This didn't bode well. The old Gods had always been protrayed as demons to Sascha, and nothing could be more awful than the fate that befell Drakkenheim. If the stone was what she suspected it was, then no good could come of it being in the hands of this zealot, or his fellows. Of course, she was also acutely aware that she was no scholar. her suspicions were just that. Still, the reaction of those locals who hadn't been pleased by the Druid's display had her just as worried. A group of axe-toting warriors armed with a clearly magical object would surely be regarded as a great thing, if those warriors fought for a cause you favoured. The fact that even among followers of the Old Gods, reactions seemed so mixed reinforced the noble's unease.
"Alright, Solis. Let's find this ship." The soldier addressed her steed by name. Something she'd avoided doing in the Monk's presence, feeling that it might have caused offense to ride a horse named for a Sorcerer-King. In truth it was a choice she hadn't put much thought into, She associated fire with speed, and the imposing, fiery figure she had read about in her history books, the first Sorcerer King, created an intimidating image.
With this, the woman dismounts her steed, continuing to lead him beside her. Her intent at this point is to examine the two arriving ships, perhaps speak with their crews, in hopes that confirming that one of them is Feock's charter.
Thamno has been in the forested gardens for two days. His most recent project has been to help a local fisherman build a new boat and in order to form the bow of this tiny vessel he needs a branch with a particular curve to it. He could use magic to form the wood to his will, but he prefers to gather the wood from naturally curved branches. "It's a good excuse to retreat into the rest of nature", he thinks and walks the tiny footpaths aimlessly.
On some of the low hanging branches he passes there are little offerings; tiny beaded armbands and necklaces. A little further he sees a small stuffed animal at the base of a tree, a fox maybe? Another offering in the form of a seed packet sits next to the little fox, precious seeds no doubt, and he wonders about what the people could have going on in their lives that they'd bring this gift to the forest.
Then suddenly he stops. His wandering feet have brought him to the dome at the center of this forested city. He knows he has been pulled here, like so many times before. His aimless wanderings are sometimes not so aimless after all. It is without his control, but he doesn't mind as he is familiar with the powers behind this effect. This is one of the places where the elves passed through from the old world, and it is a place drenched in a heavy but warm blanket of grief. He has shed his fair share of tears at this shrine and is not surprised to find himself moved as he enters. His feet tread forward, but ever so slowly. Reverently. They are naked and don't make a sound. His hand touches the green stone as he enters and gains a good view of the inside. He sees two figures over by the ancient doorway. The Archway is crackling with energy and seems alive and bubbling over. But as soon as he thinks to step closer, the crackling stops and a wave of grief hits him right in the solar plexus.
He sinks to his knees and sheds some tears. He stays down for a while as his body softly shakes from the sobbing. His eyes are foggy and unfocused but after a moment he regains his composure and sees two familiar faces. Valanthe and Vaelorn turn out to be the two figures he saw facing the Elfgate.
He rises to his feet and says: "Stars shine upon the hour of our meeting! It has been a long time since I was moved so deeply in this place, have you any idea what just transpired?"
The two new ships that are docked in the harbor this morning are about a hundred yards apart. One of them, of course, is the Lochlann longship that brought the bearskin-cloaked Druid and his delerium here. The other is of Elyrian make, barely larger than the longship, and as Sascha walks closer to it, she can see that the design painted on its sails resembles a ship's wheel, flanked with supporters like a coat of arms. In contrast to the enthusiastic crowd of warriors that piled off of the longship, there is no one visible on the Elyrian ship, though the ship is securely moored. Except for the Flamekeeper that disembarked earlier, Sascha hasn't seen a soul on this ship.
As she walks down the dock to approach the boat, leading her horse, two men appear from below deck. They're dressed as sailors usually are, with their tunics girded up and sleeves cut short, and coifs on their heads. But they're also armed, with shortswords belted at their waists. As they approach Sascha, she notes that their attention is less on her, and more on the Druid's crowd. "Well met, my lady,"one of them calls. "Are you booked with Captain Birdstone?"
Alorin pauses briefly, worry flitting across his face as he considers the possibility that the Hunt has gotten ahead of him. He is unsure how he can make sure he gets to the babe first. Gritting his teeth, he plucks a fruit off the branches hanging low over Buttercup Lane, and examines it, wondering whether it will give him the speed he needs to save the infant.
Having taken a look at the fruit, Alorin holds on to it for now and starts dashing down the winding path as fast as he can, Ellynel effortlessly keeping pace with him. He thinks back to what he knows about such fruits, and what he learnt from observing it, and wonders whether consuming it might be worth the risk. After all, saving the child was the most important of all.
Alorin plucks a fruit from the low hanging branches, and then sets off at a dead run, dust flying behind his booted feet and Ellynel's paws. As he considers the import of what he is doing and grapples with the hope that eating the fruit might help him in his quest, a memory begins to surface.
One of his earliest forays into the fairy lands ended nearly in disaster. Still acutely haunted by his losses at sea, a young Alorin had taken a side road from Fairy, indeed the gates seemed flung wide, and the hills and groves climbed steeply up in elevation. His anxiety lessened with every foot above sea level, and after an exhausting climb, he stepped into a wide glade, a bowl-shaped valley of soft green grass, ringed with flowers of unearthly color. A trio of fair laides had welcomed him, bewitchingly beautiful, and laughing like silver bells, invited him to their palace. The dizzying experiences that followed seemed to last weeks, with dancing, feasting, and forbidden pleasures. Until one night they led him to a dance in that lush green glade, and, carefree and joyous, he spun and danced with his companions as they drew nearer and nearer to a green hill that rose up in the center of it. He saw a door open in that hill, and he was struck with a sudden deadly certainty that if he passed through that door into that hill, he would never, ever, return.
He tried to back away, and his fair dancing partner's delicate hand turned to the brute strength of a sinewy claw, and he beheld with something other than his eyes the predatory malevolence that sought to swallow him as a prize into its realm forever.
