Too busy with a mind full of worries and a cheek full of acorn cud, Skritch pays v little attention to his surrounds. He makes sure Sunhill's saddle is fastened correctly.
Then he scampers around, applying Druidcraft willy-nilly so the campsight causes the least amount of disruption to the surrounds...
(OCC: Have presumed we can give ourselves a long rest. Will undo if that is not correct)
You break camp beneath a grey and yawning sky, the embers of your morning fire hissing into silence as the chill of the air clings to cloaks and collars. Southward you go, hooves and paws crunching frost-bitten grass, the road little more than a worn trail through a landscape that seems to hold its breath.
Hours pass. The sun rises reluctantly, trailing veils of pale gold across the barren hills, but offers little warmth. The silence of the land is heavy, broken only by the steady rhythm of your mounts and the occasional creak of leather. Not even birds trouble the stillness. It is the kind of day that swallows conversation and stretches minutes into hours.
Then, as the sun dips lazily toward mid-afternoon, something stirs on the horizon. A smudge, at first—no more than a darker thread on the southern edge of the world. But it grows. Shifts. Takes shape. And in that moment, the dull rhythm of the journey gives way to something else: the sharp prickle of anticipation.
Something waits ahead. It appears to be a campsite set to the right hand side of the track. A figure sits there warming itself next to an open fire. How do you all approach?
Vakas pulls up his horse as he sees the campfire ahead, saying "They likely have already seen us, if they are any good. Perhaps a different approach this time. Anyone skilled with the gift of gab? Perhaps we approach normally and assess the situation, but be ready to pounce if need be...I only see one thus far."
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
A wizard is never late, nor is he early, he arrives precisely when he means to.
Skritch agrees that they've probably already been seen.
And also that not everything has to be a squirrel-team-six operation.
He telepaths into the minds of his companions, "Shall we, er, ride in side by side, sitting tall our saddles in a show of strength, like the blooded veterans we now are? Or, er, you know, whatevs...?"
Vakas you did notice something as you gathered up your belongings earlier... Rat droppings.
You all now draw nearer to the campfire, its flames licking at the dusk with a hungry, amber light. The smoke curls upward in lazy spirals, carrying with it the rich, earthy scent of woodsmoke and simmering meat. Seated beside the blaze is a lone figure, still as a stone, save for the slow, deliberate movements of his hands.
As you close the distance, his features come into focus; an elf, lean and long-limbed, with skin like aged birch and eyes the pale green of moss under shadow. Age clings to him like a cloak, but it is the agelessness of the forest—deep, quiet, and inscrutable. Whether he is thirty or three centuries, you could not say. He wears the garb of a hunter: leathers weathered by years in the wild, the colour of bark and bramble. His camp is simple but telling. A half-circle of hides stretched on racks nearby, their flesh scraped clean, catching the firelight with a sheen of oil and damp. A brace of birds lies at his feet. Mallards or grouse, it’s hard to tell, and he works his knife through them with the care and confidence of long practice, peeling back skin and sinew as though opening a well-read book.
Above the fire hangs a soot-darkened pot, swaying gently from a makeshift wooden holder. Whatever simmers within sends out a scent that sets your stomach to rumbling—a thick, meaty stew redolent of onion and herbs, wild roots and blood perhaps? As you all approach, he does not look up. He does not need to. He knew you were coming.
"You are welcome to share my fire but the food and fir will cost you coin." he says without looking up from his work.
Rachus puts a hand on stomach as smelling that stew is making him hungrier as all he had were hard rations that could chip a tooth. He dismounts Clio and approaches the man "How much coin for the sharing of the food and fire?"
Skritch watches him from Mastiff-back, not letting completely go of the reins. Hunters gotta be huntin', Skritch gets that.
That said, a man who tans hides, also might prep himself a pair of squirrel-fur gloves without thinking twice. That's a way of thinking Skritch has got used to thinking about. More than twice.
Vakas swings off of his horse and walks closer to the small fire, bending down and smelling, looking at what is in the bowl. He eyes the elf and speaks “Greetings” to him in elvish. “Some coin eh? It might be nice to have a hot meal. Say, where are you from? How far have you gone in these lands to hunt? Anything .. strange .. you’ve seen out here? We should share information as well if we are to share stew together.” Vakas looks at the man and watches the expressions flicker over his face as he speaks, weighing his words as they come out for veracity and subterfuge.
