  
 Spoiler: Combat Rolls! 
Narrative Pending!

Wolf attacks the first swarm.
Wolf's All-Out-Attack:   vs56  - (1d100)[ 87 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 14 ] 
Marlene attacks the boar skelebo.
Marlene’s Attack:   Vs37  - (1d100)[ 80 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 6 ] 
Gribblies 2,3,4 and 5 will all-out-attack Jorunn, Byjan, Ortel, and the wolf, respectively.
Gribbly2 All-Out-Attack:   Vs65  - (1d100)[ 81 ]  for  (1d10)[ 10 ] 
Gribbly3 All-Out-Attack:   Vs65  - (1d100)[ 12 ]  for  (1d10)[ 10 ] 
Gribbly4 All-Out-Attack:   Vs65  - (1d100)[ 36 ]  for  (1d10)[ 4 ] 
Gribbly5 All-Out-Attack:   Vs65  - (1d100)[ 92 ]  for  (1d10)[ 8 ] 
Ox and Elk All Out Jorunn
Ox   Vs73  - (1d100)[ 32 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 5 ] 
Elk   Vs73  - (1d100)[ 17 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 13 ] 


End of Round 2!

Ortel attacks his gribblies!
Ortel Attacks All Out! Attack:   Vs57  - (1d100)[ 99 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 12 ]  or  (1d10+3)[ 8 ] .
Boar All Out on Byjan!: Ox   Vs53  - (1d100)[ 81 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 8 ] 
Byjan Swifty!   46  - (1d100)[ 58 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 14 ] 
Byjan Swifty2!   46  - (1d100)[ 22 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 7 ] 
Gribbly1 All-Out-Attack Jorunn:   Vs65  - (1d100)[ 91 ]  for  (1d10)[ 7 ] 

Final Initiative Order:
 13 - Ortel 
 13 - Goat Skeleton 
 9 - Boar Skeleton 
 8 - Byjan 
8 - Gribblies1
 7 - Jorunn 
 7 - Mangy Wolf 
 7 - Marlene 
6 - Gribblies2
6 - Gribblies4
6 - Gribblies5
5 - Gribblies3
5 - Ox Skeleton
5 - Elk Skeleton (12 wounds)
 


Your blade cracks into the elk skeleton's backbone, throwing shards but not quite clearing through - but it flails and lashes about with brutal necromantic abandon, trying to skewer you with its antlers.  Meanwhile, Byjan manages to finish off the boar skeleton but then topples backwards under a wave of scrabbling, clawing rabbit and squirrel skeletons.  He thrashes himself to the surface and throws most off, but it becomes clear how dangerous the little things can be - individually meaningless, but together they might in a moment of inattention drag one of you down just as an army can pull down a dragon.  Your companions have limited success, but they see the need to thin out the swarm, and turn their attention to the lesser creatures.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
You got one hit on you - 13 damage from the elk, unless you can deflect it. But so far you're unswarmed!  Good to go again.
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn will start trying to clear out the gribblies

two attacks against the gribblies

 (2d100)[ 100 ][ 74 ](174)  the 100 was changed to a 2 in the ooc

 (1d10+6)[ 7 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 9 ] 

one attack against the elk

 (1d100)[ 36 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 15 ] 
MrAbdiel
 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Woops, should have been in the OOC.  Oh well. Give me a crit on that elk!
 
MrAbdiel
  
 Spoiler: Rolls Pending Narrative! 
Wolf attacks the first swarm.
Wolf's All-Out-Attack:   vs56  - (1d100)[ 55 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 8 ] 
Marlene attacks the swarms.
Marlene’s Attack:   Vs37  - (1d100)[ 23 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 10 ] 
Gribblies 2,3,4 and 5 will all-out-attack Jorunn, Byjan, Ortel, and the wolf, respectively.
 Gribbly2 All-Out-Attack:   Vs65  - (1d100)[ 63 ]  for  (1d10)[ 8 ]  
Gribbly3 All-Out-Attack:   Vs65  - (1d100)[ 8 ]  for  (1d10)[ 5 ] 
Gribbly4 All-Out-Attack:   Vs65  - (1d100)[ 39 ]  for  (1d10)[ 6 ] 
Gribbly5 All-Out-Attack:   Vs65  - (1d100)[ 97 ]  for  (1d10)[ 10 ] 
Ox All Out Jorunn
Ox   Vs73  - (1d100)[ 98 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 5 ] 


End of Round 2!

Ortel attacks his gribblies!
Ortel Attacks All Out! Attack:   Vs57  - (1d100)[ 74 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 6 ]  or  (1d10+3)[ 9 ] .
 Boar All Out on Byjan!: Ox   Vs53  - (1d100)[ 68 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 11 ]  
Byjan Swifty!   46  - (1d100)[ 45 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 6 ] 
Byjan Swifty2!   46  - (1d100)[ 85 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 9 ] 
 Gribbly1 All-Out-Attack Jorunn:   Vs65  - (1d100)[ 50 ]  for  (1d10)[ 2 ]  

New Entry.

Rolls for Wolf  (1d100)[ 76 ]  (Fail)
Rolls for Ortel  (1d100)[ 4 ]  (Pass)
Rolls for Byjan  (1d100)[ 8 ]  (Pass)
Rolls for Marlene  (1d100)[ 52 ]  (Fail)

Final Initiative Order:
13 - Ortel
 13 - Goat Skeleton 
 9 - Boar Skeleton 
8 - Byjan
 8 - Gribblies1 
7 - Jorunn
7 - Mangy Wolf (Terrified!)
7 - Marlene (Terrified!)
 6 - Gribblies2 
6 - Gribblies4 (3 Wounds)
6 - Gribblies5
5 - Gribblies3
5 - Ox Skeleton
 5 - Elk Skeleton 
1 - Spectre!
 


You smash droves of the little skeletons with big swipes of your powerful limbs; your wolf darts into to scatter the remainder, and they begin to fall apart on their own as the tide turns - whatever energy animates them begins fading rapidly when they are on the definitive backfoot.  A backhand blow decapitates the elk skeleton, and you fend off the ox; while nearby your companions thrash about, squashing and crushing more of the little things.  You seem to have things in hand, and no worse for wear - down to one large skeleton and half as many small ones, before a leering translucent figure lurches out of the menhir.   It seems to stretch, like its ghostly legs are bound into the stone but it strains toward you; and as it does, you see the face of what must have been a graeling man now rendered to ectoplasmic remnants.  No hall of the ancestors for this poor soul -  he leans, he stretches, and as he does his mouth distends open so awfully and hideously wide that it seems to you that within him you can see terrible things - flickering, disoriented flashes of his life, his violent deeds, his petty triumphs, his confidence in himself, all leading to a put, and eleven days of suffering, and then... this.

This, forever.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
No attacks land from the enemies this turn - none that hurt.  But you do need to make me a TERROR roll as this spectre reveals itself.  Ortel and Byjan passed - not so much for the wold and Marlene.
 It's a flat WP roll.  Fail and Jorunn must flee - but since he's frenzied and can't do that, he'll be frozen in place and taking a -20% to attack rolls.  Failure also conveys an insanity point!
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn bellows in defiance of the spectre, and will attempt to drop the ox. his rage makes him clumsy, and he misses

three attacks against the ox

 (3d100)[ 85 ][ 75 ][ 59 ](219) 
 (1d10+6)[ 14 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 14 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 14 ] 
MrAbdiel
  
 Spoiler: Rolls, narrative pending! 
Wolf flees!
Marlenes flees!
Gribblies 2,3,4 and 5 will all-out-attack Jorunn, Byjan, Ortel, and the Jorunn, respectively.
 Gribbly2 All-Out-Attack:   Vs65  - (1d100)[ 79 ]  for  (1d10)[ 4 ]  
Gribbly3 All-Out-Attack:   Vs65  - (1d100)[ 19 ]  for  (1d10)[ 8 ] 
Gribbly4 All-Out-Attack:   Vs65  - (1d100)[ 46 ]  for  (1d10)[ 6 ] 
Gribbly5 All-Out-Attack:   Vs65  - (1d100)[ 32 ]  for  (1d10)[ 8 ] 
Ox All Out Jorunn
Ox   Vs73  - (1d100)[ 87 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 4 ] 


End of Round 3!

Ortel attacks his gribblies!
Ortel Attacks All Out! Attack:   Vs57  - (1d100)[ 64 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 5 ]  or  (1d10+3)[ 4 ] .
Byjan Swifty!   46  - (1d100)[ 68 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 6 ] 
Byjan Swifty2!   46  - (1d100)[ 42 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 11 ] 
 Gribbly1 All-Out-Attack Jorunn:   Vs65  - (1d100)[ 82 ]  for  (1d10)[ 4 ]  
Spectre Charges Byjan:   vs62  - (1d100)[ 16 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 5 ] 

Final Initiative Order:
13 - Ortel
 13 - Goat Skeleton 
 9 - Boar Skeleton 
8 - Byjan
 8 - Gribblies1 
7 - Jorunn (1 Wound taken)
7 - Mangy Wolf (Terrified!)
7 - Marlene (Terrified!)
 6 - Gribblies2 
6 - Gribblies4 (3 Wounds)
6 - Gribblies5
 5 - Gribblies3 
5 - Ox Skeleton  (11 Wounds)
 5 - Elk Skeleton 
1 - Spectre!
 


You barely strike the Ox skeleton, keeping it at bay with your shield while bashing and breaking parts off it with witherbrand.  Ortel and Byjan lay about, barely keeping the smaller skeletons at bay while thinning their mass.  But the hideous spirit has strike fear into Marlene's heart; and with wide eyes she backs up and away from the combat, rocking back on her heels and looking like she is ready to run.  Even your redoubtable wold releases a confused and panicked whine as he scoots back out of the bone-melee.  You clearly have the upper hand; but then a wave of skeletons, crows and mice and rats and other things, surge up together like a reaching arm and splash on your flank, threatening to drag you down.  As this happens, the ghastly spirit distends from the menhir and reaches a ghostly finger toward Byjan.  He slashes at it with his axe, but the mundane steal passes clear through, and the fingertip touches him and elicits a gasp of pain from your old friend. 
bramblefoot
jorunn will attempt to finish off the ox, and then move to attack the specter

 (3d100)[ 66 ][ 17 ][ 13 ](96) 
 (1d10+6)[ 8 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 14 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 12 ] 
MrAbdiel
 With two terrible blows, you smash the ox skeleton to pieces and wade through the biting, scratching and nipping of smaller skeletons to assist Byjan against the spirit.   Witherbrand  does not fail you here; where Byjan's blade passed harmlessly through the spirit, this sword leaves a rent in its form as if you had cut through tense fabric leaving its flapping halves snapping and curling away from the blow.  It releases a gasping shriek, and turns its focus immediately to you.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: Attacks! 
Wolf Tries to recover!    VsWP  - (1d100)[ 17 ] 
Marlenes tries to recover!    VsWP  - (1d100)[ 8 ] 
Gribblies 4 and 5 will all-out-attack Byjan and Ortel respectively.
Gribbly4 All-Out-Attack:   Vs65  - (1d100)[ 18 ]  for  (1d10)[ 3 ] 
Gribbly5 All-Out-Attack:   Vs65  - (1d100)[ 82 ]  for  (1d10)[ 6 ] 


End of Round 4!

Ortel attacks his gribblies!
Ortel Attacks All Out! Attack:   Vs57  - (1d100)[ 87 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 9 ]  or  (1d10+3)[ 9 ] .
Byjan Swifty!   46  - (1d100)[ 93 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 10 ] 
Byjan Swifty2!   46  - (1d100)[ 57 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 11 ] 
Spectre Swift Attacks Jorunn:   vs42  - (1d100)[ 94 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 12 ] 
  vs42  - (1d100)[ 87 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 10 ] .

The damage from these blows ignores armor, and cannot be parried with a ‘free’ parry; only taking a parrying stance to parry with Witherbrand exclusively, given that Jorunn’s shield is not magical.
 

...But for all the supernatural fury of the spectre, it is shy of your blade and doesn't manage to land a blow - though you realise immediately that your shield does not avail you in this context.

Marlene and the mangy wolf seem to take strength at your steadfastness; you can hear then beating their way back to the combat, while Ortel and Byjan make little headway against their swarms, for little damage in return. 
bramblefoot
jorunn will do one attack, and then a parrying stance

 (1d100)[ 15 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 12 ] 

parry

 (1d100)[ 21 ] 
MrAbdiel
 Your comrades stomp out the remaining smaller skeletons; some just seem to give up and fall to pieces out of sympathy when their companions die.  Marlene and the wolf are back in time to get a few licks in, as well.  But it's all they can do to step back and watch as you slice and parry with the spectre.

Your second strike causes an eerie, rage filled shriek from it - and it rains upon you its desperate spectral blows...

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Spectre attacks:

  Vs42  - (1d100)[ 4 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 6 ] , ignoring armor.
  Vs42  - (1d100)[ 61 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 5 ] , ignoring armor.

A pitiful 6 damage hit which you immediately parry.

I also forgot that the Daemonspear can't parry these; it's not a magical weapon yet, just a hand weapon. But it's too late, I already thought you changed to Witherbrand.  So you got a free quickdraw in there I didn't mention, lol.  One more good attack should finish it!
 


...But you have the measure of it now.  Slower than the daemon on the plateau; weaker than the giant in the trap.  If you can just land a firm strike... 
bramblefoot
jorunn will attempt to finish off mr spectre

 (1d100)[ 35 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 11 ] 

parry

 (1d100)[ 27 ] 
MrAbdiel
 Furious as it may be, it is unable to land its blows on you, thanks to  Witherbrand 's magical edge; and in turn you deliver a blow that rips it apart like a frayed cloth, its howling remnants scattering into the wind.

Quiet falls over the scene; you and your comrades standing victorious over a pile of dry bones with the ominous menhir and its chained-on foreign gold icon radiating their malice.

 "Well... That little sword has proved its value again, I think."   Byjan's one good eye regards  Witherbrand  warilly.  Ortel is focused single mindedly on the icon.

 "...Not beastmen, then.  Something else - something that shouldn't be here.  It is... turning the dark magic of the herdstone to an alien purpose.  We should topple it, and break that icon.  But it is... taller than I had thought it might be." 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
The scene is clear of enemies - but now what shall you do with this herdstone menhir, that has been jury-rigged to necromantic purposes?
 
 
bramblefoot
 "toppling it would take too much energy"  jorunn says.  "just take the mask and go"  he'll scale the menhir and take the mask after putting on gloves. he'll examine it closely, and then snap it in half
MrAbdiel
 You loop a length of rope around it, and use the oppositional force to scale the menhir.  When you get to the top, you find the mask isn't fastened tightly - simply placed, and removed easilly enough.  It is some kind of ceramic with gold covering it - easilly enough broken, in your hands.

Yet the measures you have taken to insulate yourself from the magics of the menhir are not complete.  They can't be - Chaos cannot be denied.  Only resisted.  You can feel it in your skin - warm.  Probing.  Almost... hungry.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Give me a mutation resistance roll.  It's a Challenging Toughness Test.  You do have some things going in your favor, however.

You took pains to make sure you were wearing gloves and being careful while dealing with the source of dark magic, so that's +10%.  And as a Norscan, you have the Innured to Mutation talent, giving you a further +10%.

On the other hand, wielding a Chaos weapon,  Witherbrand , has its drawbacks... and at some point, they come due.
 That penalizes you by -10%.

So at a grand total, it's a toughness test at +10%.  Feel free to reroll it with a FP!

If you fail, roll me a d1000.

And pray.
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn shrugs off the mutations effects, and drops the snapped ceramic mask to the ground.  "the magic is broken"  he says, and will walk back to the goat
MrAbdiel
  
 Spoiler: OOC: 
A neat little 100XP for you, having this little side quest.  And you didn't even grow an extra head!
 Good for you.
 


The necromantic magic dispersed, you return to your companions and beasts.  Let the beasts have their herdstone; that's the Graeling's problem, not yours.

"The land will recover with time.  Maybe by the time we make the return trip, there will be some game."  This is Marlene's speculation, and it may yet prove out.  You have dealt with the source, but the corruption remains as it fades, and it appears to be still a lean trip for a few more days...

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Give me a toughness test to hold up under days of travel without food.  The rules for starvation are pretty harsh - It's three days with no penalty, then every 3 days or part thereof, it's a -10% penalty to WS, BS, S, T, Agi.  There's no roll to avoid it - starving is starving, and characters with all those states high might last longer than others because when one drops to below 10% you start taking wounds each day instead.

The toughness test is more about how far you and your poor group travel.  You've been traveling for a couple of days in this foodless state already.  If you pass a challenging toughness test, you're able to muscle through the hunger pains and out the other side to the next encounter with only 5 days of starvation - and that -10% penalty.  If you fail, you've been plodding slowly because of the faintness, and you arrive after 6 days of starvation - and a consummate -20% penalty to those five stats.  Either way, at the other end...
 


Finally, after days of travel through the wasteland left by the dark magic, you start seeing grass again.  And some scraggly green leaves on trees - you're almost hungry enough to eat them.  But then there is the smell you have missed - woodsmoke, and something cooking.  Fish, you think.  You have followed the frozen river this far, hoping to find the fishermen who can point you the rest of the way.  But whoever is beyond the next snow covered hill with this cooking fire could be friend, or foe, or anyone... and your half-starved companions are in poor condition if they are hostile.  Approach may be crucial...

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
What's the play?  Sneak to the hill and peek over?  Approach hoping for friendlies?  Rush over weapons out in a show of force?  Something else?
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn will stalk over to the ridge and peer over the ridge on his tummy.

perception roll

 (1d100)[ 53 ] 
MrAbdiel
 They are not so far away that you need to strain your eyes - the evening cooking fire of a group of six men with nets and reels and woven baskets.  Some of them have small axes; more tool-like than weapon.  Sticks with small skewered fish roast over a large fire.  There is plenty of dead wood to burn, because of the blight on the forest; the fur-clad folk converse amiably to each other while warming themselves.  One of them is a child; perhaps eight or nine years old.  There is a low shelter build from mud-packed timber and bark that seems to be a semi-permanent fixture, and there are large logs around the fire being used for stools which, judging by the lack of drag marks in the snow around, have been here for much longer than the present gathering.

They seem to be fishermen, peaceful enough; preparing for the failing of the light to bring them to rest, and then an early effort to ply their trade in the river again. 
bramblefoot
jorunn will look back at his warband and say  "fisherman. lets act friendly and see if they'll feed us"  he'll walk down to the fisherman, and ask.  "we recently traveled through the blight, and lost all of our rations." 

assuming they let him sit down and eat, he'll bring the rest of his warband down and pay them for the trouble of feeding us
MrAbdiel
 There is a difficult pause as the men size your party up - some of you are quite rough looking, at the wolf doesn't help... but the now-skinny goat adds a softer touch to your crew; and the man with his child there is the first to respond.

 "Well, you might as well join us.  The river's been giving dead and foul fish mostly for months now, but it's been a little better yesterday - just enough for these little ones."   He gestures to the small fish on the sticks.  The fisherfolk share their small bounty with your warband - not enough to fill your bellies or theirs, but enough to fend off the cravings and it feels like a feast after your fast.   "Any luck, tomorrow'll be better.  We'd be poor countrymen to deny hungry travellers something to eat."   It also might have invited your starving warriors to take the food by force, which has proven not necessary.  They spend a little longer around the fire telling stories and trying to establish enough rapport with your and your companions that you can comfortably camp near to each other without fear.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
What an excellent opportunity for a Profession: Storyteller roll!
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn will spin tales of far away places and battles hes seen and fought in, making it seem as fantastical as possible

 (1d100)[ 47 ] 
MrAbdiel
 You might lean a little hard into the violent realities of the things you have been a part of.  Some of the fishermen are a little green at your wild descriptions of battlefield courage and destruction.

The kid, at least, seems to think you are the coolest person he has ever met.

That may be enough.  You establish an easy enough rapport and share the slim yield of the river, and then settle in for the night.  You and your companions sleep much better with something in your stomachs.  By the time you have awoken, the fishermen are up, holes cut in the ice, fishing again; pretty happy with the results.

 "Looks like it's getting better upstream.  The blight's letting up.  Thank the gods for that.  Decent catch this morning!" 

Byjan, who was always a big fellow and was fading physically from the starvation, is particularly pleased that the fishermen are pulling up decent fish.  He pulls up a couple himself, with a small reel he buys off one of them.
 
"That's pretty good,"  One of them says, commenting on a decent sized sterlet that Byjan guts, bound to expand his breakfast by one more tally.   "You do much fishing." 
 
"When I was a kid,"  he answers mildly; and offers you a wry smile.

After a filling breakfast, your party takes a few hours for empty stomachs to adapt to fullness again,  during which time the fisherfolk are happy enough to direct you towards Fijrgard.

 "Our village is Llansbruuk; it's close to Fijrgard.  We contribute too, to the den of the wolves that walk like men.  We had a warparty of Vargs come out raiding and razing eight years ago, and the wolves honored their part; came out and ran them off.  They scare me, though." 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
You have directions to Fijrgard; just two more day of journey.  If there's anything you wanted to ask about the town and the much hyped shifters who dwell there, you may.  Otherwise, you may head out to your destination.
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn will pick the fishermans brains about fijrgard, asking just general questions about the wolves who walk like men. he wants to get a general feeling for what he's walking into when he gets to fijrgard

 "can you give me an idea of the temperament of the wolves who walk like men?"  he asks, looking at the fishermen.  "i plan to train with them" 
MrAbdiel
The fisherman shrugs a little, offering what he can.   "They are... insular.  They do not much like nosy visitors, but they are not vicious.  Not like the wild skin-changers that tear up towns until they are put down.  They are... monks, almost.  Fijrgard and the villages give them offerings and they protect us.  Some times they take in people with the changing curse... sometimes they die, I think.  They howl at the white moon, and bark at the green one.  A mystery... but one we've come to rely on." 
bramblefoot
 "thank you for the help"  jorunn says. jorunn and his warband will depart to fijrgard, with a small stop at llansbruuk for supplies, mainly food. jorunn will buy a weeks worth of supplies for the party, and move on to fijrgard

on the first night to fijrgard, the green moon appears in the sky, and a torrent of barking is heard in the distance. jorunn will listen to the barking with a slight smile on his face  "that sound is somewhat comforting"  he confides in byjan.  "i dont know how, but it reminds me of home" 
MrAbdiel
 The barking in the distance isn't exactly musical; it comes in fits and starts.  One of them will start up, then a dozen, then what sounds like a hundred vicious, dark throated beasts roaring out their guttural rage at the green-hued night sky.  Then a few minutes later it will taper off; they will rest their song.  And after a little while they'll kick it up again.