Alorin, still running, shakes himself from the awful memory. Yes, he had escaped. In a way. In another way, he had never been able to stop coming back to the fairy roads, as wary as he was of them, as much as he sought to control his interaction with them. The yearning for this enchanted land had never left him, not since the first taste of dizzying fairy wine had passed his lips, the first ripe fig dripping with intoxicating syrup.
A sudden and confident urge grips him to throw the fruit from him as far as he can. A mortal child taken by fairies would truly never escape.
Ellynel lets out a sharp bark. Alorin looks up, and sees the road wind out of the hedge of beech and hazel, and into a meadow thickly carpeted with---of course---more buttercups. A glimmering pond sits to one side of the road, thickly edged with reeds and buzzing with dragonflies. A sweet fragnance drifts up into Alorin's nostrils. He tears his gaze from the pond, looking down at the road, which has flattened and thinned out in the meadow--dangerously impercetible where its edges are. He looks around, and across the butter-flowered expanse of green and summer gold, he sees a leaning copse of beech and hazel maybe two hundred strides away. And then he sees it, shimmering in between their branches. The Emerald Door.
The goblin and his fiendish little companion tear through the magical darkness along the colorless path. Iago's vision is always somewhat disturbing, with living creatures appearing like smoldering embers and shadows flitting in an unnatural and erratic manner, as if trying to dodge the light source that makes them. Landscapes sometimes drip with blood or crawl with locusts. It's really better not to keep your gaze on anything longer than necessary. But magical darkness is no impediment, and Moz takes full use of this now to keep his eyes on the edges of the gravel path that brunches beneath his feet. The gloomy forest clusters around the road, the trees annoyingly seeming to be in different places everytime Moz looks at them.
But it isn't long until they reach the end of the White Way proper, in a cloud of mist that forms into a gigantic doorway in the middle of the road, flanked by two guardians. As the pair draws closer, Moz can see that the guardians are goblins, and they look exactly like him, except for how they're dressed. One is tinned up in plate armor and holds up a sword, and the other wears a purple rope and holds a long ashen staff in his hands. As Moz approaches, they turn their heads to look at him, but don't otherwise move.
Though the doorway, the mist parts as the mistframe cracks open to reveal a road winding lazily into a sunny meadow filled with buttercups. Two lone figures run along the road, one on two legs, and one on four, their haste all out of keeping with the relaxed and peaceful meadow, fat bees bumbling from buttercup to buttercup without a care in the world. Except the bees randomly drip blood when Moz turns his head, or scatter forests of ugly little black thorns that disappear a moment later. Always adding its own touch, that Devil Sight.
The great blast of fey hunting horns echoes all around the haunting, colorless wood.
"Well met. I am not, but I've been working security for a man who might be. You don't happen to know if the captain has a charter for a man named Feock, perchance?"
Sascha's own attention is still somewhat divided. As she joins the sailors she still spares the occasional glance toward the assembled followers of Kromac. and the strange stone that seems to have inspired them to such fervour. It still sat strangely with her. She couldn't help but feel it was probably for the best that Feock would be departing so shortly after this incident. On that note, her attention returned again to the sailors. She needed to establish how long they had, and if Feock would indeed escape whatever excitement was coming so soon. With that thought in her mind, she couldn't help but wonder., were Elyrian vessals particularly welcome in Darryl to begin with? Surely the locals would associate Elyria with the Sacred Flame.
Throwing the fruit with all the strength he can muster into the dancing buttercups in a far corner of the meadow, Alorin slows down enough to ensure he is safely picking his way along the road running through the meadow, carefully keeping an eye to ensure he doesn't wander off the edges of the road (Perception: 9). He takes the chance to catch his breath, and prepare for the battle that may be about to come, as he approaches the Emerald Door.
"Come on, El! Let's hope we get ahead of the Hunt," Alorin says as he prepares to quietly step through the door (Stealth: 17).
"Yes ma'am," the sailor says. "We're taking on three passengers here in Darryl. Feock Fenton is on the list. Once we've got them all settled and gotten us some fresh water and supplies, we'll be on our way. If the wind is good, by tonight." The sailor throws another glance at the crowd around the druid as if he, too, would like to be gone as soon as possible.
His companion speaks up. "The Captain don't want to stay longer than he has to. There's an awful strange mist hanging over the water this morn. We could barely see the dock. It's a strange land, Skye." Despite their cutoff sleeves, the sailors seem to be taking the cold remarkably well, their faces ruddy under their padded wool coifs, and their breath steaming in the cold air. "Is your fellow Feock on his way?"
"Ah, yes. The Sword didn't always have a steward. When I was but a wee lad my father brought me out here. He told me the legends and stories of the Old Gods and showed me the Sword as proof of their mark on the world." "It is quite the peaceful life up here on Giant's Lean, as I'm sure you know already, 'sidering you lived here before an' all. Almorra was it? Never heard of anyone living out there, But that's a topic for later."
Angusrises from his chair and gestures towards the door. "Come, let me show you the Blade."
It is a brisk walk around the hut to where the Sword stands in the cliff face. Angus begins once more: "It was in front of this Blade that I learned to fight, and because of that, I took it upon myself to care for the area and became its steward. In honor of my father and in honor of Nuada, I challenge all who appear before the Blade to a test of might, to see if they might be the Her Chosen Valkryie."
Angus turns strolls towards a shed, rummages around for a short while, and returns with a barrel of makeshift wooden weapons. "It's not often a Flamekeeper makes their way up here, or any of the Silver Order. If you would entertain me, I'd like to challenge you to a duel. Nothing serious, just a test of might before the Sword" "And if fighting is not your fancy, then perhaps an arm-wrestling match or a drinking game. Though I assume your station bars latter. Feel free to decline."
"I am of imposing stature after all" Angus chuckles to himself.