Insight : 23
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
A wizard is never late, nor is he early, he arrives precisely when he means to.
Dealuri gracefully dismounts her horse but does not hug this stranger. Maybe it is because he looks nothing like her Aunt Helga; maybe she is learning that there are dangers in the wild; maybe she just forgot that she is a person who likes to hug - who knows? - but regardless the reason, she stays standing by her horse.
Rachus the elf smiles and answers without looking up from his work, "Like I said friend the fire is free, food will cost you a silver."
Vakas you offer the greeting in your native tongue and the elf looks up for the first time. His pale green eyes lock upon your own as if searching for something just out of reach. In those eyes you recognise the sadness of your people, the years of loss and wandering. He lifts his knife and circles it slowly between his thumb and forefinger to indicate the hill country that surrounds you;
"These lands have served as my home for as long as I care to remember. What flavour of strange are you looking for friend? There is plenty to go around these days." He points his knife down then to the earth opposite the campfire.
"Please sit and ask your questions. I can already see that you have met the local necromancer." he nods toward Dealuri and the black mark that still shows on her wrist, "You need to get her to a temple," he tells you Vakas.
OOC LORE: The Viltyr: The Lost Elves of Nyrgard
The realm of Alfheim closed itself to the fires of the Ragnarok and the Viltyr were cast adrift into the unshaped lands of the newborn world: Nyrgard.
The Viltyr, whose name means "Lost Ones", emerged in the wilderness of Nyrgard, their connection to their old home severed. No longer bound to the light of Álfheimr, they became wanderers, forging fragile communities in the deep forests, mist-laden valleys, and twilight glades. Without a divine ruler or a homeland, most elves embrace a life of quiet resilience, moving unseen through the world’s reborn lands.
Skritch unsaddles Sunhill and lets him roam the camp like a normal dog. (if he gets up to mischief Skritch will call him back and put him on a 'tight leash')
He sits across the fire from this stranger, this Viltyr.
Skritch uses his Ekorre telepathy to speak in the lost elf's mind in his language, "Thank you for your hospitality. Here is a piece of, er, gold. (OOC: have reduced my gp from 17 to 16) I have no silver. I hope the gold will serve for us all?
"Please do not attempt to skin myself or, er, Sunhill," he says, indicating the dog. Then he looks around. "Or the horses. Or my companions. In fact, er, none of us. Please do not skin any of us.
"My apologies. Yes, we did meet the hatehag in her hovel."
(OOC: DM, I've swapped out Faerie Fire for Goodberry as part of our last Long Rest. And cast it so I now have 10 Goodberries, but one less spell slot. With DC of only 13, it didn’t seem likely enough to work to sacrifice a whole spell slot on... Maybe when the DC is higher or I have more slots I'll relearn it...)
Well, if the squirrel can feel safe than surely I should be able to as well, thinks Dealuri, so she moves to the fire. "Thank you, Skritch - I will pay next time. And thank you to you, mister elf. My name is Dealuri and we appreciate you sharing your fire and food." If the elf spoke in Common, she adds, "What do you mean, take me to a temple?"
The elf chuckles, "Hatehag, yes I think she would like that name. Glemgriss is a complicated creature. You are all most welcome." and he shares a warm smile between you Skritch and you Dealuri as he pockets the coin.
Vakas (with a 23) you continue to study this stranger and find nothing in his demeaner that hints at deception or guile. You catch familiarity in his tone when he speaks of Glemgriss and perhaps even a fondness.
He does not answer your question straight away Dealuri as he begins to spoon out the stew into wooden bowls, it is not until he hands your yours that he speaks,
"You carry her mark." as your raise your arm to receive the bowl he grasps it gently and studies the black hand print, "...It is unusual for her to mark another like this. I am not sure why she would do such a thing. Did you do her a great favour?"
OOC: If our two elven players have any questions about the the Viltyr pop me a DM. The rest of you can ask in game with a history roll if interested. In general elves are not common in the human kingdoms though there is no animosity between the races. Of course our two may absolutely be the exception to the rule :)
"You would not be the first to hold that wish." the hunter replies with a smile to you Thanadol, he looks again to Dealuri, "The effect is uncertain. As I said, Glemgriss is a complicated creature. The necromancy is a recent... hobby of hers. The mark is older and connected to her shifting nature. She would see it as a blessing, others as a curse."