It's a warm night - that is to say, the snowfall is light and the wind is mild, so you can in fact feel your toes.  Marlene is making use of this by wandering the perimetre of your camp this evening, though she finds no predators.  If beastmen are stirred up by the green moon, they are scared of the barking, and you see none of their kind.  Ortel seems to find something reverence worthy about the barking; he sits by his tend on his knees, praying to his wolf god while your wolf sniffs about him.  Your wolf, incidentally, has largely recovered from his mange.  His coat isn't quite uniform yet but he looks healthy rather than ragged and patchy; and seems happier as a result. It's a rare evening where your small warband is content; not starving, or nursing awful wounds, or desperately poor.  And the light snow, and the shimmery rivers of rippling green light that run through the sky make for a pretty evening scene, too.

Byjan sits with you, listening to the barking; looking up at the wyrdlights.

 "Reminds you of home?"  He asks, considering connection the barking may have to your now destroyed village and clan.

 "Maybe the Hound-Nights.  Do you remember?  Sometimes when the green moon was full, the old vitki would round up all the bondsmen and mix up that mushroom wine and they would bark at the moon to keep the spirits at bay.  But that was before the old vitki died; old Sarggi.  We were both small, back then.  When young Lorkus took up the staff, he was more inclined to Serpent and Crow; so they did not perform the Hound-Nights anymore."
 

This... rings true.  You have foggy memories of old Sarggi; a scarred old veteran warrior who found an affinity for the spirits later in life.  Most of your life crafty Lorkus was the vitki of your village,  Urjarki .  But sure enough, you thin you remember your father Aegir laying a strong hand on your shoulder and telling you he was going with the others to frighten off the spirits that the green moon swirled up. Perhaps that's what was comforting about it.

Byjan produces a stoppered clay jug he bought back in Llansbruuk, sips the mead within and then gulps it; then passes it to you.  "What is your plan now, Jorunn..? Learn from these wolf men how to before focus your strength, then hunt down this warlord who burned Urjarki?  And if you succeed.. what then?"  
bramblefoot
jorunn takes a swig from the flask.  "i dont know what then"  he admits.  "ive been chasing this dream of vengeance and i dont know what ill do when its over"  he sighs.  "i doubt ill settle down, i been a warrior all my life, and i doubt it will change"  he'll pass the flask back to byjan  "whats your plan, should you survive?" 
MrAbdiel
 Byjan really has to think about that.  Even though he offered you the same question, he seems not to have much considered it himself.

 "Maybe move to Skjold.  Try to get work there making ships at the docks.  I suppose, for all their frailty, there is something to learn from the southlanders, and how they make those massive ships.  Or maybe I'll just stick with you, eh?  I don't know.  I just know I don't want to be any man's thrall; so I don't want to settle in a little village that will just... vanish when the tribe over the river has too much to drink." 

He lets himself be melancholy for a little while, before brightening up a shade.

 "Come on; here, take this."   He hands toy a wooden spool with a well made fishing line; and produces his own.  He baits his with one of the tiny fish pulled up too small to bother cooking.   "The holes the fishermen cut haven't frozen over, yet.  Let's try our luck.  Probably no daemonfish, this time; but who knows?" 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Byjan gifts you a Best Quality fishing reel.  It adds +5% to your Outdoor survival rolls to fish; which is good, because you aren't trained, and are rolling at 1/2 Int anyway!

With that in mind, give me an Outdoor Survival roll to try your luck at the fishing holes.  Byjan, for his part, gets...   Vs51  - (1d100)[ 14 ] 
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn will take the fishing reel, and fish. byjan easily outfishes him, but he laughs, and slaps byjan on the back in good camaraderie  "no, no daemon fish today"  he says, and will grin with byjan until the sun dips below the horizon and their forced to retire

 (1d100)[ 30 ] 
MrAbdiel
 You fish contently with your old friend and tell stories about growing up before you went away and things got bad.  He shares a little of his fishing expertise with you, leaving you a little better equipped.  All this overland travel in your warband has forced you to do things in the Outdoors you never needed to bother with, before.  Lighting fires with no flint, manufacturing shelter, choosing campsites where you will not wake up buried in snow - in a short time, you have come a long way from those first freezing nights back on shore slogging through blizzards, sharing heat with the other lone-wolf you encountered.

With a last cast together, just to get rid of the last bits of bait fish, you and Byjan are jerked suddenly as something bites both your hooks and nearly pulls you both off your backsides.  It would have snapped one line alone for sure.  It might have been able to snap both if it tried; but after a few quick jerks the shadow in the water turns about and launches up through the fishing hole!  A fish the size of dog bursts out of the water, bumps off Byjan's chest and knocks him over, and then scrabbles around on the ice.  Scrabble isn't a word you normall use for a fish; but this one has a pair of weird,  skinny arms with wiry muscle and hands with three fingers each.  No legs, though; and Byjan gets up to join you, looking down at the mean looking fish making little grabbing motions, shuffling around on what you are forced to consider  fish elbows .  You think you have, in fact, caught a daemonfish, or atleast a mutant.  But Byjan identifies it.

 "It's a polypus.  They use those arms to grab other fish and gnaw them in the water.  Sometimes they leap up and knock fishermen off their boats.  They'll bite a chunk out of you the size of your fist before they let go, usually.  It's... good luck, I think.  Or bad luck.  I can't remember; but it's good eating."
 
He is right about the eating.  Time will tell, about the luck.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
You can gain, for free, the Outdoor Survival skill, just because of all the outdoor surviving you have been doing.
 


The small town of Fjirgard is not deeply remarkable; it is like the small towns and villages of the Graelings you have seen before, except for the profusion of wolf iconography carved into sign posts, and icon pillars, and just about any wooden surface.  They take well to you because of the presense of your remarkably tame wolf.  When you ask about the wolves that walk like men a couple of townswomen point you on your way.

"Yes; yes, we have a marked trail to the mouth of their den.  You can see the posts just here.  I would not recommend speaking to them directly... unless you are afflicted, and seek to become one of them.  But here - take these.  You will save us a walk, and help your own case."

They give you two big baskets of fish, bread and vegetables to carry down as offering; from that point, you'll just have to try to convince them to aid you.

Byjan bids you fortune.  "Marlene and I will wait in town.  No need to agitate them by camping right outside their den.  But I don't think wild horses could hold Ortel back."    So two of your warband stake out in Fijrgard, and you and Ortel carry baskets down the marked pilgrim trail.  It's just another  couple of hours before the trail terminates at a grand cave mouth, its edges crusted with stalactites like a great earthy maw. The feral animal smell from deep within is unmistakable.  Your wolf whines a little, and takes a backward step.  Ortel gives you the second basket.   "I'll remain out here.  Perhaps they will care to talk to me too, later; but it's more important for you to try.  But be careful.  We don't know these people... or how much of their self control is myth, or story."

  
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Time to take the plunge.  You're entering the wolf's den.  How does Jorunn decide to do so?  Loudly announce himself?  Sneak in to try to get eyes on the dwellers within?  However you choose, give me a roll that reflects your approach.
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn will heft the baskets, and walk with a purpose.  "dont worry about me, im the soul of caution"  he calls back. eventually he'll reach an open space, and set down the baskets, and conceal himself behind a large stalagmite. he waits silently for an indeterminate length of time, and then watches as men stalk out of the shadows and eat the food. jorunn watches, musters his gumption, and steps out, arms wide and away from his weapons.  "i seek training in the ways of the beast"  he flips back his hood, revealing his shock of white hair.

he'll wait for any people to respond
MrAbdiel
 They are a scruffy lot, for sure; clad in loincloths, loose furs, barbaric braids with bone and beads in their hair.  When you announce yourself, the three you can see who have come for the baskets tense up and step back a little.  Their lips curl into snarls, but it seems more an instinctive hostility than an informed malice.

  "The ways of the beast..."   comes a deeper voice from behind them in the cave;  a sound that the echo of the cave seems designed to make more menacing.    "You have come a long way in foolishness,  Ursfjording .   Or...?"  

The speaker moves to within the range of your keen eyes, and there you see him - a Wolf, who walks like a Man.  Grey fur in thick tufts with a ruff abour the neck long enough to braid like a mane and beard; taller than seven feet if he stood up rather than hunkering, with great claws and lupine features.  The fur of his upper body is daubed with Graeling sigils in some kind of white war paint; the mane and 'beard' braided and beaded with tokens and charms.  An  Ulfwerenar  - a werewolf.  You fought one before on the road to Zagdhelm, and only your own transformation into the bear form gave you the strength to overcome that lunatic creature.  But that one was lost to frenzy, like you yourself happened to be.  And it fought with a pack of mutants in petty roadside banditry.

By contrast, this creature seems to be holding this wolf-man form without any outward madness at all.  He seems to have even.. comfort, in the form; enough to decorate it with those talismans, and to hold this conversation with you.  In your own shifted form, if you were to pause and speak like this, the ursine fury would melt away and render you merely an exhausted and vulnerable man.

The wolf-man draws in a breath through his nose.   "No - not Ursfjording.  But you have the bear in you, all the same; even if you do not march with the Bearstruck.  Fortunate you - it would make you not welcome at all.  As it is, you are not wolf-kin; and you come bearing a dark blade.  What is there between you and us, Bear-Man?  What will you do with such mastery?"  
bramblefoot
 "i seek discipline for future encounters"  jorunn says.  "the red rage is a weapon, but untempered in the fire. it may shatter, or hurt someone you do not wish to hurt"  he sucks in a deep breath, and stays where he is.  "all i ask is for tempering my untempered rage into a true blade, one that can let me take it where i wish with no issues" 
 "what makes us similar is isolation. havent we all lost someone or something to the rage that fiils us?"  he asks, spreading his arms wide like a demagogue.  "control is needed to temper the beast, and i have a feeling i can learn that control here" 
MrAbdiel
 The other three in the room listen, and watch you sidelong as you make your plea; they pace and roll their shoulders idly, with restless but contained aggression.  One by one as your exchange takes place, they ripple and change to sprout fur and claws of their own, until they are all towering lupine warriors - not as perfectly restrained as their leader, but none of them compelled to violence by rage or forced out of their form.  They seem to have learned the control at least - but their mistrust of you is obvious, both as an outsider and as one with a different form of the changing curse than theirs.

 "It will do more than cost you such tragedies, bear-man.  The changing curse is a touch of the dark gods - and when they sink one claw in, the other claws are shortly behind." 

The pack leader stalks closer to you, stooping to your eye level.  He is not striving to intimidate; but he is intimidating all the same.  He reaches with one clawed fingertip, touches a length of your snow white hair, then draws back the digit to gesture at you - you gather his focus is your eyes, and hair.

 "The first claw..." 

He backs up a step to his brethren, continuing his elaboration as he goes.

 "The skin-changing is the second.  What will the third claw be?  Something debilitating, like bones make of glass?  Something powerful... dragon's breath, or a talent for magic, or poison in your fangs?  But three, four, five claws, and your body will belong to  them , not you.  No one endures their predations for long.  They become their tool, one way or another." 

This is a subversive teaching for a Norscan; cult dogma, certainly.  Some tribes are more hardcore about it than the others, worshipping only the Four and celebrating mutation as a sign of their favor.  But even the tribes furthest from the Wastes, like the Bjornling to whom you belonged, recognise all the gods as worthy of respect, and sacrifice.  Their 'blessings' are mixed sometimes, but their power is undeniable.  Your mind goes back to some of the mutants you have seen.  The wolf-man you killed was powerful... but what of his coterie?  Pathetic creatures; one made of glass, fighting out of desperation in his fragile state; another man inside out, a sack of guts inside a shivering skeleton.  You had taken your skin-changing talent, like your white hair, as a sign that Bjarna had favored you.  But could it be... something else?

Could it be the random caprice of another god, to whom it is pleasing to change the forms of men?

Are you blessed... or cursed?

 "But you are here because you want to control the beast - to have control of yourself, and mastery of every extent of your strength.  I can show you these things.  I can show you the mysteries of our way.  But such things cannot be learned in an afternoon, or a day, or a week.  If you commit here, you commit to this pack no less than six moons of focus, and effort, and fraternity.  Are you willing to do this?  Or will you take your chances with the careless world, and the laughter of the thirsting gods?" 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: The Price 
The packmaster is telling you what it will take to master the skin-dance: six months of monastic training.  It will cost you materially nothing; just time.  Mostly what this costs is some assurance about your companions.  They swore a year of service to you; they have given you about two months of that so far just in travel, combat and adventure.  This would mean you would be releasing them from active service to you - perhaps with some general instruction like to go back to Krejj and try to find a gemcutter to maximize your profits from the gems you traded from the skaven, to search for clues about the idols of the Free Maiden, and so forth.  But when you emerge from this training, you will only have four months left with them before they are no longer honor bound to serve you.  You can count on Byjan to stick by your side (unless he is massively deceptive and you've missed all the signs.)  But Ortel and Marlene are keen to return to the Empire alive.  They may surprise you and stay with you longer of their own accord, but you will not have that assurance.

You have no time sensitive obligations, except that of your companions to you.  That's the price - six months of training.  Up to Jorunn to decide if he is willing or not!
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn considers for a moment, but only a moment  "i accept your terms"  he says.  "i must let my party know i will be here for six moons, and give them instructions on what to do in my absence"  assuming he gets the pack leaders premission, he will tell his warband to head back to krejj and get the gems cut. he also wants them to seatch out clues for the idols of the free maiden and other things
MrAbdiel
 The packmaster looks almost surprised.  Perhaps he expected this would be too much for you.

 "Very well, bear-man.  Before you do this - lest you send away your companions expecting a return they will not see - take on this, the first task of many before you.  The frozen stream at the foot of this hillside - its right fork tapers narrow, and leads to an old wolf's den.  There dwells a creature who was once our brother - he embarked on the road you seek to walk now, but failed in his conviction.  Witness what he has become, and destroy him.  Bring back the ivory charms from his fur - I will see them cleansed, and prepared for you instead.  You may take the human, and the wolf who wait for you outside - the wolf will not speak of what he sees, and the man carries the scent of the votive herbs of the wolf-god.  These I trust with the shameful thing you will see - but no others.  Return with the charms when it is done." 

With that, he turns and stalks back into the cave.  He never changes form; but his lupine brethren begin resuming their man-shapes as they carry the baskets away into the dark.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Step 1. Decide if you're going to abide by the stipulation, and take only your wolf and Ortel to the wolf den.  Otherwise, you can go fetch Marlene and Byjan from town, if you intend to be sneaky about it.

Step 2.  Navigation is the ideal skill to roll; but lacking that, give me a challenging Outdoor Survival test to find the den that you have been told about.
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn nods, and will take his wolf and ortel to the path directed. the walk is not tiring, and before long the cave comes into sight. jorunn will let ortel know about the risks, and tell him that we're fighting a were.  "i need you to play it safe"  he says as they enter the cave, weapons drawn and ready

initiative roll if necessary

 (1d10+4)[ 13 ] 
MrAbdiel
  "I'd be happy to play it safe, Jorunn.  It's much easier to do so when we're not being overrun - nice to engage an enemy on our terms too."   The priest produces his axe, wonders briefly if its previous owner lived near to here, and follows you into the cave with your wolf trotting at your heels.

The sight that greets you within is terrible.  The entrance to the den swings right and then within is a low stone ceiling, and single interior chamber.  Present are the things you must expect - the animal bone and bits of forest bric-a-brac the wolves have dragged in to play with; the heavy smell of animal musk, and territory making urea.  But also old blood, and other things; sweat, vomit, and the curdling smell of human excess.  The wolves are dead, and have been for days; though the cold has prevented them from rapidly decomposing.  Immediately you can see the madness the packmaster sent you here to observe - this madman lost himself to the beast, and fled; sought companionship among beasts that instinctive rejected him.  You can smell the fear of the departed lupines sprayed onto the walls in now dry splashes of urine as they were terrorized as the mutant interloper tried to befriend them; but then settled to dominate them; tried even, you are disgusted to detect, to mate with some of them, though this profoundly unnatural coupling has resulted only in the deaths of the victims and soon after the rest of the pack strewn about the den in frozen, partly decomposed  hunks of fur and bone and meat.

And squatting repulsively in the middle of this ruination is the desolator himself; a lean, filthy lupine were creature whose body is covered in the blood crusted old bite wounds from his defiant slaves.  He is lean to starving, though starvation has done no one the full favor of killing the reprobate; though it has led him to gorge on the dead wolves and throw some of that meal back up, the remnants of which is caked down the grey fur of his front; and has done so with an unnaturally powerful digestive acid that has blistered his lips and bleached the fur down the front permanently white.

Most daemonic in its appearance is the face, the skull of which pushes forward against the skin almost splitting it and giving its countenance a hideous pseudo-skeletal look; and behind the ears, a pair of black horns have pierced out of the skin and swung back along the elongated rear of the skull like a profane crown.

As you see it, it shudders and looks up from the fistfuls of frozen, rotting meat it is gnawing on with its terrible sharp teeth; and releases a scream of alarm, and loathing, and bone-shivering bloodlust like you've never heard from any throat human or animal.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
First thing: Fear Test.  First one is at -20; subsequent attempts to shake it off will be at +0.
 Failure indicates taking a number of insanity points equal to the amount you failed by divided by 10, for a maximum of three.   So if you fail by 12, it's 1.2, for 2IP.    If you fail completely and get a 99, it's only 3 IP still.

Fear test for ya boys:

  OrtelFear  - (1d100)[ 80 ] 
  StillNamelessWolfFear  - (1d100)[ 98 ] 

After that, even if you succeed, you're also in Were-shock: you need to pass a WP test to collect yourself to activate your shapeshifting frenzy.  If you fail, you may take a different action instead.

Finally, the Desolator's Initiative:  (1d10+4)[ 12 ] .  If it gets a 14, it'll charge you immediately - otherwise, you go first.
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn steels himself and will frenzy, shifting into his were form and positioning himself in front of ortel to blunt the beasts charge.  "stay behind me, let it blunt itself on me, and then attack!"  he roars, hoping to blunt the fear of the lupine despoiler
MrAbdiel
 The Desolator bounds across the den and lunges at you, claws outstretched!

 
 Spoiler 
  vs66  - (1d100)[ 23 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 7 ] !

Wolf WP recovery:  (1d100)[ 38 ] 
Ortel WP recovery:  (1d100)[ 71 ] 

Seven damage to the right arm.  You're up!
 


Your allies are all too happy to let you take the brunt, watching wide eyed. 
bramblefoot
jorunn barely manages to parry that attack, and makes three attacks. the first is barely an annoyance, while the other two miss  "get back in here and fight!"  he yells to ortel

 (3d100)[ 19 ][ 94 ][ 93 ](206) 
 (1d10+6)[ 7 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 11 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 15 ] 
MrAbdiel
  
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Dodge for the Desolator.    vs70  - (1d100)[ 45 ] .

Ortel Charges.    vs76  - (1d100)[ 19 ] .  For  (1d10+3)[ 4 ]  or  (1d10+3)[ 5 ] .

The Desolator attacks Jorunn three times.

  vs56  - (1d100)[ 87 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 12 ] .
  vs56  - (1d100)[ 30 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 9 ] .
  vs56  - (1d100)[ 97 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 14 ] .

Narrative pending.
 


Ortel finds his steel and rushes in, even putting his axe across the monstrosity; but it moves so fast the iron barely seems to make much contact with it at all.  It weaves away from  Witherbrand  and lunges at you again, a hurricane of claws and snapping fangs!

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Another hit, this one for 9 damage!
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn successfully parries, and will make three attacks. the first one misses, but the other two bite deep

 (3d100)[ 86 ][ 32 ][ 22 ](140) 
 (1d10+6)[ 9 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 15 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 16 ] 
MrAbdiel
 Your blow rakes down the creature's arm, and blood does flow - but the backhanded killing strike you make hoping to end the combat early whips above its ducking head, as it comes on again.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Wolf courage:  (1d100)[ 35 ] .

Ortel:   56  - (1d100)[ 90 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 6 ]  or  (1d10+3)[ 13 ] .

Desolator strikes:

  56  - (1d100)[ 60 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 9 ] 
  56  - (1d100)[ 28 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 15 ] 
  56  - (1d100)[ 56 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 8 ] 

A hit for 15, and another for 8!
 
 
bramblefoot
11/14 wounds

jorunn will take a minor wound, and make three attacks. two hit, but not with much vigor

 (3d100)[ 13 ][ 85 ][ 30 ](128) 
 (1d10+6)[ 11 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 12 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 9 ] 
MrAbdiel
  
 Spoiler: OOC: Rolls! 
Narrative pending!

  vs70  - (1d100)[ 16 ]  to dodge the 11 - he'll just have to eat the 9.

Ortel:   vs56  - (1d100)[ 69 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 9 ]  or  (1d10+3)[ 11 ] 
Wolf charge:   vs67  - (1d100)[ 44 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 10 ] 

Desolator:

  vs56  - (1d100)[ 29 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 14 ] 
  vs56  - (1d100)[ 21 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 15 ] 
  vs56  - (1d100)[ 72 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 16 ] 

Looks like two big boppers, worth defending!
 