"Most interesting. Maybe there's more than just being a strong fighter to become her Chosen Valkyrie. Some say the wielder must take up a noble quest to fight against great evil to remove it. Others say the only the one true king can remove it, one who is untouched by arcane magic or eldritch ancestry could also remove it, & many other obsurce tales. Which do you believe?"
"Yes, most of my peers in the The Faith consider the tales pedantic & have a clear disbelief in the tales w/ the few history books that exist on the mainland & call the Old Gods demonic & not to be worshipped..., I ignore those opinions."
"Under normal circumstances I wouldn't enage in such a test of might as a Cleric of Order I try to resolve conflicts w/out the need for physical conflict. I usually left that task to the city guard or the Silver Order..., HOWEVER w/ other reasons leaving my practice I no longer have that luxury of protection. So..., a training session couldn't hurt as my martial training has been somewhat negelcted." Rivyre raises her wooded sword & shield...., "Shall we?" (Guidance 1d4 to initiative roll: 1)
Vaelorn takes a moment to recover from the shock of the power stopping, shaking it off fully when he heard Valanthe address Thamno, he turns to them then "Indeed, this is strange even to my learnings, I have to wonder what caused this and what it all means." he shakes his head and looks to the other pair, "But those mysteries will still be there after we tend to you." he says, focusing his attention in this moment to Thamno
Rivyre vs. Angus Non-Lethal Sparring Match & subsequent after combat RP
Roll for initiave: Rivyre 5, Angus 10 Angus Lochlan: "We shall." Angus replies, his face now with a wide grin, eager for combat even if low stakes. He pulls a large axe from the barrel of wooden weapons and takes a wide and ready stance. "Challengers get the first strike. Show me how bright the Flame can burn!" (No actions taken)
Rivyre Lightdove: "Very well!" Rivyre mutters an incantation & the wooden longsword glows w/ a golden radiance & she strikes! (casts True Strike) Attack roll: 7
Angus blocks the attack by catching the blade with the hook of his axe. Angus: Lochlan: "Come on now lassie, you'll have to do better than that."Angus moves to the side of Rivyre and assumes a striking form, facing towards where he previously stood. "Plant your feet, stand straight, put your whole body into your strike. A weapon is an extension of self" Angus then resumes his readied stance in front of Rivyre.(Action: Help)
Acting unsurprised by his ease of dodging & parrying her attack, Rivyre Lightdove: "I wasn't lying when I said my martial training & prowess was lacking". Taking his advice, she plants herself firmly into a strong stance, mutters the same incanatation again & puts all she has into her next swing: (True Strike w/ Advantage from Angus "Help" action: Attack roll 19, (if hit) 1d8+3= 6 radiant damage)
Angus Lochlan: "So the Flame burns after all! You're gettin' the hang of it! But let's see if the Flame can weather the storm. Brace yourself, Flamekeeper." Angus grips his axe and raises it high. His brown eyes seem to glow a bright emerald moments before impact. (Bonus: Rage, Action: Reckless Attack Adv, 15 to hit, 8 slashing damage) "Fire is a frightening thing to most creatures of the world. They will fear it and they will fight it without mercy. Expect no quarter and give none in return." Angus gives a hearty laugh. "For beasts definitely, with man? There is room for alternatives."
Rivyre Lightdove: "Ooof!" as Rivyre takes the hit & stumbles back a bit from the weight & strength of the strike unprepared for such a powerful hit. "Alright I see I need to be prepared for more hits like this." She mutters another incantation reinvigorated & ready for another bout: (Bonus Action casts Healing Word: 11 HP). Rivyre steadies her position & readies her shield in a defensive stance prepared to take on the next blow. (Action: Dodge)
Angus Lochlan: "You must be prepared indeed," Angus says solemnly, "if your home is in Almorra as you say, then you must prepare for the worst. When I first gazed upon the Sword, I saw the beautiful Isle of Almorra against the sea. As the years have gone by, a terrible storm has fallen over the Isle and has refused to leave." Angus steps quickly to the side of Rivyre and swings the flat end of his axe square into her side. (Action: Reckless + Rivyre Dodge, 16 to hit, Max roll of 17 bludgeoning damage).
Rivyre crumples to the ground @ the weight of the hit, motionless as the air is knocked out of her. !END OF COMBAT!
Angus Lochlan: "All who have ventured out ha-.... Shite. Thought ya were a wee bit sturdier".Angus stoops down and gently taps the side of her face to wake her. He looks to the strange winged cat creature that accompanied the Flamekeeper and says,"You don't happen to have a way to wake her, do ya?"
Syletha cocks her head and looks @ Angus: "Meow".
Angus Lochlan: "Well make yourself usefull...uh...somehow" Angus then grumbles to himself, "First time fighting a Flamekeeper and ya darn near break her ribs. Got ta be gentler next time. Got ta make sure she's not bleedin' out." (Medicine check: 8, used Heroic Inspiration reroll, 15 total)
Rivyre groans as she slowly opens her eyes & starts moving around..., Rivyre Lightdove: "Ohhhh...., ugh...., my back!" She mutters another incantation & heals herself a bit after that embarrassing combat display. Healing Word: 5 She stands, stretches, & twists her back a bit..., *crack! "Oh..., that's better!" She turns to Angus, "Well thank you for that training session..., although a humiliating display from myself."
Angus chuckles as he helps Rivyre up and brushes the snow off from the fall. Angus Lochlan: "You're still alive, very good. Sorry 'bout that. Gets excitin' battle does, lose track of my self sometimes. Welp, enough training, clearly. We can continue our conversation that I so rudely interrupted, by knockin ya out, over a stew. What say ya?"
Rivyre Lightdove: "Certainly, I'd like that. Also something you said about a terrible storm that refuses to leave Almorra?"Rivyre's face from pain and discomfort from being hit looks to instantly change to extreme worry and despair.