Rachus smiles appreciatively at Scritch for paying and takes an offered bowl. He looks concerned in regard to the mark on Dealuri. "Do you know the effects of the mark? what is the curse aspect you spoke of? Will it harm Dealuri?
The elf takes a thoughtful spoonful of his stew as he considers his response, "I know of three people who she has marked in this way, the first had little more than bad dreams before finding a priest and removing the mark, the second lost his mind when the change came and I was forced to kill him." he takes another spoonful of the stew as if reluctant to continue, then slowly, deliberately he puts down his bowl and draws back the collar of his tunic revealing a black mark almost identical to that of Dealuri.
"The third sits before you now. It will be a thing of pain and madness, but also, there are some benefits to being so marked. A priest will remove the mark for a price, but be warned that same priest will flay you alive should you choose to embrace the mark of Loki."
All of you recognise that name. Loki the half giant, Loki the betrayer, Loki the ever cursed, may he rot forever in the lowest corners of the darkest Hell. The God whose foul machinations brought about the Ragnarök. The hunter waits and watches as he lets his words sink in.
The hunter waves away the offer of coin Thanadol, what Skritch gave was enough to feed all of you. Instead he reaches down and hands you a full bowl.
"My advice would be to find a priest and remove the mark. I was lucky but your friend here may not be and as I said, to carry it is a death sentence in the wrong company."
He chuckles low at your final question, the sound rough as gravel under boot. Slowly, he turns, meeting your gaze with a stillness that speaks of old forests and older instincts. For a heartbeat, the firelight dances in his eyes, and in that flickering glow you glimpse something feral; an amber gleam like a wolf’s, caught beneath the silver kiss of moonlight.
"Glemgriss chose the rats to suit her nature, I have always liked wolves." he looks to you Dealuri then and asks, "What creature speaks to your soul?"
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
DM - Warlock of Firetop Mountain
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Perception roll (from campaign log): 1 + 3 = 4.
Too busy with a mind full of worries and a cheek full of acorn cud, Skritch pays v little attention to his surrounds. He makes sure Sunhill's saddle is fastened correctly.
Then he scampers around, applying Druidcraft willy-nilly so the campsight causes the least amount of disruption to the surrounds...
(OCC: Have presumed we can give ourselves a long rest. Will undo if that is not correct)
OOC: You can indeed all take a long rest. -10 DM points from me for forgetting to say so lol
DM - Warlock of Firetop Mountain
Rachus
Perception Check
14 - rolled in game log
Wilderness Encounter
15
Dealuri percetpion 15
You break camp beneath a grey and yawning sky, the embers of your morning fire hissing into silence as the chill of the air clings to cloaks and collars. Southward you go, hooves and paws crunching frost-bitten grass, the road little more than a worn trail through a landscape that seems to hold its breath.
Hours pass. The sun rises reluctantly, trailing veils of pale gold across the barren hills, but offers little warmth. The silence of the land is heavy, broken only by the steady rhythm of your mounts and the occasional creak of leather. Not even birds trouble the stillness. It is the kind of day that swallows conversation and stretches minutes into hours.
Then, as the sun dips lazily toward mid-afternoon, something stirs on the horizon. A smudge, at first—no more than a darker thread on the southern edge of the world. But it grows. Shifts. Takes shape. And in that moment, the dull rhythm of the journey gives way to something else: the sharp prickle of anticipation.
Something waits ahead. It appears to be a campsite set to the right hand side of the track. A figure sits there warming itself next to an open fire. How do you all approach?
DM - Warlock of Firetop Mountain
Vakas perception at the break of camp : 23
Vakas pulls up his horse as he sees the campfire ahead, saying "They likely have already seen us, if they are any good. Perhaps a different approach this time. Anyone skilled with the gift of gab? Perhaps we approach normally and assess the situation, but be ready to pounce if need be...I only see one thus far."
A wizard is never late, nor is he early, he arrives precisely when he means to.
Skritch agrees that they've probably already been seen.
And also that not everything has to be a squirrel-team-six operation.