You land a slashing blow on the monstrosity, and the small injuries are starting to add up.  It weaves away from your worst strike, and Ortel's; but your wolf leaps up with vengeance in its jaws for its desecrated kin and bites on to the ruff of the werewolf's neck, hanging and growling as it fights on against you!  You are wearing it down - but its blows are ferocious as they hammer down on your shield. 
bramblefoot
 
 Spoiler: ooc 
jorunn will parry the 15, and burn the lucky charm on the 14
 


jorunn parries the attack, and the lucky charm falls out of his pocket, soaking the other one. his return strikes are nothing short of miraculous, cutting deep and leaving the despoiler gasping for air

 (3d100)[ 52 ][ 61 ][ 54 ](167) 
 (1d10+6)[ 16 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 16 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 8 ] 
MrAbdiel
 The beast slams into you bodily; its jaws snapping around your sword arm's wrist while its claws carve shallow, manifold  gouges into your fur and flesh.  You cannot bring  Witherbrand  to use in that condition; and upon you, the desolator is too close to shield bash.  Instinctively, you let your shield drop, and mustering all your strength, ram the claws of your left hand into the monster's flesh; caving through ribs and skin, until your fist pulverizes its corrupted heart.  You feel the doomed remants of the muscle spasming in your grip for a moment before the desolator heaves a final, froth laden sigh, and slackens against you.. finally dead.  In your arms, the monstrous body does not shrink or shed its form.  In death, it is only this corrupt shell; fit only to commit to flame, or to rot.

Ortel waits for you to let it drop; and for your own form to revert now the battle is over.

 "...I might.. cut off its head, to be sure.  Mutants like this, you know...  You never can be completely certain, unless you take off the head."  
bramblefoot
jorunn nods, and will do the dirty work of removing the despoilers head  "this one didnt shift back"  he murmurs half to himself.  "i wonder why?" 

nevertheless, the votive bone charms are found, and on the way back, jorunn will be a little more withdrawn than normal. he wonders about what awaits him in the cave silently, not really voicing his thoughts
MrAbdiel
 You return to the Packmaster, who receives the charms into his palm and looks over them with an expression on his lupine face that strikes you as somewhat mournful.

 "Once, a very promising packbrother.  But he enjoyed the power too much; he did not respect the mastery of the beast, and the beast became his master.  Before long, there was no distance between man and beast and all." 

He closes his clawed hand around the charms and finally looks to you.   "Make your arrangements with your companions.  Your training begins upon your return." 
 * * * * * 
Back in Fijrgard, you sit by a fire in what passes for an alehall in the village, with your small group of companions processing your news to them.

 "Well..."  Marlene begins,  "I guess we'll wait in Krejj, like you suggested.  We've definitely got enough wealth here to wait comfortably, and get about those other tasks." 
Ortel agrees with a minimal shrug.   "I would be worried without a norscan among us; but as long as Byjan is with us there, I think we have nothing to fear." 

Byjan looks the lease comfortable of all, with this.  A few months ago, he thought you were dead; he was a thrall, and clan Osgaer had been wiped out completely by the Skaeling forces.  With your return, he regained his friend and then his freedom; he is less than keen to just head back across the mountains without you.

 "Well...  I thought maybe I would stay in Fijrgard.  Just to be nearby, in case something happens and you need a hand,"  the big man suggests.  Ortel and Marlene look at each other awkwardly.  As the huntress said, they are foreigners in this land; with no clan standing at all.  Even with the clan destroyed, Byjan is still a bondsman of the Bjornling tribe.  Without his legitimacy, they would be very vulnerable indeed, even in Krejj. 
bramblefoot
jorunn considers.  "byjan, please go to krejj"  he asks, taking byjans hand in one of his.  "ill be fine, i promise"  he says

before he heads back to the cave, he'll buy a trio of lucky charms for the way back
MrAbdiel
 He pats the back of your hand with his spare, and sighs.   "Yeah.  Yeah, alright.  See if old Haggur's doing better, maybe; perhaps, he can help with our gem problem."   He steels himself, shakes your hand some, and then turns to fiddle with the packs on the warband's goat.

Marlene assesses you warily as you make your goodbyes.  Of all your former thralls, she was the one best equipped and most likely to take her chances breaking and running.  She is more capable of surviving the harsh elements of the terrain and feeding herself in the wild than you are.  But every time she has brought a consideration to you, you have heeded her concern and advice.  When Liebwen was killed, she took a risk giving you an ultimatum about setting Ortel and herself free.  And when you did, you did not treat her or her fellow southlander markedly different to Byjan, whom you have known your whole life.  And after Leibwen died, in that fight against Kaelveg the Graeling in which Byjan almost bled out too, you have several times called for your subordinates to withdraw and protect themselves rather than feed them to danger.  She has noted all of these things; and resentment for you as her owner has turned to respect, as a leader.  Perhaps, given time, even as a friend.

 "We'll see you in a half-year.  I'll do what I can to learn about these idols of the Free Maiden.  If we find something... and it seems like an easy enough get... do you want us to try to obtain it on your behalf, or just let it sit?  I know you like to be at the forefront of danger; but it's possible there will be an opportunity you're just not there for."  
bramblefoot
jorunn will consider  "if you can get it without drawing undue attention due so"  he says.  "id like both of you to make it back in one piece" 
MrAbdiel
 She takes this show of cautious confidence in the spirit it is intended, and bids you safe journey.

Ortel, who has more confidence in himself since your escapades at the Graeling Moot, gives you a short, spontaneous hug - an almost paternal gesture.

 "I'll keep an eye on the wolf, for you.  I was skeptical at first, but I think you are in good hands, here.  my order - I mean the other priests, back in the Empire - talk about the 'Sons of Ulric' as a myth.  Wolf-men with a certain... virtue to them, instead of mere monsters, you understand.  I think if these folk you have found are not them, they are the source of the myth; or close to it, anyway." 

Ortel offers a blessing to you before you part ways, and gives you a charm - a tuft of hair from one of the poor dishonoured wolves at the corrupted den, bound with twine.  Ortel had taken the time, while you were decapitating their destroyer, to place Ulric's blessing on the den, for the sake of his wolf-god; it is fair that something good might come of such an awful scene, in the end.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
It's a  Lucky Charm .  This one's a free gift, which is good - but the bad news is you can't find any for sale in little Fijrgard, so that one will have to do.  I'm always wary about the stockpiling of charms - part of why we instituted the 'one charm at a time' rule in the Tomboys and Troublemakers game.  Charms are great to absorb that one extra hit you don't want to take in battle, but having more than one rapidly makes player characters too secure!  Of course, we can say Jorunn bought some lucky charms - I won't charge you coins for it, and they just won't grant him any real luck!
 


Your wolf, of course, does not know what is going on.  He paws at the snow restlessly, and looks up at you with keen blue eyes.

The wolf was your companion before even the thralls. Initially sickly and mangy, cowardly and hesitant, you first kept the beast around considering that you might need to eat it, if times got tougher.  But eventually it has found its courage, and has developed an intuitive cooperation with you in combat where you knock foes to the ground, and he bites out their throats; or else he dogs at their heels making them more vulnerable to your attacks.  With a little medical attention, he is no longer patch and mangy; but for all the time that has passed, you still have not given him a name.  He might, at this point have earned one. 
bramblefoot
jorunn will scratch the wolf under the chin, much like a dog.  "i hereby name you aegis"  he says, patting the wolf twice on the head.  "go with them, and be proud"  he says
MrAbdiel
 Aegis receives your praise with lupine appreciation, before Ortel herds him away and leaves you with the wolf-men.

The Packmaster leads you within the cave where the cold of the wind outside is not felt, and the warmth of the dwellers within is better preserved.  If you expected to find a greater horde of the shifters back here, you are disappointed - the packmaster and his three companions seem to be all there is to this den.

Their standoffishness to you is diminished now you have completed the task.  They introduce themselves to you, cautiously, as you pick out a corner of the stone cave that will be your bed for six months.  They are Bard, Hrok, Tryggvi; and they tell you the packmaster's name is Æirik.  Still, they call him packmaster, and it seems to be the thing to do.

 "You may keep your smallclothes; and trinkets that are sentimentally valuable to you. But your armor, your weapons, your wealth - these things we bury tomorrow.  You recover them at the end of your indenture here.  You will rely on your instincts, and your fists, and your Beast,"  the Packmaster explains.  You are given time to divide these belongings from the petty things you will keep; then the rest are wrapped in a bundle of cloth to be committed to the earth, tomorrow.

 "Tonight we hunt.  But you, Jorunn - no food or water for you.  You fast for three days - then will come your first test."
 
In all this time the Packmaster never takes a human form.  In the afternoon, as you settle in, the Packmaster, Hrok and Bard curl up in their corners of the cave to sleep while Tryggvi keeps watch.  They all sleep in their human forms - the Packmaster, of course, even sleeps in his upright lupine form, curled to himself like a dog.  And that night, you are awoken.

Hrok, the shortest of the pack and the one who most recently joined, you gather, nudges you awake.

 "Get up, brother-bear.  Time to hunt." 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
You join the hunt, even though you are forbidden from enjoying its fruits for now.
 Roll me an Outdoor Survival roll to give a sense of how well you perform in this first foray, running through the snow in your sleep linen, trying to tackle a snow deer so your companions can bite its throat out.

And then, based on how well or badly you roll, tell me what complication arises during the hunt!
 

 
bramblefoot
jorunn wakes quickly, stretching and working the kinks out of his back and shoulders. he's slept in worse places, but still, stone is not very conducive to sleep. he steps outside, and suppresses a shiver as the cold wind blows through his sleepclothes. he stalks through the snow, listening to his senses. he hears a rustle, and pounds after the deer, almost collaring it before the packmaster bites out its throat. jorunn stalks around while the packmaster and the three others eat

jorunn will stalk in a circle, keeping his blood hot as the pack finishes eating.suddenly, there is the thunder of wings, and a griffon flies overhead, a man clutched in his talons. the packmaster watches impassively, saying  "such is life in the frozen north"  jorunn is inclined to agree, and says nothing
MrAbdiel
 Bard and the Packmaster eat of the deer while it's still steaming in the snow, fresh and warm.  Tryggvi and Hrok wait for them to gorge and then cut the legs from the beast to carry over their shoulders; leaving only blood, offal, and the ragged chewed bones in the snow.

Tryggvi, who seems to have been the runt of the pack until you have gotten here and takes pity on you as the newcomer, gives you the legs of the deer he was carrying for you to lug.  They're not awfully heavy, and the gesture looks like he is laying more hazing upon you - but it's still good to have the still-warm limbs of the beast warming your back in the cold.

 "That flying beast has been hunting in these parts for a few months.  We thought it would have frozen out, by now - they are beasts from the southern realms, without the pelt to live up here.  But it struggles on, anyway.  The packmaster thinks it came up here with some inbred noble son from the Sigmar-lands, only to have its rider die and become stranded.  We may have to hunt it soon - but like he said, such is life.  Even foreign beasts have a right to struggle to live." 

Back at the den, Tryggvi and Hrok strike up a fire at the mouth of the cave.  It warms the stone for the night to come, and cooks one of the legs of the beast; while the others are buried in snow just outside.  There seems no hard rule on whether it is best to eat cooked meat as a man, or raw meat as a beast.  But it's been a day since you've eaten, and the smell of the cooking venison is starting to torture you.  Still.. you survived trekking through the blight for longer without food.  It's the sticky dryness in your mouth, denied water, that is most pressing.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
After three days with no food, you're at -10% to Weapon Skill, Ballistic Skill,
Strength, Toughness, and Agility.  There's no rules for going without water - but I know a thing or two about fasting IRL, so I'm going to say we'll extend that -10% to everything.  After about 5 days with no water, people start taking brain damage, so you're pretty much at the sluggish limit of your body without getting into the realm of worrying about irreparable suffering.
 


After three days, you are monsterously hungry, thirsty, cold, and weak.  You stand in the snow surrounded by the four pack members, trying to muster your groggy thoughts for this mysterious test.

 "The first thing you must learn, the thing before any other thing, is to leash the beast.  It dwells in you now, and has done so in harmony - its enemies are your enemies, and so you work together... almost as one.  But not today.  Today, we are going to beat you within an inch of your life, Jorunn.  I require you to trust your pack, in this.  But the beast will not - the beast wants to live, to fight, to thrive.  It does not know submission.  You must trust us; the beast must trust you.  Do not defend yourself, Jorunn.  You are strong - you will endure." 

Tryggvi, Jrok and Bard close in.  They wear their man-forms, and so as they move in it is their closed fists and heels that begin battering and bludgeoning you.  You catch a look of mild apology in Tryggvi's eye before he slugs you in the stomach; and you're sure it's Bard's tattooed leg that belongs to the knee that rises up into your face.  After that, you can identify none of the individual attacks.  Someone's elbow; someone's fist; someone's foot.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Make me an initial Willpower test to prevent yourself from going into an instinctive Frenzy to defend yourself.  At this stage, it's in the early bewilderment: +40% difficulty, -10% for your deprivation, for a total of +30%.

Also, give me a glimpse of what's going through Jorunn's head at a time like this.
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn will take the blows, his mind a whirlwind of pain and confusion. he'll just curl up in a ball and take the abuse, covering his head with his arms as blows rain down on him. he restrains the beast, and will just wait it out, suppressing cries of pain
MrAbdiel
 Someone steps on your hand - you feel two of your fingers dislocate.  The cartridge in your nose crunches as it breaks with another hit.  You taste your blood.  You cough it.  You choke on it.  But you restrain all your body's natural instincts to grab, and strike, and fight free.  You were raised for war, and spend these last months of your life fighting with every action to survive shipwreck and daemon and sword.  It is profoundly unnatural for you to let something like this happen.

A foot kicks your head, and your consciousness swims and you prepare to black out... but a monstrous, red-hot ball of hate and fury churns in your gut, and runs up your spine.  The Packmaster was right - previously, you have never been in a position where your intentions conflicted with 'the beast', so much so that it might never have seemed capable of overriding you.  But you feel  it  straining against your conscious instincts, bunching your muscles. You feel your teeth sharpening; your ears ringing as your ursine senses start making themselves known.  Now, you fight against this instinct coming from within yourself from a deeper place than you knew existed.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Alright.  A final Willpower Roll.  This one is at Challenging - with -10% from your starvation, for a total of -10%!

If you fail, you  must  immediately frenzy and make a swift attack.

If you succeed, you feel the beast recoil, and black out.  Describe for me what Jorunn experiences in his fugue, confronted by the bestial instinct that resents his conscious submission.
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn will resist the urge to shift, and black out. in his fugue state, he sees his father, stalking towards him  "jorunn, why do you not fight"  his father hisses, and collapses. jorunn sees a white-furred beast having run his claws through his fathers stomach, and sighs internally  "control is essential father"  he says, crouching next to his dying fathers body  "even for berserkers, when the tank is dry, the tank is dry" 

he will sit, and look the beast in the eye  "sooner or later, ill be in control, and youll be my little playtoy"  he says, grinning through bloody teeth  "do your worst" 
MrAbdiel
 You don't remember waking.  Your awareness grades slowly back in as you find yourself curled up by a fire near the entrance to the den.  Your whole body hurts.  There is blood on your hands, and crusted on your face - but it's all your blood, you think.

 "Well done,"  Tryggvi says; as he rotates the spit of cooking fish the villagers must have delivered in your unconciousness.   "That was the hardest part for me.  The leashing.  I think I failed... two or three times.  Maybe the bear is less furious than the wolf - maybe you have good instinct for this.  Here."  He takes a glazed ceramic cup, scoops up some fresh snow, and put it in the outer coals of the fire until the snow has melted.   "Drink, now.  You know your beast.  It will still seek to put the leash on you, when you are threatened sometimes; but now you know for whatever strength it gives you, you are stronger." 

You eat some of the fish, too, when it is offered; it reminds you how desperately hungry you are, but Tryggvi advises against gorging on an empty stomach.   "Let the water work through you first.  Tomorrow you'll eat right; then in a few days, you will need to fast again." 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
You gain the following talent:

 Werekin: Leash the Beast  - As a free action, you may spend a fortune point (that is, a temporary fate point) to immediately cease your Frenzy and revert to your human form.
 


The following morning, the the pack is setting out to perform a morning hunt, as before.  This time, you will be allowed to participate and eat normally.  Your strength is much returned, and given that another fast is in your immediate future, you hope the hunt goes well.

Hrok notices as you apply the paint around your eyes; one of your few indulgences permitted.  He is taller than Tryggvi; perhaps the longest serving member of this den, besides the Packmaster.
 
"Why do you do that, Bear-son?  Is it a Bjornling ritual?" 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Make me an +0 Outdoor Survival for your performance on today's hunt.  Also, feel free to answer Hrok's question.
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn will keep putting on the face paint, talking as he does.  "it's a ritual, something i do to center myself. since this is an entirely new scenario, it helps to have something to fall back on" 

the hunt goes very well. jorunn brings down a large deer, and will test out both ways of eating

after the hunt, he'll ask to spar with tryggi, hoping to learn how to use strike to stun in his were form
MrAbdiel
  "Is that so?"   Hrok asks, watching as you paint up.   "Well.  It looks strange to me.  But looking strange probably works as intended, when you're charging some frightened southlander." 

That's about all you get out of Hrok; but it almost sounds like approval, so that's something.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
You gain the Talent:   Bloodthirsty Appearance:   When you spend time applying your warpaint each morning, take a +10 to the first Intimidate check you make that day.  The application must take at least fifteen minutes in meditative conditions.  Literal paint is traditional, but mud or blood will do. 
 


The cooked meat is good; though without the salt that Marlene carries about, you find it a little bland.

You find the raw meat to be unpleasant.  It's tough and wet and a lifetime of eating cooked meat has taught your tongue that this is not food.  Without ursine teeth to tear through it, or a knife to cut it, you are forced back to the old ways - charred and classic.

Tryggvi is happy to spar, open handed.  He is small and slippery - the kind of nasty surprise wrestler that can get one over much larger fighters the first one or two times if they're not expecting it.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
  vs50Wrestling  - (1d100)[ 33 ]  for Tryggvi.  He lives a good wrassle.  Give me an opposed WS roll for your performance in the wrasslin', to oppose that.  More a point of pride than for anything else.  Tryggvi is a good sport, win or lose.
 


You try to practise your stunning blows, hoping to make it intuitive enough that you can find that impulse even when the red haze of battle is over your eyes.  When you let Tryggvi in on your thinking after the fight, he smiles knowingly with his split lip.

 "I don't know if I'm supposed to tell you about the trials before you undergo them.  But mastering the beast starts with the spirit of the man securing the beast - in time, you'll be able to have man and beast work in harmony.  But all this is to avoid the beast ruling over the man; that way lies madness and mutation.  You've seen it, with Lycurgus - the one you killed." 

That kills the conversation for a while.  It seems the group knew the Desolator well enough to grieve - but they have done most of that grieving long before you arrived.

 * * * * * 
Three gruelling days of fasting later, and you are hunting again - this time, you have split the pack.  The others are stalking prey to eat, but the Packmaster has taken you aside on a hunch.  It is strange walking beside him - massive and lupine and upright as he is, without any overt trace of berserk.

 "We do not hunt for prey, Brother Jorunn.  You and I hunt for a trespasser.  By now, the beast in you is starving like you are - you can feel it, yes?  But you must command it; as a master a dog.  It will help you hunt, even if you do not let if off the leash." 

You are not a tracker.  You've followed beastmen crashing through the brush but you lack the careful years of trailing and natural talent of someone like Marlene who can pick up on subtler clues; or Aegis's nose and animal instincts.

...But those instincts do, at some level, dwell within you.  You simply... have never been calm enough while they have manifested to use them.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Roll me outdoor survival, to try to track with your senses.  Follow Trail is the right skill, so you'll be rolling Outdoor Survival with a -10 penalty.  Coupled with the starvation penalty, that's -20!

Even if you fail, you smell... Soul milk, old mouldering meat; and you get a sense of the direction to follow it.

If you succeed...

 
 Spoiler: OOC: Success 
The same smell - but varying intensities.  There are three creatures, all carrying the same scent.
 


...And finally, tell me what navigational hazard you come across that impedes your hunt.
 
  
bramblefoot
jorunn will walk with the packmaster, and pick his brains on the were condition  "i smell rotting meat, and spoiled milk"  he says to the packmaster.  "lets follow it" 

jorunn will do an easy mile-eating lope until they reach a particularly fast moving stream  "trail ends here"  jorunn calls, sniffing around  "its likely they crossed the water" 
MrAbdiel
  "Yes - the smell of a  Ymir  - the white furred man-eaters.  We draw closer to Fijrgard, here.  The creature eats manflesh exclusively - it will seek the fishermen, and the foresters.  We will kill it, first."   The Packmaster observes the stream - then looks to you.

 "You are weakened.  Deprivation is part of your challenge; but I am not seeking to kill you.  Do you think you have the strength to swim, and the heart to hold out cold and wet until we meet our prey?  I will not think less if you for saying no.  Bravado is for Estalians and children.  You might otherwise conceal yourself here, in case they come back across, and I will pursue them alone... While you hide." 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
If you want to try to swim across as matter of pride, make me a Swim test - with your -10 for being malnourished and weak.  He  says  he won't think less of you.  If you'd rather not risk freezing death, you can make a +20 Concealment check instead to stake out the riverside.
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn will swim the stream even in his weakened state. he shakes the water off like a dog and continues to stalk along, following the trail. jorunn hears the ymir before he sees it, a heavy sort of huff, and the sound of thuds into the earth. the smell of rotting meat and fish gets stronger, and jorunn controls his gag reflex as the ymir stalks by. he switches to battle tongue, and will ask the packmaster  frontal assault or try something sneaky? 
MrAbdiel
 The Packmaster does seem somewhat impressed as you swim through the icy waters, willing the furnace of your body to warm you.  You are starting to see what the fasting is doing to you - your muscles are becoming lean and ropey, bones in some places discernable through the skin; very little fat to keep you warm.

As you take cover together, he peers over the ridge and sniffs as the creature - which seems to you to be some variety of beastman, like an overgrown gor with shaggy white fur and a mouth full of yellowed, jagged teeth -  stalks by.  It has frozen elements of meat in its fur, around its face; as you are watching, it snakes out its tongue and scoops a lock of meat-tangled hair into its mouth to chew.