Angus Lochlan:"Yes. It started around 15 years ago. A drak cloud appeared over the few hermits and settlements on the Isle and drove out its inhabitants. It's been growing ever since, blocking sunlight from touching the soil and causing constant storms. So far, all who have ventured to the island have disappeared. Eventually, some of the vessels they took have drifted back to the shores, filled only with the pieces of their once crews." Angus lifts one of the pelts draped over a far window, revealing the distant Isle, its clouds of pitch darkening the scenic horizon. "All my time here has been spent training. Mainly myself, sometimes others. The times are changing. I fear that great evil is rising amidst the world, though I have not seen it, I feel it in my bones. I hope that one day I'll be able to rise to face this great foe. So I've trained. To be worthy of wielding the Sword in the Stone, or worthy enough to stand besides those that are."
Thamno gets to his feet with the help of Valanthe and takes a deep breath. He dusts himself off and looks around the dome, before focusing on the two elves in front of him again.
"It is not the first time I have been drawn to this place, but it is for sure the first time that gate has shown such strange activity. I was overcome with grief and heard a voice... It was calling on me...
Did either of you do anything to activate it? What could have influenced the gate for this to happen?"
Rivyre thinks to herself..., dark clouds appearing 15 years ago & blocking sunlight. Are these the same clouds & mist that's causing all the strange rumors & phenomenon in Drakkenheim? (She casts another incantation: Guidance: (4) + History check (12)= 16
Rivyre exclaims, "That would be the same time the meteor hit Drakkenheim!!!" Rivyre's face grows more worried, & frantically she starts gaterhing her things looking at Angus, "Please you have to tell me! Did you see an elven family of 4 leave the island??? The would've lived near The Stone Circle on the far side of the island! I must head there immediately if you didn't...., regardless of the dangers!"
Stepping up to the pair of goblin guardians, he gives his head a shake dismissing the Devils Sight. "Good day to you handsome devils. I would love to spend all day admiring those rakish good looks of ours, but the Master has sent me on a little errand, so I must really be on my way. " Standing straight he gives the pair a crisp and somewhat mocking salute. " At ease gentlemen."
"Iago, stay out of sight and once we are through the door take to air and keep an eye of out above me." The Imp gives the thumbs up and fades from view (Iago turns invisible and when through the Emerald Door will fly 30ft up and circle around Moz)
Looking back at the doorway and he grins mischievously at the running pair. " Well time for some fun" Passing his jester stick over himself, he mutters an arcane word. There is a shimmer, and his appearance begins to change. His sharp pointed nose grows wider and bulbous, the green in skin changes into ruddy and tanned, his limp black hair turns brown and curly, the sharp teeth in his mouth round and dull, in short, he turns into a gnome. Looking down at his Jester’s Motley, he grimaces “This won’t do, even Alorin won’t fall for a gnome in motley.” As he speaks, his motley shimmers and changes itself to appear as simple travelling leathers. “Ahhh much better. Let’s go see about a baby.” Moz steps forward toward the doorway.
From what Rivyre can see from the top of the cliff at Giant's Lean, though the dark clouds that hang over Almorra's island do have an otherworldly and oppressive weight to them, they look far more like perpetual bad weather than any sort of unnatural octarine haze.
Alorin flings the fruit far from him, and he hears the baying of the hounds recede to one side, no longer ahead of him as he and El run, carefully picking their way along the path through the meadow. Once Alorin is sure of their path, they race as fast as they can towards the shimmering emerald door sits with garish and obtrusive color underneath the hanging boughs of the trees across the meadow. Alorin pulls the hood of his cloak over his head as he steps through.
An arctic blast of frigid cold cuts him to the bone, chilling him painfully as the sweat he'd worked up in hazy summer of Buttercup Lane sucks away his body heat. Towering pine and fir trees hang heavy with snow on their upper branches and yet reach towards the early morning sky. Beyond their great trunks that shimmer with a strange pink sheen, Alorin can see Kromac's Clearing, white with a blanket of snow. The firepit, the altar, and the Druid's stone hut sit in the center of it as if futilely huddling together for warmth. A haunting, icy mist hangs threateningly over the glade. But Alorin is interested in looking for something very specific. And despite the distance to the clearing, he sees what he's looking for--tucked away at the base of the stone hut, her resting place hollowed out by scattered and rushed bootprints, is the crying infant, wrapped in a swaddling of rabbit furs. Except for the baby's cries, the clearing is eerily, deathly silent.
As Alorin and El slip into the frozen woods, their eyes on the clearing, the Emerald Door behind them shimmers once again, emerald green winking into sight for a moment before disappearing in the patch of bluish mist that marks the location of the door, and a gnome steps through, dressed in traveling leathers.
Moz shivers as he steps through the Doorway into the cold winter air, an invisible Iago launches himself into the air and begins circling over scanning the area(Iago Perception: 11 +1=12). Seeing Kormac's Clearing in the distance Moz gives the area around where the doorway a quick scan, looking for signs if anyone else had arrived before him (Moz Preception roll: 10+1=11). With the shadows of the tall fir and pines trees Moz doesn't see much in the area, turning he makes his way toward the sounds of the crying child. Reaching out telepathically through his bond to Iago he focuses on the Imp "Looks like we might have got here first, but keep your eyes open"
The snow crunches under his feet as he makes his way through the trees towards Kormac's Clearing. Seeing the hut and altar in the distance Moz stops and thinks too Iago "Fly ahead and scout out the area, see if you can locate the Baby" Giving Moz a sly look, Iago s******s back "What about you boss, how will you survive without me and my guidance" Stifling a laugh. "Somehow I will make it. Alorin isn't going to stab some random gnome in the back and when the hunting party arrives they aren't going to be quiet about it. " Moz then begins trudging through the snow toward the clearing whistling to himself as Iago flies ahead to locate the baby.
This didn't bode well. The old Gods had always been protrayed as demons to Sascha, and nothing could be more awful than the fate that befell Drakkenheim. If the stone was what she suspected it was, then no good could come of it being in the hands of this zealot, or his fellows. Of course, she was also acutely aware that she was no scholar. her suspicions were just that. Still, the reaction of those locals who hadn't been pleased by the Druid's display had her just as worried. A group of axe-toting warriors armed with a clearly magical object would surely be regarded as a great thing, if those warriors fought for a cause you favoured. The fact that even among followers of the Old Gods, reactions seemed so mixed reinforced the noble's unease.