He telepaths into the minds of his companions, "Shall we, er, ride in side by side, sitting tall our saddles in a show of strength, like the blooded veterans we now are? Or, er, you know, whatevs...?"
Vakas you did notice something as you gathered up your belongings earlier... Rat droppings.
You all now draw nearer to the campfire, its flames licking at the dusk with a hungry, amber light. The smoke curls upward in lazy spirals, carrying with it the rich, earthy scent of woodsmoke and simmering meat. Seated beside the blaze is a lone figure, still as a stone, save for the slow, deliberate movements of his hands.
As you close the distance, his features come into focus; an elf, lean and long-limbed, with skin like aged birch and eyes the pale green of moss under shadow. Age clings to him like a cloak, but it is the agelessness of the forest—deep, quiet, and inscrutable. Whether he is thirty or three centuries, you could not say. He wears the garb of a hunter: leathers weathered by years in the wild, the colour of bark and bramble. His camp is simple but telling. A half-circle of hides stretched on racks nearby, their flesh scraped clean, catching the firelight with a sheen of oil and damp. A brace of birds lies at his feet. Mallards or grouse, it’s hard to tell, and he works his knife through them with the care and confidence of long practice, peeling back skin and sinew as though opening a well-read book.
Above the fire hangs a soot-darkened pot, swaying gently from a makeshift wooden holder. Whatever simmers within sends out a scent that sets your stomach to rumbling—a thick, meaty stew redolent of onion and herbs, wild roots and blood perhaps? As you all approach, he does not look up. He does not need to. He knew you were coming.
"You are welcome to share my fire but the food and fir will cost you coin." he says without looking up from his work.
DM - Warlock of Firetop Mountain
Rachus puts a hand on stomach as smelling that stew is making him hungrier as all he had were hard rations that could chip a tooth. He dismounts Clio and approaches the man "How much coin for the sharing of the food and fire?"
Skritch watches him from Mastiff-back, not letting completely go of the reins. Hunters gotta be huntin', Skritch gets that.
That said, a man who tans hides, also might prep himself a pair of squirrel-fur gloves without thinking twice. That's a way of thinking Skritch has got used to thinking about. More than twice.
He'll wait and see how things play out...
Vakas swings off of his horse and walks closer to the small fire, bending down and smelling, looking at what is in the bowl. He eyes the elf and speaks “Greetings” to him in elvish. “Some coin eh? It might be nice to have a hot meal. Say, where are you from? How far have you gone in these lands to hunt? Anything .. strange .. you’ve seen out here? We should share information as well if we are to share stew together.” Vakas looks at the man and watches the expressions flicker over his face as he speaks, weighing his words as they come out for veracity and subterfuge.
Insight : 23
A wizard is never late, nor is he early, he arrives precisely when he means to.
Dealuri gracefully dismounts her horse but does not hug this stranger. Maybe it is because he looks nothing like her Aunt Helga; maybe she is learning that there are dangers in the wild; maybe she just forgot that she is a person who likes to hug - who knows? - but regardless the reason, she stays standing by her horse.
Rachus the elf smiles and answers without looking up from his work, "Like I said friend the fire is free, food will cost you a silver."
Vakas you offer the greeting in your native tongue and the elf looks up for the first time. His pale green eyes lock upon your own as if searching for something just out of reach. In those eyes you recognise the sadness of your people, the years of loss and wandering. He lifts his knife and circles it slowly between his thumb and forefinger to indicate the hill country that surrounds you;
"These lands have served as my home for as long as I care to remember. What flavour of strange are you looking for friend? There is plenty to go around these days." He points his knife down then to the earth opposite the campfire.
"Please sit and ask your questions. I can already see that you have met the local necromancer." he nods toward Dealuri and the black mark that still shows on her wrist, "You need to get her to a temple," he tells you Vakas.
DM - Warlock of Firetop Mountain
Skritch unsaddles Sunhill and lets him roam the camp like a normal dog. (if he gets up to mischief Skritch will call him back and put him on a 'tight leash')
He sits across the fire from this stranger, this Viltyr.
Skritch uses his Ekorre telepathy to speak in the lost elf's mind in his language, "Thank you for your hospitality. Here is a piece of, er, gold. (OOC: have reduced my gp from 17 to 16) I have no silver. I hope the gold will serve for us all?