But when you flinch controlling your gorge rising, the Packmaster claps a hand on your shoulder, reacting sharply to the motion.  He hisses.

 "It is the man that is disgusted by such smells.  It is the beast that navigates the world by them. Breathe again.  What does the beast smell?" 

You draw in another breath through your nose; and the ravenous animal in your soul, desperate to be fed on violence and flesh, parses the scent for you - even restrained as it is.  Not one smell - three.  There are three Ymir here - and if you had leapt to attack the one, the other two would have shortly joined it and caught you off guard.  Now you know, you can be ready for them.

 "You smell the others?  Good. Good, Brother Bear.  They are near; they will come when the other cries out.  Go now; make challenge.  Take your beast off the leash.  When the others come to assist, I will strike at them; and the rescuers become further prey." 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
The Ymir awaits!  Your first action, which is likely to be to shift forms, is not subtle - the Ymir will be surprised for it.  But if you can beat his initiative ( (1d10+3)[ 5 ] ), you can act immediately.  The Ymir is presently one move action away.
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn will shift into his were form and half move, half attack. he hits, his claws biting in deep to the ymirs leg, causing a deep crimson blood to pour out

 (1d100)[ 78 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 10 ] 

rerolled for a 6 in the ooc
MrAbdiel
 The ymir staggers in shock at your emergence and the blow; its alarm voiced in a hooting, porcine howl.  You hear the thrashing of figures in the brush elsewhere making their way over - not here yet - but in the intermit, the foul flesh-eater rounds on you, long raking claws scything out over your fur!

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 

  Claw1Vs44  - (1d100)[ 41 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 6 ] 
  Claw2Vs44  - (1d100)[ 23 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 13 ] 

Unfortunately, Jorunn might have to tank these - with only his natural weapons, he is unable to parry; and in this form, he is not trained in dodge!

Since you're fighting another creature with natural weapons, if you take parrying stance rather than swift attacking, I'll let you 'parry' claw to claw.
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn: 11/19 wounds

 

the claws scythe through jorunns fur, causing gashes to appear, and blood to leak out. jorunn will roar, and make attacks. the bear is with him, and he succeeds on hitting, but not with enough force

 (3d100)[ 12 ][ 1 ][ 23 ](36)  three hits, but not really good damage

 (1d10+6)[ 10 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 8 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 8 ] 
MrAbdiel
 You smash into the Ymir and tear at it with your primal fury.  Your claws and teeth tear into it likewise and you crash to the ground, mauling and slashing at each other.  You are the superior combatant - but without weapons and allies, the margin is more narrow than you are used to.  As expected, you hear roaring and hooting as its confederates  burst from the brush and seek to fall upon you, making the matchup lethally untenable.  And as expected, the Packmaster springs into action; a roaring, guttural bark catching the pair off guard as he races, an enviable blur of claws and fur and blood.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 

Ymir takes a 1 point crit to the arm; but fortunately for him, has nothing to drop.

Ymir1, on Jorunn:
  vs44  - (1d100)[ 79 ]  for   Damage  - (1d10+4)[ 9 ] 
  vs44  - (1d100)[ 3 ]  for   Damage  - (1d10+4)[ 7 ] 

Ymir2 and Ymir3 are surprised!

  vs75  - (1d100)[ 79 ]  for   Damage  - (1d10+6)[ 14 ]  against Ymir2! Edit: Actually that hit.  I forgot that surprised is a penalty to WS - arguably the full -30 for being unaware.  So net 9 damage to Ymir2.

If you finish off Ymir1 with an early attack, I'll flow additional attacks of yours on to the other ones.
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn will make three attacks against the wounded ymir. in his jubilation, he hits only once, but hard

 
 (3d100)[ 3 ][ 63 ][ 87 ](153) 
 (1d10+6)[ 13 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 7 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 8 ] 
MrAbdiel
 Your huge ursine maw closes around the ymir's arm; and with your claws sunken into its chest, you wrench and pull. You taste vile things in the fur - old meat, and piss, and corrupt blood - but soon with a crackle of yeilding bone and sinew you tear the limb halfway off, and wash of blood from the ripped shoulder precedes a whimpering, perishing bleat as the creature dies.

Meanwhile, the Packmaster continues his brutal contest with the other two...

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 


Ymir2  Vs44  - (1d100)[ 75 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 7 ] 
Ymir2  Vs44  - (1d100)[ 9 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 8 ] 

Ymir3  Vs44  - (1d100)[ 28 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 6 ] 
Ymir3  Vs44  - (1d100)[ 44 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 13 ] 
  Vs60  - (1d100)[ 21 ]  dodge for the packmaster.
  Vs55  - (1d100)[ 52 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 16 ] 
  Vs55  - (1d100)[ 16 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 10 ] 
  Vs55  - (1d100)[ 88 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 10 ] 

d100's as required for crits and furies

 (1d100)[ 26 ] 
 (1d100)[ 69 ] 
 (1d100)[ 74 ] 
 (1d100)[ 44 ] 
 (1d100)[ 41 ] 
Narrative pending.
 


The pair of Ymir he contends with are smaller than the one you have killed - mature children maybe, or else the one you killed was especially big - but they are still as physically strong and tough as the beastmen you have fought.  They lay their claws on the packmaster, even though he seems to move swiftly enough that their blows do not graduate to more than small lacerations.  One bears a raking wound from his charging strike - the other, uninjured, grabs him and bites upon his shoulder, but the heavy mane of fur is proof enough against the bite that the packmaster quickly turns the momentum into a shoulder through that rocks the creature against a nearby treestump before it scrambles back to its feet.  With that, the wolf-man turns and rams his clawed hand up under the ribcage of the other Ymir and rips out a handful of vitals, turned to steaming shredded offal by the claws; and this creature collapses into the pool of its own guys, mewling and dying.  The one remains - its bloodshot eyes graduating from rage to fear.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Packmaster dodges the big blow, takes two small ones for 1 and 2 wounds respectively; then he guts one and injures the other.  You might get the killing blow, if you roll well, on the second!
 
 
bramblefoot
 

jorunn will charge the last ymir, hoping to drop it. his claws gouge out the creatures eyes, and jorunn lets out a bellow of triumph as the creature drops bonelessly to the ground. jorunn will shift back down to his normal form, feeling the wound he took from the ymir just now  "that was exhilarating"  he says to the packmaster.  "i truly felt one with my beast there, but i know im not even close to done with my tutelage" 
 (1d100)[ 71 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 16 ] 

rerolled and got a success
MrAbdiel
 Your form retracts to its human size as the beast's killing urge is slaked in the monsterous ymir; you watch as the Packmaster's eye's clear and the frenzy leaves him - though his wolf-guise remains as prominent as ever.

 "Exhilarating, yes.  It is the harmony of beast and man.  Most with our curse-gift live and die never knowing any connection between their parts except blinding rage - but now you feel it.  There are other ways.  Hunger.  Thrill.  Primal things.  Eventually, with mastery, even sophisticated things, like..."   He raises his bloody claw before his face; flexes his digits impassively.   "Loyalty.  But you are right - you have a long path before you, Brother-Bear.  But today... we have upheld out covenant with the people of Fijrgard.  You have done well." 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
You gain the following talent:

 Werekin: Consult the Beast  - As a full action, you may spend a fortune point (that is, a temporary fate point) to gain access to the skills and talents your wereform possesses, without shifting.  These do not stack (e.g. your wereform's Concealment skill does not add +10 to your human form's Concealment skill, if you are trained), but you are entitled to use whichever is highest.  Using  Consult the Beast  does not cause you to frenzy.
 The effects last for an hour, at which point your Beast subsides unless you spend another FP for another hour.
 


Weeks pass.  The training includes a great deal of fasting and strenuous activity to 'provoke' the beast and then to not heed its urges except in those circumstances you deem fit.  But even over this period, you begin to feel the effect of it.  Your 'beast' is no less furious within you - but you begin to detect it as almost an independent force you can bargain with instead of an overwhelming tide of feeling.

The next novel challenge comes, fortunately, when you are on a full stomach.

 "How is your throwing arm, Jorunn?"  Tryggvi asks, as approaches you with a quiver of javelins in his outstretched arm.   "Today, we hunt the mammoth." 

Another part of the alliance between the wolves of the den and the village of Fjirgard, the slaying of such a beast will fill the meat stores of the town for quite a time; as well as provide bone, fur and ivory.  As Tryggvi explains it to you, it is a joint operation of the hunters of Fjirgard and pack.  The villagers will do the butchering, and have dug the kill-pit.  The pack has another job - separating a mammoth from the pack, and goading it into falling into the concealed pit.  You and Tryggvi are one pair for the hunt; Hrok and Bard are another, and the Packmaster intends to run alone, prepared to intervene if things go awry.

You hunker shivering in the cover of a fallen tree, watching a small herd of mammoths graze.  They shuttle aside mounds of snow with their tusks, and rip up clumps of hardy tundra grasses. Four lumbering females, a cluster of three calves, and one great bull minding them with the occasional territorial trumpet from its trunk.

 "Our target is the bull.  Throw at the cows and they will shy away, and the bull will attack you anyway.  Throw at the calves and the cows and the bull will come at you.  Throw at the bull and, four times out of five, the bull will come for you while the herd stands aside watching.  The trick is that, you wouldn't think so, but they're pretty fast.  You can't outrun them on their charge - you have to weave to keep them turning, to keep ahead long enough for someone else to throw at it and get its attention.  Then you hide.  And then it'll chase them.  That'll give us a chance to get ahead to where we need to be to peel it off them just the same way.  Do that three or four times until we get far enough away from the herd, and we've isolated the bull.  That's where the Fjirgarders are digging the kill-pit right now.  It might be on me or you at the time, but the pit will be marked in the snow with branches laid like arrows.  If it's chasing you, you run to the tip of the arrow and make the biggest long jump you're capable of.  I recommend hitting the ground at a roll.  You'll probably clear the pit; but even if you don't, you'll get to the far side of the pit and there will be a crevice dug into the side - just roll into it and hunker down.  The mammoth will fall in behind you, but you'll be out of the way and we'll dig you out.  But if you make the jump right, it shouldn't matter." 

The Packmaster lopes over to your hiding place, to fill you in on the plan evolving.

 "Three trade-offs, before the pit.  I've marked the trail at the places.  You are left, they are right - Hrok and Bard will start, take it to the first point, and then you'll take it and pull left.  When you get to the next marker, they'll take it and pull right.  You'll take it again at the next marker, pull left, and you'll see the pit marking.  They should have finished it by now - time to act, before the herd moves on and we have to shift the plan.  Good hunting." 

You watch from your hiding place as Hrok and Bard emerge - no wolf forms, needing their man-cunning sharpest for this hunt - and hurl javelins at the mammoth bull.  They strike, sticking almost comically small in the beast's flank; and just as expected, they elicit a wild trumpet of outrage as the mammoth lumbers around to rush them.  They bound away through the snow, splitting apart and coming back together to force the mammoth to chase one of them and sometimes delay to choose, running in big curves around trees and rocks and forcing it to slow and navigate, growing more frustrated.  As they do, you overtake them running parallel at a straight shot - you see the marker the Packmaster has left: three stones indicating the swap-point.  Your allies are coming up on it, as you and Tryggvi burst from hiding to pitch your own javelins!

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Give me a javelin throw! +30%, and another +20% from its size. because the target is 'unaware' of your ambush.  If you throw does more damage than Tryggvi's, the mammoth is chasing you specifically.  If you both miss, or do less than
 its TB of 6 in damage, then it ignores you both and will keep chasing the others!

  vs84  - (1d100)[ 29 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 5 ]  for Tryggvi.

After that, make a +10 Agility roll to run - either away from the Mammoth, or after it if it's not chasing you still!
 
 
bramblefoot
 

jorunn hurls his javelin, and then takes off down the trail. the mammoth is faster on the flat stretch, but jorunn makes sure to lead it through tight turns and such where it has to slow down lest it gash itself on sharp rocks and such. the second marker comes up, and jorunn lets bard and hrok pull the mammoth. he keeps up his pace, moving to set up at the third junction. the blood thunders in his ears, but he keeps the beast under control

 i like the new me  he thinks to himself, and the beast growls. jorunn sighs internally, and proceeds to slap his inner beast  be good you  he thinks at it, and sets up on the third turn to pull the beast left
MrAbdiel
 A clear and inexplicable instinct screams at you that this is foolishness - that these lessons from this wolfpack will get you killed if you continue to indulge in these risky endevours - but it's too late to think about such things right now.  You have the mammoth's ire, and Tryggvi whoops in celebration and bounds along beside you as the behemoth smashes through small trees and brush in your wake, forced to weave around stones and larger obstacles.

 "That's it!  Alright!"  he puffs,  "the second the others draw him, we dive into the snowdrift - nowhere else to hide!" 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Hrok's throw: [ROLL=vs65]1d100[ROLL] for  (1d10+3)[ 7 ] 
Bard's throw:  [ROLL=vs65]1d100[ROLL] for  (1d10+3)[ 4 ] .  Narrative pending.

Rerolled in the OOC for some damaging hits.
 


At the next change-point, you see Hrok and Bard pop up from behind a hunting blind made from branches the Packmaster has gathered.  They whip their javelins at the mammoth and both strike home - Bard's shearing along the creature's skull and skipping off into the snow, Hrok's impressively spearing into the heel of the beast's trunk - a little harder, and it may have driven into the sinus and perhaps brain, disasteroustly slaying the mammoth too far away from its ultimate destination!  But it trumpets its rage, blood speckling the snow, and turns its attention to them for a moment.  In that moment, Tryggvi dives into the soft drift of snow nearby, wriggles to conceal himself for a second, and then goes still as a stone.  If you can do the same, when the mammoth looks back to track you, he will see no threat but Bard and Hrok, and chase them as planned!

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Time for Concealment - +10% to the check!
 
 
bramblefoot
 

jorunn will dive into the snowdrift, and stay very stlll. the mammoth trumpets loudly, and will follow bard and hrok off, its feet sounding like minor earthquakes to jorunns ears. jorunn waits for a second, and then pops out of the snow, feet pounding to the third pass. he feels the adrenaline course through his veins as the beast exults in the hunt of the mammoth. the third marker is in sight, and jorunn readies a javelin, steadying his breathing as he waits for bard and hrok to come into view.

the two werekin come into view, and jorunn will hurl his javelin, and then take off again

bs test
 (1d100)[ 1 ] 
 (1d10+4)[ 6 ] 

agility test

 (1d100)[ 93 ] 
MrAbdiel
  "It's...Bracing!"   Tryggvi offers, breathlessly but still conversationally as you overtake the circuitous path your allies are leading the quarry down, to head them off at the next change.  Your chest is heaving with the exertion of the olympian efforts navigating the terrain at such pace and such stakes; and it takes its toll when you launch your spear - it sticks into the beast's side, but does not seem to penetrate enough to draw the mammoth's ire.  Tryggvi tosses likewise...

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
  vs64  - (1d100)[ 42 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 4 ] , narrative pending.
 


...And his javelin, like yours, hits but does not hit hard enough.  Bard and Hrok are forced to overshoot their own snowdrift, and surge out into smoother terrain - as the mammoth gains.

 "Ah, balls!"   Tryggvi grunts, and you both take off again as fast as you can; trying once more!

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Wuh-oh.  That's a fail on that Agi test - that'll come up later.  Make me another agi test, this one at +0, and another throw to try to pull the mammoth's attention!
 
 
bramblefoot
 

jorunn will pound after the mammoth, lobbing a javelin that sticks in the creatures hindquarters. the mammoth turns and looks at jorunn, and then will charge him. jorunn will attempt to GTFO, and lead the mamoth to the pit.  "i dont think it likes me"  he yells, circling the mammoth and then sprinting towards the way the packmaster pointed out

 
 Spoiler: ooc 
got a 4 on my agility roll, a 24 on my bs roll, and a 9 on damage
 
MrAbdiel
 Tryggvi tosses his javelin too, and it also sinks into the mammoth's buttock; but it takes the most offense at yours by far.  You can't see if Bard and Hrok hid - but the creature is bearing down on you and that's what matters.
 
"He's angry now!"  puffs Tryggvi, his shorter legs barely keeping up with you because of his conditioning in hunts such as this.  A little more weaving and racing with the behemoth behind you, and you come to a straight path off a local wide goat trail, still sheened with snow.  You can see a dozen of the men of Fjirgard crouching and still on the other side of the road under a shelter of branches and caked snow - and importantly, the arrows marked with branches indicating where you need to make your leap.  Tryggvi peels off to one side so the mammoth is bearing down on you alone, and as you could swear you feel the heat of the beast's breath behind you, your heel clears the marker and you leap...

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Final jump - Agility roll at a total of -10, for the extra work you had to put in catching up to it when it got away.  If you succeed, you clear the hidden pit and can roll to a stop on the other side.
 If not, you're going to fall into the pit against its back wall.  You'll take  (1d10+3)[ 5 ]  wounds and then need to make a flat Willpower roll to remain composed enough to roll into the sheltering cleft at the pit's side, so the mammoth doesn't crash down on top of you.
 
 
bramblefoot
 

jorunn will easily leap the pit, and watch as the mammoth crashes into the pit. he will take a few steps back away, and take deep breaths, sucking in air as he watches the mammoth die. after his breath comes back he lets out a jubilant cry of joy as the villagers begin skinning and butchering the mammoth
MrAbdiel
 After the villagers finish the mammoth off - spearing it swiftly over and over around the neck until its final trumpeting whimper - there's some jubilation to go around.  Tryggvi almost knocks you over as he crashes into you in a full speed effort to throw an arm around your shoulders.   "Hey, not bad, not bad!  You didn't even need to hide in the slip-ditch!  Hah!  No fasting tonight!" 

Hrok and Bard are soon with you as well, revelling in the kill.  The villages of Fjirgard are more than pleased, too.  Their skinners and butchers are in the pit with knives and shears, passing up great sheets of steaming fur to their companions standing above.  The women of the village busy themselves stoking life into the great long firepits which will roast a portion of the beast this night.  Such a massive kill requires the whole town come and eat their fill, so not to waste.  More will be taken and salted and dried for long term use.  More still will be packed in snow for meals tomorrow, and the day after.  The bones are destined to be taken aside for carving.  The brain is taken by a leatherworker to mash into a paste for the tanning of the leather.  Other parts - the offal, the loins, the feet - are left in the pit where the mammoth died and immolated in a great offering fire that night; to the gods of the wild places, and the ancestors, and Old Jormung who keeps them.  Throughout the evening, over mead and mammoth, villagers point to the smoke and make contention they have seen this or that passed relative's face briefly regard them from within.

The Packmaster does not join the celebration.  You can tell why.  The villagers keep clear even of the four of your pack, even though they do spice and roast plenty of meat until you are stuffed with it.  The pact between Fjirgard and the pack is based on respect, not comfort; and knowing what and who you are, the gratitude of the people is tempered by their knowledge of the beasts behind your eyes.  The Packmaster, a wolf who walks upright as often as he  can be, would be beyond disquieting mindling with the Graelings here; and you have no doubt he has been able to find food of his own, after watching you complete this hunt, from a distance.

By the end of the night the four of you are stuffed with meat to the point of being sluggish and bloated on the way home.  You miss the heat of the fire as you move away from it, but quickly your body is burning the nourishment of the kill hot enough that your skin, though prickling from the chill wind, is not cold.

 "Not bad at at,"  Bard comments after the long quiet walk.  He and Hrok have been carrying the other reward the village has given for the hunt - one of the massive tusks of the mammoth, carried suspended on the shoulders of both wolf brothers.   "I wouldn't have thought the bear had the leaping instinct; but I suppose I wouldn't be the first man to be surprised by how fast a bear can go when it's hunting."
 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
You gain the following Talent:

  Explosive Speed -  When you spend a Fortune Point to add 1d10 to your initiative, you may add your Agility Bonus also.  If this causes you to precede the fastest enemy by 10 or more, you may act in the surprise round. 
 

 * * * * * 
Over the next few days, your fasting regimen is suspended and you are taught the basics of a new skill - working in ivory.  Bard is probably the tallest of the pack - he's a little taller than the Packmaster in his wolf form, anyway; and you assume in his human form, the Packmaster would be slightly shorter than Bard's.  He is tall and lean, and has many of the patterned graeling bondsman tattoos particularly on his legs and arms.  But he has a small kit of bronze tools, and shows you as they are required to cut small portions off the great tusk, and then to get about engraving the little tokens with likenesses and meaning. Bard's are very good - a flat toggle the size of a fingerbone now bears the stylized image of a bear wrestling down a mammoth.  He gives it to you.   "To braid into your hair, or beard.  Once they've grown out a little more, anyway." 

This isn't to say you do not have either; but compared to the manes of these wildmen, your locks are still a few months from shedding the shadows of previously respectable grooming.

Bard explains the significance of the carved ivory.  For the pack, it's both a way to memorialize great deeds and visually pin them to the doer.  In this way, it is much like tattoos are for many tribes - though of course, tattoos are not at all visible once the change takes hold and they vanish beneath the fur.   "You can make your own, of course.  Tokens of your gods, or your people, or what have you.  But those, you must suspend on a necklace of bracelet; your mane is for deeds, awarded by your peers." 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Give me either an Agility test at -20 for your first attempt at carving ivory; and tell me what you are trying for - and based on your success or failure, how good the likeness is.

Also give me a Perception test, for listening.
 

 
bramblefoot
 

jorunn will start off slow, meditatively carving a fish with a man stabbing it with a spear, and the other one holding a fishing rod. it turns out surprisingly good for his first attempt, and he'll keep it on a rawhide thong around his neck. bard claps his hands saying  "not bad jorunn, you're a natural"  jorunn will nod, and let bard congratulate him. given enough time before his tasks resume, he'll work on a man pinned to a tree, and an ogre and a man locked in combat
MrAbdiel
 It feels good to do something creative rather than destructive with your hands.  You understand implicitly that, for all the hunting and primal contact you are making, this is an act that no beast can accomplish.  Art is the province of the Man, not the Beast; and part of your harmony of those forces.