"Alright, Solis. Let's find this ship." The soldier addressed her steed by name. Something she'd avoided doing in the Monk's presence, feeling that it might have caused offense to ride a horse named for a Sorcerer-King. In truth it was a choice she hadn't put much thought into, She associated fire with speed, and the imposing, fiery figure she had read about in her history books, the first Sorcerer King, created an intimidating image.
With this, the woman dismounts her steed, continuing to lead him beside her. Her intent at this point is to examine the two arriving ships, perhaps speak with their crews, in hopes that confirming that one of them is Feock's charter.
Thamno has been in the forested gardens for two days. His most recent project has been to help a local fisherman build a new boat and in order to form the bow of this tiny vessel he needs a branch with a particular curve to it. He could use magic to form the wood to his will, but he prefers to gather the wood from naturally curved branches. "It's a good excuse to retreat into the rest of nature", he thinks and walks the tiny footpaths aimlessly.
On some of the low hanging branches he passes there are little offerings; tiny beaded armbands and necklaces. A little further he sees a small stuffed animal at the base of a tree, a fox maybe? Another offering in the form of a seed packet sits next to the little fox, precious seeds no doubt, and he wonders about what the people could have going on in their lives that they'd bring this gift to the forest.
Then suddenly he stops. His wandering feet have brought him to the dome at the center of this forested city. He knows he has been pulled here, like so many times before. His aimless wanderings are sometimes not so aimless after all. It is without his control, but he doesn't mind as he is familiar with the powers behind this effect. This is one of the places where the elves passed through from the old world, and it is a place drenched in a heavy but warm blanket of grief. He has shed his fair share of tears at this shrine and is not surprised to find himself moved as he enters. His feet tread forward, but ever so slowly. Reverently. They are naked and don't make a sound. His hand touches the green stone as he enters and gains a good view of the inside. He sees two figures over by the ancient doorway. The Archway is crackling with energy and seems alive and bubbling over. But as soon as he thinks to step closer, the crackling stops and a wave of grief hits him right in the solar plexus.
He sinks to his knees and sheds some tears. He stays down for a while as his body softly shakes from the sobbing. His eyes are foggy and unfocused but after a moment he regains his composure and sees two familiar faces. Valanthe and Vaelorn turn out to be the two figures he saw facing the Elfgate.
He rises to his feet and says: "Stars shine upon the hour of our meeting! It has been a long time since I was moved so deeply in this place, have you any idea what just transpired?"
Sascha Von Syndowe
The two new ships that are docked in the harbor this morning are about a hundred yards apart. One of them, of course, is the Lochlann longship that brought the bearskin-cloaked Druid and his delerium here. The other is of Elyrian make, barely larger than the longship, and as Sascha walks closer to it, she can see that the design painted on its sails resembles a ship's wheel, flanked with supporters like a coat of arms. In contrast to the enthusiastic crowd of warriors that piled off of the longship, there is no one visible on the Elyrian ship, though the ship is securely moored. Except for the Flamekeeper that disembarked earlier, Sascha hasn't seen a soul on this ship.
As she walks down the dock to approach the boat, leading her horse, two men appear from below deck. They're dressed as sailors usually are, with their tunics girded up and sleeves cut short, and coifs on their heads. But they're also armed, with shortswords belted at their waists. As they approach Sascha, she notes that their attention is less on her, and more on the Druid's crowd. "Well met, my lady," one of them calls. "Are you booked with Captain Birdstone?"
Alorin pauses briefly, worry flitting across his face as he considers the possibility that the Hunt has gotten ahead of him. He is unsure how he can make sure he gets to the babe first. Gritting his teeth, he plucks a fruit off the branches hanging low over Buttercup Lane, and examines it, wondering whether it will give him the speed he needs to save the infant.
Having taken a look at the fruit, Alorin holds on to it for now and starts dashing down the winding path as fast as he can, Ellynel effortlessly keeping pace with him. He thinks back to what he knows about such fruits, and what he learnt from observing it, and wonders whether consuming it might be worth the risk. After all, saving the child was the most important of all.
Alorin Vonsin
Alorin plucks a fruit from the low hanging branches, and then sets off at a dead run, dust flying behind his booted feet and Ellynel's paws. As he considers the import of what he is doing and grapples with the hope that eating the fruit might help him in his quest, a memory begins to surface.
One of his earliest forays into the fairy lands ended nearly in disaster. Still acutely haunted by his losses at sea, a young Alorin had taken a side road from Fairy, indeed the gates seemed flung wide, and the hills and groves climbed steeply up in elevation. His anxiety lessened with every foot above sea level, and after an exhausting climb, he stepped into a wide glade, a bowl-shaped valley of soft green grass, ringed with flowers of unearthly color. A trio of fair laides had welcomed him, bewitchingly beautiful, and laughing like silver bells, invited him to their palace. The dizzying experiences that followed seemed to last weeks, with dancing, feasting, and forbidden pleasures. Until one night they led him to a dance in that lush green glade, and, carefree and joyous, he spun and danced with his companions as they drew nearer and nearer to a green hill that rose up in the center of it. He saw a door open in that hill, and he was struck with a sudden deadly certainty that if he passed through that door into that hill, he would never, ever, return.
He tried to back away, and his fair dancing partner's delicate hand turned to the brute strength of a sinewy claw, and he beheld with something other than his eyes the predatory malevolence that sought to swallow him as a prize into its realm forever.
Alorin, still running, shakes himself from the awful memory. Yes, he had escaped. In a way. In another way, he had never been able to stop coming back to the fairy roads, as wary as he was of them, as much as he sought to control his interaction with them. The yearning for this enchanted land had never left him, not since the first taste of dizzying fairy wine had passed his lips, the first ripe fig dripping with intoxicating syrup.