"Please do not attempt to skin myself or, er, Sunhill," he says, indicating the dog. Then he looks around. "Or the horses. Or my companions. In fact, er, none of us. Please do not skin any of us.
"My apologies. Yes, we did meet the hatehag in her hovel."
(OOC: DM, I've swapped out Faerie Fire for Goodberry as part of our last Long Rest. And cast it so I now have 10 Goodberries, but one less spell slot. With DC of only 13, it didn’t seem likely enough to work to sacrifice a whole spell slot on... Maybe when the DC is higher or I have more slots I'll relearn it...)
Well, if the squirrel can feel safe than surely I should be able to as well, thinks Dealuri, so she moves to the fire. "Thank you, Skritch - I will pay next time. And thank you to you, mister elf. My name is Dealuri and we appreciate you sharing your fire and food." If the elf spoke in Common, she adds, "What do you mean, take me to a temple?"
The elf chuckles, "Hatehag, yes I think she would like that name. Glemgriss is a complicated creature. You are all most welcome." and he shares a warm smile between you Skritch and you Dealuri as he pockets the coin.
Vakas (with a 23) you continue to study this stranger and find nothing in his demeaner that hints at deception or guile. You catch familiarity in his tone when he speaks of Glemgriss and perhaps even a fondness.
He does not answer your question straight away Dealuri as he begins to spoon out the stew into wooden bowls, it is not until he hands your yours that he speaks,
"You carry her mark." as your raise your arm to receive the bowl he grasps it gently and studies the black hand print, "...It is unusual for her to mark another like this. I am not sure why she would do such a thing. Did you do her a great favour?"
OOC: If our two elven players have any questions about the the Viltyr pop me a DM. The rest of you can ask in game with a history roll if interested. In general elves are not common in the human kingdoms though there is no animosity between the races. Of course our two may absolutely be the exception to the rule :)
DM - Warlock of Firetop Mountain
OOC: Welcome back
"You would not be the first to hold that wish." the hunter replies with a smile to you Thanadol, he looks again to Dealuri, "The effect is uncertain. As I said, Glemgriss is a complicated creature. The necromancy is a recent... hobby of hers. The mark is older and connected to her shifting nature. She would see it as a blessing, others as a curse."
DM - Warlock of Firetop Mountain
Rachus smiles appreciatively at Scritch for paying and takes an offered bowl. He looks concerned in regard to the mark on Dealuri. "Do you know the effects of the mark? what is the curse aspect you spoke of? Will it harm Dealuri?
The elf takes a thoughtful spoonful of his stew as he considers his response, "I know of three people who she has marked in this way, the first had little more than bad dreams before finding a priest and removing the mark, the second lost his mind when the change came and I was forced to kill him." he takes another spoonful of the stew as if reluctant to continue, then slowly, deliberately he puts down his bowl and draws back the collar of his tunic revealing a black mark almost identical to that of Dealuri.
"The third sits before you now. It will be a thing of pain and madness, but also, there are some benefits to being so marked. A priest will remove the mark for a price, but be warned that same priest will flay you alive should you choose to embrace the mark of Loki."
All of you recognise that name. Loki the half giant, Loki the betrayer, Loki the ever cursed, may he rot forever in the lowest corners of the darkest Hell. The God whose foul machinations brought about the Ragnarök. The hunter waits and watches as he lets his words sink in.
DM - Warlock of Firetop Mountain
The hunter waves away the offer of coin Thanadol, what Skritch gave was enough to feed all of you. Instead he reaches down and hands you a full bowl.
"My advice would be to find a priest and remove the mark. I was lucky but your friend here may not be and as I said, to carry it is a death sentence in the wrong company."
He chuckles low at your final question, the sound rough as gravel under boot. Slowly, he turns, meeting your gaze with a stillness that speaks of old forests and older instincts. For a heartbeat, the firelight dances in his eyes, and in that flickering glow you glimpse something feral; an amber gleam like a wolf’s, caught beneath the silver kiss of moonlight.
"Glemgriss chose the rats to suit her nature, I have always liked wolves." he looks to you Dealuri then and asks, "What creature speaks to your soul?"
DM - Warlock of Firetop Mountain