A faint scent hits your nostrils; animal blood.  It's so faint you don't think you would have picked it up before your training began, but the Bear in you knows that smell deeply and hungrily.  You rise on your aching legs and cautiously peer out into the snow outside, which has begun to come down with depth again.  There is a dead snow hare, there; its neck broken by the shaking of fangs on the back of its neck, bleeding a red blot into the snow trying to bury it.  And you see its delivery, too.  Aegis, your wolf, hunkers out in the dark at the very edge of your vision; his posture low and submissive, his eyes shining in the gloom.  He must have been back at Krejj for a short time before making his break and wandering his lonely way back over the mountains, all the way back to the cave where he last saw you.  In deference to the occupying pack, he has left a food offering.  He is trying to buy his way in.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
If you want to convince the Packmaster to let Aegis stay - an unusual if not explicitly banned condition, seeing as he is not a human ally like your others - you can give me a challenging charm test.  Failure means the answer is no, for now - but perhaps not forever.
 
 
bramblefoot
 

jorunn will come out, and scratch aegis behind the ears  "ill try to get you to stay, but i cant promise nothing"  he says. the packmaster will deny jorunns request for aegis to stay, and so aegis is escorted back out into the cold.  "sorry buddy, not today"  jorunn says, scratching him behind his ears again

 (1d100)[ 58 ]  tn 8
MrAbdiel
 Aegis revels in the attention, whines and tries to trot in to the cave after you.  Bard looks at you for a moment, and takes the burden off you from being mean to the creature - summoning up a snarling, warning bark from his throat that Aegis understands more clearly.  The wolf startles, gives you a pitiful look, and then scampers back to the snow; snaffling up the show hare and taking it with him.

 "Pity.  A good wolf, I think,"  Bard explains,  "but it's important the pack remains what it is.  This curse alienates us from the world of humans but doesn't fully induct us into the world of beasts.  We can survive in both, but cannot be completely welcome, or trusted, in either.  Not until you have mastered both sides; and that mastery comes from the isolated environment.  He'll be alright, if he has made it this far." 
 * * * * * 
 "This is not our way, Byjanka - or our risk to take!"   The Packmaster snarls.  You have never seen him at this level of anger; the only time he seems close to being overwhelmed by furious feeling.

 "You way is to honor your debts, Æirik!  You will do this thing for us!"   The towering wolfman's interlocuter is a fiery spirited, red haired woman who is too short to really command respect from her physical presense.  There is a scar of runework carved into each of her cheeks that you cannot decipher, but recognise as it instinctively makes you feel uneasy.  She is an Aesling; from the Norscan tribe to the far north east of the peninsula; closest to the predation and involvement with the savage (by norscan standards) tribes of the Kurgan - the Kul, the Hastlings, the Tahmaks, and the other such warriors who show up in Norsca every now in their black steel armor to drive the Norscans into the empire before them.  But Byjanka has not been with that tribe in a long time - she is a member of another den of changers who operate in the orbit of the Graelings; one of the shewolf dens.

She came to the Fjirgard den, demanded to speak to the Packmaster, Æirik, and explained in furious, pacing urgency: she is calling on the dens in the area for aid in a vital and violent matter.  Up until now, the conversation between the short redhead and the towering wolfman had been quiet and calm.  Finally, with seething toleration, the Packmaster signals to the woman his assent atleast to speak - and she turns to Bard, Hrok, Tryggvi and you; all of whom are arrayed in the firelit forechamber of the cave to hear her plea.

 "Hear me, Fijrgard den; greatest den!  My den is the Yonirhelm den.  Yonirhelm is smaller than Fijrgard, and belongs to a different clan of the Graeling tribe.  The villages of the clan have a defensive pact, and many of the men of Yonirhelm took their axes and went to the coast further north to assist their clanbrothers - but they have fallen prey.  Prey to the wicked corsairs - the elves." 

Tryggvi shudders a little.  All Norscans know about the elves.  It would be hard to criticize them for being raiders and slavetakers; but they are frightful and skillful, and they are not ashamed or afraid to raid Norscan tribes.  It is not possible to raid in reverse; the frozen elven kingdom across the ocean is too well defended, particularly by their monstrous castles that slash through the seas disgorging armies of raiders to carry off all they can catch.

 "Men of our sworn village are taken prisoner, and we are bound to aid them - but we cannot do so alone!  We have called on other dens too, and we cannot chase or overwhelm their ships - but only our kind can allow ourselves to be captured, and contain within our bare skins the weapons and power to break free." 

Hrok chokes out the reply you all want to give.   "You want us to -... let the dark elves capture us, so we can try to seize their vessel?  You want to be chained up and dragged across to the elf lands to die in some alien arena?" 

Byjanka snaps back at the much bigger Hrok, immediately.   "I did not say it was easy or without risk - I say that your den has debt to mine, and you will honor your debt or you will make your boneless excuses to the gods!" 

The Packmaster interjects before this can become any more heated.

 "We honor our debts.  But you, Jorunn, nor you, Tryggvi, were part of this pack when our den gave this promise.  I will not force you to come on such a dangerous endevour; and will not think less of you if you choose to stay, and wait for our return." 

The certainty of that return not guaranteed, Tryggvi looks at the ground between his feet, then looks to you; trying to intuit your thoughts from your face. 
bramblefoot
 

jorunn considers.  "i for one, would like a little more information before i go traipsing off into another adventure"  he says.  "give me what you have on the vessel, and then i will consider"  he says, palms out in a conciliatory gesture. what he means is  put out or get out  but couched in a norscan veneer of civility

 
 Spoiler: ooc 
im wanting more intel before i commit
 
MrAbdiel
  "Yeah,"  Tryggvi backs you up,  "I've a cousin who got dragged off to one of their raids.  They said it was as much a castle as a ship - with thousands of warriors on board.  We're good, but we're not that good." 

Bjyanka throws up her hands in frustration, stalking back and forth in front of the fire so the flames throw towering, wild distortions of her shadow deeper into the cave.

 "It's not one of the large ships - not right now.  I haven't seen it, but - .... We know it's a smaller ship.  The great castle-ships send out fleets.  Our seer says the larger ship is ravaging the Kvelligs."
 
The Kvelligs - a clan of Kurgan who dwell in the Chaos Lands, north across the Sea of Chaos.  Once, the Norse crossed that sea to conduct a reprisal war against the Kurgan; seizing the Kvellig lands and making remarkable intrusions into the deeper Chaos Wastes.  But the invasion force of northern tribes (Vargs, Graelings, Aeslings) fell to infighting, and was forced to withdraw - the end of the so called Norscan Wars.

 "...But they have sent smaller ships to the Graeling and Varg coasts.  This is one such.  The attack force was no more than two score - they take many times that number in slaves.  Between our dens, we might muster as many ourselves." 

The Packmaster frowns slightly - an expression perceptible even on his lupine face.  He doubts that is completely accurate - but the explosive power of your Beasts may take more than their number anyway, so even exaggerated the feat is not inconceivable.

 "We feign ourselves to be refugees of an inland raid, and let them take us to their brig - then rip out way out, killing the elves, sinking the ship - and we take our people inland until the elven host has left our seas." 

A dangerous mission.  Packs like yours, whom you have never met, are committed; as are three of your denbrothers.  Tryggvi is worried; he fears the dark elves, but does not want to abandon his pack brothers to hazard alone.  He looks to you for some kind of validation, even though he is strictly your older brother in the pack heirarchy. 
bramblefoot
 

jorunn will consider, and finally nod  "count me in"  he says, slamming his fist against his chest twice.  i just hope she knows what shes doing  he thinks to himself
MrAbdiel
  
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Hey mate, thanks for your toleration. I had a couple of assignments and, while that didn't occupy all my time, stressing about them did!  I've another one at the end of the week but I have time to catch up on my posts this week now.
 


Byjanka exhales.  The Packmaster nods.  Tryggvi grins.   "Alright.  We're in!" 
 * * * * * 
It is a harsh and hurried journey north in the wintery winds. Over a few days you roam with the pack, Byjanka as its guest, as you approach the northern coast and its plague of elves. By the time you arrive, your group has snowballed in additional travellers - four more packs like yours. Byjanka's pack was split across the others, and the messengers sent to those far corners reunited in excitement for their success which subsides quickly into solemnity for the trouble ahead. Two of the packs are all she-wolves; yours and two others, all male. Most members of each pack have Graeling markings, but you notice also the distinctively Skaeling tattoos and brands in fire and dragon motifs; Aesling runes cut into cheeks elsewhere; the golden hair and bear-totem iconography of the distant Baersonlings. Each pack has its leader who, like your Packmaster, seems to comfortably and constantly take the wolf-man form. Yet observing as these leaders meet and confer, it seems that the mentor you know has a certain seniority among these. The Fjirgard pack was the first pack, from which other packs have spun off with their successful students creating their own hidden warrior lodges and symbiotic lives with norscan villages; and all twenty six of the assembled Ulfwerenjar (and in your case, Bjornwerenjar) have some sense of honor debt to the root of this strange tree of bestial fraternity.

Rough woven sacks and clunky wooden hand carts are divided among the packs.  "We are opportunists picking over the ruins of this town once raided,"  Byjanka explains as the ruse takes shape.  "We do so in the evening because we are ignorant that the dark elves will land with the sun in the western sky behind them, so we will not see them until it is too late.  We are greedy, so we will hold out petty looted goods while we run for our lives and that will cost us our freedom.  They will use nets and whips with razors in them and they will be painful, but they will not intend to kill us because they intend to sell us across the far ocean in the Elf Lands.  Some of us may be faster than others; but we will be stupid enough to nobly turn back and try to assist our comrades only to be captured ourselves. And we will absolutely not, under any circumstances, allow this pain or fear or fury to stir the beast and fight in earnest. A beast erupting amidst the chaos will be as alarming and confusing to us as to the elves, and we should act as though we think it to be their creature. Once aboard, we wait for Packmaster Æirik's howl - then we kill every sharp-eared raider on board and run the boat to ground, where we can lead the human captives inland to safety." 

It's a simple enough plan.  Feign harmlessness until it's time to strike.  You've never been more in control of your beast than now; but neither have you ever been so tested.

In the evening of that day, you are picking through the remnants of the fishing thorp of Arkheim, in the orbit of the village of Yonirhelm. Some of the buildings are burned down, but not all. If this had been a raid by a rival tribe, nothing would be left standing. But the elves want the empty buildings to attract new settlers, to be snatched away at some other time.

You think of the sticks-and-twine fish traps you and Byjan would set, and check in the evenings to see if an unlucky trout had blundered in and been unable to turn around.

Tryggvi works beside you, picking up scattered wooden cutlery from the floor of some family's home, and disinterestedly scraping their trinkets into his sack.  "Weird to see him like that,"  he notes as he nods across the way to the lean, tall, black-maned form of the Packmaster in his human guise.  "Seems fake to see him without fur. But I guess that's the point." 

The screaming starts shortly after. They move with nightmare speed; warriors with tall helms, breastplates and gauntlets in matt black steel, and shrouds of dark purple cloth beneath dark scaled cloaks cut from the hides of what the imagination pictures to be dragons.  Everything about them is  sharp . Only a few present their curved and jagged blades to brandish, tending toward whips and spiked iron man-catcher chain leashes; but even their pale features have an axe-like edge to them. Outside, framed in the blinding orange sunset, the hull of a ship spits its roving warriors.  It must be a galley as you can make out no sail; but it could easilly contain a hundred or more slaves in its hold.

A chain with a hooked end lashes out, wraps over Tryggvi's shoulder, and snares under his collar bone.  He topples backward and cries out as the elf at the other end starts dragging him out of the house, forcing him to grab the chain desperately so the bone isn't snapped.  "Jorunn, run!" 

This is a performance you know, but there isn't much to it - there is a no shortage of primal fear to draw upon.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Give me a Search roll (+0) as you 'loot', just in case you find something interesting.  If you succeed, you can decide which largely worthless seeming trinket you pocket as you instinctively think there's more to it.

I feel like this is another good opportunity to roll Perform: Storyteller.  Perform: Acting would basically succeed automatically, but give me a Perform roll at +20% to convincingly play the victim and describe how Jorunn takes  (1d5)[ 3 ]  wounds being dragged into the hold of the ship.
 

 
bramblefoot
 

jorunn finds a small leather half mask with strange symbols on it, and will tuck it in his sack. then comes the dark elves, and jorunn will run quickly enough to make the dark elves tire, but slowly enough that they catch him. then comes the pain of the net wrapping around his flesh and bundling him into the hold. jorunn will struggle weakly, and make the dark elves grunt and dismiss him as being less than a threat

finally, they end up deep in the fetid hold, and wait and watch as their captors retreat, and the waiting game begins. jorunn will flex his muscles, keeping himself ready for anything as the time ticks on

image of the trinket
 
MrAbdiel
 You have experience covering up and letting the boots get put into you during your initiation into the pack.  Covering up, you suffer a rain of punitive blows from the pointed boots of the reavers before you are being hauled across the sand in a net woven with barbs and small blades to discourage struggling. They cut and dig, but you restrain your beast's outrage.  Of your augmented warband, only one of those assembled fails the mandate - a young Graeling of another pack who can bear the indignity no more, and his form splits into the frenzying, furred lupine killer form he was meant to hide. He lays a brutal slashing claw on his elven attacker who reels back with alarm and elven grace; but the errant wolf has no time to follow up as a half dozen of the elves nearby snap to attention, bringing repeating handbows to level and riddling the skinchanger with short, toxic bolts. He collapses, twitching, frothing, reverting to his man-shape, only to be skewered with finality by the elf he sought to kill.

The fifteen minutes following are full of screams that are only thirty percent acted as your lupine kin are loaded into shuddering piles in the open bellies of sleek black and purple oarboats.  It's a press of bloody, sweaty skin with the others as you peer through the veil of net mesh to the cruel shape of the ship beyond. With the sun vanishing behind it, it is limmed now not with blinding dusk light but only peach and bruise-blue gloaming; and you see that it has neither sails, nor oars of its own.  Its propulsion is a mystery you can only hope does not hinder you later.

A hundred and twenty shuddering, abused Graelings huddle across three seperate holds of the ship.  Twenty five new prisoners, including yourselves, are herded in by almost forty of the dark elf warriors; distributed between them. You peer up at the moonlit sky through crosshatched iron bars, where an elf with a whip on one hip and a jagged falchion on the other peers down at you.

 "Welcome, slaves, to the first day of the rest of your lives. Many of you are now imagining how you might escape from this scenario. I encourage it. We have a traditional execution for the first to try. And for the most obedient prisoner, there is a surprise too - to be hurled into the sea before we leave the coast, and given a chance to swim back to land. Will it be you? Only you can make it happen." 

Then off he goes, to another hatch to repeat his speech to another pack of prisoners; and a dark door is slid shut over yours, plunging you into darkness.

You search in the dark for someone you know.  There must be more of the wolves down here, amidst the crying and fearful villagers; but you can only find the voice of Hrok.

 "That's the hard part done.  But that grate above us is higher than I'd hoped. There's nothing to stand on down here to leverage against it - nothing but people. Any ideas..?" 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
First: Give me a Challenging WP test, or take 1 Insanity Point from this frightful circumstance.

Then it's time to try to imagine a plan, to be executed later when you hear the packmaster's howl. You can improvise one helpful feature in the slave pen - a slightly cracked floor board, for example - to make a plan feasible.
 
 
bramblefoot
 

jorunn considers.  "we could move a floorboard up, pop the grate off, and then wait for the howl"  he offers.  "if you have any ideas, im all ears"  his keen eyes scan the darkness, and he begins to work at a floorboard with his fingers, prying up the floorboard, and moving it up towards the grate  "i got the floorboard off, now all we have to do is wait"  he says
MrAbdiel
 You wait.

Over the passing minutes, you locate the other members of the packs - another six in here with you, in a sea of other captives. Most are men; the warriors of the other villages who honored their defensive bonds and have paid with their incarceration.  They have been here for long enough they have had the fight largely whipped and abused out of them. If they are going to be any help in the fight to come, it will come only after the wolves have proved the fight can be won.

Then the familiar howl comes; the pack master saluting the white moon in the beginning of a chorus taken up by other lupine throats. Soon it's a cacophony of noises; howls from the wolves, screams from the confused prisoners trapped with them; battering, slamming against the steel hatching above; discontent shouting in eltharin between your captors.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Give me a strength check at +0 to break the hinge on the hatch with your lever. Failure by more than 20 means not only does the turn go by without success, but you break the board.

If you succeed, Hrok will spring into the gap and shift to pry it up for you. Jorunn can't see the scene right now, but you might as well expect there to be goons outside, so roll initiative!
 
 
bramblefoot
 

jorunn easily shifts the board to snap the latch, and lets hrok shift and tear open the grate. afterwards, jorunn will shift, and leap up through the grate, claws and teeth snapping

 (1d10+4)[ 7 ] 
MrAbdiel
 Once the lock pops, Hrok leaps. In the gloom you see him move frightfully fast - even as his legs are coiling to jump, his calves are swelling and his joints expanding, the change concentrating in his lower half first to aid his movements in real time. When his hands grab the edge of the hatch where you have lifted the grate, it's a bare second between the human fingers finding purchase and swelling lupine claws pushing and prying it up.

Your beast, too, has been restrained through this experience; made to wait, made to be patient. It hammers in your heartbeat, against the prison of your skin, demanding to be let off the chain. There is mastery here, if you can claim it; to focus that shift with speed and precision, like Hrok does, so you are not left vulnerable at the outset of a battle.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
And we're back! Before we resolve above, give me a Willpower roll, difficulty +20. If you succeed, you frenzy and shift immediately, instead of requiring a turn to do so.  Whether or not you master it right now, you can gain the talent:

  Werekin - Uncage the Beast:  - As a free action, you may spend a fortune point (that is, a temporary fate point) to immediately enter a Frenzy and shift to your werekin form. Free action though it may be, this cannot be performed outside of your turn. 
 
 
bramblefoot
roll wp &lt;70

 (1d100)[ 64 ] 
bramblefoot
 

jorunn easily shifts into his werebear form, and surges up after hrok, his clawlike fingers easily catching the wooden sides of the prison and hauling himself into the fresh salt air. he is ready for blood and death, his claws waiting to deal some damage

 (3d100)[ 36 ][ 71 ][ 64 ](171) 
 (1d10+6)[ 8 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 12 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 15 ] 
MrAbdiel
 The ursine fury floods through you and reaching up for the grate you find suddenly you don't need to jump at all - your body has grown and shifted almost seamlessly, much less jaggedly as in previous times; less clicking and cracking of the bones, swift enough that you are out on the deck of the dark elf ship just as the prisoners trapped with you begin gasping and shouting. Some are confused; but many recognize their strange wolf-blooded allies in their midst, and are feeling hope in the bleak moment.

Across the deck, you see the other hatches buckling up and yielding their Ulfwerenjar warriors. It's chaos - you have the drop on them, but the elves are quick to response, and your speed has bought you only the time you need to get to the deck before the elves about you have weapons ready. Hrok turns his attention to the hatch, roaring and bending back the metal so the other shifters can clamber out as well. For a moment, on this corner of the ship, it's just you, holding back the three corsairs swift enough to respond to you. They come at you with paired long blades, curved and cruel cutters; and two more of the elves are behind those with mechanical crossbows - but they have lost their chance to fire at you unimpeded because of your surge, and drop them to prepare swords as well.

You're fighting in the Beast's element, now; no axe or shield, no armor, no pretense of humanity. The leadmost elf wards off your blow with crossed swords, but you make him pay for it; raking your claws down and catching one of his wrists, opening a flowing wound and scattering the sword to the deck. There are reprisal blows from the other elves moving in, but you barely feel them; what is not wasted hacking at your thick fur is lost in the blood-rush of your frenzy.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 


In this pocket of the battlefield, you are holding the line against 5 elves. There's the one you rushed, two who move in and attack this turn as well, and two changing weapons to melee next turn.

The first guy parries your first attack, fails to dodge the second. He hits you once for 5 (down to zero from toughness) and rolls a 100 for the next one, losing his second weapon. The two offsiders, incredibly, miss.

Enemies:

Elf Corsair 1: (In Melee; Lost one sword; 8 wounds taken)
Elf Corsair 2: (In Melee; Fresh)
Elf Corsair 3: (In Melee; Fresh)
Elf Corsair 4: (Outside of Melee, Fresh)
Elf Corsair 3: (Outside of Melee, Fresh)

You're free to give them another full round fury.
 
 
bramblefoot
 

jorunn will let out a bellowing roar, and make three more attacks on the elves  "i will make you into mincemeat!"  he cackles, chopping away with all the restraint of a man whos seen his family die and sees no reason to live

 (3d100)[ 77 ][ 19 ][ 19 ](115) 
 (1d10+6)[ 9 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 12 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 15 ] 
MrAbdiel
  
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Rolls! Narrative pending, please stand by.

Dodge and a parry for the guy in front, and possibly a target behind:   vs58  - (1d100)[ 41 ]  and    51  - (1d100)[ 66 ] . Crit result to him as necessary:   (1d100)[ 20 ] .

 Attacks back! If the first guy survives, he draws a dagger and strikes once:

  vs  - (1d100)[ 28 ]  for   (1d10+3)[ 12 ]   He dodges the first hit, but disarmed as he is, he has no free parry for the second, and he's shredded with that crit roll. The other successful defense roll is therefore lost.

Then the next two who have moved in, two each, outnumbering 2:1 and needing 61:

  (1d100)[ 45 ]  for   (1d10+3)[ 6 ]  (A hit for 6 wounds, down to  1  for Toughness.)
  (1d100)[ 50 ]  for   (1d10+3)[ 9 ]  (A hit for 9 wounds, down to  4  for Toughness.)
  (1d100)[ 82 ]  for   (1d10+3)[ 5 ]  (A miss.)
  (1d100)[ 14 ]  for   (1d10+3)[ 13 ]  (A hit for 13 wounds, down to  8  for Toughness. Failed to confirm Khaine's Fury.)

And the last two move into combat this round, swinging once each at you, but now outnumbering you 3+:1 and needing 71.