A sudden and confident urge grips him to throw the fruit from him as far as he can. A mortal child taken by fairies would truly never escape.
Ellynel lets out a sharp bark. Alorin looks up, and sees the road wind out of the hedge of beech and hazel, and into a meadow thickly carpeted with---of course---more buttercups. A glimmering pond sits to one side of the road, thickly edged with reeds and buzzing with dragonflies. A sweet fragnance drifts up into Alorin's nostrils. He tears his gaze from the pond, looking down at the road, which has flattened and thinned out in the meadow--dangerously impercetible where its edges are. He looks around, and across the butter-flowered expanse of green and summer gold, he sees a leaning copse of beech and hazel maybe two hundred strides away. And then he sees it, shimmering in between their branches. The Emerald Door.
Moz Crowthorn
The goblin and his fiendish little companion tear through the magical darkness along the colorless path. Iago's vision is always somewhat disturbing, with living creatures appearing like smoldering embers and shadows flitting in an unnatural and erratic manner, as if trying to dodge the light source that makes them. Landscapes sometimes drip with blood or crawl with locusts. It's really better not to keep your gaze on anything longer than necessary. But magical darkness is no impediment, and Moz takes full use of this now to keep his eyes on the edges of the gravel path that brunches beneath his feet. The gloomy forest clusters around the road, the trees annoyingly seeming to be in different places everytime Moz looks at them.
But it isn't long until they reach the end of the White Way proper, in a cloud of mist that forms into a gigantic doorway in the middle of the road, flanked by two guardians. As the pair draws closer, Moz can see that the guardians are goblins, and they look exactly like him, except for how they're dressed. One is tinned up in plate armor and holds up a sword, and the other wears a purple rope and holds a long ashen staff in his hands. As Moz approaches, they turn their heads to look at him, but don't otherwise move.
Though the doorway, the mist parts as the mistframe cracks open to reveal a road winding lazily into a sunny meadow filled with buttercups. Two lone figures run along the road, one on two legs, and one on four, their haste all out of keeping with the relaxed and peaceful meadow, fat bees bumbling from buttercup to buttercup without a care in the world. Except the bees randomly drip blood when Moz turns his head, or scatter forests of ugly little black thorns that disappear a moment later. Always adding its own touch, that Devil Sight.
The great blast of fey hunting horns echoes all around the haunting, colorless wood.
"Well met. I am not, but I've been working security for a man who might be. You don't happen to know if the captain has a charter for a man named Feock, perchance?"
Sascha's own attention is still somewhat divided. As she joins the sailors she still spares the occasional glance toward the assembled followers of Kromac. and the strange stone that seems to have inspired them to such fervour. It still sat strangely with her. She couldn't help but feel it was probably for the best that Feock would be departing so shortly after this incident. On that note, her attention returned again to the sailors. She needed to establish how long they had, and if Feock would indeed escape whatever excitement was coming so soon. With that thought in her mind, she couldn't help but wonder., were Elyrian vessals particularly welcome in Darryl to begin with? Surely the locals would associate Elyria with the Sacred Flame.
"When would you expect to set sail again?"
Throwing the fruit with all the strength he can muster into the dancing buttercups in a far corner of the meadow, Alorin slows down enough to ensure he is safely picking his way along the road running through the meadow, carefully keeping an eye to ensure he doesn't wander off the edges of the road (Perception: 9). He takes the chance to catch his breath, and prepare for the battle that may be about to come, as he approaches the Emerald Door.
"Come on, El! Let's hope we get ahead of the Hunt," Alorin says as he prepares to quietly step through the door (Stealth: 17).
Seeing Thamno in distress, Valanthe rushes to help the elder elf to his feet:
"We don't. At least, Vaelorn doesn't know yet. Are you ok? Would you like some water? The energy coming from the archways is quite powerful".
Sascha Von Syndowe
"Yes ma'am," the sailor says. "We're taking on three passengers here in Darryl. Feock Fenton is on the list. Once we've got them all settled and gotten us some fresh water and supplies, we'll be on our way. If the wind is good, by tonight." The sailor throws another glance at the crowd around the druid as if he, too, would like to be gone as soon as possible.
His companion speaks up. "The Captain don't want to stay longer than he has to. There's an awful strange mist hanging over the water this morn. We could barely see the dock. It's a strange land, Skye." Despite their cutoff sleeves, the sailors seem to be taking the cold remarkably well, their faces ruddy under their padded wool coifs, and their breath steaming in the cold air. "Is your fellow Feock on his way?"
"Ah, yes. The Sword didn't always have a steward. When I was but a wee lad my father brought me out here. He told me the legends and stories of the Old Gods and showed me the Sword as proof of their mark on the world."
"It is quite the peaceful life up here on Giant's Lean, as I'm sure you know already, 'sidering you lived here before an' all. Almorra was it? Never heard of anyone living out there, But that's a topic for later."
Angus rises from his chair and gestures towards the door.
"Come, let me show you the Blade."
It is a brisk walk around the hut to where the Sword stands in the cliff face. Angus begins once more:
"It was in front of this Blade that I learned to fight, and because of that, I took it upon myself to care for the area and became its steward. In honor of my father and in honor of Nuada, I challenge all who appear before the Blade to a test of might, to see if they might be the Her Chosen Valkryie."
Angus turns strolls towards a shed, rummages around for a short while, and returns with a barrel of makeshift wooden weapons.
"It's not often a Flamekeeper makes their way up here, or any of the Silver Order. If you would entertain me, I'd like to challenge you to a duel. Nothing serious, just a test of might before the Sword"
"And if fighting is not your fancy, then perhaps an arm-wrestling match or a drinking game. Though I assume your station bars latter. Feel free to decline."
"I am of imposing stature after all" Angus chuckles to himself.