  (1d100)[ 57 ]  for   (1d10+3)[ 5 ]  (A hit for 5, down to  0  from Toughness..)
  (1d100)[ 87 ]  for   (1d10+3)[ 11 ]  (A miss.)

Looks like three hits on you for 1, 4, and 8 after reductions my man. You may judiciously consider the use of a lucky charm. But also, with the killing of this elf, there are two hand weapons on the ground infront of you, if those interest you. You can quickdraw one up for free, but for a free parry, you'd have to spend a half action to pick up the other.

A fate point could buy that half action, and you could still swift attack this turn, as a suggestion. Or else just swift attack and sell your fate points forward trying to land hits and kills on these numpties to thin them out.

Confirmation rolls and extra damage rolls as required, top to bottom:

  (1d100)[ 84 ]  for  (1d10)[ 6 ] ,  (1d10)[ 7 ] ,  (1d10)[ 7 ] . (Fail.)
   (1d100)[ 9 ]  for  (1d10)[ 4 ] ,  (1d10)[ 3 ] ,  (1d10)[ 1 ] .
  (1d100)[ 20 ]  for  (1d10)[ 5 ] ,  (1d10)[ 1 ] ,  (1d10)[ 6 ] .
 
Hrok finishes ripping off the grate this turn.  The Ulfwerejar are on deck. They will engage next turn.
 


The elves are canny and slippery. The one before you weaves out of your crushing downward blow with liquid grace; but without his second weapon to create so much danger about his body, he is unable to stop the rising blow from sinking claws into his thigh and ripping upward so hard that he sails up and over his companions with a mortal shriek and a spray of arterial blood. One less elf - four more to go.

They surround you; the two closes flanking you on either side and slashing and slicing away at your furred hide, while the two who had abandoned their crossbows move in and join the fray with menacing feints on the other axis. You are in a killbox, with four opponents at the points of the 'x' and you at the middle. Focusing on any one of them is to permit the ones behind and beside you to strike with impunity; your only choice, even within the frenzy, is to lash about with huge, punishing arcs and using the momentum to carry yourself in a circle to keep yourself moving and threatening all directions. Dimly, you remember fighting the Imperial soldiers on Albion, along side your Tilean friends. The Tileans were masters of the pike, and a wall of them could keep an army at bay; but here and there in the great clash you saw veteran greatswordsmen of the Empire with their massive blades, laying about in great scything arcs and preventing many quicker opponents from closing. Your arms, unlike the steel of the greatsword, are vulnerable to strike; and the elves land multiple bloodletting strikes on you, as you keep yourself alive.

 "Jorunn!"  Hrok snarls, less articulate as his rage builds; but you interpret the tone alone to mean  hold on, help is coming. 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
If you can hold out for another turn, your allies will arrive to even the odds.
 
 
bramblefoot
 

jorunn will scoop up a pair of blades in his clawed hands, and make three attacks against the enemies  "i will make rugs out of your skins!"  he bellows madly, swinging away. two claw strikes hit, one much deeper than the other

 (3d100)[ 1 ][ 15 ][ 68 ](84) 
 (1d10+6)[ 8 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 16 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 12 ] 
 
 Spoiler: ooc 
i spent an fp to pick up a pair of blades
 
MrAbdiel
  
 Spoiler: Rolls! 
Narrative pending the rolls!

Nerve roll for the unsettling! These guys are veteran beast trappers, but I'll say the unsettling kicks in now that you've killed two.
  vs41  - (1d100)[ 62 ]  Fail - 10 to attacks.
  vs41  - (1d100)[ 94 ]  Fail - 10 to attacks.
  vs41  - (1d100)[ 80 ]  Fail - 10 to attacks.

Attack 1.1   vs71  - (1d100)[ 8 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 12 ]  Hits for 12, down to 7.
Attack 1.2   vs71  - (1d100)[ 57 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 8 ]  Hits for 8, down to 3.
Attack 2.1   vs71  - (1d100)[ 95 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 11 ]  Miss.
Attack 2.2   vs71  - (1d100)[ 92 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 5 ]  Miss.
Attack 3.1   vs71  - (1d100)[ 68 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 4 ]  Misses due to unsettling.
Attack 3.2   vs71  - (1d100)[ 81 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 5 ]  Miss.

After which Hrok will charge in, evening things up a bit.

Hrok Attack 1   vs62  - (1d100)[ 15 ]  for  (1d10+5)[ 14 ] 

Confirmations for furies as required:

 (1d100)[ 28 ]  for  (1d10)[ 1 ] 
 (1d100)[ 41 ]  for  (1d10)[ 10 ] 
 (1d100)[ 49 ]  for  (1d10)[ 6 ] 
 (1d100)[ 3 ]  for  (1d10)[ 2 ] 
 (1d100)[ 8 ]  for  (1d10)[ 7 ] 

That leaves Jorunn, bloodied but unbowed, on 1/19 wounds! Heavilly wounded, but not yet crit.

He has killed two elves. Of the three that remained, Hrok has crunked one for 8 wounds, and he ain't happy.
 


Savagely, you hack into the elves. Their blades are light and well made, though more made to slash and slice than chop and hack as you are used to. With a roar of exertion, you see your opportunity to thin the enemy number and lunge at one of those surrounding you, blowing past his guard with one sword and shearing up through his ribcage with the other, so that he sags bonelessly back on the deck. Quickly you round to swing behind you, but not quick enough; you feel the steel sinking into your flesh; past the muscle and into the well of your guy, carving organs and spilling your humors and blood into each other. The man-mind in you can hope that shifting back into your human form later will right some of this wrong; but for now, the beast is in highest demand, and you defy the creeping cold spreading from the stab-wounds in your back as best you can.

Hrok answers the offense against you, roaring into combat to guard your back and raking his claws viciously across the chest of your attacker; only the scaled sea-dragon cloak saves him from a disemboweling blow. Nonetheless, now your packmate his here, snatching up one of the second fallen elf's blades to hand as he goes back to back with you in the sea of danger. This is a more winnable fight - two of you, versus three of them. You can guard against one-and-a-half enemies well enough; and the elves know it, their engagement becoming more hesitant as they consider, perhaps, prioritizing their own lives.

Elsewhere on the ship, similar scenes are playing out. Ulfwerejar are crawling out of the prisoner pens in twos and threes and making heroic stands while their packs assemble, and the braver of the mere human captives take up fallen weapons and make efforts of their own. Now your packmates and brother-packs have made it to the deck, it's a matter of blood - yours, or theirs, for dominance of the space.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
1/19 wounds is not a fun place to be, but you've staved off crits so far and now the remaining enemies will not be getting their outnumbering bonus against you or Hrok. Your turn to swing!
 
 
bramblefoot
 

jorunn grunts as the blade spears him in the gut, and will roar to make three more attacks. hes flagging, but the beast keeps him upright and fighting.  "bring it on knife-ears!"  he roars, chopping away madly.  "i will make this ship into your grave!" 
 (3d100)[ 93 ][ 14 ][ 53 ](160) 
 (1d10+6)[ 10 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 15 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 13 ] 
MrAbdiel
  
 Spoiler: Rolls! 
Narrative pending.

Parry and Dodge are 41 and 58 respectively while shaken. Two defenses:  (1d100)[ 57 ]  and  (1d100)[ 21 ] . The first is a failed parry on the guy who already failed to dodge Hrok. The second would be successful, but Jorunn needs both his attacks to kill this guy, so the successful defence is wasted.

Recover from Unsettling:
   vs41  - (1d100)[ 93 ]  (wounded guy) (Fail) 
  vs41  - (1d100)[ 94 ]  (Fail)
  vs41  - (1d100)[ 84 ]  (Fail)

Two guys on Jorunn (or one if the first one dies)

 1.1  vs51  - (1d100)[ 61 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 9 ] 
1.2  vs51  - (1d100)[ 71 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 8 ]   This guy is killed by Jorunn before he swings again.
2.1  vs51  - (1d100)[ 67 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 11 ]  Miss.
2.2  vs51  - (1d100)[ 6 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 13 ]  This would have been a Khaine's Fury and almost certainly killed Jorunn but it is parried. Good call picking up those swords!

on Hrok:

3.1  vs51  - (1d100)[ 69 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 12 ]  Miss.
3.2  vs51  - (1d100)[ 80 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 6 ]  Miss.

Hrok strikes back:

  vs52  - (1d100)[ 94 ]  for  (1d10+5)[ 14 ]  Miss.
  vs52  - (1d100)[ 87 ]  for  (1d10+5)[ 12 ]  Miss.
  vs52  - (1d100)[ 75 ]  for  (1d10+5)[ 9 ]  Miss.

And quickdraws up another sword.
 


The tide turns.

Your tear into the elf that Hrok has opened up for you, carving into one arm and sending him spinning back and to the deck with a backhanded blow from your fist. The force of his tumble sends one of his curved swords, red with your blood, skittering over the edge of the boat and into the ocean. After this, you might just send its former owner after it. You're quick enough still that you catch a murderous upward cut towards your inner thigh in the cross of your stolen blades - a blow that would have likely emptied the last of your blood from you. Hrok claims another sword and goes blow for blow with the other elf; now it's two of you, and two of them, and they are shouting to each other in Eltharin, trying to disengage - but there's nowhere to run. The landing craft you were brought in on are being fought over by other wolves against forward thinking elves already - and they, too, seem to be winning.

Behind you, at the aftcastle where you cannot afford to look as you fight for your life, you hear Tryggvi.

 "No masts and no oars, and no wheel to steer - how do they drive this boat?!" 

A mystery you cannot spare a thought to, as the fourth elf in your war, as perfectly capable of ending your life as the last ones were, braces for your violence. 
bramblefoot
 

jorunn barely manages to parry the blade that aims at his inner thigh, and will make three more attacks on the elves around him.  "prepare to meet your maker!"  he bellows, swinging wildly

[rolllv]3d100[/rollv]

 (1d10+6)[ 13 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 10 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 10 ] 

parry

 (1d100)[ 5 ] 
MrAbdiel
  
 Spoiler: OOC: Rolls! 
Narrative pending, of course.

Defenses from the two hits:   vs58  - (1d100)[ 38 ]  dodge (Success), and   vs41  - (1d100)[ 52 ]  parry (Fail).

Recovery from Unsettling:
  vs41  - (1d100)[ 31 ]  Recovers
  vs41  - (1d100)[ 65 ]  Fails.

Attacks!

1.1  vs51  - (1d100)[ 89 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 11 ]  Miss.
1.2  vs51  - (1d100)[ 93 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 6 ]  Miss.
2.1  vs51  - (1d100)[ 89 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 5 ]  Miss.
2.2  vs51  - (1d100)[ 2 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 10 ]  Hit, but parried.

Hrok 'n Roll

  vs52  - (1d100)[ 45 ]  for  (1d10+5)[ 11 ] 
  vs52  - (1d100)[ 37 ]  for  (1d10+5)[ 8 ] 
  vs52  - (1d100)[ 64 ]  for  (1d10+5)[ 13 ] 
 


You thrash another cutting blow across one of the elves, and it's clear to them now there is no winning this. The return blow you easily enough parry, and Hrok darts past in the opening you create to land two strikes of his own as you rotate and change opponents. It's the two of you against two elves, one badly wounded - and his uninjured 'friend' makes his move, shoving the injured elf forward into your killing blow and breaking from the combat to weave back across the ship through the brawl. That gives you a moment catch your breath - but of course, that's not good enough for the beast, and you and Hrok join the other combats.

It's a rout. The prisoners have defended three of the boarding ships, and the elves have taken one and pushed it out with their survivors. As the opportunity to brawl on the deck diminishes, the wolves are reverting their man-forms and fumbling with the dropped elven crossbows, trying to work out their bizarre foreign machinery to fire at the fleeing corsairs. Some of the elves haven't made it to the boat at all; they hurl themselves into the freezing water and take their chances, swimming after their companions who show no sign of slowing for them. Victory howls are going up all over the deck; and you are gratified to see the Packmaster, Tryggvi and Bard conferring at the rear of the ship where the wheels should be.

 "They must move it by their magics - it might have been nice to take the ship itself, but we have the oar-boats, and that will do."  The Packmaster gives the call to the  swarm of elated skinchangers and their shellshocked human wards who have just narrowly escaped one of the worst fates imaginable. As the man-form takes you again and the beast retreats, Hrok looks at the wound in your back.

 "Bleeding well; but I see no discoloured fluid. The shift may have saved your life; swallowed the damage in the form change. But now you need somewhere safe to rest and take medicine, brother bear." 


But no rest is available for you. As pain flashes through your arm, you look down at your claw - well, the hand that had been your claw moments before - and feel the strobing ache of the mysterious brand flaring hot in your blood.

The ship shudders, and tilts suddenly port; and stays tilted. The landing boat on the starboard side batters the side of the ship and spools into the water with the movement; the two on the port are shoved into the water and start to tilt and threaten to capsize, forcing the desperate survivors to cut the lines to free them. In all cases, the boats are now free in the water; and those survivors who had not boarded are forced to swim to them. Those, that is, who aren't sent tumbling ass over head down the tilted deck into the water on the port side.

 "Get to the boats!" , the Packmaster roars as he slides down the deck on his heels and one palm,  "Now!"
 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
I'll take an Agility roll at challenging +0 (not to tumble into the water.) If you pass that, you can take plus 20 on an otherwise challenging +0 swim check to get to one of the landing boats to escape.

If you fail that, you may have to rely on one of your companions to save you!
 
 
bramblefoot
 

jorunn, gravely wounded as he is, manages to slide down the tilting boat, and makes it to the landing barge with time to spare. hes hefted aboard, and lays down on the boat, panting like hes just run a marathon.  "remind me to never tangle with druchii again"  he hisses to himself
MrAbdiel
 The blast of cold water shocks away the fatigue from your limbs, and you haul yourself through the cold toward the boat. The salt stings your wounds, but it doesn't quench the burning in your hand. It's heavier, somehow; swimming with that arm is like paddling with a lead gauntlet on. It wants you to go down; and for a moment, you do go beneath the surface. There, you see the druchii ship's propulsion; and not only that.

A massive creature is strapped to the ship's keep under the water, the likes you have never seen before; with a body like a whale but a long, sinuous neck that ends in a head like a shark's. The mauled and shredded bodies of druchii who dived off the deck early float nearby in clouds of red, markers of revenge for the sea monster's captivity. The ship is more chariot than sailing vessel; the monster certainly able to haul the vessel through deep and far waters regardless of wind or storm. Norscan whalers are excellent monster hunters, and you have heard tales of grand excursions over the water to slay leviathans and sea dragons that required the lives and harpoons of many men. But to take one alive? Not only alive, but to train it? Not just train, but  domesticate , to pull a ship like an ox might a ploy? What profane mastery of beasts these elves have - and how little hope the mere men they capture, to retain any sense of themselves. But even the mighty sea creature is not going to escape this encounter alive.

A great cloud of green crusted silver chains stretch up from the darkness of the deep, snarling around the monster's flippers, and neck, and punching into the sides of the ship. Some are taut, like those which are responsible for the tilting of the ship; others drift with strange weightlessness like grand fronds of seaweed, but cinching eventually tight around the ship and its hauling beast. The monster bites at the chains, severs some, breaks some teeth; but its no use. It, and the vessel, are being pulled down into the dark. You hear a sound that is hard to describe to others - the pitiful subaquatic whine of a massive predator who is for the first time being made to be prey - before you clap your hand on the side of the landing boat and a pair of the captives you freed pull you aboard. The three boats of escapees look back as the chains snake up and around the whole hull of the ship; and with a tremendous crunch, the whole hull implodes and is drawn under the water with such force that a brief whirlpool drags the escaping boats a few dozen feet backward before they are able to paddle away from the following lull. Everyone else is alarmed by this; the joy of freedom tempered by the supernatural coda from which you have narrowly escaped. But you are not so confused.

A clear and inexplicable instinct confirms that this, like broken parts of the ship you have found inland, like the strange return of your axe and shield from the deep, is sourced in your old foe. The ancient body the Tileans were bringing back from Albion, which dragged poor Aran into the dark before your eyes, has made itself known again. How it detects you at all, what magic powers it, is still a mystery you are yet to unravel; but you can be grateful it can't do so with precision. It pitches these reality bending fragments of its own demise out at you in drunkard's volley; powerful but inaccurate. This time, it has worked to your advantage, destroying the ship the druchii would certainly come to reclaim. But how long until it finds you?

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Gain 200 Experience for the grand emancipation scheme.
 


The strange happening puts a damper on celebrations when you get back to land, but you weren't much for dancing after such a brawl. The freed survivors set to journey inland and shelter in other villages until the elves have returned whence they came; then they will return to rebuild their lives. The packs spent one night encamped together, and those who made it through the endevour in riotous celebration; dancing about a great bonfire, howling to the the names of the wolves killed on the ship so that Old Jormung, King Death, knows to look for them in the water save their spirits from the teeth of Straamval, lord of the deep places.

You, however, sit on from the sidelines. Five of the other Ulfwerenjar were as badly wounded as you in the fighting, and are graced to rest at the side, eat and drink your fill, without straining yourselves in the rite. Bard is among them, and you wile away the night telling stories of your individual battles. A warrior named Ivarr is up.

 "Once, campaigning down near Kislev, my warband was part of a host raiding the towns around Praag. We had a brokered deal with the rats in the area to divide the domain to not trip over each other; but they broke the deal on the second night, and we had to fight them under the green moon. They have those monster-rats, you know? The ones the size of trolls that they sewn together and drive insane with the wyrdstone. A pack of them broke out line and then it was total bedlam. They're insensible to pain; anything other than cutting open the heart to let out the blood or piercing the brain and they keep clawing. My axe got stuck in the shoulder of one, and it picked me up and whipped me against the ground. I blacked out, but woke up with my arm buried to the elbow in its chest. That was my first change - well timed, I guess." 

Then you're up. The wolves from the other packs here are trusting of you - you fought together after all - but unsure how to categorize you. They don't know you as 'brother bear' like Bard and the others do, yet; and they are particularly interested in your stories.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
You don't have to roll storytelling for this; not unless you're planning to make something up, or embellish details dramatically! But a story from Jorunn's perspective for the other wounded warriors is called for.
 
 
bramblefoot
 

jorunn will relax, and tell the story of his encounter with khazanaak the blue

 "so there i was, having slain the ogre that guarded the dragon, when i picked up the hammer and was frozen in place! the dragons eye looked at me, and i talked him out of eating me. unfortunately i was not allowed to leave with the hammer, but i persuaded a dragon, and i highly doubt any of you can top that" 

satisfied with his story, he'll lounge back and let the next person tell his story
MrAbdiel
  "You saw a true wyrm? Interesting. Creatures of terrible power - fit only for legends to slay, and I know none living who make the claim. It is a feat of cunning to escape alive,"  Ivarr suggests. Given that you recently escaped alive from the Druchii, it would be hard for anyone to call that less than a worthy deed.

 "I heard,"  begins one of the she-wolves who nurses a mangled but set arm, in a sling,  "that there are  draugr  in the southern lands that think with clear minded cunning and drink the blood of men to warm themselves -  wempyr,  they are called. My father told that one of his raider companions claimed to have met one up in the the Skadi mountains, in the Aesling realm. He came seeking dragons, he said. The wempyr do not like Norsca for the gods despise them, but to drink the blood of a dragon is to drink its fire, and never need warm blood again. He went up into the mountains, and no one saw him return. Perhaps he found his dragon - perhaps the dragon found him." 

Takes of dragons and  wempyr  roll on for a while, and those mobile enough to dance do dance themselves out; and some steal off in mate pairs into the snow to celebrate their life. You notice your Packmaster look on this with disapproval, even if he does not intervene. None of your pack indulges that way this evening, and however revered he is among the other packs, he is not their king.

There is evening, there is morning; you part ways in peace with the other packs.

 * * * * * 
It takes two weeks of rest for you to feel mostly like yourself. During that time you are excused from hunting; the pack takes care of your immediate needs, and you have time to work on your carving. You are mobile and able to participate again in time, though the wound in your back remains tender.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Recover up to 10/14 Wounds.
 


Events do not permit you to wait until you are fully rested, however.

Bard comes to where you rest. The lanky, tattooed warrior holds a fistful of snow, red with frozen blood, and holds it out to you.  "Smell it?" 

You do. Your nose, your  man  nose, tells you it's blood, and not quite human. But the beast fills in the gaps: wolf blood.

 "It's your little friend's, I think. No other wolves lurk that close to our den; the packs keep a respectful distance. Not a lot of blood; but there's a streak and then it fades to drops. Snatched up and carried away, I think. What do you owe that wolf, Jorunn? Enough to chase?"  He looks back over his shoulder. You can hear cold wind whipping up and singing at the cavemouth around the corner - a snowstorm comes, soon. Venturing out with the storm so close is a risk to you, and any of your packmates who follow; but to abandon Aegis to his fate...

 "What do you think? If we're going, the sooner, the better."  
bramblefoot
 

jorunn will rise, and head out into the snow  "aegis means a lot to me. i knew him before the others, though not by much"  he says calmly  we should find him, and return before the snow hits" 
MrAbdiel
 Hrok, Bard, and Tryggvi scramble quickly. Even the Packmaster is roused to brave the snow with you. Earlier when Aegis had tried to buy his way in, he had been denied despite his tie to you; but the pack values loyalty and persistence both in you and the lupine.

The tracking is hard going. Whatever snatched him up is travelling in bursts of flight, and there is no contiguous path to follow. You are forced to find a droplet of blood and a scuff of ground where the abductor and prey have landed breifly, then scatter in five directions looking for the next sign. All the while, the wind is changing direction and blowing the scent about; and snow threatens to cover the path for good.

The packmaster dispatches your packmates into the growling snow, and you watch them shift form as they vanish into the white looking for the next trace.  "Time is your enemy here, Jorunn; as it so often is for all of us. You must learn here, now, what I had hoped would come naturally more slowly. You must master the beast entirely." 

This is something you might not have thought possible before you met the Packmaster, who strides about and lives in his 'frenzy' form as comfortably as if he were born to it.

 "You need it senses, but you cannot feed it the blood and violence it needs to remain at the fore. The trade off is often fire. But the truth is this: we conceptualize the beast, and speak of it, like a spirit that lives in our heart and overtakes us, or does what we force it to do. This is philosophy. The truth has always been that the beast is you, and always has been. The killing and rage are yours; the claws and nose of the bear are your gift, not a parasite. Take on the bear. The bear is you." 

Then he dashes off into the snow, leaving you in the white-blind circle of wind with ice crystals forming on your skin.

You reach within.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Make a Willpower roll at Challenging. If you fail, lose 1 wound (ignoring toughness and armor) to the cold, and make the test again at +5.

If you fail again, lose 2 wounds to the cold and make the test again and +10.

Continue this way, incrementing by 1 wound and +5 to the Willpower test each time, until you succeed, or die.

If you survive, gain the following talent:


  Become the Beast:  When you frenzy and take your werebear form, you may spend a Fate Point for the day to suppress all negative effects of the Frenzy for 10 minutes. These include:

The stat penalties (-10 Int, -10 WP, -20 Fel), but not the bonuses.
The demand to charge or swift attack every turn.
The inability to access your 'human' skills and talents (including  Dodge Blow ).

In a case where your werebear form and human form both possess the same skill, while you are  Becoming the Beast , these are cumulative trainings. I.E, being trained in Concealment would add with the werebear's concealment to function as Concealment +10. Conversely, if you have Concealment +20, there is nothing the werebear's Concealment skill can add to it.

After 10 minutes, you one again return to 'normal' frenzy unless you spend another FP to maintain this state of enlightened bestialism. 

After that, you can make me a Follow Trail check. Call it +0.
 
 
bramblefoot
 

jorunn will wait in the snow, and try to summon the beast. he feels the wind howl, and the ice crystals coalesce on his human skin. he tries once, twice, and on the third time, his form expands, and he feels truly alive for the first time. his senses are battering rams, easily piercing the driving snow, and he will lope after the packmaster, checking for scent and blood trails.  i feel alive!  he exults silently, and will keep checking for scent and blood trails of aegis
MrAbdiel
  
 Spoiler: OOC: 
You are at 12/19 Wounds.
 


It's like suddenly figuring out how to swim after an age of carefully controlled drowning. Your nose contends with the swirling air for fragments of scent. When you pick it up from multiple directions, you aren't overwhelmed with the complexity - your man-mind, your hunter instincts, warn you against haste, and between you and the werewolves with you, you spend the next eight minutes eliminating directions you could go and settling on the one you do, pounding together up the craggy slope of the mountain that looms north of the pack's cave. And up on the jagged cliff is a crack in the rock, and within that crack you smell the blood of your small lupine friend, and feathers, and beast-scent.

 "It's that griffon you saw, months ago,"  the Packmaster concludes as your pack hunkers outside the cave and prepares to rush in.  "But it's wrong, now. It should have made a bigger mess - it shouldn't have an instinct to take prey alive, and we found no mess commensurate to a kill. Be fast, and wary." 

Then the five of you rush though, the dark peeling back before your night-eyes. They prowl forward in lunging hops on palms and feet; your bear-man form is no so sleekly weighted, but you keep up at the rear with your your greater mass, dropping to fours on uneven ground and upright on flat straights until you burst into a warm interior cavern. It's lit by the dim glow of lava trickling down one wall and draining away into cavity in the floor. Brickwork fencing off this liquid rock strikes you immediately as dwarven, based on your brief time exploring ruins of the shortfolk's structures; and scattered broken tools and furniture mark this room as some long-gone hermit's secret forge. Now it is a nest, with its primary occupant brooding against the back wall. The hulking form of the griffin jerks its head up at your pack storming in, disturbing the young suckling at its udder. But quickly, the young pivot and shriek at you, and it's clear they aren't right either.

The griffin is badly mutated; a third, vestigial wing flaps uselessly behind the greater one on the left, and the claws on that side (both eagle and lion) are twisted into long, sharp, cloven hooves. But more disturbing are the young, which are daemonic looking, bat-human monstrosities whose faces drip with blood and milk. You see no sign of Aegis; but there is no advancing past this threat.

 "Kill the young, then join me on the mother!"  the packmaster coordinates rapidly, and you all plunge forth into the battle.

 
 Spoiler 
Initiative time!

  Packmaster  - (1d10+5)[ 10 ] 
  Hrok  - (1d10+4)[ 7 ] 
  Bard  - (1d10+4)[ 5 ] 
  Tryggvi  - (1d10+4)[ 7 ] 
  Chaos Furies  - (1d10+4)[ 7 ] 
  MutantGriffin  - (1d10+5)[ 15 ] 

At the beginning of every pack member's turn, they'll take terror test against the Griffin. Frenzy doesn't make you immune to psychology it seems; but it does supply you with that inherent WP bonus, so that's something.

If you beat all the others here in initiative, you can go right away.
 
 
bramblefoot
 

jorunn will charge one of the demon furies, narrowly missing as he slips on the ice

 (1d100)[ 72 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 12 ] 
MrAbdiel
  
 Spoiler: Actions and Rolls 
Narrative pending outcomes.

Mutant Griffon moves up, prepares an action to attack first comer.
Packmaster is fearless
Packmaster charges Griffin.
Griffon's attack goes off:   vs50  - (1d100)[ 100 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 7 ] .
Packmaster dodge:   vs50  - (1d100)[ 49 ] 
Packmaster attack:    vs60  - (1d100)[ 20 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 12 ] 
Hrok is Terrified.
Tryggvi is Terrified.
All 4 furies move up and prepare actions to attack someone who charges.
Jorunn charges.
Fury1 Responds:   vs35  - (1d100)[ 53 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 5 ] 
Bard charges.
Fury2 Responds:   vs35  - (1d100)[ 24 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 14 ] 
Bard Attacks:    vs60  - (1d100)[ 62 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 13 ] 

Next Turn

Griffin Swift Attacks:
  vs50  - (1d100)[ 80 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 12 ] .
  vs50  - (1d100)[ 32 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 14 ] .
  vs50  - (1d100)[ 30 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 9 ] .
  vs50  - (1d100)[ 52 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 9 ] .
Packmaster dodges:   vs50  - (1d100)[ 86 ] .
Packmaster full defences.

Jorunn's Turn.
 


The packmaster explodes forth, and he and the griffon rake past each other with a flash of claws; the wolf scoring the deeper blow, but having less depth to spare, before adopting a defensive posture to wait for the pack to saw through the 'chicks' and assist in the greater kill. But as the furies dash forward, you and Bard are the only wolves that make immediate contact - Tryggvi and Hrok hesitate as the enormous form of the griffon rampages near. The mutation they are used to - it's part and parcel of living so close to the Wastes. But the sheer mass and animal violence of the creature was terrible indeed; much larger than a bear, smaller than mammoth but so much swifter and deadlier. In the meantime, your opposing fury fails to lay its claws on you - a fumbling, minor daemonic thing that is more in your way than it is a real opponent. If you all attacked the griffon, they might have done real damage attacking from behind (You know that for true, after the dark elves); but for now, they are a nuisance to strike down. But Bard's opponent lands a genuine, deep slash down his front that draws a gurgling growl from him - he is hurt, but not felled!

 
 Spoiler 
Jorunn's turn! You may swift attack now, if you like.
 
 
bramblefoot
 

jorunn will make three attacks against the chaos fury, hoping to drop it. two goods blows zip in, but the humdinger zips high and wide

 (3d100)[ 40 ][ 94 ][ 39 ](173) 
 (1d10+6)[ 12 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 16 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 8 ] 
MrAbdiel
  
 Spoiler: Rolls! 

Hrok remains terrified.

Tryggvi charges Fury 3.
Fury 3 responds:   vs35  - (1d100)[ 50 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 11 ] 
Tryggvi charge:   vs60  - (1d100)[ 100 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 10 ] 

Fury 1 swings at Jorunn:   vs35  - (1d100)[ 8 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 6 ] 
Fury 2 swings at Bard:    vs35  - (1d100)[ 52 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 6 ] 
Bard Dodge:   vs40  - (1d100)[ 15 ] 
Fury 3 swings at Tryggvi:    vs35  - (1d100)[ 42 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 12 ] 
Tryggvi Dodge:   vs40  - (1d100)[ 95 ] 
Fury 4 charges Bard:    vs45  - (1d100)[ 48 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 12 ] 

Bard Swift Attacks Fury 2:   vs50  - (1d100)[ 94 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 8 ] 
  vs50  - (1d100)[ 3 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 7 ] 
  vs50  - (1d100)[ 22 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 7 ] 

Griffin' Swiftin'.

  vs30  - (1d100)[ 64 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 11 ] 
  vs30  - (1d100)[ 65 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 12 ] 
  vs30  - (1d100)[ 95 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 10 ] 
  vs30  - (1d100)[ 66 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 7 ] 
Packmaster dodge:   vs50  - (1d100)[ 87 ]  and then full defence.

Narrative pending.
 


Claws flash, and blood flies. The Packmaster has gotten his measure of the griffon now, and makes darting circular movements about it forcing it to pace and shift, spoiling its opportunities to attack that would cleave through less skilled men. He gives up his chances to strike to persist longer, awaiting the full pack's rejoining - though that seems slow to manifest.

Hrok struggles at the edge of the combat. Tryggvi musters up a gutteral bark and rushes in with a tackle on one of the furies that nearly sends him sprawling, but he retains the moxie and devotion to scramble back his feet and keep threatening while you and Bard duel your own foes. But Hrok, at that moment, can't bring himself to charge his mark and expose his side to the massive, slashing griffon; and in doing so, the fourth fury throws itself at the most vulnerable of the wolves, Bard. The big warrior barely slips the raking demon claws, but now is holding off two enemies, one in front and one behind -  the wound in your back, still not recovered completely, throbs in memory of your own surrounding  - but so far, Bard is managing, even if he is bleeding freely.

You go back and forth with your own opponent, your best blow singing by and failing to make contact and your lesser swipes carving furrows in the daemonflesh. Its reprisal catches you turning in you favor and barely draws blood at all - and startlingly, whatever profane force is permitting it to remain in this realm seems affronted by its failing to give as good as it got. It falls apart, like a sculpture made of dust in a hurricane you can't feel; wisping away into yowling nothing and leaving you standing free to charge and engage a new opponent.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Packmaster holding out with the big boy.

Hrok struggling to pass is terror rolls.

Tryggvi dueling Fury 3.

Bard dueling Fury 2 and 4.

You are unengaged and free to charge.
 
 
bramblefoot
 

jorunn will charge the demon fury on bard, his claws flashing. he just barely misses, and growls

 (1d100)[ 80 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 14 ] 
MrAbdiel
  
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Rolls! Narrative pending.

Hrok FINALLY passes his Terror roll and charges the same guy Jorunn charged. That brawl is now a 3 on 4.

  HrokVsFury4vs60  - (1d100)[ 8 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 14 ] 

Tryggvi Swift attacks Fury3.

  HrokVsFury3vs50  - (1d100)[ 81 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 7 ] 
  HrokVsFury3vs50  - (1d100)[ 2 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 13 ] 
  HrokVsFury3vs50  - (1d100)[ 77 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 10 ] 

Fury banishments as required:

 (1d100)[ 78 ] 
 (1d100)[ 54 ] 
  Fury2VsBardVs35  - (1d100)[ 100 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 12 ] 
  Fury2VsBardVs35  - (1d100)[ 90 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 12 ] 
  Fury4VsBardVs35  - (1d100)[ 54 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 11 ] 
  Fury4VsBardVs35  - (1d100)[ 19 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 12 ] 
  DodgeVs40  - (1d100)[ 68 ] 
  BardVsFury2vs50  - (1d100)[ 85 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 14 ] 
  BardVsFury2vs50  - (1d100)[ 60 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 11 ] 
  BardVsFury2vs50  - (1d100)[ 28 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 12 ] 

Mutant Griffon, having missed so much, All Out Attacks.

  GriffonVs50  - (1d100)[ 10 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 13 ] 
  PackmasterDodgeVs50  - (1d100)[ 77 ] 

Packmaster Full Defenses.

Confirmations and extra damage as required:

  Confirmation1  - (1d100)[ 79 ]  for  (1d10)[ 7 ] 
  Confirmation2  - (1d100)[ 49 ]  for  (1d10)[ 9 ] 
  Confirmation3  - (1d100)[ 69 ]  for  (1d10)[ 3 ] 
  Confirmation4  - (1d100)[ 10 ]  for  (1d10)[ 7 ] 
  Confirmation5  - (1d100)[ 16 ]  for  (1d10)[ 9 ] 
 


Bard staggers back under the weight of the attacks on him. A fury's claws catch him at the navel and rake down just avoiding his groin and scoring bloody lines over his thigh; the blood runs thick and fresh, and he begins to flag. But soon you're there to level the numbers in that attack, and even though your target dances back from your charging blow, your courage seems to have broken the paralysis on Hrok and now your full pack is committed to the assault. Hrok's blow is so fierce that the struck fury stumbles and skids along the ground before hopping back to its feet and recommitting to attack Bard; but Bard uses the time to swipe hard at the other which bursts into vanishing warp vapors as the dark gods retract their license to be. Tryggvi, contending with his opponent alone, bears it to the ground and mauls it to a similar fate, and suddenly it's four of you crowded around the one battered, but still fighting Fury. But Bard is badly hurt - one more blow from those daemonclaws, and he may be more than injured.

Nearby, the packmaster continues his shifting defense, but the griffon grows agitated; and shrieks its hatred with ear-raking pitch. It gives up its flurred of smaller strikes and throws its full body at its enemy, staggering him and opening his defence for a mightly claw that rips down the side of his face and leaves fur, flesh, and blood hanging in tatters. He can only maintain this defence for so long. 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
You're up! You are in combat with the last Fury, which is also almost dead. Bard and Hrok are in there with you right now, so you get a +20 for 3:1 Gangup.
 
bramblefoot
 

jorunn will attempt to finish off the demon fury. he gets in one good humdinger, and another chintzy little blow,but the third misses just barely.  "go help the packmaster"  he barks at hrok and bard

 (3d100)[ 73 ][ 74 ][ 88 ](235) 
 (1d10+6)[ 16 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 9 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 16 ] 
MrAbdiel
  
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Bard holds. He's badly wounded, so he'll catch his breath rather than risk getting struck charging in.

  vs30vsPackmaster  - (1d100)[ 70 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 12 ] 
  vs30vsPackmaster  - (1d100)[ 43 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 7 ] 
  vs30vsPackmaster  - (1d100)[ 48 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 10 ] 
  vs30vsPackmaster  - (1d100)[ 97 ]  for  (1d10+6)[ 10 ] 
  Vs50PackmasterDodge  - (1d100)[ 4 ] .

Packmaster full defenses.

Hrok charges.   vs60vsGriffon  - (1d100)[ 26 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 12 ] 
Tryggvi charges.   vs60vsGriffon  - (1d100)[ 44 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 7 ] 

Narrative Pending.

No wounds against your team this turn; the griffon takes some damage. Next turn it's going to start copping swift attacks, so it's burn-down time!
 


The fury shrieks, but finally its footing stumbles and your opporunity comes; clapping your clawed hands together over your head into a single massive fist and slamming it down with a bonebreaking hammerblow that leaves the remnants of the daemon smoking away to aether. The others are free, now; though Bard halts for a moment, holding his slashed body and mustering his strength, as Tryggvi and Hrok charge into the fray. Now your packmates outnumber the beast, and the opening blows land well; formidable as it its, it will be forced to divide its attention between you all, or expose itself to savage reprisal. Its tainted blood is running, and now it's your turn to spill some. 
bramblefoot
 

jorunn will charge the griffon. his claws take a small chunk of flesh off the griffon, and he bellows jubilantly

 (1d100)[ 70 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 8 ] 
 (1d100)[ 42 ] 
MrAbdiel
  
 Spoiler: OOC: Pack attacks! 
Narrative pending.

Hrok swift attacks, outnumbering for +20.

  vs70  - (1d100)[ 84 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 11 ] 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: If a Fury... 
  vs70Confirm  - (1d100)[ 76 ]  for  (1d10)[ 3 ] , (1d10)[ 7 ] , (1d10)[ 7 ] 
 

  vs70  - (1d100)[ 87 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 9 ] 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: If a Fury... 
  vs70Confirm  - (1d100)[ 56 ]  for  (1d10)[ 9 ] , (1d10)[ 3 ] , (1d10)[ 4 ] 
 

  vs70  - (1d100)[ 61 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 6 ] 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: If a Fury... 
  vs70Confirm  - (1d100)[ 4 ]  for  (1d10)[ 3 ] , (1d10)[ 1 ] , (1d10)[ 1 ] 
 


Tryggvi swift attacks, outnumbering +20

  vs70  - (1d100)[ 97 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 6 ] 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: If a Fury... 
  vs70Confirm  - (1d100)[ 60 ]  for  (1d10)[ 2 ] , (1d10)[ 10 ] , (1d10)[ 7 ] 
 

  vs70  - (1d100)[ 53 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 14 ] 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: If a Fury... 
  vs70Confirm  - (1d100)[ 67 ]  for  (1d10)[ 4 ] , (1d10)[ 3 ] , (1d10)[ 8 ] 
 

  vs70  - (1d100)[ 94 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 5 ] 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: If a Fury... 
  vs70Confirm  - (1d100)[ 37 ]  for  (1d10)[ 7 ] , (1d10)[ 4 ] , (1d10)[ 1 ] 
 


Bard charges, outnumbering +20

  vs80  - (1d100)[ 31 ]  for  (1d10+4)[ 7 ] 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: If a Fury... 
  vs70Confirm  - (1d100)[ 49 ]  for  (1d10)[ 9 ] , (1d10)[ 1 ] , (1d10)[ 7 ] 
 


Griffon, if still alive, swift attacks - one to everyone who isn't the packmaster.

  vs50Hrok  - (1d100)[ 27 ]  for  (1d10+5)[ 12 ] 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: If a Fury... 
  vs50Confirm  - (1d100)[ 90 ]  for  (1d10)[ 4 ] , (1d10)[ 10 ] , (1d10)[ 10 ] 
 

  vs50Jorunn  - (1d100)[ 34 ]  for  (1d10+5)[ 15 ] 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: If a Fury... 
  vs50Confirm  - (1d100)[ 6 ]  for  (1d10)[ 10 ] , (1d10)[ 2 ] , (1d10)[ 1 ] 
 

  vs50Tryggvi  - (1d100)[ 58 ]  for  (1d10+5)[ 12 ] 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: If a Fury... 
  vs50Confirm  - (1d100)[ 2 ]  for  (1d10)[ 3 ] , (1d10)[ 1 ] , (1d10)[ 3 ] 
 

  vs50Bard  - (1d100)[ 97 ]  for  (1d10+5)[ 15 ] 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: If a Fury... 
  vs50Confirm  - (1d100)[ 35 ]  for  (1d10)[ 4 ] , (1d10)[ 7 ] , (1d10)[ 7 ] 
 


Packmaster swift attacks, outnumbering +20

  vs80  - (1d100)[ 34 ]  for  (1d10+5)[ 15 ] 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: If a Fury... 
  vs80Confirm  - (1d100)[ 91 ]  for  (1d10)[ 9 ] , (1d10)[ 8 ] , (1d10)[ 10 ] 
 

  vs80  - (1d100)[ 53 ]  for  (1d10+5)[ 6 ] 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: If a Fury... 
  vs80Confirm  - (1d100)[ 67 ]  for  (1d10)[ 5 ] , (1d10)[ 4 ] , (1d10)[ 7 ] 
 

  vs80  - (1d100)[ 36 ]  for  (1d10+5)[ 12 ] 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: If a Fury... 
  vs80Confirm  - (1d100)[ 56 ]  for  (1d10)[ 5 ] , (1d10)[ 7 ] , (1d10)[ 7 ] 
 

 


The pack falls upon the mutant beast with consumate fury. There is no defensive game to play now - the beast has all of you for targets, so defending oneself is only selfishly turning the beast's attention away to a braver companion. Claws slash and teeth rip; the once noble creature screams, and thrashes. Hrokk gets blooded with claws across his chest, but fights on; the packmaster avoid blows and finally adds his power in earnest to the fight, ripping deep into the creature's flesh; but even as it reels from your blow and others, it lashes out; and claws like great ripping knives come scything out for you...

 
 Spoiler: OOC: The situation 
Well, you can see above for the detail, but here's where it is:

The Griffon is on 0 remaining wounds, and has taken a critical hit which has stunned it for one turn. That basically means on your action you'll get the coup de grace, unless you roll total trash. Still, you're outnumbering 3:1 for a +20 bonus, and you have three attacks, so you should be good.

But before you get to that... You can see the Griffon spread its attacks around, and the one that went at Jorunn connected with a bestial fury... for 27 damage. At your current 12 wounds, that would take your 5 mitigation, your 12 wounds,  and then  hit you for a 10 point crit, which would kill you.

So I suggest you nail this dodge roll, my friend. Failing that, it'll be time to give up a fate point.
 
 
bramblefoot
 

jorunn easily dodges the griffons scything blow, and will make three attacks against it. he gets a big scything blow, and two little hits. later, jorunn will count his lucky stars he succeeded on that dodge roll, but now hes too focused on killing the griffin

got a 28. a 61, and a 39 on my attack rolls

 (1d10+6)[ 15 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 9 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 9 ] 
MrAbdiel
 The claws rush out at you with killing power, and you feel them rake delicately across your skin as you  just barely  twist out of the way; a puff of your white fur harmlessly scattering into the air. Tryggvi grabs that claw in grip and jaw, and Bard the one on the other side, and then there's no stopping you. With only the furious beak to avoid, you rain town two wounding blows, and a third that finally tears open enough of the creature's throat that, within gargling momements, it falls still.

In the aftermath, the pack's members check each other - most are wounded, Bard heavily. The Packmaster's wound is dramatic, but not fatal; the claws have blessedly missed the eye on that side, though he will bear a menacing claw-scar from brow to breastbone on the left side.