"Most interesting. Maybe there's more than just being a strong fighter to become her Chosen Valkyrie. Some say the wielder must take up a noble quest to fight against great evil to remove it. Others say the only the one true king can remove it, one who is untouched by arcane magic or eldritch ancestry could also remove it, & many other obsurce tales. Which do you believe?"
"Yes, most of my peers in the The Faith consider the tales pedantic & have a clear disbelief in the tales w/ the few history books that exist on the mainland & call the Old Gods demonic & not to be worshipped..., I ignore those opinions."
"Under normal circumstances I wouldn't enage in such a test of might as a Cleric of Order I try to resolve conflicts w/out the need for physical conflict. I usually left that task to the city guard or the Silver Order..., HOWEVER w/ other reasons leaving my practice I no longer have that luxury of protection. So..., a training session couldn't hurt as my martial training has been somewhat negelcted." Rivyre raises her wooded sword & shield...., "Shall we?" (Guidance 1d4 to initiative roll: 1)
Vaelorn
Vaelorn takes a moment to recover from the shock of the power stopping, shaking it off fully when he heard Valanthe address Thamno, he turns to them then "Indeed, this is strange even to my learnings, I have to wonder what caused this and what it all means." he shakes his head and looks to the other pair, "But those mysteries will still be there after we tend to you." he says, focusing his attention in this moment to Thamno
Rivyre vs. Angus Non-Lethal Sparring Match & subsequent after combat RP
Roll for initiave: Rivyre 5, Angus 10
Angus Lochlan: "We shall." Angus replies, his face now with a wide grin, eager for combat even if low stakes. He pulls a large axe from the barrel of wooden weapons and takes a wide and ready stance.
"Challengers get the first strike. Show me how bright the Flame can burn!"
(No actions taken)
Rivyre Lightdove: "Very well!"
Rivyre mutters an incantation & the wooden longsword glows w/ a golden radiance & she strikes! (casts True Strike) Attack roll: 7
Angus blocks the attack by catching the blade with the hook of his axe.
Angus: Lochlan: "Come on now lassie, you'll have to do better than that." Angus moves to the side of Rivyre and assumes a striking form, facing towards where he previously stood.
"Plant your feet, stand straight, put your whole body into your strike. A weapon is an extension of self" Angus then resumes his readied stance in front of Rivyre. (Action: Help)
Acting unsurprised by his ease of dodging & parrying her attack,
Rivyre Lightdove: "I wasn't lying when I said my martial training & prowess was lacking".
Taking his advice, she plants herself firmly into a strong stance, mutters the same incanatation again & puts all she has into her next swing:
(True Strike w/ Advantage from Angus "Help" action: Attack roll 19, (if hit) 1d8+3= 6 radiant damage)
Angus Lochlan: "So the Flame burns after all! You're gettin' the hang of it! But let's see if the Flame can weather the storm. Brace yourself, Flamekeeper."
Angus grips his axe and raises it high. His brown eyes seem to glow a bright emerald moments before impact. (Bonus: Rage, Action: Reckless Attack Adv, 15 to hit, 8 slashing damage)
"Fire is a frightening thing to most creatures of the world. They will fear it and they will fight it without mercy. Expect no quarter and give none in return."
Angus gives a hearty laugh.
"For beasts definitely, with man? There is room for alternatives."
Rivyre Lightdove: "Ooof!" as Rivyre takes the hit & stumbles back a bit from the weight & strength of the strike unprepared for such a powerful hit.
"Alright I see I need to be prepared for more hits like this."
She mutters another incantation reinvigorated & ready for another bout: (Bonus Action casts Healing Word: 11 HP). Rivyre steadies her position & readies her shield in a defensive stance prepared to take on the next blow. (Action: Dodge)
Angus Lochlan: "You must be prepared indeed," Angus says solemnly, "if your home is in Almorra as you say, then you must prepare for the worst. When I first gazed upon the Sword, I saw the beautiful Isle of Almorra against the sea. As the years have gone by, a terrible storm has fallen over the Isle and has refused to leave."
Angus steps quickly to the side of Rivyre and swings the flat end of his axe square into her side.
(Action: Reckless + Rivyre Dodge, 16 to hit, Max roll of 17 bludgeoning damage).
Rivyre crumples to the ground @ the weight of the hit, motionless as the air is knocked out of her.
!END OF COMBAT!
Angus Lochlan: "All who have ventured out ha-.... Shite. Thought ya were a wee bit sturdier". Angus stoops down and gently taps the side of her face to wake her. He looks to the strange winged cat creature that accompanied the Flamekeeper and says, "You don't happen to have a way to wake her, do ya?"
Syletha cocks her head and looks @ Angus: "Meow".
Angus Lochlan: "Well make yourself usefull...uh...somehow"
Angus then grumbles to himself,
"First time fighting a Flamekeeper and ya darn near break her ribs. Got ta be gentler next time. Got ta make sure she's not bleedin' out."
(Medicine check: 8, used Heroic Inspiration reroll, 15 total)
Rivyre groans as she slowly opens her eyes & starts moving around...,
Rivyre Lightdove: "Ohhhh...., ugh...., my back!" She mutters another incantation & heals herself a bit after that embarrassing combat display. Healing Word: 5 She stands, stretches, & twists her back a bit..., *crack!
"Oh..., that's better!" She turns to Angus, "Well thank you for that training session..., although a humiliating display from myself."
Angus chuckles as he helps Rivyre up and brushes the snow off from the fall.
Angus Lochlan: "You're still alive, very good. Sorry 'bout that. Gets excitin' battle does, lose track of my self sometimes. Welp, enough training, clearly. We can continue our conversation that I so rudely interrupted, by knockin ya out, over a stew. What say ya?"
Rivyre Lightdove: "Certainly, I'd like that. Also something you said about a terrible storm that refuses to leave Almorra?" Rivyre's face from pain and discomfort from being hit looks to instantly change to extreme worry and despair.