Only Tryggvi has gotten away without wounding this time, and he prowls the cave to check it while the rest of you are taking stock of your injuries, shifting back into your human forms at the exhaustion of your willpower. The Packmaster, of course, remains in his hybrid shape.

 "Hey - hey, he's over here!"  Tryggvi calls, flagging you over to pit in the stone behind the roost. There, in a deep natural depression filled with a few inches of murky water and the bones of hundreds of beasts (and some men), the familiar lupine shape of Aegis looks up. He has claw wounds of his own, but lives - the griffon must use this pit as a larder for living prey to keep them fresh for later consumption. Your reckless, rapid pursuit has arrived in time, and once you have lingered at the cave's edge long enough for your scene to mingle down, the wolf whines in recognition and sits painedly upright, shifting impatiently back and forth from left and right forepaw. The Packmaster, with his mastery of the greater form, is able to descend, take Aegis over his shoulders, and then scramble-bound out of the pit again to set him down.

You spend the rest of the night in the griffon cave, the blizzard outside in full force; a lean and hungry evening as the tainted flesh of the monster is the only meat on offer, and no one is quite desperate enough to dare the dark gods in that way. But the morning after, you slog back to the den through the fresh snow; limping, torn and bloodstained as you all are, with Aegis's permission now a foregone conclusion among you.

 * * * * * 
Two weeks and an evening later, much recovered from the bloody conflict, you stand about a great bonfire at the cavemouth at howl your lungs dry at the full white moon. It is the sixth full moon since you have arrived here; you have spent now this many months among the fabled 'Sons of Ulric', and learned through blood and toil the art of the skin-dance. Mastery of it, like the Packmaster possesses, must take many years or prodigious talent; but you are sufficiently expert now that the 'beast' within you no longer threatens to master you.

 "You have done what you came here to do, Brother-Bear," the Packmaster acknowledges. He places a great clawed hand on your shoulder. "You have learned all I can teach. Or near enough - but it is not the nature of the bear to remain with the pack forever. Tomorrow, you are free to go. May the things you have learned here serve you, and keep you away from the madness." 

You remember the Desolator, the warped wolf-thing you killed upon your arrival to this area at the Packmaster's request; the fate of a skinwolf who had failed in some part of his mastery and been swallowed up by his beast. That fate will not be yours, now; though what it will be remains to be seen.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
 The time has come! If there is anything you want to say or ask of the other packmates, you have tonight to do so.

When you are ready, tell me what kind of morning it is on the day Jorunn is ready to set out and dig up his belongings for the road. It's early spring now, so it could still be frozen over, or beginning the slushy melt, or another poetic weather phenomenon that marks the occasion how you prefer.

Also, new character art unlocked.

 
 
 
bramblefoot
 

jorunn will clasp hands with each member of the pack, and offer a half bow to the packmaster.  "thank you for training me packmaster"  he murmurs. he then raises his voice  "if any of you see old king death before i do, say hello to him for me. keep me in your hearts, and ill keep you in mine" 

the morning comes with a slight rainbow over the fijrgard cavern, and jorunn will walk out, and dig up his kit, slinging on the leathers and his weapons. he will absentmindedly nick his thumb on the axe, and drip the blood over the ground, before licking the wound.  my blood is part of this land, and i have fought and bled and nearly died here  he thinks.  but it did not kill me, and i grew stronger 

before he leaves, he will ask the packmaster if he knows of any way to wear stronger armor (like chain and plate) without it bending, ripping or tearing
MrAbdiel
  “Indeed there is,”  the Packmaster offers,  “the engraving you’ve been learning is not just for memory and recreation. Skinwolves can find wolf spirits willing to bind to an item to make it shift to their body in the change; but the spirit itself must teach the engraving it will inhabit. But a wolf will not have you, Brother Bear. And bear spirits… For such, you may need to take a longer journey still; and be willing to honor the gods of the Gospadar for that service.”  He looks East, toward the realm of the Ice Queen; a journey you might need to take, to earn a spirit willing to take to stronger armor so you may engage stronger foes. But that is a journey you will not want to take alone, and definitely not on the northern side of the mountains; and you strike out west, to reunite with your companions, with Aegis trotting along beside you.

- - - - - -

The blizzard you had to forge through previously was the last big blow of winter; and over the next few days travel, you crunch through the snowmelt, stopping briefly by Fjirgard to supply, and head back toward the mountain pass. Aegis breaks up the solitude of the days, and hunting is much easier with your new skills. You pass by the fishermen at the bend in the frozen river, and are gratified to see the blighted land you passed by and had to starve through on first pass is greatly mended since you toppled the herdstone. You are even able to run a scrawny elk to ground, in a field of melting snow and saplings regrowing among the dessicated trunks of the fallen dead trees knocked over by the winter winds. But on that hunt, you’re not alone.

You lunge to tackle the elk to the ground and deliver a killing blow with your axe, but look up quickly at the sound of a startled bleat - a beastman, hunting the same prey, just slightly too late to claim it. One of his horns has been broken off, but he has the bearing of a Gor - a common warrior, not a runt or champion. His ragged hide armor and rough stone spear are unremarkable, but two things about him are remarkable indeed.

The first is a strange transmutation on the side of his goat face - some chaotic or sorcerous blast has turned his left eye, cheek, and much of the flesh back to his ear into gleaming, furless silver. Secondly, he is alone - not a common state for beastmen.

Suddenly, he speaks in Norscan the very decision you have had one second to consider.

 “Treat o-o-o-o-or fight, wa-a-a-a-arrior? Treat o-o-o-r fight?” 

The beastman seems willing not to fight, but to treat with you - if you trust its word. 
bramblefoot
 

jorunn will consider, and then will step hard on the elks throat, keeping the axe close to hand  "treat"  he says calmly.  "its not every day you get a beastman speaking norscan"  he says, beginning to butcher the elk and get a fire going.  "you against i would hardly be sporting, unless there is something i dont know?"  he inquires, getting some meat roasting on a spit.

 "its rare you see a lone beastman. they usually come in packs, and kill and eat norscans"  he shrugs, rotating the meat a little on the spit.  "whats your purpose? a beastman without a pack doesnt get very far" 
MrAbdiel
 The silver-eyed beastman seems glad not to fight. He doesn't have a great deal to trade - all his possessions are kept in a roll of hide slung over his back, from which he produces a couple of handfuls of mushrooms he tries to barter with you for a portion of the elk's meat. He eats some, to prove they're not poisonous.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: Success on an Outdoor Survival +20 
You recognize the white fleshed, grey capped mushrooms. Dead Man's Dream. An ominous name for a non-toxic, perfectly nourishing little fungus, titled so for the way they grow over graves. Sometimes clusters in the Norscan wilds give away the location where a murdered man has been buried, or where the dead from a battle have been committed to the earth by those tribes who, unlike yours, bury their honor dead instead of burning them.
 

 "Not sporting, ma-a-a-aybe; but bold sa-a-a-agas have ended to ba-a-a-ad luck before." 

Once you have the fire going, the smell of the cooking meat seems to get him more conversational - this, also, an odd trait for a beast man, who take to raw flesh just fine.

 "Not long ago I was a ma-a-a-a-an like you. But I c-a-a-a-amped under the daemon moon and forgot my pr-a-a-a-ayers, and now the gods who would h-a-a-a-a-ve me I would not take. The tribe that mustered here caught me; kept me in bonds, until a wiza-a-a-ard came with his dead minions to seize the herdstone and steal its ma-a-a-agic. I escaa-a-a-a-aped in the conflict with..."  He makes a pawing motion at his own face; presumably, this was the conflict in which he caught whatever magical crossfire transmuted part of his face.

This comports with what you know - you broke the necromantic fetish that was turning the herdstone's magic into a font of undeath, and killing the land around it. If the necromancer who did such a thing is around, he may do so again - but then, this is not your land, and you have no special burden to protect it from defilement, even if that defilement causes trouble for the fishermen down river.


 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
If you want to press Silvereye for more information, you ought to try a social roll - perhaps charm or intimidate, depending on your approach.
 
 
bramblefoot
 

jorunn will listen, and accept the mushrooms.  "take some meat"  he says, cutting off a hunk.  "can you describe this necromancer?"  he asks, leaning in close to the gor.  "id appreciate it" 

he will eat and drink, and ask the gor about himself, willing to spill a few details about himself here and there
MrAbdiel
 Silvereye shies back slightly from your implied threat - and is eager to direct it somewhere else.

He describes the necromancer - a frightfully gaunt, almost skeletal figure with ribbed dark iron armor and skin pale like bone. He commanded the dead with ease in combat, and commanded magic over metal, as well.
 
"He dwells in a tower he stole from the grip of the da-a-a-a-a-ark gods themselves, I have heard - ca-a-a-a-a-ast the demons out and took it for his own.  It's up there."  He points back behind him through the dead forest with its slowly regrowing saplings and scrub to the tallest hill overlooking the pass, at the foot of the mountains behind it. You see nothing atop it, though it is cleared of trees.

 "It's up there, but you ca-a-a-a-a-annot see it. It hides in gla-a-a-a-amour, until you stand at its door."  
bramblefoot
 

jorunn nods.  he must be a powerful sorcerer if he can summon that many undead  he thinks.  "so whats the plan after this for you?"  he asks.  "its gotta be lonely wandering the wastes" 
MrAbdiel
  "Lonely? Ye-e-e-e-es. But..." 

Silvereye turns his head so his one good eye is peering into the dark, and the tundra beyond the mountains the way you came.

 "...Not ready to die. Not ye-e-e-e-t." 

There are no 'good' tribes of beastmen; none you've heard of, anyway. They serve the dark gods, and the dark gods are vicious and sometimes cruel. This one, who claims to have been a man not that long ago, has more coherance to his thought than those handful you've dealt with up close; less of the desperate, frantic need to cleave to the herd. He's even showing preference to the cooked meat, rather than raw flesh. More 'man' than normal, in this beast-man. But there is no place in the world for such a creature. Beastmen will not receive him, and no community of man would tolerate him for fear of bringing more of his kind. You think, briefly, of the pitiful mutants who fell upon you on shortly before you changed to the bear for the first time; the glass man, and the one that seemed almost inside out. Neither had been mutated in a way that made them more powerful. Many clans and tribes would celebrate an extra arm, or venomous fangs, or in your case, an eerie color of hair and eye. For plenty of mutants, the gift of the dark gods is no boon at all; it just seems to screw them into the ground. Silvereye will wander alone for a while, and then he will either be killed by someone or make a job of it himself. There is no other conceivable future.

He rises and dusts the snow from himself, and prepares to make off back into the dead woods - he is thankful for your hospitality, but he does not expect you to trust him while you sleep, and vice versa.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: Decision! 
Alright, Jorunn. You've been informed to the location of the necromancer - you could see him out if you wish, either to fight, or bargain, as you prefer. Or you could avoid such an arcane opponent entirely and carry on back towards Krejj.
 
 
bramblefoot
 

jorunn will sleep lightly, and then head up towards the tower area at first light, his keen wolfen senses sniffing for anything out of the ordinary. as he reaches the base of the hill, a large obsidian tower rises out of the early morning mist, and jorunns jaw drops as the sheer height of the tower is apparent to him. it seems to rise to the heavens themselves, all slick black glass and spikes.

jorunn will compose himself, and rap on the large black oaken doors  "im here to bargain!"  he calls out, and waits for an answer
MrAbdiel
 The two minutes you wait for a response stretches out obscenely. It's likely the occupant gets few visitors, given that the tower itself was not visible to you until you were almost at its foot. Aegis has a lupine moment of panic when you cross the threshold where the illusion gives way, yipping and bouncing back onto two feet and tucking his tail between his legs with disorientation until you settle him. Even then, he sits by yourself with the occasional animal shiver of discomfort and furtive glancing. Neither your nose, nor his, can pick up any carrion scene; the cold wind cuts away everything but the scene of fresh snow. Still, the disquiet is visceral. Aegis does not even mark the area with his urine. He has no desire to make any claim of domain over such an awful place.

Then, finally, a narrow window snaps open to present a slot through which you see two things - darkness, and the pearly white lower half of the skull of some animated necromancer's servitor. The former says nothing; the latter addresses you in a rasping tone like wind drawn through a shaft of slow-grinding stone.

 "Bargain, thou? What offerest thou? What claimest thou? Speak now; my master listens."  
bramblefoot
 
 "i offer the skull of one kaelveg kaelvegsson?"  jorunn offers, holding the skull of kaelveg up for the skeleton to take a look.  "if that will not suffice, perhaps a small bowl of ulfwerenar blood. i would request that it not be used against me, nor sold to someone who could do me harm"  he quirks an eyebrow at the skeleton.  "assuming that is satisfactory, i request power, in the form of items or useful tools that will not interfere with my abilities" 

jorunn will wait for the skellybobs response
MrAbdiel
 The skeleton gazes at you, still, idle; whatever communion it has with its master is outside of your ability to discern. After a while, it rasps a response.

 "A counter-offer. My master will dispense to you a trinket - a paltry thing to him, but perhaps a significant boon to you. An Ironcurse amulet; a talisman that offers some protection against the great war machines that interfere with the blade-to-blade encounters a warrior of your kind must prefer. In return, my master will take that bowl of blood, but he will make no promises as to its ultimate purpose. Surely, brave as you are to ask, you must believe yourself equal to any challenge that may later pose to you..."  
bramblefoot
 
 "i offer a counter to that."  jorunn says  "he may keep the blood, but not sell or trade it"  he looks at the skeleton  "im brave, but not foolish. too many warriors made pacts without considering, and it turned out badly. in return i will take the ironcurse amulet." 

he scrutinizes the skeleton  "is that acceptable" 
MrAbdiel
 The skeleton waits in that eerie stillness, before replying.

 "No. My master would not be obliged to honour his word if he gave it to you in this way - all the same, he will not give it. You will surrender that blood with no flimsy assurances as to its purposes, or you will have no prize. There is no other way open." 

The little window begins to slide shut... 
bramblefoot
 

joruun will shrug  "no deal then"  he says. and will turn on his heel and walk away  stupid necromancers and their need for control. ill come back and take what is rightfully mine 

he will make good time towards krejj, and stop to check on the herdstone that the mask was previously on
MrAbdiel
 You dismiss the effort and trek back down the hill; the hiding magic of the tower shimmering it out of your view not many paces past your departure. The hair stands up on the back of your neck as a chill wind blows that way; a clear and inexplicable instinct warning you that you have not seen the last of this dark wizard, and may have brought more focus to yourself than you ought.

You are not long in waiting for this to become true.

You pass the herdstone - the necromantic attachment is still absent, but it has not yet attracted a new herd -  and push on further before fatigue forces you to camp. Aegis's growl draws you to wake - blinking, your bleary eyes register movement low to the ground amidst the trees around you...

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
What's the plan? Feign sleep until you can get a better idea of their number and type? Burst into breaktastic violence immediately? Give me a visual perception roll if it's the first, or just roll straight initiative if it's the second!
 
 
bramblefoot
 

jorunn will squint through bleary eyes, spotting movement, at least half a dozen figures. No other details become prevelant, so jorunn will stand and shift into wereform, seeing how many idjits want to tangle with him

OOC

full action shift, sword and shield in mitts
MrAbdiel
 They rush you from the dark: pale, hairless men with feral eyes and gangly bodies either misshapen by birth or abused into that structure in their punishing existence. They are nude but for tattered loincloths, raising the baffling question of how such creatures survive in these temperatures without freezing. They might have once been men, you think. Almost certainly. And you have seen the warped things men can become in the form of various mutants. But the deformity of these men is mostly consistent: their fingers have extended into oozing black claws, though though seem to have retained enough dexterity to file their teeth to jagged triangles. Four crash into you, biting and clawing; one rushes to strike at Aegis; and another hangs back in the gloom, raking at the dirt and snow in delicate patterns you are too indisposed to try to identify.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: Attack! 


Ghouls! Ghooooouls! On the charge, their attacks are Vs WS42.

  Ghoul1  - (1d100)[ 19 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 12 ] 
   Ghoul2  - (1d100)[ 73 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 9 ]  
  Ghoul3  - (1d100)[ 36 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 11 ] 
  Ghoul4  - (1d100)[ 14 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 12 ] 
  Ghoul5vsAegis  - (1d100)[ 88 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 7 ] 
  AegisDodge  - (1d100)[ 42 ] 

Ghoul 6 takes no identifiable action.

You can parry one, and dodge one. Any that hit you and manage to do actual wounds will trigger a -10% Toughness Test or suffer an additional 2 wounds.
 
 
bramblefoot
jorunn will attack thrice, and dodge and parry

 (3d100)[ 23 ][ 53 ][ 9 ](85) 
 (1d10+6)[ 15 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 7 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 10 ] 

parry
 (1d100)[ 81 ] 

dodge
 (1d100)[ 100 ] 

got 29 in reroll
MrAbdiel
 The ghouls tear into you, their dagger-nails biting through your leather and fur and setting you senses aflame with pain and then sickening numbness...

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Passed one toughness save, failed the other. You're down to 6/19 Wounds!
 


Your reprisal is brutal - thrashing back against your opponents before they can gain the advantage of numbers, your own claws hew through one and leave him split and steaming in the snow. A blow almost killing carves into another, but the decrepit creatures show resilience and you are still facing two of the monsters while your strength ebbs away.

With a  bwruff!  of sacrificial loyalty, Aegis darts away from his own opponent to engage yours. The move almost costs him dearly - the ghoul upon him strikes at his back, but barely misses - but the once mangy wolf launches itself at the ghoul you wounded, bears it down, and tears out its throat with a splatter of thick brown blood. Now the odds have shifted again - it's you and Aegis versus one of them, with another racing to catch up to the wolf, and the last of the five in the trees. Hedging his bets, that ghoul hisses and flees away into the dark while its fellows are still alive to occupy you.

 
 Spoiler: OOC Ghoul Attacks! 
The one remaining ghoul in the combat swift attacks Jorunn!

  vs32  - (1d100)[ 73 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 7 ] 
  vs32  - (1d100)[ 7 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 8 ] 

The other charges at Aegis.

  vs42  - (1d100)[ 55 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 12 ] 
  vs42AegisDodge  - (1d100)[ 41 ] .

That's one hit for net 2 damage, with 2 more if you fail a toughness test. Give it a parry if you can, and return fire!
 
 
bramblefoot
 
 "good pup"  jorunn murmurs, repeating the three attacks

 (3d100)[ 70 ][ 46 ][ 2 ](118) 
 (1d10+6)[ 14 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 12 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 11 ] 

parry

 (1d100)[ 90 ] 

dodge
 (1d100)[ 24 ] 
MrAbdiel
  
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Oh no! Well, that 90 parry won't do it; so that hit gets through. I'll call that dodge roll the toughness roll, so that succeeds against the poison. Jorunn is down to 4/19!
 


Your blade shears down the trunk of the ghoul in front of you, and gruesomely smashes its point through the creature's lower jaw in a backhand blow. It reels and totters back, spitting and coughing blood, alive but badly debilitated. Aegis snaps and weaves against the other, unable to land a bite, while it strikes back with mindless craving...

 
 Spoiler 
  32  - (1d100)[ 5 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 9 ] 
  32  - (1d100)[ 6 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 7 ] 

And  (1d100)[ 66 ]  to dodge for the doggo.
 


Aegis's luck runs out. He is fast, but he zigs when the ghoul bearing down on him zags, and it is able to lay its claws on him. One hand grabs a fistful of fur and before the wolf can worm away,  the other hand rakes such a bloody furrow in Aegis's flank that fur and blood splatter the ground in a long splash. The yelp that erupts from your lupine companion's throat is so pitiful and pained it hurts your ears. He staggers and stumbles, badly injured, now wracked with poison. The blood clawed ghoul can't afford to follow up, however - his own companion is similarly incapacited, leaving this one foe facing off against you...

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Aegis is hit twice, takes 10 wounds, fails one toughness roll for 2 more wounds, and is reduced to 0 of 12 wounds. He's just barely not critically injured.

The other ghoul is stunned for 9 turns, so it's basically you and the last ghoul now!
 
 
bramblefoot
 

jorunn will roar and charge the other ghoul.  "aegis, disengage"  he barks, making a slash at the ghoul

 (1d100)[ 31 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 11 ] 
MrAbdiel
 Aegis backs off, at your command; he makes himself still useful by, limping as he is, hobbling over to the stunned ghoul and mauling him to death. You are left opposing the last operative foe, who reals back as your blade bites into his skull and face. He screeches, and claws back with his best efforts...

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 

The last ghoul Taylor Swift attacks, hoping to spill more Bad Blood...

  vs32  - (1d100)[ 18 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 12 ] 
  vs32  - (1d100)[ 84 ]  for  (1d10+3)[ 9 ] 


...That first one hits, and it'll be a 2 point crit, if you don't manage to parry it!
 
 
bramblefoot
Jorunn will parry the attack, and attempt to take out mr ghoul. He gets a small chintzy hit, followed up by a bigger one

 (3d100)[ 30 ][ 81 ][ 32 ](143) 
 (1d10+6)[ 7 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 7 ] 
 (1d10+6)[ 13 ] 
MrAbdiel
 With a final furious effort, you carve through the ghoul's ribcage and it flops forward on to the ground, face first into the pool of its own splattered gore. Aegis whimpers a little, limps to your side, and licks at your calf. You courted the necromancer's attention, and almost paid with your life. Without Ortel here, you can make at best rudimentary efforts to manage your wounds, let alone Aegis's. But you remember the fifth of the ghouls, that did not engage - and with no sign of it, you can only assume it got away... and perhaps may return with more. With your wounds roughly bound in rags, you push on into the mountains between you and Krejj.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
You're at 2/15HP right now, and Aegis is at 0... So you're both Heavily wounded, but neither critically wounded, so that's something!

You need to cross back over the mountains to be on the road back towards Krejj from this point. Give me an  Outdoor Survival  roll for finding shelter as you go - at +20 because you've been this way before.
 
 

EDIT:

...But here is where our story ends; and Jorunn and Aegis vanish into the mist of obscurity.