Angus Lochlan: "Yes. It started around 15 years ago. A drak cloud appeared over the few hermits and settlements on the Isle and drove out its inhabitants. It's been growing ever since, blocking sunlight from touching the soil and causing constant storms. So far, all who have ventured to the island have disappeared. Eventually, some of the vessels they took have drifted back to the shores, filled only with the pieces of their once crews."
Angus lifts one of the pelts draped over a far window, revealing the distant Isle, its clouds of pitch darkening the scenic horizon.
"All my time here has been spent training. Mainly myself, sometimes others. The times are changing. I fear that great evil is rising amidst the world, though I have not seen it, I feel it in my bones. I hope that one day I'll be able to rise to face this great foe. So I've trained. To be worthy of wielding the Sword in the Stone, or worthy enough to stand besides those that are."
Thamno gets to his feet with the help of Valanthe and takes a deep breath. He dusts himself off and looks around the dome, before focusing on the two elves in front of him again.
"It is not the first time I have been drawn to this place, but it is for sure the first time that gate has shown such strange activity. I was overcome with grief and heard a voice... It was calling on me...
Did either of you do anything to activate it? What could have influenced the gate for this to happen?"
Rivyre thinks to herself..., dark clouds appearing 15 years ago & blocking sunlight. Are these the same clouds & mist that's causing all the strange rumors & phenomenon in Drakkenheim? (She casts another incantation: Guidance: (4) + History check (12)= 16
Rivyre exclaims, "That would be the same time the meteor hit Drakkenheim!!!"
Rivyre's face grows more worried, & frantically she starts gaterhing her things looking at Angus,
"Please you have to tell me! Did you see an elven family of 4 leave the island??? The would've lived near The Stone Circle on the far side of the island! I must head there immediately if you didn't...., regardless of the dangers!"
Moz Crowthorn
Stepping up to the pair of goblin guardians, he gives his head a shake dismissing the Devils Sight. "Good day to you handsome devils. I would love to spend all day admiring those rakish good looks of ours, but the Master has sent me on a little errand, so I must really be on my way. " Standing straight he gives the pair a crisp and somewhat mocking salute. " At ease gentlemen."
"Iago, stay out of sight and once we are through the door take to air and keep an eye of out above me." The Imp gives the thumbs up and fades from view (Iago turns invisible and when through the Emerald Door will fly 30ft up and circle around Moz)
Looking back at the doorway and he grins mischievously at the running pair. " Well time for some fun" Passing his jester stick over himself, he mutters an arcane word. There is a shimmer, and his appearance begins to change. His sharp pointed nose grows wider and bulbous, the green in skin changes into ruddy and tanned, his limp black hair turns brown and curly, the sharp teeth in his mouth round and dull, in short, he turns into a gnome. Looking down at his Jester’s Motley, he grimaces “This won’t do, even Alorin won’t fall for a gnome in motley.” As he speaks, his motley shimmers and changes itself to appear as simple travelling leathers. “Ahhh much better. Let’s go see about a baby.” Moz steps forward toward the doorway.
Rivyre Lightdove
From what Rivyre can see from the top of the cliff at Giant's Lean, though the dark clouds that hang over Almorra's island do have an otherworldly and oppressive weight to them, they look far more like perpetual bad weather than any sort of unnatural octarine haze.
Alorin Vonsin and Moz Crowthorn
Alorin flings the fruit far from him, and he hears the baying of the hounds recede to one side, no longer ahead of him as he and El run, carefully picking their way along the path through the meadow. Once Alorin is sure of their path, they race as fast as they can towards the shimmering emerald door sits with garish and obtrusive color underneath the hanging boughs of the trees across the meadow. Alorin pulls the hood of his cloak over his head as he steps through.
An arctic blast of frigid cold cuts him to the bone, chilling him painfully as the sweat he'd worked up in hazy summer of Buttercup Lane sucks away his body heat. Towering pine and fir trees hang heavy with snow on their upper branches and yet reach towards the early morning sky. Beyond their great trunks that shimmer with a strange pink sheen, Alorin can see Kromac's Clearing, white with a blanket of snow. The firepit, the altar, and the Druid's stone hut sit in the center of it as if futilely huddling together for warmth. A haunting, icy mist hangs threateningly over the glade. But Alorin is interested in looking for something very specific. And despite the distance to the clearing, he sees what he's looking for--tucked away at the base of the stone hut, her resting place hollowed out by scattered and rushed bootprints, is the crying infant, wrapped in a swaddling of rabbit furs. Except for the baby's cries, the clearing is eerily, deathly silent.
As Alorin and El slip into the frozen woods, their eyes on the clearing, the Emerald Door behind them shimmers once again, emerald green winking into sight for a moment before disappearing in the patch of bluish mist that marks the location of the door, and a gnome steps through, dressed in traveling leathers.
Ellynel Stealth: 13
Alorin Perception: 26
Moz Crowthorn
Moz shivers as he steps through the Doorway into the cold winter air, an invisible Iago launches himself into the air and begins circling over scanning the area(Iago Perception: 11 +1=12). Seeing Kormac's Clearing in the distance Moz gives the area around where the doorway a quick scan, looking for signs if anyone else had arrived before him (Moz Preception roll: 10+1=11). With the shadows of the tall fir and pines trees Moz doesn't see much in the area, turning he makes his way toward the sounds of the crying child. Reaching out telepathically through his bond to Iago he focuses on the Imp "Looks like we might have got here first, but keep your eyes open"
The snow crunches under his feet as he makes his way through the trees towards Kormac's Clearing. Seeing the hut and altar in the distance Moz stops and thinks too Iago "Fly ahead and scout out the area, see if you can locate the Baby" Giving Moz a sly look, Iago s******s back "What about you boss, how will you survive without me and my guidance" Stifling a laugh. "Somehow I will make it. Alorin isn't going to stab some random gnome in the back and when the hunting party arrives they aren't going to be quiet about it. " Moz then begins trudging through the snow toward the clearing whistling to himself as Iago flies ahead to locate the baby.